The Fleet of Mist
This story was found and translated at the opening of Hearth and Home; it is a story of the Ancestor who interested himself in the doings of the McAlywyns and their guests. It was passed to the library here by Kianan McAylwyn.
The fleet set sail from the northern shores, rounding the coast and down towards the strange foreigners of the southern lands, those who constantly crossed our borders and waged their war upon our shores.
Upon one of the ships, not mine, a pack of hunters – landlubbers not mariners – espied the flotsam and jetsam of the sea that trailed our wake. As we journeyed farther from home islands, they took to preying upon the birds and beasts that followed our trail.
How we cursed and berated the fools, for shooting their arrows at our companion luck charms but alas they did not heed our warnings. A terrible storm arose in our very midst, dashing the ships against each other, crashing waves of mounting fury striking at the beams as the very sea rose against us. The ship that housed the hunters was ne’er seen again, no sign of her at all, and the rest of the fleet scattered to the four winds.
We drifted, becalmed then driven by raging storms, assailed by most unnatural weather and wild waves. It was then that I remembered, as death was imminent and our destruction certain, of an old folk tale my pappa once told me. The Great Heron, Manannan, would swoop to save the sailor who called upon him in his need, providing he was worthy and agreed the terms.
Since childhood I had worn the heron about my neck and I grasped for it as I rocked and rolled in the swell, crashing about and over the wood of our vessel. Finally I tore it from my throat and, with it in hand, I called and prayed unto the Great Bird for salvation – begging forgiveness for the wrongs of the landlubbers we’d been forced to have with us.
Another great wave crashed down upon me, tearing my trinket from my hand, and I watched it and my hopes vanish in the swell. Alone, isolated and who knows where, despair descended as we crashed down upon the jagged edge of some submerged rocks.
And then, in another moment, the storm vanished entirely and a great mist surrounded us. It was thick and damp and impenetrable, extinguishing all flames and plunging us into darkness – but not stifling the terrible sounds and groans about us. A tearing and grinding sounded from beneath us, the thrash and blow of the suddenly no longer still water terrifying to behold.
I felt in the moments of despair a madness descend, as I felt the vessel rising beneath me – carrying us from the rocks. Where holes had smashed their way through the hull, all was cold and wet and rubbery. And through the one I lay, terrified, beside was a great, white eye… larger than all the world it seemed to me, unblinking and terrible.
I was sure I saw vast and heavy tentacles, dripping with evil suckers, grasping fast on the sides of the vessel, squeezing, and an evil beak holding us fast. And then I fell…
I awoke adrift and dazed, my terrified dreams haunting my memory, lingering on the verge of recovery. We had been adrift for many a day, I guessed by my parched nature, and despair and death tore at our hearts. The ship, miraculously, had survived the storm without damage.
There was no mist about us, but a gentle wind was slowly raising itself. Our captain, his glittering sword by his side, sought to raise us from our slumber… for on the horizon, a vast fleet approached us – and we realised then we were deep in enemy seas. Never one to baulk a fight, he rallied us to wakefulness and prepared to sell our lives dearly.
As the men feared and fraught, an enormous heron flew over us, and our fears quieted. I heard a voice cry out “Remember the son of Lir”, and a great mist again descended around us and then vanished as suddenly as it had risen.
All about us there was a boiling and bubbling, a thrashing and crashing of the sea, and the corpses of a score or more ships rose besides us. They were manned by all manner of strange creatures from the deeps, and immediately fell into formation alongside us, turning to face the approaching foe. We could see no sails or oars and yet these vessels drifted forth, carried by the very waves.
And then we were amidst the chaos of battle, flaming arrows and ballistae shot, magical bolts and reining death, the close-quarter struggle of cutlass on cutlass. The captain stood proud and tall at the helm, and we were all bestirred by such passion and fury we fell upon our foes relentlessly – heedless of our very exhaustion, determined to make a fine account of ourselves to reckon our lot to the sea.
A rogue ballistae shaft brushed past, knocking men flying, tearing our great captain’s arm away at the shoulder and still he fought on, his gleaming heirloom dropping into the very depths of the sea – lost to us all. And then quiet descended once more, and we were alone again on the sea… our enemy sinking all around us, the carnage and destruction complete.
Of the captain, and his heavy red kilt, which he always wore, no sign remained…
All Works are © Original Author
(OC Author - Paul Martin)