The Traveler
One
Here I am, fleeing for safety upon an open sea of loneliness, waves of encapsulation breaking at the bow, showing me the truth of my inner feelings. I set forth upon this venture to find something about myself, but so far, any revelations have eluded me. The boat, "Serenity"—named, I’m told, for a dead aunt or niece—seems to mock me with its dreadful irony. I left contentment at port with the rest of my belongings before setting sail for an unknown destination.
"How far will this get me?" I asked as I pulled out a wad of bills. I wasn’t even sure how much I was handing the rickety-toothed captain who stunk more of booze than he did of the sea. He seemed like a whiskey drinker, but after five weeks and a number of ports, I've only seen him drink from an unlabeled bottle that smells of kerosene or some other volatile liquid.
He smiled the best he could—like a child amused by something no one else could understand—and mumbled incoherent words that I took to mean yes. Cutty, the stereotypically named first mate, later told me what it actually meant. One of the other crewmen had become deathly ill at their last stop, and now they needed the extra hand. My wad bought me food for the trip, and my back bought my passage.
After all this time, the sea has been my only maiden, and the ship, my only friend. I'm sure the other men can sense my dark past, and thus choose to stay away. Some have managed small talk at times, but I am not fluent in the jargon of the ocean. Their vernacular is as salty as the waters we traverse and their points just as rough.
So, here I am, drowning in isolation, impacted by my unknown location and encroaching desolate feelings. Beset on all sides by a past I cannot escape. I am stalked by a haunting stranger, or essence, that has followed me since childhood. Even as I write this, I can feel perdition breathing down my neck, bestowing its unwanted gifts.
Now, in my 27th year, I have set out, alone, to put an end to its encroaching presence. It is my hope that I will find someone who can make sense of my situation and help me overcome the adversity it’s created. I left America—its fading beliefs and lack of faith—to discover an older world full of magic and shadow. A world where good and evil are no longer ambiguous terms. Where gods sleep beneath soil and salt, and darkness can speak.
The weeks I’ve spent here have already started my belated metamorphosis. There isn’t much to see, and the company is less than desirable, but the labor has been humbling. I feel myself growing stronger, emotionally and physically. I do not argue or complain, because being here, in this moment, helps to forget the past. I stay for many reasons. Safety from my desperation is one.
I work hard and turn down booze when offered. Their stories are hard enough to understand sober. They laugh about the sea hags they hump in port and the cursed cargo they’ve shipped—until the bottle has gone around a dozen times. Then their speech slurs, their eyes shift, and their tales go dark. Their sailor superstition begins to seep in.
They mumble stories of dark ports not found on any map, and massive shadows that stalk the grave-like waters below. These stories are numerous in the late hours, where fact and fiction blur. I cling to the mast of their fables, trying to absorb every ounce of information. Some nights I laugh at myself for believing their nonsense, but others I marvel at the tightly woven yarns they spin.
Their superstitions of not allowing women onboard because of the fickle nature of jealous seas, or how all good sailors go to Fiddler’s Green, are amusing. But the macabre detailing of witch doctors and diabolical tribes truly sets my interest sailing. These memories dock close to home. They feel familiar, parallel to my own situation. I see now I’ve made the right choice in taking this particular ship. Whether through providence or chance, I am set upon a course with wind in my sails that I cannot turn back from.
Two
Yesterday proved fruitful. We docked at an island in the Gulf. The Caribbean waters glistened, welcoming us to our first stop outside American borders. Last night, I stole my way into a shop where a woman—dark-skinned and matted hair—took one look at me and shivered as if ice ran down her spine.
She glared at me with caution, then broke out into a jumbled mess of speech. A previously unseen man spoke from a corner. He had appeared from one of the many little hidden nooks her shop was made of. It reminded me of a flea market: full of junk, hiding the occasional treasure.
"She's asking you to leave," he said through a thick Caribbean accent. He was just as dark-skinned, but his hair was almost white. His clothing was a fashion over a decade old, and he wore a dusty straw hat. "She says you carry an ill omen. You vex this shop. Your presence alone is enough to bring unwanted luck."
I turned to her, pleading with a glance, but the man spoke again. "I can help you understand your... problem. Meet me here tonight. I have an errand to run. It would benefit you to come."
I left bitter, but filled with anticipation. How did they know? How could they see it so clearly—the darkness inside?
The revealing moon held itself high last night, bold and full. I felt uneasy waiting for him outside the shop. Strange place. Strange customs. These people lived in a world far older than my own. A world of superstition, fear, and power. As old as it was, it was still new to me. My own fear seemed to manifest in the shadows that teased me. Every sound was thunderous in that quiet little back street.
Once again, the man appeared as if materialized from darkness. He told me the jeep was packed. If I was ready, we’d go. I nodded, trying to keep cool under his steady, worn gaze.
The jeep, like himself, was old and battered. It took us five minutes to reach the outskirts of the city. The vehicle bounced as he drove down a rugged dirt road.
After what seemed like an hour, we parked. "The rest is on foot," he said.
Hiking through a dismal forest in the dead of night leaves you exposed. The nocturnal animals made no sounds. My guide, silent, walked at a steady pace.
"My father was born in this jungle. He left once to find a mate and has lived here since," he said.
We crested a hill and came upon a towering temple, nearly consumed by vegetation.
“Do not be alarmed by his appearance. He has taken to a severe form of mutilation to better understand his god.”
Inside, it opened into a massive hall. Poorly lit. A single fire pit at the base of a thousand black stone stairs. Symbols. Icons. Diabolical intricacies etched into every step.
As I made the last step, the fire erupted. In the middle, a dark shape began to form. Then a man. Small. Scarred. Burned. But it was his eyes—those soul-devouring voids—that truly undid me.
"Father, he has come," my guide stammered.
The old man said nothing. Yet I heard him clearly, inside my mind. Leave us.
I asked, "You can speak English?" but realized he had said nothing aloud. My guide slinked away.
The old man approached, reaching to caress my skin.
"They told me you would come. Why ‘They’ would bestow such a divine and unsavory gift on a heathen is unfathomable."
I stood frozen.
“With the darkness you have let into your life, I can show you the world beyond the veil, into that dark chaos between the stars, where ‘They’ wait, awake from this world, searching for people like you. Let me show you.”
His words were enchanting. I couldn’t help but want to know what he was talking about. He led me to the fire and fed me a weird, pulpy fruit. I was fleshy and hard to tear apart with my teeth, but as soon as it tore open, and gross fluid poured into my mouth, the visions began. Horrible, and unspeakable visions.
Cities burning beneath alien skies. A throne made of teeth. A spiral of black suns. Myself, and every other person, engulfed in flame that did not burn.
I broke free. Struck him with a stone. He fell into the flame.
As I escaped up the stairs, he pulled himself out, shrieking, Bring him to me.
The shadows stirred. And then, they moved.
Three
I ran. Fear surged with every step. I could feel something behind me—rank, inhuman. I reached the jeep. It started. I peeled off. Something hit the back. I looked—nothing there.
Then a shape—darker than the dark—materialized in the road. I drove through it. Crashed.
Wounded, I stumbled through the jungle. I heard him behind me. I hid under a tree. Something passed overhead. A beast, black and wet, sniffing. Drool landed on my arm, burning. It left.
I reached the village by dawn. Just as I stepped from the trees, something erupted behind me. It chased me. I saw the boat, already out to sea. I ran. The creature dissolved in sunlight.
No one on board saw it. But I know what I saw.
Now, ashore, after having been adrift again, I realize how close I came to the abyss. The burned prophet knew me. It knew what I carried. And whatever followed me out of that jungle... isn’t finished.
Something has been watching. Something knows me now.
I hear its name when I sleep like a whisper just before you wake. “Solomon Nu”
End.