A Hole at the Bottom of the Sea: Part 1 | serial
A rescue crew has set sail in search of salvation for their crumbling seaside village, but the uncharted ocean has an unsated appetite for mystery that just might swallow them whole.
There are old mariners’ tales that tell of a hole at the bottom of the sea. It is said to swallow up ships voraciously. Without warning.
I have sailed this planet’s seas for forty years as captain of this great vessel, the Ex Nihilo, and I have been the spectator of many odd occurrences.
But none so odd as this.
Many weeks adrift at sea without a distinct sense of direction. The rolling waves that I had chaperoned for the better half of my life seem to mock me now with solemn silence in this hour of turmoil. As I sat in my cabin, the sickening rock of the ship as it bobbed in the stagnant waters rattled my meager belongings, while I stared down at the compass atop the map. Watching as its arm spun hypnotically.
I pushed my fingertips up into the roots of my hair. My eyes closed, stressed and sleepless, I opened them again and glanced out the window to my right. The wan, gray blueness stretches out to the horizon, the sun lounging like some vainglorious sovereign, denying me sand or soil. The sky between is a watercolor of tissue paper clouds that veiled the orb behind a vermillion shroud of early morning.
A month and some time more at sea had boiled my brain to a drooping mass of unconditional reverie. The specters of my past had come to put me on trial for my crimes again. My wife and child, to whom my memories seemed meted, lingered ceaselessly in thought such days. Thoughts I tried to seal away forever.
And failed.
“Captain!” There was a wail from beyond the door to my chamber, and a pounding fist to accompany it. “Captain Celeste!” There was a twang of fear in this voice.
I made haste with my collar and dress, pushing the chair from beneath me with the backs of my knees to unhinge the door. I maneuvered around the debris littering the cabin as quickly as my body would allow in its diluted state. Tediously unbolting the excessive and paranoiac locks, I confronted them.
A shabby deckhand addressed me with a salute and a bow.
“There’s been another, Sir,” he informed me.
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