Distopia (Land of Dis) Page 4

  “You’re up,” shouted Savikkar.

  Wyngalf stared at him dumbly, not knowing what to make of this statement. Did Savikkar expect him to perform some sort of miracle to calm the storm? He shook his head. “I can’t do anything about a storm!” he yelled.

  Savikkar laughed wildly. “It’s not the storm I’m worried about,” he cried. “I need you to do something about that!”

  He pointed over the bow of the ship, and Wyngalf turned to see what he was indicating. At first, between the billowing waves, the intense rain and the dark sky, he didn’t see it. But then a flash of lightning perfectly framed the thing in silhouette. It was like a mountain rising out of the sea. A small island, he thought? Why would the captain ask for his help with—

  No, not an island. The thing was getting bigger as he watched. Or rather, more of it was emerging from the sea. And he saw, as the lightning flashed again, that the peak of the “mountain” had developed a number of vertical cracks, like a praying man slowly spreading his fingers. Tentacles, thought Wyngalf. My God, the thing is alive. It had to be three hundred feet tall—and that was just the part visible above the water. Its tentacles writhed menacingly, spreading as if to make a cage for the ship. It was so huge that Wyngalf would have expected the displaced water to push the Erdis Evena away from it, but if anything the opposite was happening. Wyngalf saw that the creature had parted its tentacles in such a way as to form an opening to admit the ship, and it was sucking vast quantities of water into its gullet. The ship was being slowly but inexorably drawn into the whirlpool.

  “The Hafgufa,” Wyngalf murmured weakly.

  “Metaphorical Hafgufa,” yelled Savikkar, with a grin, slapping Wyngalf on the back. “Go take care of it!”

  Wyngalf stared at him in horror. Was Savikkar joking with him, or did he really expect Wyngalf to somehow mollify the Hafgufa? Either way, Wyngalf realized, the man was completely insane. He’d cracked under pressure—and this wasn’t the first time. Wyngalf should have known there was something wrong with the man when Bulgar had told him how Savikkar had promised an unknown god that he would journey across the Sea of Dis if his crew were spared. It was funny how often madness was confused with faith.

  At this point, though, Wyngalf had little choice but to embrace the man’s madness and hope that his own faith was still worth something. The crew was paralyzed with fear, and he doubted there was anything they could do anyway. They had taken down the sails, and oars wouldn’t be of much use against the maelstrom. Only divine intervention could save them now. The Nine Persons of the Noninity worked in mysterious ways, and maybe the Hafgufa had been sent as another test. The only thing for it was to rise to the challenge and hope his faith was strong enough to save them. It was the only chance any of them had.

  Wyngalf got to his feet and made his way slowly to the bow of the ship, struggling against the pitching of the deck and the rough winds. By the time he reached the railing, the ship had been drawn into a torrent of water that was now pulling it rapidly toward the creature’s maw. On either side of the channel were massive tentacles, larger than the great stonewood trees of the northern provinces of Vostolook, huge slimy arms writhing in the air like fingers beckoning the ship to its doom.

  Wyngalf gripped the railing with both hands and stared into the vortex, wondering what it was that his God demanded of him. He refused to believe this was the end. There had to be some reason he had been brought to this point. Whether this voyage was the result of sheer coincidence or evidence of a divine joke, he still believed that ultimately the Noninity had some kind of purpose in mind for him. That meant it couldn’t end here—at least, not as long as Wyngalf’s faith held firm.

  “Behold, foul monster of the deep!” cried Wyngalf. He doubted the creature could hear him through the wind, and doubted even more that it would be able to understand him if it could. But expressions of faith needn’t be constrained by practicality or logic. He was convinced that somehow he could bend the monster to his will if only his faith were strong enough. “We are on a divine mission to bring the Blessed Truth of….”

  He quavered as he noticed something huge and black encroaching on his field of vision to the right. He turned just in time to see the tip of a tentacle whip toward him. But it slowed as it curled around behind him, as if the monster was being repelled by some invisible force. Hope swelled in Wyngalf’s breast. He’d done it! His faith had—quite literally—bent the sea beast to his will. The tentacle writhed around him, but remained just over an arm’s length way. Try as it might, it couldn’t touch him. Feeling encouraged by this clear display of divine power, Wyngalf was emboldened to command the creature to spare the Erdis Evena. He began again, with renewed confidence, “We are on a divine mission to bring the Blessed Truth of Noninitarianism to the distant land of Dis. Return to the depths from which you came, that we might continue unmolested!”

  The tentacle—only about the thickness of his waist at its nearest point—hung in the air, motionless except for a faint quivering along its length. Wyngalf resisted the urge to reach out and strike the creature, as it seemed like that might be tempting fate. There was no need to lord it over the beast. It was simply an unthinking agent of the divine plan, sent to test Wyngalf’s faith. He could no more be angry at it than he could feel animosity for the storm that still raged around him. Both would be forced to subside in the face of the unimaginable power working on Wyngalf’s behalf.

  As if in response to this thought, the tentacle began to straighten and withdraw, slipping closer to Wyngalf as it did so. Wyngalf shuddered with relief. He’d passed the test, beaten the mighty Hafgufa, unspeakable terror of the Sea of Dis. Men would write songs of this day—about what the all-powerful Noninity had done through its humble but unquestionably courageous servant Wyngalf. He couldn’t help admiring the thing; the grace with which it moved held an undeniable beauty. Still, it was getting awfully close. Finally he was overcome by the urge to put a little distance between himself and the tentacle, and found himself leaning ever-so-slightly away from it to give the thing a wider berth. He’d already passed the test; there was no point in pressing the issue.

  Anyway, that was what he was thinking when the tentacle whipped toward him and swept him off the bow into the sea.

  Four

  Wyngalf couldn’t say how many hours he treaded water. In the chaos that followed his being thrown overboard, it was all he could do to keep from drowning amidst the swells and crashing waves. For a little while he caught an occasional glimpse of the ship or a tentacle writhing in the distance, but both gradually receded in the churning murk, and he was left alone in the storm. Eventually the gales died down, and only he remained, bobbing helplessly on the ocean swells. What happened to the Erdis Evena was a mystery. Maybe Wyngalf really had driven the creature away, or maybe the ship had been pulled beneath the sea by the maelstrom. There was no way to be sure.

  It would have been nice to know that the ship survived, given that Wyngalf was almost certainly going to drown, but even that consolation was denied him. In all likelihood the Erdis Evena and its crew had been sucked into the maw of the Hafgufa. He supposed he would find out in the next life, if his faith in the afterlife was not also misplaced. Even if they had by some miracle survived, the mission had lost its preacher and therefore its raison d’être. He wondered if they would go on to Dis without him, pulling into some distant port as emissaries of a faith of which they were almost entirely ignorant. Perhaps they would tell tales of Wyngalf the Martyr, who had thrown himself into the sea to save the crew. “To Wyngalf!” they would cry, raising their glasses to him in a tavern across the sea. “We don’t know what he believed in, but there can be no doubt that he believed it!”

  The water was chilly but tolerable; even as the sun fell in the west and the air grew colder, Wyngalf remained fairly certain that he’d die of thirst or exhaustion before hypothermia set in. He doubted very much, in fact, whether he’d make it through the night. Some part of him wanted to dive deep u
nderwater, let the salt water into his lungs and have it over with. But a larger part of him still believed he’d have to meet his maker[2] and be judged for his actions[3], and suicide was never acceptable, even under these dire circumstances.

  As the orange disc of the sun touched the sea, Wyngalf became aware of a dark object floating in the water some distance away. It was hard to tell how large it was or how far away, because of the fading light and the swells that blocked it from view most of the time, but it appeared that it might be large enough for Wyngalf to climb on top of it. It would probably only delay his inevitable fate, but all he could think about at present was having a moment to rest his arms.

  Not yet, though. If he was going to reach the floating thing before darkness fell, he was going to have to move fast. He forced himself to ignore the tiredness in his limbs and pushed himself toward the object. The sun continued to drop behind the horizon, and at first it seemed as if he was making no progress at all. But gradually the floating thing became larger, and he pressed on.

  Wyngalf was a reasonably good swimmer, thanks to the lap pool the bishop had installed on the grounds of the Stronghold three years prior. It was one of the few diversions available to the acolytes, and if Wyngalf survived this he promised himself that he would express his undying gratitude to the bishop. But as the sun dropped below the sea and the floating thing remained a few swells away, the chances of that happening seemed slim indeed. Still he pressed on, paddling languidly in the direction he thought the object lay. In the last remaining gray light, he spotted it again as a swell passed under him, and he pushed himself toward it with renewed effort. He finally found it with his fingers rather than his eyes, a curved wooden surface bobbing in the waves. It was a fish barrel that had apparently been thrown from the Erdis Evena.

  He climbed on top of it and formed his body to the barrel’s curve, spreading his weight as evenly as he could. The thing had just enough buoyancy that he could with minimal effort keep his head and trunk out of the water, with his hands and his legs below the knees submerged. He shivered as the night air hit his damp skin, but his aching limbs thanked him for the respite. If he could just make it through the night, his clothes would eventually dry in the sun, and then—well, he’d die of thirst. But first things first.

  At some point, he fell asleep. He was only aware of this because he was awoken by a strange sensation. An impossible sensation, in fact. It seemed to him that someone had been knocking on the barrel, trying to get his attention. After a moment, it stopped and he went back to sleep. Some indeterminate amount of time later, it happened again. He still refused to believe it had happened, though, attributing the sensation to a manifestation of his discomfort due to cold, hunger and thirst. Once again, he slipped back into sleep. The third time, the rapping continued sometime after he regained consciousness, and was followed by the sound of a small voice.

  “Say again?” Wyngalf murmured, not entirely convinced he hadn’t dreamed it.

  The voice spoke again. “I said, is somebody out there?”

  Wyngalf was so startled, he nearly lost his balance. It was all he could do to keep from falling backwards into the water. “Who… who is that?”

  “Father Wyngalf?” said the voice, small and muffled. It clearly came from inside the barrel.

  “Evena?” cried Wyngalf hoarsely. “What in heaven’s name are you doing in there?”

  “Floating, I think,” said Evena. “Can you get me out?”

  Wyngalf stared dumbly at the barrel. A crescent Moon had come out, and he could just make out the steel band wrapped around the boards in front of him. He moved his fingers to the top of the barrel, feeling the lid, which had been secured with pitch.

  “I don’t think so,” said Wyngalf. “Why are you in the barrel?”

  “I wanted to go with you on your adventure,” said Evena. “So I stowed away. I paid one of the mates, a man named Fendrelli, to seal me in this barrel and load me on the ship. He was supposed to get me out after we’d been at sea for a day.”

  “He missed the ship,” Wyngalf said. “You’ve been stuck in this barrel for three days?”

  “It hasn’t been so bad,” Evena said. “I’ve got water. I ran out of food, but I haven’t been hungry anyway.”

  Wyngalf nodded. He had barely eaten since the ship had left Skuldred. “Can you breathe okay?”

  “I have an air hole,” she said. “Here, in the top.”

  Wyngalf reached around the top of the barrel and felt around until his fingers felt a round hole, about the diameter of a large coin. Three of Evena’s delicate fingers were sticking through it. He took hold of them and squeezed. They were surprisingly warm.

  “What happened to the ship?” she asked. “I heard the storm. There was a lot of commotion, and then a terrible sound like the hull being ripped apart. Next thing I knew, I was bobbing in the waves. I called for help for hours, but no one came. I thought I was going to die out here.”

  “You still might,” murmured Wyngalf.

  “What?”

  “We just have to survive the night,” Wyngalf said.

  “And then what?”

  “I don’t know,” Wyngalf admitted. “Maybe once I can see something, I can get you out.” Although you’ll probably be no better off, he thought. “Just try to get some sleep.” He gave her fingers another squeeze and then let her hand go.

  “Okay.”

  Evena grew quiet again, and when she didn’t stir for a while, Wyngalf supposed she must have fallen asleep. He drifted off too eventually, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the swells. He had just sunk into a deep sleep when he was thrown violently from the barrel into the water.

  Disoriented, he had no idea which was way up, and began to thrash around in a semi-conscious panic. He was trying to locate the surface, but his hand struck something rough and hard. The sensation was so unexpected that he didn’t know what to make of it. Eventually he got it into his addled brain that the rough thing was some kind of floor, and he oriented his feet toward it and pushed off. His head broke through the surface and gasped for air. He felt the swell sinking and suddenly he was standing on the rocky ground, the water barely reaching his armpits. A few seconds later, the water rose again, lifting him off the rocks.

  He couldn’t see a thing. The Moon had either gone down or was hidden behind clouds; the sky was a uniform charcoal below which was the near-total blackness of the sea. He paddled furiously, spinning himself around in an attempt to locate either the barrel or the rock it had struck, but the swells played tricks on his eyes. “Evena!” he called, but there was no response.

  A moment later he was once again standing on rocks, this time in even shallower water. He wanted to run, to get away from the capricious ocean that would in another moment lift him high above the rocky floor—and drop him just as quickly—but he had no idea which direction to go. So he simply stood there until another swell caught him, shoving him up, up, up…

  And then fell down, down, down, bracing himself for contact with the rocks, which could be five or fifty feet down. If he landed wrong, lost his balance and struck his head, he was done for.

  But he once again landed with his feet on more-or-less level rock, in water that reached barely to his chest. Not only that, but he could just make out a larger rock formation towering over him a few yards away. At the peak of the swells, the top of it was probably only a few feet underwater. It appeared to be shaped like a pillar, about ten feet in diameter, with sharply sloping, irregular sides and a plateau at the top. If he could get to it, he’d have a firm place to stand. Even if it didn’t connect to any larger land formation, at least he’d have a momentary respite from the swells that threatened to crack his skull open like an egg.

  He dove into the water in the direction of the rock, willing himself toward it even as he felt the water once again shoving him skyward. By the time the swell reached its zenith, he figured he must be on top of the rock. At least, he hoped he was—if he’d miscalculated, the swell would
drop him on one of the sloped sides leading up to the plateau, and he’d tumble down the side, bashing and bruising himself until he either hit water or another rock big enough to break his fall.

  But as the water receded, he found himself gently deposited on his hands and knees on the almost perfectly flat surface of the rock. He got to his feet and peered into the darkness, seeing now that the column was actually part of a small promontory that jutted out from what appeared to be a larger mass of rock. Land.

  There was no telling how big the island was, or whether it was all as harsh and inhospitable as this unforgiving rock, but it was solid ground, and that struck Wyngalf as near-miraculous occurrence. Once again, he had cheated death—at least for a little longer. But what of Evena? Had she been spared death in the shipwreck only to die in a barrelwreck?

  “Evena!” he called again, but still there was no answer. The water rose, but only to his waist, and when it receded again, he made his way quickly across a lower patch of ground to get to the larger rock formation. He scrabbled up the sharp slope just ahead of the rising swell, finding himself standing on dry ground. He called for Evena once more, and this time he thought he heard a response. Making his way carefully over the rocky ground toward the sound, he called again, and this time he was certain he’d heard her. Evena was alive.

  He found her sitting on a flat section of rock, hugging her knees and shivering.

  “M-m-m-my b-b-b-b-barrel b-b-b-b-broke,” she said, as he sat down next to her. She was soaking wet. The barrel must have smashed open on the rocks, and she had managed to climb up here. Wyngalf put his arms around her and squeezed her tightly. They sat there shivering together until morning.