READING

“MONTH OF BLOOM’S TIDE, DAY 7

By orders of King Tonguefist, we have been dispatched to investigate the Isle of Spins. To many other isles our brothers sail, their orders the same: find them. Indeed, we will, though I allow only my writing to incriminate--this is foolishness. A mist, no more than this. Tonguefist may think himself preemptive, that we stay atop demon trickery. Well, such beasts best exercise their rudimentary imaginations for vapor does not scare Captain Tallifux.

MONTH OF BLOOM’S TIDE, DAY 10

By the gods it’s gone. The Isle has spun its last, we are sure. An anecdote, but I have sailed to this province many a time, and the path is true. I am sure. There simply shouldn’t exist water where water here is. The fish do not belong. The waves rise shyly for they know I know. The crew has convinced themselves we’ve merely traveled incorrectly, that we must return home to the Isle of Suns and renew our course. Well, I say and said, let them. Yes, we may backtrack and reconvene with our brothers who too will no doubt have themselves convinced of the same delusion. Why wouldn’t they? The alternative, I realize, is profoundly dreadful, a possibility never before considered: that we, the Sun, are now alone.

MONTH OF BLOOM’S TIDE DAY 16

Once more we have directed our efforts south towards Spins. It is a fruitless endeavor--this sentiment was shared plenty among the captains, as suspected, but even the lower ranking brothers gossiped--none among my own. It seems merely they--mine--are trapped, clouded in superstition; in the idea that our ways have merely been affected by the heavy mists, we’ve only lost our path again. They cannot begin to entertain the idea there lies no mist at all. Those familiar silhouettes off in the distance denoting the Isles of Wrath, Cloud, Ether cannot be observed for they simply are no longer. But once more, I cannot blame them, the crew--even King Tonguefist is convinced of the same, hopeful fool He is. Optimism does not help. Let my sinful hand announce clearly I am disappointed. Our concerns must shift--we cannot waste away Bloom’s Tide in an unending cycle of fruitless voyages. We must ask: where have they, the islands, gone? Wiped from this ocean? Have they sunk to its floor?

I cannot fathom they, the other Isles, have vanished. Sun has watched over four generations of my family, but friends have hailed from all provinces and they are missed bitterly. The gut of Tallifux is never incorrect, unfortunately. But I, like my men, of course wished to believe in ignorance, and we were sorely paid returning to Roastal’s docks. Two ships had finished their journeys first. I spoke to their captains as soon as possible, discovering them both, fortunately, drinking at Scott Chum’s--damned seedy favorite of sea boys, I am saddened to pen. They seemed far further shook than I--Captain Belview muttered into his mug dispassionately. I could see no light in his look regardless of effort. Bosweat managed conversation for me, though I would have rathered Belview. Regardless, I was told of the empty waters where Wrath once raved. Such filthy people, but even they should have been spared this fate. I knew not where the murmuring captain had been sent and neither did Bosweat. But his rattled behavior spoke enough to us both. More men soon trickled in, and I spoke with those I could not recall the damned names of and those I don’t particularly care to record now. All their reports managed the same tale. We trekked up to Castle Roastal to deliver the heart-wrenching news to His majesty who, as the previous entry states, offered little guidance. His optimism is worth less than the clothes He occupies, and His orders have given these hands far too much time to write.

MONTH OF BLOOM’S TIDE DAY 18

Nearly we have returned to Sun. The crew have yet to take to the truth. The King, I’m sure, too clouds himself willingly. So what is to be done? Must Tallifux harden? Must I sit my children down like they are? How much travel justifies Bloom’s rotting? It is coldly ironic such a month bears tragedy so easily. Shall this book be the last text left to refer to the Tide as it is? I wonder, I write.

MONTH OF BLOOM’S TIDE DAY 19

By the gods, its shape is massive. One cannot believe fuggers have fetched the coinage required--much less convinced all labor necessary--to afford a vessel of such staggering size. It dwarfs my own. Its artillery is raised poised to fire at the slightest suggestion, making our fleeing not only vital, but surprising in its clean success. The men believe we were not seen. Well, I wish to count myself among them, but our paths tread dreadfully close. The early morning’s mist did aid our escape, but it just as well shrouded their entrance. My gods, gaze at a limp captain not worthy of leading such men of Sun. But I have fought and they have not, and my combat--my instances with the forces of pirate and monster alike--have seen many clever dead. I, the crew: we are not safe. She, the ship, is one of His majesty’s finest, its design elegant, its walls decorated as if safe within His own walls. And yet.

I fret. I am tired. And in excess do I worry.

MONTH OF BLOOM’S TIDE DAY 19 II

Nearly we seemed followed. I fell to the belief myself, a shape looming near and swift sending sweat against such hair of age. And it was embittered perpetrators of piracy who revealed themselves with the sun fat and low on the horizon. Yet it quickly became apparent the enemy’s size did not equal its sister seen prior so wide. It just as well became apparent to them we represented His majesty, for they turned gracelessly and exited the theater as its lights dimmed. But I did take notice of its flag: a wash of black, a smirking skull. Another threat to register on an ever-growing list. They can only be saved in death. My boys wondered, then, why we did not give them such--indeed, I did not know myself. It is not as if a rush to return to King Tonguefist is in order, to affirm what he already knows but shall not admit. And yet--and this embarrassment too must only implicate through the bound pages of this diary--I am afraid.

MONTH OF BLOOM’S TIDE DAY 20

He is deluded. Godsdamnit they will not say it! No matter how liquored, how loose their words seem to slip by--none will dare criticize his ‘majesty’. And neither while I, nowhere but the haven writing affords me. He is thoroughly mad. Tonguefist continues to harbor the terrible notion we’ve fallen prey to monster trickery. Well it is a load. They are gone. The Isle of Spins--no more! Cloud, Wrath, Ether, Contempt, Bhuv, Rivers, Pots all lost to unrecognized wickedry. There are conversations we cannot have until this point is accepted, and all are cowards. The boys, the King--their thoughts idle towards error. But mine ponders only this:

Why were we left?

MONTH OF BLOOM’S TIDE DAY 23

What is there to write? I have set out with my boys on another horseshoe. Once more, I travel in a vessel disinclined for sustained combat, my request for a more reinforced model rejected. Damned old coot. And I’ve years on him, therein lies the frustration. What’s more, he’s asked all those in Sun with means of travel to cross the ocean in search of the missing provinces, of their friends. All! Fools led to their deaths by the greatest of them. Piracy must be considered an epidemic by this stage--and yet I did little to address it when possible. So perhaps it is I most foolish to whinge so. Perhaps. At any rate, they’ll all die. And where will Captain Tallifux be: the waters where Spins once spun.

Alone. Devoid of purpose, real intent. Meaningless.

We will turn back tomorrow. And perhaps, by the end of this trip, the king will listen to, if he is not already actively considering, reason. And perhaps I may be sent to Spins on a fourth mission. Only the wretched could dream to serve his country so nobly.

MONTH OF FATHER’S STEM, DAY 1

By the gods. We’ve lost Brother Corton, and I’ve submitted Brother Ruby to a rogue outfit. In this world lost of its lands, I must seek another. May monsters grant me death. Until then, I quietly repent the way I have thus far. May They understand.”

Fugger spun his fingers fast through a series of blank papers until arriving at the diary’s end. Across its final page, in Tallifux’s handwriting it read:

“Pool out and flood and take what you can

My river ends in a mouth full of sand

Take up the shovel if you’ve a brother

Who has another”