The Chronicle of Katya the Wanderer

An Old Sailor's Tale

Written 532 AU 2nd of Fall

From my own memory

Yesterday I was invited to join the crewmen and guards for their seasonal feast, as though they did not have space to house me above the prisoner's deck, I was a welcomed guest. I accepted this offer with much excitement since all I had to eat during this last week was a ration of sailor's porridge, diamond hard bread and the occasional boiled potato. This was the norm for most on the ship except for the portly Captain John Marshall.

Although they are men of the sea, the sailors of his majesty's navy still take traditions from their homes on land. So, whenever the seasons change, they hold a feast. As for the contents of this feast, it mostly is made up of surplus luxury rations given out to ships which are set to be enroute during the first day of any season.

It was a delightful affair. I gorged myself on all the sausages, salted fish, and cheese. They also rolled out two barrels of fine wine from the Gold Coast, the flavor was not disagreeable and certainly a massive improvement in comparison to any of the ale we were drinking before. Sailors sang their sailor songs and danced, further bending the already creaky floorboards. I found myself many times shoulder to shoulder with them swept up in the comradery of drink and life at sea.

However, I am not writing this entry to record the events of this party, but rather to write down a story I heard from a scrawny sailor. I will not be able to cite his rather drunken re-telling as I was also intoxicated to the point where I could not hold a cup let alone a quill straight. So the version recorded in this chronicle is my rough paraphrasing of what he told me.

Sometime in the past -it was unclear to me as to when exactly- the infamous pirate, Captain Stewart set sail for the Isle of Summer in search of treasure. They arrived at fog covered shores. The sun shone gray light upon everything. A land of pure gray. The men breathed heavy, heaving with every breath, the air sickening and stale. Soon they made camp, building a campfire from the abundant driftwood and branches from a nearby meadow. In the night, the light skittering of footsteps, the glint of their torches on pitch black eyes and the occasional gusts of shivering wind.

By the morning thirty of sixty remained. As they walked their way in land towards a promised city of gold, they heard howls and barks in the tall grass. The steps were no longer lurking and light. Now their hunters ran, stalking them like specters. Not one was seen, but their presence was known; no man could deny it if they were sound of mind. Greed plugged their ears and stopped their necks from turning.

Entering an ancient village, they prepared to sleep there for the night. Primal screeches echoed in the vast dark. The possessed screams of mad men, some familiar, some foreign. Houses seemed to shift, so did grass and roads. By the morning seventeen of sixty remained. No gold in their hands they continued venturing deeper, into the heart of the beast.

A ruin, something like they had set out to find. However they had gone blind, they could not tell lustrous gold from the plainest tin. Torches burned gray, same as the sky and the land. Some began to claw at their eyes but even their blood, bled gray. By the morning three of the sixty remained. Running as fast as they could, back to their ship. Only one found his way back, haunting the seas in his madness. It is said, he knows not death but only gray.

I slept easy that night of the party on account of the drink, tonight I do not know.