by C. Vandyke
As I press open the doors of the Crimson Cog tavern, I spy my quarry in the taproom’s corner—in the shadow of the massive, rusted cog from which the establishment gleaned its name. He is bent over his cup, and flanking him around the table are two equally miserable-looking souls. Were I not to possess a lithograph of his likeness, I may not consider him a likely candidate for employment on my expedition. But as luck would have it, Roger Kellis’s likeness is the subject of more than a few wanted posters in several regions.
A ship’s captain of note, Roger Kellis is leader of a motley crew of scoundrels who call Rustowne home. Little more than guns for hire, they’re reputed to take on jobs of the most dangerous and unsavory nature. Most often, these jobs involve violating a catalog of laws. Despite any claims to the contrary, Roger Kellis and his men are, without a doubt, pirates.
While they are far from the sort I’d prefer to entreat for my needs, Kellis is reputed to be the best there is at what he does. And nothing short of the best is what I require for this venture.
The eyes of the ne’er-do-wells turn up as I approach. In keeping with his reputation as being sly as a fox, Kellis’s narrow to a suspicious squint with no hesitation.
Under such scrutiny, I suddenly feel more out of my element than I already had. I shift in place, fumbling with the assorted charts and journals clutched to my chest, unsure whether I should be the first to speak.
Finally, Kellis himself breaks the silence. “What do you want?”
A thousand potential answers fill my mind, from the sudden concern that I had not relieved my bladder in some time to desires for existential understanding. Not accustomed to communicating with others by any other means than scientific discourse via academic journals, it takes me a moment to decipher the specific intent of his question.
The figure on Kellis’s right hand, a mountain of a man with a shaved head covered in tattoos of aquatic fauna, slams his cup down on the rusted table. “Well, out with it.”
The man seated opposite him—a spindly fellow with long, graying hair matching his beard—appears likewise perturbed, yet remains silent.
Kellis, after taking a deliberate breath, says again, “What… do… you… want?”
I sense I’ve tested the patience of all three to their limits, an observation worth noting. Perhaps a life facing the dangers of the world lends one to perceive time differently than those among us who have lived lives of relative comfort?
“Are you a mute?”
“Pardon?” I ask. I’m not aware of who spoke, having been lost as I was in my own thoughts.
“Well,” the small, graying man says, “he’s not a mute.”
A breath of consternation huffs past my lips. “Of course I’m not a mute. Why ever would you—”
“Stop,” Kellis cuts me off. “Listen, if you want something, just spit it out. If not, go step off a catwalk.”
My eyes widen at the suggestion. “But it’s nearly a league drop to the ocean. There’s hardly any probability of surviving such a venture. Why would one suggest another—”
Kellis holds up a hand, again cutting me off. A flush rises to my cheeks. I had expected gruff company, but the rudeness on display from the pirate captain thus far goes well beyond anything I had prepared myself for.
“It’s just an old saying,” Kellis says. “It means bugger off if you don’t have anything to say that’s worth my time.” He pauses with a sigh. “Okay, let’s start with your name.”
I cock my head to the side, unsure why this is important, but I can fathom no reason not to oblige him. “Wilhelm Hadsworth.”
Kellis smiles, and I find myself surprised by the warmness of the expression, given the man’s reputation. “Well, Wilhelm Hadsworth, that’s a good start. I’m—”
This time, I cut him off. “Roger Kellis, famed pirate captain. I know.”
And to further my surprise, three revolvers are suddenly braced against the table. Their hammers are drawn back, and the cylinders rotate with a series of clicks that reverberate through the rusted metal below them.
I know I should raise my hands to show I’m unarmed, but to drop the invaluable documents in my arms would be unconscionable. “I’m not with the Constabulary, if that’s your concern.”
Kellis squints again, fox-like cunning gleaming behind his cold blue eyes. He takes only moments to consider me before returning his pistol’s hammer to its former place of rest, then signals his compatriots to do likewise.
“Okay,” he says. “Now that we’re all friendly-like, why don’t you set that crap down and take a seat?” The captain gestures to the empty chair opposite him, presumably an invitation for me to make use of it.
I do as bid, taking care with my bundled notes as I place them on the pitted table. I am pained to think of the potential damage the rusted metal might wreak on either the delicate paper of the charts or the valuable leather of one of my journals. Once satisfied my belongings are situated as securely as one could expect, considering the circumstances, I lower myself to the rickety chair that Kellis proffers. Hands free of their burden, I also remove my plain, black bowler hat and place it atop the piled notes and charts.
The graying man chuckles. “Settled in nice and comfy, are we?”
I smile and nod. “Quite so, thank you.”
A round of hearty guffaws meets my remark, the source of which eludes me. But before I can consider the cause of such sudden frivolity, Kellis once again takes the lead on the conversation.
“So, back to my original question. Why in the bloody hells are you here?”
“That wasn’t your original question,” I say. “What you asked was, ‘what do you want?’”
Kellis rubs a meaty, scarred hand across his face, apparently trying to remove some offending substance or debris from his skin. Why he is choosing this moment to focus on matters hygienical, and in such an obviously unsanitary venue, is yet another point of consternation in my continued dealings with the man.
“Are you even listening?” Kellis asks.
Listening to what, I’m not entirely sure. “I’m sorry?”
Again, Kellis rubs at his face. The graying man seems to choke on something, but still grins like he has just made some great scientific discovery, and the large man’s attention seems to be drawn by a passing serving girl.
Kellis takes another long, deliberate breath—I must inquire whether the man has some sort of respiratory condition which might interfere with his duties as captain before we finalize any negotiations—then says, “I said it doesn’t matter how I—” He seems to stop himself. “Wait, that doesn’t matter, either. Tell you what… You’re here because you’re looking for me, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, why are you looking for me?”
Finally, a direct question with clear intent. “I seek to hire you, your crew, and your ship.”
The big man’s head spins back around at this, his mouth open wide. The graying man ceases his choking.
Kellis squints again. Perhaps this is less attributable to his cunning nature and more to some sort of ophthalmological ailment? Surely, spending time in a city named for the rust covering every surface cannot be amenable to one’s health, but these men seem especially stricken.
Kellis leans forward. “Why do you want to hire my ship?”
“And you, and your crew,” I correct.
He says nothing.
I clear my throat and continue—whilst wondering if the sudden tightness in my chest is from concern over the difficulty of the encounter or if I, too, am becoming stricken with some rust-borne illness. “I wish to hire you, your crew, and your ship to take me to Kimichula and seek out the Font of Souls.”
The big man, who until that moment was deep into his cup, suddenly spits some sort of noxious-smelling fluid about the table. Seeing some of the offending liquid strike my journals and charts, I make haste to wipe it away with the sleeve of my coat.
Kellis leans back as I clean the documents, then waves a han
d in dismissal. “That’s a legend as full of gull crap as the one about the well on The Whispering Isle. I’ve seen hundreds of men go to their deaths seeking eternal life in a child’s tale. Why would you do the same just for a chance to see your own death before it happens?”
His brusque reply takes me aback for a moment. “The veracity of claims about the Well of Eternal Life may be disputed, as are those of the Font of Souls, but there is enough evidence to suggest—in both cases—that there exists enough likelihood of truth to warrant further investigation. Why, in fact, I have only recently discovered from observing the Cumulocarta a likely location for the Font itself, which has led me on this very undertaking. Here…” I shuffled through the charts, seeking one document in particular. “I have a relatively precise navigational chart which should lead us right to it.”
“No,” Kellis says, holding up a hand. “Stop. I’m not going on some fool’s errand half-way across the world to that blasted jungle. You couldn’t possibly pay me enough.”
My eyes widen at his sudden assumption as to my own financial means. But rather than arguing the point, I drive towards an alternative consideration which I am sure will earn his interest. “The expedition is being funded by the Aerotarium. There’s already an escrow account in your name at the White Whale bank in The Hub; the value of which is backed by some two hundred bars of platinum.”
Kellis’s eyes widen, the graying man resumes a fit of coughing, and the large man frantically waves down the serving girl to order more drinks.
Then Kellis leans close and extends his hand. “Mister, you have a ship.”
I knew better than to expect any sort of luxury accommodations aboard Kellis’s ship—the Drunken Princess—but relief nonetheless floods my being as we finally near the verdant isle of Kimichula.
The Princess does little to live up to her name. Originally a seafaring carrack, the small, two-decked ship has scant accommodations for her crew of twenty aeronauts. Crammed together on the gun deck, sleeping in hammocks hung between beams—and some uncomfortably close to the ship’s furnace—the crew has no private space to speak of. Only the captain himself has private quarters, and it was of little surprise that he did not forfeit his accommodations to accompany the patron of the voyage—namely: myself.
As word of our impending arrival runs throughout the lower deck of the ship, I struggle to untangle myself from a hammock cut of discarded sailcloth. Nearby, the furnace roars as the inferno within sends gouts of hot air along two copper pipes of remarkable girth, feeding the two large canvas balloons which hold the ship aloft in the skies. Coal fumes fill the cramped space and soot covers every surface, be it cut from wood or flesh of man. I wipe a newly deposited layer of the grimy, black substance from my hands, then my face, as I gather up my coat and run for the stairs to the main deck. Water inside the boiler above the furnace bubbles and steam hisses through more pipes, these leading to drive propellers at the back of the ship which speed us on our journey.
It was Kellis’s one act of kindness that I be allowed to keep my journals and charts in his quarters, well away from the filth and heat below.
Finally emerging into the fresh air of the southern skyways, I rush to the meager forecastle of the ship to steal my first glimpse of the fabled southern isle.
Discovered nary one-hundred years ago, Kimichula is a long, slender body of land that was lost in the vastness of the sea for uncounted centuries. When finally discovered by men from the north, it was found to be occupied by peoples therewith unheard of. At first, many thought their peculiar ways might lead to conflict between our two cultures, but these worries were soon put to rest when the indigenous people and newly arrived settlers found not cause for strife in their differences, but rather opportunities to prosper from one another. And since, a most remarkable blending of societies has occurred, giving rise to what many consider an entirely new culture—little resembling either that of the natives of Kimichula or the lives left behind by the settlers.
Several port towns dot the coast of the island, and our destination is the largest of these, and site to the landing of the first explorers so long ago.
By continental reckoning, New Dresberg could be considered little more than a small trading port. Despite this, it is nominally the capital of the island, and remains the primary point of ingress to and egress from it. Most surprising of all, it doesn’t even have a skyport!
This fact then leads to a sudden venting of air from the balloons above the ship, signaled by a horrendous squeal as men tug on rigging to open ports in the fabric. Shouts echo around me, orders I hardly comprehend issued with such gruffness as to cause one’s nerves to fray. As the crew goes about their work, the Drunken Princess descends towards New Dresberg’s harbor, ringed on three sides by Freeman’s Jetty—a semi-circle of toppled stone drawn from the ruins inside the jungle, which acts to protect what would otherwise be an exposed beachhead.
As the ship splashes into the sea, then cruises past the jetty, I run to the gunwale and lean over for a better view of the massive stonework. Millenia-old carvings from a long-lost empire which once dominated the island persist in the stones, despite the constant assault from the ocean. Some forms I recognize from my studies, but many are novel in nature.
Oh, to sit here by the sea and sketch every figure and glyph; it would be such a joy!
I sniff the salty air and wrinkle my nose in disgust as the odoriferous leavings of cadaverous sea life assail my senses.
Well, perhaps not such a joy, after all.
As we trudge through the jungle, I struggle to keep up with Kellis, who likewise seems taxed to keep apace with our Tohangan guide, Irski. The Indigenous man we hired to lead us to the fabled ruins of Endrapo—capital city of the long-fallen island empire—likely bears little resemblance to his forebears who greeted the first northern explorers. The exceptions to this are his bronzed flesh and remarkably dark hair, which hangs to his shoulders in tight curls.
Otherwise, Irski dresses much as one would expect from any working man on the continent. He wears tan slacks, boots, and a loose-fitting button-down shirt that may have once been white. The only adornment which speaks of his heritage is a beautiful necklace of shimmering purple and pearlescent seashells hung with crimson and emerald feathers from some exotic fowl native to Kimichula.
The man is also remarkably well-spoken, being more intelligible even than many among Kellis’s crew. He is a shrewd bargainer as well, draining not only my reserve of funds allotted for the expedition, but also eliciting a promised share of Kellis’s own profits.
This latter turn of events was most surprising to me, as Kellis had fulfilled his task in safely transporting me to the island. He could have turned and left when Irski refused my offered sum. Instead, he matched the sum from what he was to be paid—an act that seemed born of a desire stoked within the pirate to delve into the ruins himself. This was further evidenced when he insisted on joining us on our jungle trek—another task not within the purview of his contract.
Finally, after several days and nights in the tropical forest, we draw near an assortment of towering ruins the likes of which all the books in my not-so-humble library fail to accurately represent. Towers stand along the outskirts, most crumbling, but some still soaring above the trees. Long walls stretch away beyond sight, all carved with intricate designs and bearing miles of script still yet to be deciphered. Scholars have spent lifetimes studying these ruins, yet they stand as large an enigma as the Cumulocarta itself.
I retrieve a sheaf of scrawled notes and sketches from my coat, flipping through them until I find a diagram I had drawn of Endrapo from that cloud-born oracle. We follow the instructions I scrawled in the fervor of excited revelation until we reach a monolithic structure near the center of the city.
Here lay evidence of many prior investigations; discarded tents, broken camp chairs, metal canteens, and rusted shovels. How many had stood here discerning the secrets of the lost empire without knowing what truly lay within? Ho
w many had sought the Font of Souls, unaware it lay mere yards below their feet?
In the center of the crumbling structure—which the Cumulocarta’s eddies revealed to have been a temple of sorts—a single obelisk stands seemingly untouched by time. On its face are an assortment of glyphs and carved script, in keeping with most of the ruins. But standing out from all this is a relief of an octopus with far too many writhing tentacles to be realistic. And at the tip of each, a glimmering gemstone so encased within the surrounding granite as to be impossible to remove. Upon each, that is, save one.
Here, lost among its glittering brethren by its nondescript nature, one tentacle ends only in an empty socket.
Thieves and vandals had received blame for the missing jewel. But few considered the improbability of the theory, given all the remaining gemstones had defied repeated attempts to be removed.
No, this empty socket was intentional, and the Cumulocarta had also revealed what need be deposited within the deliberate void to unlock the secrets of the Font of Souls.
I shoulder by both Kellis and Irski without word, draw a small knife from my pocket, and unfold the blade. Anxiety fills me, as there is little I dread more than the sight of blood. Overcoming my trepidation, I poke the end of my finger with the blade before discarding the tool. Then, I squeeze a sizeable droplet of my life’s essence from the wound and press the offended digit against the gemless tentacle of the octopus.
Stone rumbles and screeches as slabs long-still grate against each other. The ground beneath our feet trembles.
“What in the blazes did you do?” Kellis asks.
I turn and smile, satisfaction warming my cheeks. “Opened the door.”
Irski, eyes wide with panic, says nothing before he turns and flees from the temple. When finally out of sight, foreign words drift over the walls, fading from earshot as he continues his fear-born sprint. While I know not what he is saying, I can tell none of it is polite.
I shrug and turn back to the obelisk. The flagstones beneath it have parted, revealing a narrow crevice in the ground. Kellis and I take several steps back as the gap continues to grow, revealing stone stairs leading down into the darkness.
