The Sea's Madness

You feel it, deep in your bones. From the chill wind rolling over the sea, to the increasingly
more common precipitation thundering down upon the heads of the doomed and unsuspecting. Your
father would often tell you that you that the sea has feelings, and the mark of a seasoned captain is
being able to read her emotions flawlessly. While much your father said was driven by alcohol and
mild racism against the immigrants that came ashore on these very docks, this advice was worth
heeding.

The crisp chill of the early morning penetrates through your thick trench coat and evokes a
reluctant shiver. Rain pours down from the heavens above, a reflected image of the filth rejected at the
gates ironically destined to wash clean the dirt from your captains hat now dripping with water. Your
pace quickens in an attempt to maintain the little warmth you have. Ships moored to docks of rotting
wood and frayed ropes paint a sad picture reflected in their captains, a solemn indication of the
harshness of the sea. In your younger days, each ship portrayed a great uniqueness to you, filling your
heart with fascination at the individuality of it all. Now however, steamers, frigates, and cruisers blur
together in a dreary grey picture painted by cruel waters.

You arrive at your destination. An old sailboat, inherited from your father when he was claimed
by the sea. It was named The Sea Witch's Eye, a name that used to incite many nightmares when
your father was away at sea. You reach for the ladder leading up to the deck of the old ship, grabbing
hold of the soggy wood. First step. Second step. Crack! After years of service, the third step gives way
under the familiar weight of your foot. Damned old ship. You mutter to nobody in particular.

Throughout the next few hours, you and your mismatched crew of seven men haul the crates of
cargo aboard and stow them away in the hold. Barrels of fine wine, shipments of exquisite silk, and
cases of fine China. Drawing out old maps, you all gather around a rotten table sitting bellow the deck
in the aft of the ship.

Listen, captain, you have to understand. We are all tired, this last stop landside wasn't even a
week long! We all want to stay home in the embrace of our wives, with a belly full of beer and warm
bed at the end of the night. You know as well as I do that the sea is shifting. Let us take the direct route,
and be back faster for it. This comes from the your first mate Linus Guntha, the closest man you have
to a friend.

You know we cannot, Linus. For years we have avoided that area. If we were lucky, the wind
would blow our sails out and leave us at the mercy of the jagged rock formations. We must go around.

Captain, I know we could not. Times are changing, and the sea is too. Why should we sail
based on the sea of old? This is met with general agreements around the table, and after a few more
volleys of captain against crew, you give in. You could never stand to argue with your crew, you picked
every one of them, and you trust them.

Coming out onto the main deck, the early morning chill has waned and the sun has begun it's
passage across the sky once more. The dock has temporarily cast off it's grey painting for colour,
brought on by the many children and women coming to see their husbands off, or to simply look on at
the great galleys with awe. As The Sea Witch's Eye releases it's shaky hold on the dock to set off for the
open sea, a single tear drops from your eye, embodying the sadness caused by not having a woman to
cry her goodbyes over the bellowing horns of the steamers departing for open waters. As you look out
over the open sea, you try to distract yourself away from your earthly sadness by listening to the
emotions of the sea as your father instructed of you, those many years ago.
Peering into the murky depths of the water by the pier, you see it's waves flow relentlessly,
pushing ever forward to come crashing against the hulls of rowboats and galleys alike. You see a fish
floating, dead, with guts exposed and causing the onset of the dreaded smell of fish rot. Finally, and
perhaps most concerning to you, is the curious lack of the gulls, whom typically arrive in early morning
to see off sailors and look for scraps of food on which to dine. You realize that Linus was right the sea
is changing. It is becoming frightened, angry, and desperate.

* * *
Darkness envelopes the ship as night descends to over the sea. It is darkness so unnaturally
thick you feel as though your vision is being assaulted, the very concept of light falling out of
existence. The only assistance given to you in the battle for vision is the moon, full and overbearing,
appearing sinister as if it only desired to provide the light to allow you to feel terror as you stand
helpless to the inevitable doom. The rest of your ship's crew is embracing the little sleep they have
access too. Rain again thunders down upon you, sending shivers up your spine once more. In the
distance, a growing black cloud masses, indicating a great storm on the horizon. However, no thunder
rings out over the sea, a common tell that there is no grand risk of anything more dangerous then more
of the same rain that has plagued the journey so far.

You plant your feet firmly upon the fore of the old vessel as it pushes onwards towards the
colossal black clouds stretching across the horizon. Braced for the coming downpour, you call out to
your crew-mates below, warning them of the impending storm. You feel the words flow up through
your throat and out of your mouth, but no sooner was the warning given then the very words them self
seemed fade away, as if the clouds overhead were absorbing all sound spoken by mortals below. Panic
is starting to overtake you. Your warning call to your fellow crew-mates turns into shouts, which in turn
becomes shrill cries and screams. Your throat burns and aches from overuse, yet has failed in producing
the sound you are so desperate to hear.

As The Sea Witch's Eye pushes further into the storm, the thick black clouds seem to suppress
the rain, trapping the downpour within it's thick black folds. Then, through the eternal silence, you ears
bear witness to a loud crack! Then a second, and a third. During the fourth, the source becomes clear to
you. Rotten carcasses of fish are falling from the sky, cracking the ships deck on impact. A fifth carcass
lands near to you, spreading the contents of it's scaly body over your coat. It feels as if the warm blood
and intestines of the fish that so recently cratered against the deck of the ship were itself conscious,
without brain, without skin, and seeking the warmth of your body as it pushes further and further into
the folds of your clothes.

As the red slime pushes onward towards your skin, your nose begins to be assaulted by the vile
stench of the fishes' entrails as the open air wafts the black rot of the fishes' guts up to your nose, where
it makes its assault upon your senses. Your body surrenders to panic, drawing itself into a fetal position,
only loosely aware of the impacts of the skeletons of fish bombarding the hull.

A low groan of stressed wood echoes up from the hull, drawing you up from the floor of the
deck. Looking out into the water, a thick tar appears to be seeping up from the depths of the sea. The
wind begins to slow, causing the sails to sag. Looking out into the horizon, a great sinkhole becomes
visible, a deep pit embodying the changes in the sea.

The Sea Witches' Eye floats slowly towards the pit, water slowly becoming thicker and thicker,
turning a rich dark purple colour with the occasional fish bone emerging from the blackness. As the
rickety old vessel approaches the sinkhole, completely frozen by the thickness of the water, you peer
down into the depths, unable to change course for the pull of the water. It appears as if the pit carries on
forever, simply ending in a bleak darkness in which the world forgets your existence, and does not care
to terminate it.

You hear someone speak through the great silence in a hushed tone, as if right beside your ear
You know as well as I do, that the sea is shifting Suddenly, two hands push firmly on your back,
throwing you forward into the great pit. As the warm wind of decaying fish embraces your face, you
turn around mid-fall in time to see the face of Linus, grinning, pleased with his workmanship, with his
insanity, before he fades into darkness. One second. Two seconds. Crack! After years of service, your
mind gives weigh under the unfamiliar pressure of whatever vile god exerts his pressure upon these
seas. You laugh. You laugh an honest laugh, the kind you wish you had gotten to share with a woman,
before filling your belly with beer, and falling asleep in a warm bed.