An Old Sailor's Tale to a Young Sailor

A young sailor looked to the edge of the world from the bow, right where the sky meets the sea, and saw a green light flash in the evening's descending darkness. He stared in disbelief. Seeing what he had only heard about in stories.

"Some say that light are souls that have risen, returned to us from the land of the dead, what our ancestors called Niflheim. But I believe it's a sign you should get back to swabbing the deck. If you have time to stand around looking at lights, you have time to clean. Skippers orders," the old sailor hissed, throwing the young sailor a mop.

The young sailor begrudgingly fetched a pail and filled it with soap and water. The old sailor sat back on a strapped barrel and lit up his pipe as the young sailor began to clean the deck. The old sailor continued to speak after a puff of smoke, "I'll have you know we always leave for the Singing Isles at night so that we will have morning's first light in the returning trip. Whoever it is that makes it back, that is."

The young sailor was caught off guard and became irritated. "Aren't we about to wade into the black storms that circle the islands that block all the light? And you're sure the skipper couldn't wait till morning to have me to do this?"

The old sailor ignored the remarks. "This is your first trip to that savage island, eh? I saw a green light flash once, just like on a night like this. I was a young lad, same as yous, maybe a year removed or added. I was making my first supply delivery to the temple. My ole skipper and a few of the crew said the green light was death coming from the waters, preparing to guide lost sailors to the afterlife."

"I don't believe in the old sea myths," The young sailor said. He tried his best to ignore the old sailor's whistling as he continued to work. The young sailor cursed as he tripped over the pail and fell to the deck. The young sailor peered around the ship as it became too dark from the sea's black fog to clean. "We won't see anything without the floodlights on. Why aren't the lights on?"

The old sailor again ignored the young sailor's question and continued to talk, "Oh, of course, I didn't believe in the old sea myths either. Just the murmurings of drunken sailors just trying to scare a boot. Talk of the likes of merfolk, leviathans, and all else in these dark waters."

A distant but thunderous roar echoed around them in the dark sea. Without hesitation, the young sailor ran to find the floodlight panel and turned them on just as the last semblance of light began to be extinguished from outside the storm ring. It was a surreal endless black void; only the dim glow of the ship and the embers of the old sailor's pipe could be seen.

"That island is filled with monks. Deformed zealots of an unholy cult. They say it's the vapors rising from between the rocks is that make the dense fog. Those who breathe in its air are said to be driven mad. The ever swirling storm that looms over them Singing Isles. The further the boat sailed that night, the more we was becoming… it felt like… like we was inside of something. Like we were being ground in its belly. But I remember the black waters most of all and what they failed to conceal…." The old sailor trailed off, staring off the bow puffing again on his pipe. Rain droplets started to pour on his face putting out the old sailor's pipe.

The young sailor chuckled for a moment at the old sailor's misfortune, but then the rain began to pour on him as well. The young sailor was determined and worked even harder. The old sailor tried again to light his pipe. The flicker of his light danced in the rain, dying with every strike. A crack and growl from the thunder seemed to come from above as well as below.

The old sailor abandoned lighting his pipe and approached the young sailor, "Listen to what I am saying, lad. I was a young lad when I was sent ashore. I saw madmen, dead men, men not fit for living, men not men at all. Rain, fog, the crashing cold black waters felt as though its icy touch would rip through my skin. The monks of the island do not feel it at all. I saw beyond death, beyond this dark void at the center of those islands. A death that dies. A corpse that slumbers and darkness that consumes all who dare enter from this mortal world."

The young sailor could not tell from which way the wind blew and found it hard to breathe. He felt it was too difficult to clean and emptied the sloshing bucket over the side. The roar of the thunder was intensifying, and the wind brought him to his knees.

The old sailor threw his arms into the air and shouted with all his strength over the roar of the thunder, "These black seas and the wonders beneath it are horrors, yes, but others have crawled from its deeps and devour those who would dare walk its land. The creatures that live on them jagged rocks protruding from the waters, are unlike anything you ever seen. Shadows and time bend the corners of reality on that island. The rain that blinds you is the only thing that may keep the madness at bay. The ship was driven by madmen within the maddening sea. The green light, boy, is the last you'll see of a glimmer of hope you'll see. A sign that you should've turned back. A sign that they come for your soul, boy!"

The winds hollowed. The seas roared. Waves battered the sides of the ship. The young and the old sailor struggled back across the deck into the bridge as the swells of the sea rocked the ship. Moments later, the waves greatly diminished, and the island could be seen from the reflections of the fog lights. Monolithic boulders protruding from the sea reflected the ship's lights from the glossy jet-black surfaces.

Wind flew through the steep boulders whistling in the air, faint at first but grew to a cacophony as the ferry grew closer. The Young sailor swore he heard screaming, laughter, and fear in the choir of stone.

A derelict rotting dock languished beside the only flat land that could be seen. The old sailor motioned the young sailor to follow him back onto the deck as they approached the pier. They tied the ferry to the docks, and they were met by only rickety corroding boards.

The old sailor tossed two large bags to the young sailor and motioned him to go onto the land.

As the young sailor hesitantly stepped off the boat and when his feet touched the island, two tall hooded monks with pale white skin emerged from the fog. They motioned the young sailor to follow.

The young sailor gave a single look back toward the old sailor who leaned against the foremast focusing on relighting his pipe in the heavy mist.

The young sailor stepped into the fog, following the monks towards their temple.

The skipper stepped out from the bridge and leaned close to the old sailor, "You telling stories to nubs again, huh? Merfolk or leviathans?"

"Mad monks on the island," the old sailor said, finally managing to relight his pipe.

The skipper had a chuckle, "Aye, that's a good tale."