The Eternal Sleep: A Collection of Short Stories

Island of the Wicked

Over 10 000 worth in silver drachma, that's what Mikhos had said, as he lay in it - swam in it, like a childish naiad swimming in a river.

It was only days ago when the three of us - Mikhos, Ioanna, and myself - completed our heist. After false promises and cowardly pretenses, we were running away, casting off, now floating on the Cretan Sea, carrying hundreds of kilograms of pure silver - drachmas, dekadrachm, and, the real prize, an Athenian talent, worth more than the rest of our cargo put together.

We were the richest, most wanted criminals in Attica. And it all felt wrong.

Ioanna, a girl of 19, tall, graceful, with billowing black hair, sat down next to me on the quarter deck. "This doesn't feel right," she said. "I thought, after we were sailing, everything might start to feel... more holy."

"Holy?" I retorted. "Talk to Mikhos if you want to hear about holiness. He's the one who said that Zeus himself whispered to him, told him to do all this." A pause sat between us. "Where is he, anyway?"

Ioanna squinted into the distance. Thick fog curled off where the freezing water met the humid air. "Still below deck. He refuses to part with that Athenian talent."

"Child," I growled. "He hasn't been in his right mind since..." But Ioanna had stopped listening to me. She rose, and extended a finger out over the rail into the fog.

"Kyros, look. Land!

We had originally been planning to sail around Sparta, head north, and take refuge in Macedonia. But when that island emerged out of the evening fog, our whole lives changed beneath our feet.

We just didn't know it.

When we got close, we jumped ship, drawing heavy ropes to the beach. Silver scaled fish swam between our legs, gathering in schools around the shore. The island was magnificent, its lush, green ridges and valleys glistening with mid evening dew.

"It's not exactly Macedonia," I said.

"No." Mikhos followed behind us, the talent cradled close to his heart. "It's better."

Ioanna pounded steaks deep into the beach sand, and I followed close behind, tying the ropes around, securing our ship. Mikhos stood uselessly nearby, gazing wondrously into the trees as if he were in some sort of trance. "Do you smell that?" he called to us.

"Not through my own sweat," I grunted. But even as I said it, I was wrong. I could smell something incredibly sweet. I loosened my grip on the last rope, my eyes floating shut as the aroma washed over me. Then, I snapped back to reality.

"Follow me, Kyros," Mikhos called. "And hurry up."

Ioanna shot a glance my way, and her eyes issued a warning. "You boys go on ahead," she said, wringing out her soaking wet chiton. "I'll see about doing some fishing."

I agreed. Although we had food back on the ship, fish seemed to be in no shortage here. From the shore, I could see them streaming in towards the island.

Mikhos and I paused only once to examine one lone enormous geyser that shot salt water into the air every few minutes. But we found the source of the smell.

"By Detemer," I breathed. We had reached the centre of the island: a grove that glowed in the rapidly deteriorating evening light, with jagged rock walls and... trees. Trees bearing thousands of pure white, succulent fruit.

"It's like a garden meant for the gods," Mikhos whispered, still clutching the talent. He plucked one - large, the colour of fresh snow.

But something was wrong.

"Mikhos," I said, carefully. "Listen."

We stood, frozen, until Mikhos hissed, "I don't hear anything."

I locked eyes with him. "Exactly."

He grumbled stubbornly under his breath and bit into the fruit.

"I haven't heard any birds, or seen one insect," I insisted. "Something about this place is off."

The fruit began trembling in Mikhos's hand. "This," he gasped, "is delicious." Before I could say another word, he began racing through the grove, filling his arms with fruit like they were more Athenian talents. "I'll build us a camp! We can stay here for the night."

I bent down, and brushed my hand across the soil. As Mikhos lit a fire, I dug. It took less than two minutes before I hit the bottom.

I nearly staggered back when my hand hit the dry, cracked surface. From beneath my fingers, I could suddenly feel it: a rhythmic thumping. A heartbeat. And the dry, cracked surface... was skin. The skin of a giant fish.

"Jasconius," I whispered under my breath, my own heartbeat beginning to race. "The whale that lures sailors onto its back, and then, when a fire is lit, drowns them."

The ground lurched, and I fell back, staring into Mikhos's blazing fire. We said nothing. Only held a horrified stare. Jasconius was awake.

Ioanna burst into the grove, her face ghostly white. "We have to go. Now."

We ran. It was pitch black, and the ground shook beneath us. Trees uprooted, ridges collapsed. We passed the geyser. No - a whale's spout.

"Jasconius lures sailors onto its back!" Ioanna shouted at us. "Then drowns them - takes them to Gehenna, the land of the wicked!"

We stumbled onto the beach. In the moonlight, I could see that all the fish had disappeared. 

Eaten.

Then, Jasconius dove. 

The sea came rushing at us. I was thrust underwater, and I could see the beast himself, with fins the size of castles, and sentient black eyes filled with malice.

I felt a hand grab me by my chiton. Ioanna, dragging me up, up... until my head broke the surface.

Ioanna and I grasped the trireme, hauling each other aboard.

"Mikhos!" I shouted. He was swimming, not towards us, but towards the talent, as it sank. 

Then, the island submerged. The following tidal wave swept our ship back to sea, and Jasconius, successful, took Mikhos to Gehenna with his Athenian talent.