In the light of a three-quarter moon, the sand was bright when Gravis reached the beach. He was well north of the towers, away from the city and its lights, where the world was normally as dark as it had been at the beginning. While he'd lived in Tur Del Fur all his long life, Gravis knew that the city — this sparkling gem at the tip of the world — was not a big place. He was no more than a mile, maybe two, outside its influence and already he walked a virgin coast — a world untouched by anyone since time began. But tonight Drome had left three-quarters of a light on for him.
With few exceptions, Delgos was all rock and saltwater. Rich farmland she was not. The whole peninsula was an arid plateau, especially around the southern edge where cliffs kissed the sea. Only Dromeians would look at a landscape of stone and think paradise! Few others had ever tried to hack out an existence in the rough beyond the city, and fewer still managed to do it. Of those, none succeeded for long. As a result, the rocky coast ran desolate and empty for hundreds of miles in either direction. Barren beaches were dotted by massive sea stacks — great rocks that had been eaten away from the headlands until they stood alone as massive monuments to a forgotten past. Driftwood and seaweed littered the sand that was home to howlers, seabirds, and turtles, but nothing that walked on two legs.
Gravis couldn't imagine a less inviting place. The sea was too vast and unpredictable; it rendered the same anxiety he felt standing too near a sheer drop. The stone was harsh, jagged, and sunbaked such that touching it burned bare skin. Everything else was worthless sand. Little wonder the majority of Delgos was never settled, and this particular tract of beach never built upon. And yet for the two hundred and sixty-eight years Gravis had called it home, he'd never once noticed the desolation. Strange how the view through the shack's cracked windowpane had always seemed so beautiful — as long as Ena was looking with him.
The wet sand was easier to walk on, and not wanting to risk soaking his boots, Gravis traveled barefoot, leaving perfect toe-topped prints in a waddling line. The damp beach glowed with moonlight, and the sea had a bright line stretching across it, but to either side of the moon's reflection, it was black — nothing more than a void. Only it wasn't nothing. Even the abyss was something, and hearing the waves crash, Gravis imagined a tail flicking back and forth as the void watched him with far more interest than it should.
Thinking he had missed his new home, Gravis began to worry. More than once, in bright daylight, he had walked right by. He might overshoot and never realize his mistake.
How far is too far?
If he did miss it, if he walked into oblivion, what might be waiting in the dark? This was a real concern because Gravis was haunted. Since Ena died, he had felt untethered, adrift in a storm. His dreams were bad but not the sort he expected. Any sane widower would face nightmares centered on the loss of his wife. Gravis dreamed of Drumindor.
The towers had been his home for well over two centuries. The ancient fortress had always been a playground. He knew and loved every lever and gear. Gravis had worked day and night within those walls, often sleeping on the floor before the great furnace. In no other place had he spent more time, nor would he have wished to, but since Ena's death, Drumindor frightened him.
The dreams began the night Ena died. He hadn't fallen asleep — he had fainted. Gravis was down on his knees, bent over their bed with Ena's hand in his, and her last words in his ears. He cried until his body and mind just gave out — then the dreams came. Drumindor called to him with a muffled voice. Gravis didn't understand the words, but he grasped their meaning. Someone was trapped inside and wanted to get out. He heard the pounding, felt the vibration of the struggle. Gravis went to the South Tower but couldn't get in. Lord Byron had sealed it against him. Still the voice begged for help. There was nothing Gravis could do, and even if there was, he didn't know if he should. Something about that voice and the pounding disturbed him. The tone of both was too deep, and so strong that he felt it. And there was something else. With each successive dream, Gravis became certain that the sounds did not come from within Drumindor, but from underneath.
All but certain he must have missed his new home, Gravis was lost in a mental debate, wondering if he ought to turn around or not. That's when he spotted the bone-white body of a tree lying on the beach. The wooden cadaver appeared oddly whole, except for a lack of leaves. The tree wasn't ravaged, not shattered or broken after the fashion of all other driftwood, but it lay preserved as if having died of fright. The pallid remains, though sad and even a tad morbid, were a welcome discovery. He knew the tree was a landmark that declared his new home was just ahead.
"Likely has a secret palace somewhere deep in the cliffs."
"Aye, he's probably in a room of gold, sleeping on King Linden's bed."
Gravis smirked. If they only knew how grand my new abode really is!
Veering up the beach into dry sand, Gravis soon spotted the shattered hull of an upside-down fishing boat. Mostly buried, the stern looked to have been bitten off by a giant sea monster. Gravis had found the old skiff shortly after the Port Authority had thrown him out of his shack. On that day, he had wandered in a daze down the beach, trying to decide what to do with his life. His choices had bounced between walking north until he died of thirst or swimming past the breakwater until he drowned. As he argued with himself, he found the old boat.
The skiff was one of the dory types, or so he figured because it had flared sides and a flat bottom. But Gravis wasn't a shipwright. All he knew for certain was that he'd seen similar boats on the decks of schooners and also spotted fishermen using them to haul nets in from beyond the bay. This one was a sad thing; a once-useful tool that carried the lives of men through storms and high seas, now rotted on the beach. Looking at it, Gravis forgot about swimming. He wiped the sand away from the prow and revealed the name painted there — letters that were nearly weathered off — Fancy Fin.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
For no reason he could determine, kneeling in the sand with his hands on the hull, Gravis had cried until he was weak. By then, it was late, and he was tired of walking and didn't feel like getting wet. So, like a groundhog, he had dug an entrance on one side, crawled under and slept with the upturned prow acting as his roof. Like lying in his grave, he found it suited him. Each day afterward, he told himself he'd find some better place. Each night he returned to the boat — to Fancy Fin, to his grave.
He had improved it — sort of. Gravis now had a blanket, and he had spread out a sheet of canvas over the sand, making a more civilized floor and limiting the nocturnal sand fleas' access to his space. He had built a tiny fireplace out of smooth beach stones with a chimney that ran through a broken plank. He had made it out of boredom but guessed it would work. Still, he had never tried to light it for fear the draft would fail and he'd smoke himself out, or the flames might even catch the hull on fire. He also had the ends of several loaves of bread that had been pulled from garbage bins. They were all stale but had very little mold. He had accumulated as many as eight pieces but guessed some would be stolen by crabs, rats, gulls, or who knew what. He took little precaution to protect his treasures since he didn't have much of an appetite anymore. These days he drank his meals, just as he had done that night at Scram Scallie.
Gravis crawled under the hull, careful not to get too much sand on the canvas. He considered checking his bread supply to see what was left, but it was so dark. The hull blocked the light the moon allowed, and all he could see was a line of silver edging the side where his hole was dug. He abandoned the idea and lay back. There wasn't room to do much else. The sand was soft but lumpy. He squirmed a bit to smooth a trench for his body, then laid his head down, taking inventory of all the aches and pains that plagued him. Tonight, it was the pinched ache at the base of his neck that took the top prize. He tilted his head, first left then right, and after finding no relief, he sighed and gave up on that as well. He shook out his blanket and spread it across his body, tucking in the sides. He would check for the bread in the morning. Light made everything better, whereas the dark was an awful realm increasingly ruled by fear. This was something else he'd never noticed before. Age had a lot to do with it. As the birthdays piled up, the world — which in his youth had been so big and full of opportunities — had been shrunk to little more than a hollow husk that in his old age he filled with the two primary consequences of passion: guilt and regret. This, too, had only been a faint hint on the edges of his mind while Ena lived. She had somehow kept all the wolves at bay, shielded him with such great skill he never even noticed. He had rarely seen his wife, spoke with her even less, but just knowing she was there kept all the demons chained in their holes. With her last breath, she'd unleashed them all. And as he lay looking up at the black underside of the Fancy Fin, those demons came knocking to remind Gravis that nothing mattered anymore — that previously perceived important practices such as eating and breathing were pointless. For him, life was over.
Wind blew across the hull, brushing sand and making that now-familiar but never-pleasing mournful wail. Outside, the crash and retreat of waves, the swish of beach grass, and . . .
Gravis held his breath as he heard something else, something new. Faint but not too far away, he picked up the disturbing, regular pattern of thumps.
That almost sounds like footsteps.
The idea was absurd. He was in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night.
Still, the sound came closer.
The muffled slap spoke of feet on wet sand that soon shifted to the soft padding on dry. Then Gravis saw something block the light that entered around the edge of the hull. He held his breath.
What might be out there in the dark?
"Gravis Berling?" a voice whispered — not a wholesome sound at all. Even if he'd heard it in the full light of midday in a crowded market, such a voice was certain to raise every hair on Gravis's beard; whispered in the dark of a forsaken beach, it was heart-stopping. Clutching his blanket to his neck, Gravis no longer tried to hold his breath. He couldn't have breathed if he'd wanted to.
He didn't answer, didn't dare speak, and couldn't move except to shiver.
What is out there?
The idea it might be a who never crossed his mind.
Something thumped the hull, making Gravis flinch and forcing sand from the underside to fall on his face. He sputtered and wiped his mouth.
"Gravis Berling? Dost thou cower beneath this shell?"
In terror, he blurted out, "Who wants to know?"
A brief pause followed, during which Gravis was certain the Fancy Fin would be thrown aside to reveal a demon of smoke and red eyes bearing down on him. Instead, the voice replied with quiet resolve, "We are a friend."
"Gravis Berling has no friends," he declared truthfully. Over the course of his long life, Ena had been the only person who could have honestly worn that mantle, but even she was always more his wife. If he was honest with himself, Ena had been his friend; he just hadn't been hers.
"'Tis not true, for we are he," the voice from beyond the hull said.
"And who might you be?"
"We who shall grant Gravis Berling his heart's desire."
Nothing about this sounded good. In the plentiful catalog of dwarven epic sagas, bets were most often won by wagering against optimism. Dromeian history was full with the debris of promises made but never kept. Still, a talking demon was better than one that bit. "And what might that be?"
"Drumindor."
Gravis debated whether this was a person or an evil spirit he chatted with. Someone might have followed him to the Fancy Fin. He had taken no precautions to avoid pursuit. But no sane and mortal person could make such a promise. "No one can do that."
"We can," the voice said once more in a whisper. "At least such power shall be ours most soon."
Gravis, still on the fence about mortal versus demon, didn't want to ask the next question, but he was still a Berling: solving puzzles and a need to know defined them all.
And that's what's led to our undoing.
Unable to help himself, he asked, "Why?"
Once more, the voice whispered in reply, but this time so low the waves nearly took the words away. "For reasons equal to thine. Just as thou wishest entry, the masters desire to escape."
If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.