The Grimoire

Beneath the Pale Sky

The ship swayed with a most sickening propensity. A thick fog had rolled over the horizon, blocking the night sky's visibility. Our sextants became useless, and the bosun cried out to anyone not sleeping below deck, to keep an eye on our enshrouded surroundings. We were a humble crew of a few dozen of the Queen's most eager sailors, handpicked for a prestigious opportunity. We were headed to an island, spoken about only in scattered folklore, perturbing portents of doom, where the natives don't age, and the sun itself weeps for their dead pagan gods - The lost island of Gambyssia, a name garnered from salvaged notes, centuries old, from before the Great Fire of London.

We were travelling blind, drifting in an ocean of fog, with nothing but the ship's oil lamps illuminating the sea around us. I saw one of the crewmates peer over the side of the ship, and retch, spilling the content of his stomach into the water. The ship's chef, having come up for some fresh air, turned pale, as a steady breeze carried a most putrid scent over the deck. I covered my face with cloth, as more and more of the crewmates that had been peering over the side, began to stagger backwards. I peered over, curious about what they had seen, curious about the stench. I saw bodies, fish and animals alike, drifting in the sea. There were so many, you could barely see the ocean's surface from the carcasses of creatures that littered it. All around us, rotting remains, spelling out a most foreboding warning. Was it poison in the water? Was it poison in the air? Were the warnings of curses and devilry true? Even the captain, who had until now, reprimanded superstitious sailors, crossed his chest and muttered a silent prayer.

A scream! Followed by the sound of a body hitting the water. Something had reached over the side and dragged a crewmate into the water. Another scream, a glimpse of a long, sickly pale arm, strong enough to pull, an adult over the side, agile enough to remain mostly unspotted. A shattering sound, as something is thrown from the water, smashing into the oil lamps. One by one, the lamps sputtered, and the ship went dark. The captain quailed, and the bosun ordered every able-bodied man to pick up a sword and gather up. A commotion below deck, screaming, shouting, the firing of a flintlock, followed by the smashing of wood. My hand gripped my sword unsteadily, the fear and adrenaline stiffened my limbs, as my vision adjusted. 

The fog was thick, the darkness hung over us like a noose, a deafening silence, filled only by the sounds of heavy exasperated breathing. We stood within arm's length of each other, ready to lash out at anything that approached. The crew below deck had wounded the creature, and in its retreat, it tore a hole through the cannon's gun port. We waited for hours. The rotten odour had absorbed into our clothing, the fog only grew thicker, and a dim morning light began to shine through it all. We spent the entire night on edge, without a wink of sleep, without speaking an unnecessary word to each other.

Another day passed in silent mourning. We were vigilant now, bolting the gun ports shut, keeping a meter away from the sides of the ship at all times. The dead or missing were counted. Two pulled into the water from above-deck, one dragged through a port below-deck. The creature, glimpsed only briefly, was described as an ogre-like being. Scaly skin, a gibbous and bloated face, arms that stretched the length of its entire hunched body. It had the strength to tear the arm off of one of the sailors, and claws sharp enough to leave indents in the metal of the cannons. It had despoiled our food stocks. We did what we could do to secure the ship, eager to return home, but the captain refused, insisting that we've come too far to return empty-handed, and promised us the possibility of trading with the natives on arrival.

When the fog began to clear, I stood on the bow of the ship, basking in the warm glow of the rising sun, but there was something peculiar about it. It was an uneasy warmth, a warmth that plummeted into the gut and rose with a serpentine shuffle up the spine. I could see the sun but it was black. Like a burning piece of charcoal perched atop a pale sky. The centre was pitch dark, with a distinct ring of fire surrounding it. The fire oozed from it, almost like a liquid, enveloping it and dripping down its sides onto the island on the horizon. We had arrived at our destination. A great mountain loomed at the centre of this godforsaken landmass, a volcano, swallowing the liquid ichor of the pseudo-sun. On its beach, dozens of bodies tied and impaled on spikes, including the crewmates that were taken. A warning to any man brazen or bull-headed enough to approach.

We made landfall. Buried the deceased members of the crew on the beach, and studied the other bodies. They were much older, at various stages of decomposition. Scraps of clothing implied they were foreign sailors or members of the original expedition. Anything identifying was stripped away. thirty-three bodies in total. With the dead buried and our remaining supplies all accounted for, the captain divided us into two groups. Half would stay with the bosun and protect the ship, the other half would make contact with the natives. I joyously volunteered, anything to get me as far away from that ship as possible.

The island's jungle was thick and humid. The flaming spot in the sky, named the Devil's Eye by the crew, never set. The closer we got to the volcano, the higher the Devil's Eye climbed into the sky. Something important was at the centre. Something we needed to discover. Whether for prestige or the promise of a potential pay check, we needed something to make this trip worth the turmoil it has caused. We found it. At the base of the volcano, where the natives built their shrine, as God is my witness, we found it. A great leviathan pup, drinking the nectar that seeped from the volcano's magma. Huddled around it, the humanoid creatures that attacked us earlier stood vigil, as the native people feasted on the kraken's flesh. With each slab of flesh they cut away, the creature's flesh would regenerate.

I don't remember much of what happened next. Our crew had assembled, our weapons at the ready. We were hungry. We were angry. A cacophony of violence erupted at the shrine, as native and beast alike fell to the hail of gunfire. Then we feasted, like kings, indulging in our impulses and whims. I don't care to remember what happened to the native women and children. The great beast's blubber tasted like heaven. Like a thousand angelic kisses all over the body. We cut out massive still-living chunks from the creature for the journey home. They bled long after we loaded them on to our boat, twitching at the touch.

When the high tide rolled around we set sail for home. A bounty of beautiful kraken meat, for the scholars and the hungry. Even barrelled and restrained in the crates below deck, the flesh grew, filling in whatever empty space it could. We celebrated and cheered, unable to see what it was doing to our body. Perhaps we knew but didn't care, uneasy thoughts buried by the promises of bountiful rewards.

As I commit these events to paper, my limbs have grown too cumbersome to grasp the quill properly. I feel my face, my sunken eyes, adjusted to vision beneath the sea and sight through the fog. I feel my mouth, gibbous and swollen, filled with uneven teeth, now expanding in all directions, making speech increasingly difficult. I feel the scales on my neck, the bloating in my chest. If the kraken's flesh was of an immortal calibre, then surely it would keep growing, as its proteins flow through our veins, filling in our muscle fibres. My memories fade, as the names of my crewmates disappear from my mind, dissolving like a scent on the wind. What was the Queen's name, I wonder? An anxiety grips me, as I think to myself... Where are we returning to? The island is all I can remember.