Fyskar

Chapter 1

Legend of the Bai was written out of order. This is the first book in the series, but Polaris Skies and part of Subgalaxia were written well before I ever put pen to paper to write Fyskar. Subject15 even came before it. The first three books were written in such a way as to be read in whichever order the reader desires with the culmination of Subgalaxia resolving all questions in the end.

Fyskar was based around themes from an Islamic Art History class I took back during college, along with several documentaries about the Witchcraft Trials, the 1666 Plague, the last of the Picts, and the late 17th century slave trade. My Bachelors is in Liberal Arts with focus in Asian Art History and Asian History with a minor in Sociology. Some of the research from those classes will come out in the content of this book.

Often, there is a question in the writing community of what the comps are for a book. If I had to estimate, this is a cross-section between the short stories of 1001 Arabian Nights, the movie Kingdom of Heaven, and the song The Parting Glass.

--------

At the end of his date, the dark bloom of ink sent the man in the deep red leather cloak scrambling for the blotting paper. His nib needed cutting.

"Mr Niloofar!" The captain's cry jarred the man's attention from his journal. Mr Niloofar flinched, his gloved hand brushing the dark blue liquid across the vellum. Beneath the plague mask, he glowered at the offending materials and reached for the bottle of setting powder.

The hatch creaked, sending a shaft of light to scatter dust motes in the hold of the ship. The masked man shielded his face against the blinding crescent. The captain, in a simple brown kilt and homespun shirt, clumped down the narrow stairs while Mr Niloofar shifted his calligraphy set around, still in a panic for the paper. The ink was seeping, wicking down the side.

"Ye awake, Mr Niloofar?" The captain approached the cloaked figure. Furtively, the man in the hold shifted the plague mask low on his face and held out a stilling gloved hand to the captain. Unable to see the movement, the captain continued his approach in the cramped space. Close enough to Mr Niloofar's makeshift desk of crates, he stopped with a frown to study the mess his guest was making. "If ye come out now, the fog's risin'. Ye'll see Bàgh Faoileag comin' up along the ridgeline."

The masked man waved the captain to his job. Dragging his effects together, Mr Niloofar put away inks and pens into a leather satchel. The setting powder had ended up in the bottom of the bag. He pulled it out and dusted the papers. While he waited for the documents to dry, he shoved his satchel into an oiled duffel bag leaning against the box he had commandeered for his ruminations.

The man shifted a short rectangular box no larger than his torso from under his makeshift cot of canvas and rigging. The pages set, he tied them into his leather folio and eased it into a slot in the box. He tugged the duffel to check the weight. Nothing had been moved in it, save for the satchel. The padlock on the chest next to it gleamed under lamplight.
Pulling at the hood of his floor-length cape, he flicked a glance to the stairwell. Setting his jaw, fingers trembling, he tapped the top of the box, contemplating. He was not ready to see home. The slap of the ocean against the hull walls did nothing to ease the knot in his chest. He shook his fingers, banishing the tell. Trying to draw in a breath against his constricting throat, he reached into his cloak hood to adjust the steinkirk threatening to throttle him. Metal at the tips of his fingers drove his fear to the back of his brain. Closing his eyes, he slipped along the rolling twist of gold hidden beneath the silk tie holding his collar together. A Brent Goose's honk shot an arrow of nostalgia through his heart.

Pushing past his cerebrations, he took to the end of the hold. The ladder steps were shallow, and he jammed his knee on a tread as he emerged. Tripping forward into the dawn, he swallowed the view in front of him.