Fae: The Book of Faolan

By J.G. VanDenKooy

For centuries, little children have been kidnapped by mischievous faeries. They take them away to the world on the other side. Sometimes, if they survive, the children come back to the human world, but never the same.
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The other world calls them, beckons them to return. In their dreams—and daresay waking hours—they go wandering back to the Faery Realm.
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When Faolan, the boy living in a secluded island village, hears that call and meets a man with his own attachment to the other side, he is sent into a whirlwind of danger and finds the excitement he has always yearned for.
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However, things are changing on the other side. Politically, naturally, and otherwise. Faery war is approaching, and Faolan finds that there is a price paid for humans who go back to the world of Fae.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.G. VanDenKooy
• Release date: Jul 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301027156

J.G. VanDenKooy

J.G. VanDenKooy was born in Las Vegas, NV. He began by writing music at a young age and, after reading 'Good Omens' by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, became an avid reader.In 2010 he attended Southern Utah University to study music, but left to transfer in 2012.He now lives in California, and is a BFA student at California Institute of the Arts studying composition and digital arts. He writes novels for the love of it.

Book preview

Journals of the early days, and of foolish choices.

It was a dark and misty day

When all the faeries came to play

They took my poor dear babe away

And left without a word to say

Prelude & Introduction

I remember there was water all around me, so that I was unable to breath or speak or scream. But that is all I can recall. Surely it was a terrifying experience. I was only a baby when they took me away. They were, specifically, the Finfolk—shape shifting creatures of the sea that, among other creatures, had an appetite for children. They don’t exist in the seas of this world, but in another world that exists on the same plane. They took me from my home, a home I’ve long since forgotten, and brought me to the realm of Fae, where I became acquainted with strange creatures, some good, and some far beyond the horrors that filled my once childish nightmares.

My experience with those faeries is one worth recounting. It gave me purpose and strength, and a world outside my cloister. Beyond that, this twisted yarn is of the people who became a part of my life when the journey began, and the price that must be paid when we cross over so unnaturally from the human world.

I am human, or at least in retrospect, I have been. I am Faolan, a resident of the Isle Saoirse.

The first time that I remember coming in contact with the Faery Realm was when I was five years old, sleeping on a wooden frame topped with old sacks for bedding. In the village of Saoirse, within a room in the back of the pub, I lay awake, startled by nightmares and the sound of incoming ships. Images came to me every time I began to drift to sleep, and would startle me into a waking panic.

The dreams stopped after that, and I had none for several years. The bed of sacks, however, remained.

My guardian Mr. Magnus, owned and ran the pub, and so I spent my days scrubbing the floors and washing the dishes. The most adventure I ever saw was a short fishing trip where I would accompany Mr. Magnus for his birthday. I hated fishing (strange since I grew up on an island). It always made me uneasy, probably since it had been a sort of fish that was responsible for my kidnapping. Of course, at the time I didn’t know that I had been kidnapped. Island life was simply the way of things, and I didn’t mind it. It was all I knew, and any improvement was beyond my limited imagination.

My second experience with the other world, and most memorable was when I was eleven. That day had been a strange one, even with regard to Saoirse.

Because the Isle Saoirse was the only port within hundreds of miles of a trading chain of sea, it was used to harbor weary travelers and sailors. Saoirse was by no means the tropical island one might think about, with sandy beaches and fruit-bearing trees. It was a rock. A tall jagged wedge with a small village high above the crashing waves where nothing grew but short-lived wild flowers. The highest cliff near the village of Saoirse was connected by a naturally formed winding path down to a thin strip of dirty sand and sharp rocks. Around the side were the awry docks, which welcomed the foreign vessels into its abstract design of turning and unleveled ports.

I had always seen strange visitors coming and going. Some of them had dark skin and wore little clothing. Some wore silk robes and spoke in odd tongues. That day, the pub was filled with European sailors who seemed to be merchants, drinking and chatting. They were my only glimpse into the outside world, beyond my little island, and in this particular group, an old man sitting at the bar caught my attention. The man was bald and had a long and unkempt beard of silver. He had been swaying side to side on his stool for hours, clearly very drunk, clutching to the collar of his dirty coat with one hand and clasping his mug with the other. When he was approached by another sailor, he started speaking about odd things that shocked and astounded me—things that began to plant seeds in my adolescent mind.

That's a load of bollocks! yelled a man in the crowd of sailors, making some form of profane gesture towards the balding old man who sat at the center of the crowd.

I am not lying to you! shouted the old man, I saw it! A place where spirits exist and magick runs through the air and trees. I’ve seen the other side. Stop your snickering! Have you seen it? Hm? How about you? Anyone!

Mr. Magnus was standing among the other travelers. Who is this man? he said, probably to nobody in particular.

A voice answered him from behind. I am not sure, the traveler said, stepping from the dark corner of the pub. We found him not too far from here, half-dead on a slab of wood. This man did not look like the others. He was dressed in a long coat and wore glasses. His body was thin, compared the burly looking crew. There was a leather sack over his shoulder with several folded and rolled papers hanging from its pockets—maps and charts I guessed.

The spectacled fellow stared at the old man with intrigue, not like the others with their cynical laughter and mockery, and certainly with a more sober focus. His glasses caught a glare, hiding his eyes from sight, as the old man prattled on. Behind that glare, his emotion, thoughts, even the traveler's very soul was shrouded in glass. My eyes, however, focused on the tale of the old man. I did not realize at the time how important this other spectacled man would be in my life—how his presence would bring me to where I am now. Still, I paid little attention to him and was drawn to the raving tales and stories.

I don’t remember everything the old man said, but he kept going on about this other realm, which fascinated me. He spoke like a magician, filling my mind with images of such grandeur and desire that my stomach fluttered with exhilaration, though his voice was filled with bitterness and anger. I had been enthralled with stories of other lands, but this place on the other side was on a different level.

The crowd responded with less enthusiasm than I, and eventually tossed him out of the pub, openly laughing at his fable. I ran out into the darkness in search of him, but he was nowhere to be found. I didn’t see him again after that, but what he said affected me. So many wondrous ideas filled my head. I saw many faces, and heard many stories, but learned no names that night—though these nameless faces would soon rip my reality in two.

I couldn’t shake the pounding feeling of curiosity. My mind was filled with images of this other realm. When I rested my head back onto the pillow of my makeshift bed, I dreamt about it vividly. I saw a forest, filled with sprites and odd creatures, gazed upon a great mountain where a huge marble temple had been erected, and ran through villages of marble houses with shops and grand structures that carried water from the lakes and rivers into the town. I swam through cool waters, not like the water that surrounded Saoirse, but a fresh and clear sea.

Strange fish dwelled in this dream ocean. They wore cloth garments and grew arms and legs. They appeared less like fish as they drew nearer to me, beginning to resemble little tribal men, with blue-silver skin and a certain scaly quality. Some of them seemed to watch me going by. A few of them began to chase me.

Startled, I began to flee, their eyes grew sinister as the fish-men drew short spears. They followed rapidly behind me as if startled and offended by my presence. I ran from their sharp teeth and the pointed sticks they carried. They were fast in the water and getting away seemed impossible. Just as I felt their slimy hands on me I awoke, having been asleep for only a few hours.

It was midnight.

The sound of a ship's horn had brought me from my vision. It had been the recent visitors departing from Saoirse. I wondered if the nameless old man was with them or if he had run away and died at the bottom of the island cliff, which was rather common for the visitors who found themselves in poor spirits.

I never knew where the travelers went when they left, nor had I seen another world outside of the island I called home. But now I had a world beyond to think about.

I began to lose interest in the places I heard of from travelers and fantasized about the realm that the old man spoke of; the one in my dream. It wouldn’t be until many years later that I would find out exactly what that place was.

Wearing only my shorts in the cold air, I walked outside to watch the ship depart. It was very windy and the mist of the sea was all about. The waves crashed hard against the cliff side of the island. A storm was coming, and these men were sailing right into it.

The following day, after cleaning up from the previous night’s hubbub, I went to see Greagoir. He was my best friend, and looked after me more than my guardian had. He was much older than I, in his later teens, but treated me as an equal, not just a boy his junior. Greagoir ran the inn and was often busy. He was out sweeping the front path when I arrived.

The inn was a chain of three long buildings, the center being the largest with an upper story of washrooms. I walked up the stone path to greet Greagoir, who was talking with Jeremy, a villager who occasionally assisted him.

…and he was up by the church, laughing or crying. Either way, I’m certain he’s mad. Greagoir said as Jeremy took a damp rag to the exterior windows.

Can you believe that guy? Some of the people we get around here, eh? Real nutcase, wonder where he ended up.

The old man? I said, I found his stories interesting.

Oh, Faolan, didn’t see you there, said Jeremy, Listen, you shouldn’t let people fill your head with all that rubbish. The only adventure we’re getting here is shoving the spiders out of the gutters.

Greagoir interjected, And that’s far more dangerous than a ‘tribe of evil fish’. They both began to laugh.

Finfolk.

Huh? replied the two older boys.

They’re called Finfolk, I explained, that's what the old man said. Creatures that live in water: Finman for male, and Finwife for female. They shape-shift so you can’t see them coming.

Jeremy gave me a pat on the shoulder, Ya’ can’t believe that stuff Faolan. I’ve seen lots of people come through here gone mad with ideas like that.

But it was all so amazing, I even dreamt about it last night. They both looked at me with something akin to pity. "I just get so bored being around the same things every day."

It was true. I hated seeing the same wooden pub, and the same stone steps, and the waves crashing against the same cliff side.

Greagoir knelt down to my level; he was much taller than I was. He looked at me with his kind, brotherly eyes.

If you want to get out and see the world Faolan, then your best bet is becoming a sailor. Just try to learn as much as you can, and hope that one day, one of the travelers will take you with them. Maybe one day you’ll be a big shot, and get off this rock.

Jeremy slapped the rag over his shoulder. When you do, take me with you!

He always made me feel like something more than what I was, Greagoir did. You don’t feel too good about yourself being called boy or the little one after all. He had always offered for me to live at the inn, sleep in a real bed, and Mr. Magnus wasn’t against it. But I liked my bed of sacks, and was happy visiting my friend all the same.

He hadn’t believed a word I’d said about the world I saw in my dreams, and that proved useful. It was best kept a secret from him when my excursions began. I communicated with the strange realm for a couple of years before making the journey there at last.

I spent my days exploring the highest part of the cliff, where the church and cemetery was. The church was simple, long since abandoned, and always locked tight. I had never seen the inside. The graveyard was peaceful, but menacing at night, when the creeping things slithered and slinked upon the tombstones and, of course, the goddess statue.

The statue was of an angelic figure and was a mystery to every resident. Some of the islands inhabitants said it was erected in the image of a young girl who had long since passed away. A few others made tall-tales about the person the statue might have been modeled after. I simply observed it and tried to understand. Why was it there? Who made it? With little to do next to cleaning the pub of dried alcohol and mud, learning the little secrets of my tiny rock was my only fascination. I’d ask Mr. Magnus about the statue that stood in the graveyard. He was usually the one to go to with questions about history and the island, and although at the time I was just a boy of some eleven years, he treated me like an adult—for better or worse.

Marcuz Magnus was more or less the appointed mayor of Saoirse. He spoke with a robust voice, filled with knowledge and dignity. He was militant, stalwart, and towered over everyone on the rock.

I entered the pub after my long stroll and hung up my coat then moved up to the counter.

Back early I see, Mr. Magnus said, polishing off smudges on his glass paraphernalia. That’ll give you some extra time to turn up the chairs and clean the floors.

I’ll get to it, sir, I said routinely, I had a question for you though.

Get to it indeed, he responded. Go ahead boy, I’m here when you need a lesson.

I began taking up the chairs and flipping them onto the tables one by one. Sir, I was just wondering about the statue. You know the one—in the graveyard on the high end of the seashore cliff.

Aye, I know it. Remarkable thing too.

Why’s that? I asked reluctantly. His lectures were things of reckoning, and I sensed one approaching.

Well, he began, did you ever notice that it is perfectly carved out of marble rock?

Not really, sir.

Well, no one here knows how to do that. Sure Greagoir, myself and a few others can build with some expertise, but that’s an entirely different matter. That statue was built there a long time ago, before any of us lived here. The early residents decided to build the churchyard around the statue, since it’s immovable.

Why couldn’t they move it? I said, pulling up one of the chairs and inadvertently taking a seat.

The man moved a box of glass cups and bottles onto a rear shelf, then picked up another dusty box and began to polish them ostentatiously. Because, he said, the base of the statue isn’t sitting on the ground. In fact, he looked up from his glass now and fixed his eye on a place towards the ceiling; it was his thinking look, the base is rumored to run all the way down the inside of the cliff.

Astounded, I asked, How far does it go?

Deeper than the ocean perhaps, he said, returning to his cloth and over polished glass, Nobody knows. He seemed to be getting distracted, because he shook his head to get his mind back on track and said to me, Boy, get to your work.

And so I did.

I set the chairs and stools onto the tables, scrubbed the wooden floors and retired to the back room where I laid down to bed, listening only to the crashing waves that sounded so soothing from the great height of the village. That night I dreamt again; it was the first night of my soon-to-be relentless visions of what I used to think was a fantasy.

There was a man, of some sort, a strange looking creature. His skin was pale and slightly blue-green, though it may have been the light. From his arm sprouted tiny feathers also of a green discoloration, all laid out in a row from his wrist, around his elbow, and up to his shoulder. There were more, larger feathers on his neck and back. The creature wore a white cloth about its waist and several beads hung around its slim neck. His arms and legs were well-built, like a bird’s wing muscles, though that wasn’t the only birdlike feature he sported: the trail of feathers ran down his legs to his feet, which were normal except that in place of toes, two long eagle’s talons clasped the ground in pain. But his face was undeniably like a normal man.

He was being beat brutally by something unseen. Eyes slamming shut in pain, muscles flexed in agony as a barbed whip descended across his back. There were larger bloody feathers on the ground that seemed to have been ripped out by force.

The creature did not cry out in any way. The only sound was the crack of each spiked chord of the whip slamming across its back. It wasn’t until I was beginning to wake did it let out a sound, not the sound of a bird, but the sound of a man giving his last groan or sigh of pain just before hitting the cold, stone ground.

The Girl

The ship groaned each time a wave bashed against its side. It was a powerful ship to be sure, able to hold strong through any storm or fire. The groaning was simply the ship's cry of strength. Sailors ran from end to end, slipping on the rain soaked deck to secure any loose items and goods from being tossed overboard. The entire crew was out getting drenched, except for three. Raini, the captain's granddaughter, looked out the cabin window at the sailors yanking, pulling, and tying down various ropes and things. She had spent most of her life aboard a ship—this particular ship, exclusively—though knew very little about sailing. She turned away from the window and silently made her way down a narrow stairwell to the lower level.

She passed a few large chambers with cramped bunks for the sailors to rest in and stopped at another stairwell, leading down to the captain's quarters. Although she grew up in these halls, she had never, and would never, be allowed down into her grandfather's chamber. Only Keane, the ship's navigator ever visited the captain. In fact, although Keane was her friend and Captain Ivor was her grandfather, she knew next to nothing about what they talked about, or even what their ambitions were—and there were ambitions.

The girl walked into the last door in the dim hall. A tall window lit her plain room and acted as both her vision behind the ship and her reflective looking glass, the only means by which she could look at herself—which she did sparingly. Her cheeks sustained a bit of color from the sun, but in general, she was a pale thing who was drowning in altered men's clothing. She grew accustom to the baggy garments and had long since learned to form her own sense of style from them. A large shirt hung over her and hid her figure—she was aged somewhere in the younger half of a developing woman, but didn’t know the number.

Secluded and generally alone, Raini would sit and peer out of her window, looking back at the ports she never stood on, or at the endless horizon of water the ship left behind.

The girl fell backwards onto her bed, lined with Indian silks her grandfather had given her on a birthday long forgotten. She sighed, tuned out the roaring waters and the groaning ship, and fell asleep to the storm.

Church

During the months in which few travelers came to Saoirse—either to deliver supplies, or buy them—I spent most of my days on the high cliff, overlooking the black ocean water. I would hop from tombstone to dirty tombstone around the yard of the old abandoned church and occasionally chase around the creepy crawlies. When finished, my resting place was the cliff itself, where I could hang my feet over the side and feel the ocean’s brackish mist become one with the air. I sat, looking off into the invisible horizon, dreaming of days when I might sail out into the world and explore the cultures that were merely folklore for me. This was my refuge.

I was thirteen and a half at this point in my tale.

Few chores would have to be done at the pub, and Mr. Magnus would not have me wandering about the place without purpose.

Get out if there’s no work to be done for you! he would say to me. I can hardly think with all your pacing. Go out till you’re ready to sleep!

I didn’t mind though, I preferred the outside air. I only wished I had something to do.

While disturbing an ant parade climbing up the back of the church, over one of its boarded windows, I came to an exciting conclusion. I had never once been inside of the old church, and I had a sudden desire to do so. It certainly wasn’t the most appealing place to appease my boredom, but it seemed fun enough to explore anyway. So, with a childish curiosity, I would.

I ran down the path heading towards the inn. Greagoir would have the keys to the church door, and would not be busy anyway—there were no travelers. But there was no telling whether he would give me the keys to the old church. After all, the place had to be locked for some good reason.

"Yes, Faolan, I do have the keys. But why in the world would you want to explore that place?"

"It’s just so dull around here when the sailors don’t come," I replied with a shrug.

Greagoir thought for a moment, and finally sighed, walked inside, and grabbed his key ring from behind his desk then walked me out. His keys jingled along as we walked up toward the churchyard, there were many of them dangling from the iron ring. Greag, being the innkeeper, had the key to just about every building on Saoirse and most likely several that were not from the island at all. Sailors might forget keys in their rooms, some would wash up on the beach with other curious sorts of debris, and Greag collected them all. Every month he had a few new keys in his drawer, pocket, or on his ring. His collection was massive, but he did know every key and every keyhole by memory, and without looking down at all, he thumbed forth the most rust stricken key out from the iron menagerie and held the ancient thing ready for the lock.

The church was white, or at least mostly white, since the paint was peeling from wall to wall, revealing the ancient-looking cedar from which it was constructed.

Now, Greag said, do you know why this place was abandoned? I didn’t, and he saw the expression on my face. First of all, he continued, religion, as you know, is a very diverse sort of institute, one that varies from culture to culture. We hear of many different kinds here because of all of the travelers, to which I nodded, and because of that, it is not at all a part of our daily lives. It hasn’t been for years, and so the use of the church declined.

He pushed that rusty key into the lock and turned it with a degree of difficulty. As he pushed, the white door resisted, bonded shut by time and weather. Tiny chips of paint fell to the ground, revealing more of the old wood around the door frame.

Second, and more importantly, he said as the door swung open, "…was whatever caused this."

A gasp filled my throat—the sight was something boding evil. The place was dimly lit from the pale rays creeping in from the small broken windows, but it was enough for me to see what was there. On one side, was a hall to a separate room filled with partitions and white hospital beds. This was where my silent gasp was first spurned. For on the beds, and the tattered sheets, the walls, benches, books and podiums…was blood. It was dark from the aging, but I could tell that it was once flowing like the ocean waves from screaming veins. The drops were preserved as streaks of black-crimson along the walls and bedding. There were a few places on the wall where some kind of explosion seemed to occur, as if someone or something had been hurled into the wall with great force. An overturned bench was broken and beaten as if from the fists of an unusually powerful being.

That was all I saw from the doorway and I did not dare walk further. I simply turned around, dizzy with shock, and fell to the dirt. A rat walked around to reach the bushes; even the vermin would not enter that cursed place.

I awoke on the couch in the lobby of the inn. Greagoir was nowhere to be seen. I got up and looked around, hoping not to see any reminder of the gore I had just been exposed to. My eyes still seemed to have the stained bed’s image burned into them. I took a few cleansing breaths and gained my focus.

The inn was neatly put together. There was a wooden table built-in, similar to the pub’s. In fact, the two buildings were almost identical in architecture, not so much in use. The inn had an upper floor, and the pub was a bit wider, but one could tell that they were built by the same person. On the counter was a dusty old cash register with brass keys and green trim—never used since most travelers just paid in whatever silver or copper pieces they could spare. To the right, a door leading to the kitchen, where I heard some shuffling of feet. I found Greag in there about ready to bring out two glasses of tea.

You’re up, good. I’m sorry Faolan. I didn’t mean to give you such a scare. I figured it would be better for you to see it and put your mind at ease, rather than me simply telling you, and you getting yourself into trouble with curiosity.

But what happened there? I inquired with trepidation. Was there some kind of animal, or fight? Was it a riot?

I don’t know, Faolan, none of us do. Whatever it was, it happened a long time ago. Now nobody goes there, people say it’s a cursed place. He handed me one of the glasses and I gulped the drink down.

How long was I asleep for?

Greag moved behind the counter and sat in his stool. A few hours. Magnus has got you working too hard. I’ll have to talk to him about that.

I slammed my glass onto the wood by Greag’s. No! Don’t worry about that. I’ve got to get going. Didn’t realize how late it was. Bye!

Mr. Magnus was peeved when I returned so late. Not that there had been much work to do around that time, but he had demanded that I return to the pub at a reasonable hour every day. My boundaries were limited by his rules, and the duties that he required of me. I often wished that Greagoir had become my guardian, but Mr. Magnus was the eldest on the island, and Greagoir was hardly older than a boy himself. I heard from Jeremy once that he had once been a commodore in the British Navy. He was strict and harsh with his punishments, although, in an odd way, I felt safer in his walls. True, Greagoir was my friend, the one who answered my questions as a young man himself. But he could not protect me as Mr. Magnus could. What it was that I needed to be protected from, I did not know. It wasn’t until Fidchell, that ship of destiny, came for the first time that I understood the dangers that even Mr. Magnus could not ready me for.

And as I laid my head down to sleep, I felt the wind of an ill omen coming my way. It was the same wind that drove a ship, carrying on board a man who would change my life.

I dreamt again, but it was not of the feathered man from the last dream. This time I saw a man with skin of a violet shade, with tattoos covering its body. They were symbols and writings that I had never seen, with arabesque figures and strange circles. In the thing’s hand was a black staff that was shaped a claw at the top. The claw held a black orb with sinister energy radiating from it. It gave me a dreamy discomfort. I watched the thing move from what looked to be a giant throne formed out of the black stone walls. The violet man walked through a large room that looked like the inside of a bat’s cave, with stalactites covering the ceiling. At first I thought it may have been some kind of cave but when the man reached a balcony overlooking acres upon acres of forest, mountain, water, and plains, I knew that the rock had to be some sort of tower.

I tried to look further over the balcony but I had the grim feeling that something was staring at me.

Something was staring at me. I looked around but saw nothing. Then I noticed the black orb on the staff was staring at me; I could feel its haunting gaze. The violet man turned quickly to look me in the eyes just as if I was there before him. He raised a hand to reach out and touch my face.

I awoke to the sound of alert bells.

Gasping for air, I sat up in my makeshift bed and looked out the window. Mr. Magnus and some other men were running to the port. The bells were tolled for only one of two reasons: if a storm was coming, or a ship was making port. In this case, it was both, and so the bells sounded twice as loud.

I got up, pulled on my trousers, and buttoned up my thin dirt-stained shirt. When I opened the door leading to the back of the pub I saw the storm. The wind was harsh and several rouge pieces of firewood were being blown all over. I began running down the path to the docks.

That was the first time I saw it—Fidchell—a ship of massive proportions. It was far grander than the cargo and delivery ships that normally visited Saoirse, and its crew was startlingly more enigmatic.

Fidchell

The storm had passed and now the workers who assisted travelers with the awkward docking process were mangling rope from all angles from the ship to the dock. The port of Saoirse was odd, as I was told from some of the traveling merchants, when compared to other more extravagant ports on the main lands. Apparently, while most docks were built straight out into the water, ours tipped oddly. The wooden walkways surrounding the water were not at all flat or straight. They curved and ramped at varied angles, so that when some mariners would finally exit the water rocked ship and set foot on sturdy land, they felt as if they were still at sea. The dock was more of an enormous (and confusing) ramp of angles to accommodate for the isle’s awkward shape. However, once the visitors would reach the actual island rocks, they felt stable again and would quickly separate into two groups. One group would head directly to the inn to rest from their laborious journey, whilst the more distinguished ranks set off to the pub to celebrate their achievements.

My favorite part was sitting in the pub and listening to the stories from the captain, especially after the old man had told his tale about the other world so many years before. This was the benefit of working under Mr. Magnus—I was not asked to leave the drinking area, and was allowed to hear the captain’s stories, provided I remained silent, respectful, and kept the area clean. This time though, there was no captain to be seen. No stories to be told except for a few lesser sailors arguing about appropriate knotting techniques. Every ship had to have some sort of captain. That was proper. I ran across the path to the inn, perhaps he would be there resting.

Greagoir, has the captain of the recent ship checked-in to his room? I asked him when I arrived.

He looked through a list of hastily composed evening records. I’m afraid not, only some of the crew.

Surely he would not have stayed on the ship. That would be ridiculous when the point of this place was to house and comfort the weary travelers. The inn was surprisingly comfortable, though I assumed that anything would be acceptable to laborers who worked at sea for months at a time.

You don’t think that the captain stayed on board, do you?

Perhaps. Some people like their privacy. Captains often have an emotional connection with the vessels they steer.

I decided to investigate on the ship to find the captain. I’m not sure exactly why I was so interested in finding this man; perhaps it was the lack of action that had made up the slow few months. With a burst of energy, I set off on my way down the stone path and crossed the randomly jutting dock to the ramp that led to the ship’s deck. On the upper side of it was a golden plate bearing the word FIDCHELL, which must have been the vessel’s name.

The docks were quiet, except for the sound of water washing up against the island rock, which was considered silence in this setting. There were no other ships in the Port of Saoirse, and being the Fidchell’s first day of rest, there were no deck-hands aboard. I made my way up the steep ramp to the ship’s deck. From there, it looked even larger. I looked around with amazement at the tall mast and wide sails, the shining wood deck and fancy curling banisters. It was my first time on a boat of this grandeur.

…and who might you be?

I whipped around instantly. Standing there behind me was an unfamiliar familiar face; that is to say, I could