Chapter 2 – Back On Task
A year earlier, in a distant sea, a gray-eyed fisherman cursed as he pulled up his trawling net. His rope-worn hands heaved the cumbersome load into his small wooden ship. It rocked with the sudden introduction of weight. His movements were slow and performed with a small measure of pain. After taking a breath to curse again, he opened the net and poured its slimy contents onto the deck. He rifled through the squirming mass of sea creatures, cursing at each monstrosity.
“Not a single one.”
He had caught nothing but mythical creatures. Some of them had fish tails, some had gasping fish heads, and some were just masses of fish, animal, and human anatomy arranged seemingly out of contempt. Worst of all, he couldn't use any of them. Minor ethical complications aside1, mermaids and their mythical piscine kin were at their best, completely unpalatable. Their meat was bitter and full of undesirable surprises2.
Eyeing the sky reproachfully was about all the fisherman could dare to do. In his heart, he blamed the gods for their reckless celestial fornication. He did this silently, as he still had some wits left to him.
“Not a fish, not a single fish.”
Day after day, year after year, the man had come to realize that his luckless outings were less about catching fish and more about some undiscovered pursuit. For years, he had paddled out to the same unexceptional spot to catch nothing of worth. Something powerful but unseen had compelled him. This wordless voice had also convinced him to get a map of the known world tattooed to his chest. The tattoos, the incessant outings, and his inability to explain either had greatly diminished his social life.
Whatever the voice was trying to tell him on that day it had first to wait in line, for there were many voices all crowding his thoughts. He was tired, he was hungry, he was depressed, his arms ached, his forehead burned, there was something in his eye, and there was a large battle trireme approaching from the east.
He shook his head. He was aware of the way the glittering horizon could play cruel tricks upon a man’s eyes, especially eyes as sun-scorched as his own. He stood up and shaded his face with his hand.
It was no mirage.
A single yellow-hulled trireme began to churn the distant waters. Its tall mast pierced the sky. Its sail rattled in the dry wind. Its many paddles thrashed at the waves like the legs of some terrible floating insect.
For once in that afternoon, the fisherman found himself utterly unable to curse.
He looked down at his sole companion, a thin black cat which had been sleeping beneath the shade of the front bench. The cat's left arm was limp. The lithe creature unfurled from its hiding spot and jerkily crawled across the deck. It rubbed its sleek head against the man's leg.
At that moment, the voiceless urging reached a new intensity. Whatever he had been waiting for would soon arrive.
“They don't look like they're going to be asking for directions,” he said to the cat. The cat made another loop around his leg.
The sound of war drums cracked through the air. Between each thunderous beat, he could hear the roar of strange men and the splashing of paddles.
“How long has it been?” asked the suddenly poignant fisherman, “Ten, fifteen years perhaps? Us, I mean. You've accompanied me through every gale, maelstrom, and hardship. You've been a true companion.”
The cat acknowledged this by throwing itself against his leg with a soft mew.
With his knees shaking, the fisherman knelt down and wrapped his arms around the cat. The creature licked his hand and for a brief moment, the man smiled.
“I have never shared this with another soul, but many a lonely night, I would indulge myself with an old man’s fantasy. I would dream that you were once a radiant woman, a fair-skinned beauty of fine grace. Your beauty was so great that you were trapped in the form of a creature by the jealous gods. You know how they are. All I had to do to set you free was to say some phrase, and then we could be together,” choked the fisherman.
He peered furtively at the creature, hoping he had finally broken her curse. The cat remained a cat. The man’s face erupted with tears and a dry, windless wheeze. The fresh tears eroded the sea salt from the crevices of his wrinkled face. He lowered his head. The cat began licking the man’s cheek, his nose, and then his eyelids. With his mouth open and crying, he let the cat bathe his face.
The small fishing ship rocked. The fisherman pulled back from the affectionate cat in alarm. He saw the massive trireme pull up to within shouting distance.
“Uh… you,” announced the trireme’s spear-wielding Commander.
The fisherman stared at the source of the voice.
The Commander had handsome features, surprisingly well-kept hair, and a dangerous squint. He stood at the bow, his boastful stance mirrored by the ship’s figurehead, which had been carved from the Commander’s likeness. They both wore the same devious but unintentional smirk.
“I am Commander Narzissonius, Son of the Divine. I am the supreme, award-winning, leader of this fine ship, the flagship of the mighty Greek Armada, the soon to be legendary Narzissonia.”
The fisherman’s hands shook as the Commander continued to speak:
“I represent the Greeks, the Rulers of the Sea, the Masters of the Mediterranean3. We are sorry for interrupting… uh… you, but we are in need of some… well… what I am trying to say is…”
The Commander’s eyes turned. He dropped into a lower voice:
“We aren’t sure where the Armada is.”
“Armada?”
“Thus, we are in need of directions.”
“Directions?”
“A little background. We seek the City of Troy, the Jewel of Anatolia, the Kingdom of Priam, the Gateway to the Black Sea,” said Narzissonius while carefully examining his reflection in the edge of his finely crafted spear.
“Well… eh…”
“As you can see my men thirst for conquest. Absolutely thirst for it. We must have accidentally sacked forty other cities on our way here,” boasted Narzissonius.
“Oh,” the fisherman replied.
“Plundering random cities has been profitable, and thrilling, but we need to get back on task and join our Armada. Our minds will not rest, our hunger will not abate, our blood will not cool until we conquer the legendary city. No more distractions,” said Commander Narzissonius before having his attention seized by the wooden figurehead.
An indulgent grin crossed the Commander’s face.
The fisherman glanced around nervously.
“Now, humble harvester of the sea, please reveal to us the whereabouts of the Greek Armada,” Narzissonius ordered in a voice that tore through the fisherman like a spear4.
“Err…”
“Did you happen to see a thousand ships pass through this area at any point?”
“I… uh…”
“I'll take latitude, or longitude, or whatever you've got.”
“Greek?” quivered the fisherman.
“The Greek Armada! Are you blind?” Narzissonius shouted at the top of his lungs but right below his trachea.
The fisherman looked down at his tattered tunic and mumbled under his breath. “This news will not please you,” he cautioned. At these words, he started weeping anew.
“No, I won't be unpleased,” groaned the Commander while closing his eyes in acute frustration.
The fisherman paused and peered through his tear-swollen eyes at the hundreds of vigilant faces all staring at him. He quivered with terror.
“You are in the wrong sea,” he expelled.
As these words escaped from his lips, his body relaxed, nearly to the point of collapsing.
Narzissonius leaned away from the railing. His face turned grave.
“What?”
“This it the Baltic Sea.”
“The Baltic Sea?” repeated Narzissonius.
Whispers of the name rippled through the crew.
“Yes, the sea that lies within Scandinavia. If you seek the city of Troy, you should start searching in the Aegean Sea. You are in the completely wrong body of water5.”
There was a period of silence.
Someone on board dropped a sword.
Narzissonius' expression changed from restrained rage to the type of rage that makes one's right eye twitch out of sync with one’s left.
“I… I am in the wrong body of water?” he uttered.
The fisherman nodded.
“You are in the wrong body of water!” Narzissonius shouted.
Before the fisherman had a chance to offer up a sound solution to their problem, Narzissonius hurled his spear in one fluid motion through the air, across the sea, and into the fisherman's abdomen.
“This is what you should do, first…” said the fisherman before realizing what had just happened. He stared in horror at the weapon that was suddenly protruding out of his stomach, oddly enough piercing through his world map tattoo, exactly where Troy was located.
Before he could admire the fine craftsmanship of the spear, or the precision of the throw, his vision darkened and his mind faded away. The cat yelped as he fell to the deck.
For several minutes everything was dead silent. The crew looked at their stone-faced Narzissonius and anticipated a glorious battle cry to come roaring from his lungs.
He took in a powerful breath and then sighed.
- Translator's Note: They tend to plead when you try cooking them. ↩︎
- Translator's Note: Chitinous beaks, wishbones, human hair, etc. ↩︎
- Translator's Note: These early Greeks, also known as the Mycenaeans or the Achaeans, were a loosely organized federation of city-states under the leadership of Commander Agamemnon. These states had been fighting and destroying each other for many years before they came to the realization that their combined efforts could cause far more destruction than any one state could do alone. ↩︎
- Translator's Note: That's some unfortunate foreshadowing. ↩︎
- Translator's Note: It has been suggested that some Greek myths might have originated further north in Scandinavia. For me, this is totally plausible. The Mycenaeans are pretty much Vikings with tans. ↩︎