- Pronouns
- They/Them
tomtomgags
Villager
This tale was told to me by an old blind man, who used to be a sailor. He learned it from a fellow sailor on a ship he ran with, who in turn heard it from his father, a harpooner on a whaling ship. Likely the father heard it, as well, from somewhere else. It is to my knowledge this story is not recorded anywhere in writing. - Eyvind Herdsman
There is an island, in the south. Sometimes it is seen on the horizon by ships sailing between the Eastern Continent and the Sorrows. But it is, almost, never visited by these ships. There is no reason to visit, because it is a barren rock by all accounts. You see it on the horizon, perhaps through a spyglass, and see that there is not a single tree on this rock. But you would also see the strange shapes that make up the island. Great mounds of stone decorate the island’s coves, like fleshy lumps of stone. Perfectly smooth.
Often when this island is seen, a dense red toned fog rolls in shortly after. Fishermen who fish with it on the horizon bring up strange catches that you can sometimes find preserved in a cabinet of curiosities.
But it is those lost at sea who wind up on the island. Sailors who fall overboard by accident on a voyage in the south. Those set adrift, banished by their fellow crew. Sailors on life rafts, after their ship is raked apart by pirates. Or sometimes those same pirates who find their ships in turn ruined.
Never, however, can this island be found intentionally. Expeditions by the few curious enough about it have sought out to do it- they never find it. People, too, have marked by the stars with all their tools on a map where they were when they encountered it. They’re never the same.
It is said there is a game by captains to mark where they find the island. Then compare with other rare captains who have similarly seen it. They find the distance between their two locations when they saw the island.
Most, however, ignore the island.
The island is a bad omen, some say. Whalers, particularly, believe that seeing the island means their whales will always evade them. Most still try to catch their quarry afterwards, and some succeed, to their credit. Some, however, turn back to port to try again another day.
The island’s name is Ran. It was named this long ago, and nobody knows where the name comes from. But a few sailors, very few mind you, whisper the name in taverns and late at night on their ships. Ran, they say, is a place of nightmares.
Our story however is of one man, Peter Mollas, a sailor. He was an ordinary sailor upon a vessel called the Eclipse. The Eclipse was bound for the sorrows, like many vessels. Ferrying men to the bountiful lands to reap the harvest of many resources.
Peter was climbing the rigging and found a comfortable spot to loop his arms around and rest for but a moment. He decided to glance behind him, out to sea. He liked to steal these glances at times. The sea mesmerized him. And out there he spotted a dot on the horizon. It was an island, he was sure of it. He looked to see if the navigator was around, somewhere on deck. The deck was alive with sailors. He didn’t see the navigator, and decided to glance back out. The island was gone, just a trick of the sea.
Then the fog rolled in. With reddish tint. Calls went up across the deck, bringing the ship to life. Peter needed to climb higher. Then his hand slipped on the rigging. He fell backwards. Everything went perfectly wrong, as Peter fell right off the ship. Both his shout and the resulting splash in the water went unnoticed over the shouts of the crew.
Like some sailors, Peter couldn’t swim. Folly to go to sea not knowing how, but ideally nobody would fall off the ship. Often, falling off a ship is a death sentence all in of itself. Where would you even swim to, if your ship leaves you behind? No, Peter couldn’t swim. He tried desperately. But he fell under the water, and trying to breathe the water got into his lungs. Peter drowned.
Or so he thought. Peter came to, later. He awoke to fog, still with that red tint, and sand. Peter was on a beach. He stood and looked around. He couldn’t see far through the fog, but he could see the shore, and behind him there was smooth almost round stone. The stones were of various sizes. Little stones on the beach, big stones that flowed bubbling into eachother like small cliffs over the beach.
Peter was somewhere, he didn’t know where. So he started walking. He walked until he found a little stream entering the sea. He turned and saw the stream coming down the beach from a cave. The big round cave mouth beckoned him in, there was light inside.
Inside the cave, the fog abated. Peter followed the light, but before reaching it he came to a bubbling pool. The source of the water. He stared into the water. There was movement. Long tentacles of shadow moved in the depths of the dark water. And peter thought he saw the glinting of eyes within. A shudder went up his spine and he went deeper through the cave.
Turning a corner, Peter came across a sight. There was a man in old shabby clothing, all torn and weary, but clearly a sailor’s attire. The man faced away, hunched over an old chest. A glowing stone sat on the ground beside him. Peter wondered how the man didn’t hear him approaching. But he was lost, he needed help. Peter called out to the man.
“Hello, Sir?” Peter began.
The man turned slowly to face Peter. And what didn’t turn to face him was just that, a face. The man was completely faceless. He had no mouth, no eyes, only a mound where his nose should be, and flat on the sides of his head where ears should be. It was grotesque, it was terrifying. Peter froze.
The man held out a shaky hand, and falling from the hand came pearls. He held a whole pile of pearls that couldn’t be contained in his hands. Peter turned and ran, then, sensing the moment was right. As he went, he saw more pearls in the chest beyond the man.
Peter flew out from the cave and back onto the shore. He turned and stared back into the cave but saw nothing pursuing him. He ran down the beach.
Peter was terrified. There was something wrong with this place and there was a faceless man here. He ran until he tripped on something on the beach. Turning, he saw it was a small box. The box was quality in make, but a born worn by time. He wondered why it was here. It looked as though it had washed up on the shore.
Peter was curious, and opened the box. Inside was a locked, made of gold it appeared. He would pocket the locket, of course, but first he looked inside. Inside was a picture of two people, a woman and what looked like a young girl. Both of their faces were worn off. This unsettled Peter even more. He considered throwing the thing back to the sea, but decided to keep it.
Further away he noticed several letters washed up as well. They were sealed by wax. It felt wrong to open them. But he decided to open one and read. It was a love letter, it was sweet. It told of a man who could not return to see his love in another port, and how he longed to see her, it told how much she meant to him, and his great sorrow. The letter would never reach her, on this strange island.
Peter continued walking. Far more letters and scrolls and small boxes were washed up on the shore. Things that were lost. Had a ship carrying all this gone down nearby? He checked a few more letters, they were written in different languages. It seemed as though these letters had no connection, so why were they here.
The beach ended, but the sandy path continued further inland. He couldn’t see what was ahead as he went, through the fog. So he wandered aimlessly up the hill. Then down into a valley. Pillars emerged. It looked like solid marble. The pillars marked no wall, nothing, they just stood there. And ahead there formed a large pool of water. Out in the center of the pool loomed a shape.
Peter was unnerved by the shape. It was tall and dark. The pool of water, he noticed, shimmered with every color. And it was shallow. And it seemed to beckon him forward. He walked down into the water and approached the looming shape. It was a strange obelisk, of a gray stone.
There was carved into the face of the obelisk an inscription. It read: “Linger here in shadow. Whisper your secrets and let them be free from your lips. Find secrets anew. Depart, then, but know your heart is ever here, in Ran.”
Peter heard a movement in the water behind him and flew around. There, standing just on the edge of the fog, was the man. His eyeless, blank face stared at him. Suddenly the man didn’t move. His hand was extended, shaking, holding pearls. His other hand clutched that glowing stone.
Peter picked a direction and ran. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he was going away from that place. The man was following him now, he knew. Suddenly there appeared a cyclopean ruin. With old stones piled high. It looked like a fishing village of some ancient time. The rooves were all gone, likely rotted away ages ago. The houses had round windows framed with piled stone.
Peter hurried down the steps. He had crested a hill and was coming down the other side, along with the village. He stopped, seeing movement to the side. He stared through a door into a house, cloaked in fog. He saw something long slither through the mouth of the door. A snake? A tentacle? Then he became aware of the movement all around him. Things were moving, hiding from him. He could only see them slither away in his peripheral. He ran down the stairs, then.
He arrived at the beach. There was an old pier, made from stone. He didn’t realize he ran down it. He thought it was a path. Then he reached the end of the pier and saw there was nothing else. He turned his attention up. It was the sea, forever, at least until the fog ate it. And deep in that fog he saw something huge move. He heard it breach, too. The sound was immense. Then it crashed back down. A whale he told himself. But so close to shore?
Peter turned around then to head back up the pier. But there stood the man at the end of the pier. Peter was trapped at the end. The only escape his water. He froze. Then he noticed there was a second figure in the fog. This one had no face that he could see but instead his head was a mass of writhing tentacles coiled into a ball. This second figure set a hand on the faceless man’s shoulder. The faceless man dropped his pearls then, and turned to depart.
The figure with the writhing head raised his other hand and pointed to Peter’s left, down the beach. Then, wordlessly, disappeared into the fog again.
Peter was free to move down the beach, and decided to follow the direction he was pointed. But not before he gathered up all the pearls the faceless man had left. Perhaps he wasn’t in danger. But this place was more than strange.
Down the beach as he was pointed, Peter came across a great big cliff to his right. It was rounded, smooth, like all the things on this island were. But this one was larger, smoother, with a subtler curve. Inscribed on the rock were all sorts of things, in all sorts of languages. Peter only knew common, and his eyes settled on writing in his language.
“I killed him, it was me, I still regret it but they can never know.” The words glowed as he read it, the writing was not natural.
“She was a good wife, though I never loved her. My real love was always Sarah.” Read another inscription, also glowing.
“My heart soars when I am alone. There is joy in the silence.” Peter read the next.
And Peter knew what he had to do. He whispered aloud.
“I’m not really Peter. I stole his name. I don’t even remember my own name, at this point. I like it this way.”
And the words appeared, burning into the stone. The man who was not Peter, but wore his name, sighed. It was a relief. He cried, then. And when he was done he turned, and walked down the shore.
The fog had lifted slightly, he could see further. Then there was a small rowboat, pristine on the shore. Inside was food, and a compass. It must have belonged to someone. He called out, of course. But nobody responded. He sat for awhile, to see if anyone returned. Eventually, though, he decided to take it. He left that place, rowing through the fog as the compass pointed at him. The man who was not Peter, but wore his name, left Ran.
But his heart always remained, on the shores of Ran.
There is an island, in the south. Sometimes it is seen on the horizon by ships sailing between the Eastern Continent and the Sorrows. But it is, almost, never visited by these ships. There is no reason to visit, because it is a barren rock by all accounts. You see it on the horizon, perhaps through a spyglass, and see that there is not a single tree on this rock. But you would also see the strange shapes that make up the island. Great mounds of stone decorate the island’s coves, like fleshy lumps of stone. Perfectly smooth.
Often when this island is seen, a dense red toned fog rolls in shortly after. Fishermen who fish with it on the horizon bring up strange catches that you can sometimes find preserved in a cabinet of curiosities.
But it is those lost at sea who wind up on the island. Sailors who fall overboard by accident on a voyage in the south. Those set adrift, banished by their fellow crew. Sailors on life rafts, after their ship is raked apart by pirates. Or sometimes those same pirates who find their ships in turn ruined.
Never, however, can this island be found intentionally. Expeditions by the few curious enough about it have sought out to do it- they never find it. People, too, have marked by the stars with all their tools on a map where they were when they encountered it. They’re never the same.
It is said there is a game by captains to mark where they find the island. Then compare with other rare captains who have similarly seen it. They find the distance between their two locations when they saw the island.
Most, however, ignore the island.
The island is a bad omen, some say. Whalers, particularly, believe that seeing the island means their whales will always evade them. Most still try to catch their quarry afterwards, and some succeed, to their credit. Some, however, turn back to port to try again another day.
The island’s name is Ran. It was named this long ago, and nobody knows where the name comes from. But a few sailors, very few mind you, whisper the name in taverns and late at night on their ships. Ran, they say, is a place of nightmares.
Our story however is of one man, Peter Mollas, a sailor. He was an ordinary sailor upon a vessel called the Eclipse. The Eclipse was bound for the sorrows, like many vessels. Ferrying men to the bountiful lands to reap the harvest of many resources.
Peter was climbing the rigging and found a comfortable spot to loop his arms around and rest for but a moment. He decided to glance behind him, out to sea. He liked to steal these glances at times. The sea mesmerized him. And out there he spotted a dot on the horizon. It was an island, he was sure of it. He looked to see if the navigator was around, somewhere on deck. The deck was alive with sailors. He didn’t see the navigator, and decided to glance back out. The island was gone, just a trick of the sea.
Then the fog rolled in. With reddish tint. Calls went up across the deck, bringing the ship to life. Peter needed to climb higher. Then his hand slipped on the rigging. He fell backwards. Everything went perfectly wrong, as Peter fell right off the ship. Both his shout and the resulting splash in the water went unnoticed over the shouts of the crew.
Like some sailors, Peter couldn’t swim. Folly to go to sea not knowing how, but ideally nobody would fall off the ship. Often, falling off a ship is a death sentence all in of itself. Where would you even swim to, if your ship leaves you behind? No, Peter couldn’t swim. He tried desperately. But he fell under the water, and trying to breathe the water got into his lungs. Peter drowned.
Or so he thought. Peter came to, later. He awoke to fog, still with that red tint, and sand. Peter was on a beach. He stood and looked around. He couldn’t see far through the fog, but he could see the shore, and behind him there was smooth almost round stone. The stones were of various sizes. Little stones on the beach, big stones that flowed bubbling into eachother like small cliffs over the beach.
Peter was somewhere, he didn’t know where. So he started walking. He walked until he found a little stream entering the sea. He turned and saw the stream coming down the beach from a cave. The big round cave mouth beckoned him in, there was light inside.
Inside the cave, the fog abated. Peter followed the light, but before reaching it he came to a bubbling pool. The source of the water. He stared into the water. There was movement. Long tentacles of shadow moved in the depths of the dark water. And peter thought he saw the glinting of eyes within. A shudder went up his spine and he went deeper through the cave.
Turning a corner, Peter came across a sight. There was a man in old shabby clothing, all torn and weary, but clearly a sailor’s attire. The man faced away, hunched over an old chest. A glowing stone sat on the ground beside him. Peter wondered how the man didn’t hear him approaching. But he was lost, he needed help. Peter called out to the man.
“Hello, Sir?” Peter began.
The man turned slowly to face Peter. And what didn’t turn to face him was just that, a face. The man was completely faceless. He had no mouth, no eyes, only a mound where his nose should be, and flat on the sides of his head where ears should be. It was grotesque, it was terrifying. Peter froze.
The man held out a shaky hand, and falling from the hand came pearls. He held a whole pile of pearls that couldn’t be contained in his hands. Peter turned and ran, then, sensing the moment was right. As he went, he saw more pearls in the chest beyond the man.
Peter flew out from the cave and back onto the shore. He turned and stared back into the cave but saw nothing pursuing him. He ran down the beach.
Peter was terrified. There was something wrong with this place and there was a faceless man here. He ran until he tripped on something on the beach. Turning, he saw it was a small box. The box was quality in make, but a born worn by time. He wondered why it was here. It looked as though it had washed up on the shore.
Peter was curious, and opened the box. Inside was a locked, made of gold it appeared. He would pocket the locket, of course, but first he looked inside. Inside was a picture of two people, a woman and what looked like a young girl. Both of their faces were worn off. This unsettled Peter even more. He considered throwing the thing back to the sea, but decided to keep it.
Further away he noticed several letters washed up as well. They were sealed by wax. It felt wrong to open them. But he decided to open one and read. It was a love letter, it was sweet. It told of a man who could not return to see his love in another port, and how he longed to see her, it told how much she meant to him, and his great sorrow. The letter would never reach her, on this strange island.
Peter continued walking. Far more letters and scrolls and small boxes were washed up on the shore. Things that were lost. Had a ship carrying all this gone down nearby? He checked a few more letters, they were written in different languages. It seemed as though these letters had no connection, so why were they here.
The beach ended, but the sandy path continued further inland. He couldn’t see what was ahead as he went, through the fog. So he wandered aimlessly up the hill. Then down into a valley. Pillars emerged. It looked like solid marble. The pillars marked no wall, nothing, they just stood there. And ahead there formed a large pool of water. Out in the center of the pool loomed a shape.
Peter was unnerved by the shape. It was tall and dark. The pool of water, he noticed, shimmered with every color. And it was shallow. And it seemed to beckon him forward. He walked down into the water and approached the looming shape. It was a strange obelisk, of a gray stone.
There was carved into the face of the obelisk an inscription. It read: “Linger here in shadow. Whisper your secrets and let them be free from your lips. Find secrets anew. Depart, then, but know your heart is ever here, in Ran.”
Peter heard a movement in the water behind him and flew around. There, standing just on the edge of the fog, was the man. His eyeless, blank face stared at him. Suddenly the man didn’t move. His hand was extended, shaking, holding pearls. His other hand clutched that glowing stone.
Peter picked a direction and ran. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he was going away from that place. The man was following him now, he knew. Suddenly there appeared a cyclopean ruin. With old stones piled high. It looked like a fishing village of some ancient time. The rooves were all gone, likely rotted away ages ago. The houses had round windows framed with piled stone.
Peter hurried down the steps. He had crested a hill and was coming down the other side, along with the village. He stopped, seeing movement to the side. He stared through a door into a house, cloaked in fog. He saw something long slither through the mouth of the door. A snake? A tentacle? Then he became aware of the movement all around him. Things were moving, hiding from him. He could only see them slither away in his peripheral. He ran down the stairs, then.
He arrived at the beach. There was an old pier, made from stone. He didn’t realize he ran down it. He thought it was a path. Then he reached the end of the pier and saw there was nothing else. He turned his attention up. It was the sea, forever, at least until the fog ate it. And deep in that fog he saw something huge move. He heard it breach, too. The sound was immense. Then it crashed back down. A whale he told himself. But so close to shore?
Peter turned around then to head back up the pier. But there stood the man at the end of the pier. Peter was trapped at the end. The only escape his water. He froze. Then he noticed there was a second figure in the fog. This one had no face that he could see but instead his head was a mass of writhing tentacles coiled into a ball. This second figure set a hand on the faceless man’s shoulder. The faceless man dropped his pearls then, and turned to depart.
The figure with the writhing head raised his other hand and pointed to Peter’s left, down the beach. Then, wordlessly, disappeared into the fog again.
Peter was free to move down the beach, and decided to follow the direction he was pointed. But not before he gathered up all the pearls the faceless man had left. Perhaps he wasn’t in danger. But this place was more than strange.
Down the beach as he was pointed, Peter came across a great big cliff to his right. It was rounded, smooth, like all the things on this island were. But this one was larger, smoother, with a subtler curve. Inscribed on the rock were all sorts of things, in all sorts of languages. Peter only knew common, and his eyes settled on writing in his language.
“I killed him, it was me, I still regret it but they can never know.” The words glowed as he read it, the writing was not natural.
“She was a good wife, though I never loved her. My real love was always Sarah.” Read another inscription, also glowing.
“My heart soars when I am alone. There is joy in the silence.” Peter read the next.
And Peter knew what he had to do. He whispered aloud.
“I’m not really Peter. I stole his name. I don’t even remember my own name, at this point. I like it this way.”
And the words appeared, burning into the stone. The man who was not Peter, but wore his name, sighed. It was a relief. He cried, then. And when he was done he turned, and walked down the shore.
The fog had lifted slightly, he could see further. Then there was a small rowboat, pristine on the shore. Inside was food, and a compass. It must have belonged to someone. He called out, of course. But nobody responded. He sat for awhile, to see if anyone returned. Eventually, though, he decided to take it. He left that place, rowing through the fog as the compass pointed at him. The man who was not Peter, but wore his name, left Ran.
But his heart always remained, on the shores of Ran.