Deep Sea Embers - Chapter 592: The Stone

Duncan paused for several minutes, studying a room that looked as though a painter had thrown different colors and shapes at random onto a canvas. This space was a mishmash of erratic lines, puzzling blocks of colors, and seemingly no order. As he took in this bewildering scene, Duncan’s gaze shifted to the side, landing on an unexpected object: the lifeless goat head perched on a table.

If the sculpture possessed any capacity to perceive its surroundings, Duncan wondered what it might make of this confounding room. Yet, the goat’s lifeless obsidian eyes betrayed no emotion, nor did it exhibit any sign of comprehension. In its stillness, the goat head resembled a meticulously carved wooden artifact rather than anything living.

Gathering his courage, Duncan hesitated for only a moment longer before taking the first step into the labyrinthine chamber. Even as he moved forward, he mentally readied himself to signal Atlantis with a burst of flame, preparing to make a hasty retreat from this dreamscape if things took a turn for the worse.

However, the dangers he feared did not manifest.

The moment Duncan crossed the threshold, the room responded. Gentle, wave-like ripples, reminiscent of disturbed water, spread across its chaotic floor. Yet, this was the room’s sole reaction. The surroundings retained their structure, and Duncan himself felt no ill effect from the room’s strange ambiance.

Growing more confident, Duncan ventured further in. As he closed the door behind him, he felt a sense of relief; the unnerving and unblinking stare of the goat head was now obscured. Duncan looked down to see a mixture of intertwined lines underfoot. The shapes around him suggested furniture, though distorted by the peculiar lines of the room. Eventually, Duncan’s exploration brought his attention to one particular corner.

In that area, he observed an interplay of semi-transparent lines weaving together into a geometric configuration. The center of this pattern bore a tranquil surface, resembling still water, which faintly mirrored the room’s abstract designs.

Curiosity piqued, Duncan approached this geometric wonder. He lightly touched the placid “water” feature, causing tendrils of green fire to skitter across. Within moments, the surface clarified, morphing into a perfect mirror.

Suddenly, a silhouette began to emerge from within the mirror, crystallizing into the familiar visage of Agatha.

At first, Agatha appeared stunned inside the mirror, her eyes darting about, trying to make sense of the strange environment outside her reflected realm.

“Is this… the reality behind that door?” Agatha asked, her voice tinged with wonder.

Duncan offered a slight nod, confirming, “Indeed. This is the essence of what the door conceals—its very core.”

Agatha’s brows knitted in confusion. “It’s so disconcerting. Why is it fashioned this way?”

Connecting the dots, Duncan responded with a steady voice, “It’s a reflection of the outside world. Aboard the ‘Vanished’, the goat head never dares to glance into the captain’s quarters, leaving it ignorant of the room’s actual appearance.”

Duncan didn’t voice all of his thoughts out loud. He left out an essential detail: the goat head might have seen the room before the “captain” took residence, but any changes afterward remained a mystery to it.

Agatha, quick to piece together information, understood the implication behind Duncan’s statement. She questioned him, her voice increasing in speed, “Are you implying that this ‘Vanished’ we’re on was crafted by the real-world goat head? That it molded the memory or shadow of the Vanished into this floating enigma shrouded in darkness and mist? And the reason some parts of the ship are indistinct is because the goat head had no knowledge of them?”

As the weight of her realization dawned on her, Agatha’s expression became perplexed. She continued, “However, in our world, Goathead always appeared oblivious to these intricacies. I can’t fathom how it could engineer such a vast transformation.”

Duncan gazed contemplatively around them, then responded with measured calmness, “It’s possible that in its conscious state, the goat head is genuinely ignorant. Here’s a daring theory: What if this entire ship is a manifestation of its subconscious dreams?”

Agatha was taken aback. “Its dreams?” She recalled a past observation, her brows furrowed in thought, “But Goathead consistently claimed it never experienced dreams, even emphasizing its lack of need for rest. I’ve witnessed it first-hand – the First Mate, as we call it, perpetually alert, even during the Dream of the Nameless One. It remained vigilant, steering the ship as it always did.”

Duncan pondered on her words, then posited, “Maybe it’s unaware of its own capacity to dream, oblivious to the fact that it’s dreaming right now. And, just maybe…” He hesitated momentarily, letting a more profound idea take shape in his mind before sharing it in a hushed, almost introspective tone, “Our ‘First Mate’ has been in a perpetual state of slumber, never having truly woken up.”

Grasping the gravity of what Duncan proposed, Agatha’s eyes grew wide in astonishment.

Duncan resumed speaking after a brief silence, “There’s still one lingering question we need to address.”

Lost in thought, Agatha murmured in response, “The final question?”

Duncan slowly directed his gaze toward the room’s door, seemingly looking past it to the stoic “Goathead” sitting outside. After a long and thoughtful pause, he whispered, “Saslokha… he’s been gone, departed from this world for ages.”

…

Suddenly, nightfall descended upon the expansive desert. The previously bright and radiant sky darkened abruptly as though its light had been drained away. This swift transition left the immense stretches of sand dunes and the vast ancient ruins it housed cloaked in a serene, moonlit night.

A dominant feature disrupted the serenity overhead: an eerie, expansive crimson “fissure.” This split in the sky looked like it bled, its edges shrouded in a haunting mist. The presence of the fissure was overpowering with that menacing and overwhelming aura.

Even someone as resolute and strong-willed as Vanna, the inquisitor, found herself instinctively avoiding direct gaze at this terrifying “scar in the heavens.”

The hulking giant accompanying Vanna, despite the unsettling landscape and the ominous tear in the sky, appeared unperturbed. He carried an air of familiarity, suggesting he had long grown accustomed to such sights.

At the edge of the decayed city ruins, the duo discovered a secluded recess shielded from the harsh desert gusts. This alcove was once part of a magnificent building, but ages had reduced it to a mere fragment. What remained were the remnants of dark walls, which had melted and twisted under the test of time. From the nearby debris, the giant collected numerous light grey rocks, meticulously placing them in a wind-shielded corner. Without pause, he took two stones and started striking them against each other with purpose.

The looming vastness of the desert and the unsettling crimson scar overhead seemed inconsequential to him. The only reality, at that moment, was the rhythmic clinking of the stones — a sound that resonated in the desolation around them.

Vanna, seeking shade under a remaining wall fragment, observed the giant with growing intrigue. After an extended silence, she finally voiced her curiosity, “What are you trying to achieve?”

“I’m trying to ignite a fire,” he responded in a hushed tone. “The desert nights can be freezing.”

Vanna, her brow furrowed in confusion, pointed at the grey rock pile, “But those seem to be ordinary stones. How can they produce fire?”

The giant, still engrossed in his task, responded, “They’re all we have in this barren land — just these stones and endless sand.”

Before Vanna could counter, a surprising burst of sparks emanated from the giant’s repeated striking. These sparks settled amidst the stones and swiftly turned into a fledgling fire. Within seconds, the pile was illuminated by the growing radiance of the flames.

Vanna stared, completely astounded.

With a contemplative expression, the giant spoke, directing his words towards Vanna or maybe just musing aloud, “Fire and stone are primal elements. A newly kindled flame represents a vision in obscurity. Crushed stones can sometimes surpass the power of sharp fangs or talons. When our ancestors discovered the magic of fire and learned to mold stones, the course of their lives changed…”

His eyes now held a distant, reflective look, “Young traveler, the birth of civilizations is rooted in fire and stone.”

Vanna, processing his words, nodded in partial comprehension. Her school history lessons hadn’t been her strongest suit, but she wasn’t ignorant of the significance of fire and stone. What puzzled her was the sudden philosophical detour in their conversation.

Was the phenomenon of ‘stones producing fire’ the catalyst for this discourse?

The giant didn’t expand on his thoughts though. He delved back into his task, plunging his hand into the fiery heap without a hint of discomfort. Extracting a burnt stone, he deftly chiseled a sharp edge. Picking up a massive staff that had been lying nearby, the giant then began to carve symbols onto it using the sharpened stone, every stroke revealing a piece of a story yet untold.

The staff that the giant worked on was tough and unyielding, displaying a resilience that stood in stark contrast to the stones he used as carving tools. These stones, having been honed to sharp points, were delicate and easily fractured. Consequently, the giant’s endeavor to carve was a laborious one. More often than not, multiple attempts were necessary just to etch a faint scratch on the sturdy surface of the staff. And with the frequency of stone breakage, the giant often had to pause his work to craft a new sharpened edge.

The staff’s vast surface bore the testimony of his tireless efforts in the form of numerous markings. Vanna couldn’t help but wonder: were all these intricate patterns and symbols created through this slow, meticulous method?

Even from her short observation, the young woman recognized the immense dedication and unwavering patience the giant exhibited. Such an arduous and repetitive task seemed almost soul-crushing in its enormity. The sheer volume of engravings on the staff hinted at countless hours, perhaps years, of patient labor. The notion of undertaking such a monumental task seemed unfathomable to Vanna. It was as if even an eternity wouldn’t suffice for her to replicate the giant’s effort.

Yet, the giant continued his methodical process, employing the only available tools in this barren environment: stones forged and shaped by fire’s touch.

At length, Vanna’s inquisitiveness got the better of her, compelling her to break the surrounding stillness. “What is the purpose of this?”

The giant responded thoughtfully, “I am preserving memories—capturing my recollections, chronicling the significant events that unfolded in this world.”

He paused momentarily, positioning the staff to showcase a set of detailed symbols located near its base. “This,” he said gently, a trace of nostalgia evident in his voice, “depicts the moment they mastered the power of fire.”

Vanna’s eyes focused on the section the giant indicated. She discerned the detailed outlines, which depicted two humanoid figures standing in front of a stylized representation of a blaze. Their hands were uplifted, an expression that seemed to either revel in their discovery or offer reverence to the illuminating flames.

A profound emotion welled up within Vanna as she continued her examination of the staff. She observed the symbols’ evolution from elementary sketches to sophisticated and unfamiliar writings. Some of these scripts seemed to morph into known alphabets, while others maintained a more illustrative design.

Ultimately, her attention settled on an untouched space at the pinnacle of the staff, adjacent to which the campfire flickered, casting playful shadows and reflections on the wood.

Vanna’s gaze traced the path from the stone tool along the arm wielding it, culminating on the giant’s visage.

His face, etched with the lines of age, beheld the fire with a tranquil yet intense focus, as though he, too, was as timeless and enduring as the stone he held.