The sun plays a trick as it sets each evening, playing its light off the surface of the water, to make the depths seem warm and hospitable. A jest to tempt the unwary.
I am so bright, and so merry, it says to them, Do come in! You will be glad of my embrace.
And then the sun, laughing, pulls away the mask it has placed over the ocean’s face, and she greets you with her own voice, cold and dark dark dark. Her eyes are full of moonlight, but her mouth is yawning wide, and her invitation is the babbling hunger of countless teeming creatures who have never known the light. You hear every one of their voices so clearly, echoing from the deep.
Here is a place for you. You are just like us. Come and let us feast.
Tonight there is no moon, and the ocean’s face is all the more grim for it. Still she calls to you, leaning over the side of the fishing vessel, gazing into her eyes with reverence and no small part of dread. A thought comes to you that has come before, a thing that teeters on the edge of revelation. Is it the sea which calls out to you, or the stars reflected on its surface?
There is something hideous forming behind your eyes, a thought too unspeakable to suffer, and so you tear your gaze away. Instead, you listen - for something less abyssal, for familiar voices near the surface. You amble astern as you do, approaching the captain where he stands at the helm.
“East,” you tell him. Away from the shore, which has already been invisible for days. He shows concern, but knows you would not lead him wrong. Like others back ashore, he has learned to trust your word. He fears you as well, as some do, and that is fine. You have led them all to bounty many times, but a gift of this kind will naturally inspire superstitious unease. It has made you yourself uneasy, since you were small. Nevertheless, it has afforded you a place among the fishermen, and a more steady income than most.
East you go, under starlight, for hours and hours. The captain does not ask for further course. He knows you will speak when you must, and only when you must, while you are listening. You try not to gaze too long at the waves tonight. The sea is baneful without the moon to keep her spirits. Her voice is strange. It is never kind, but this night there is a note of something malign. Informing the captain would only make him fearful. The sea will do what it will.
It is past midnight when the first column appears. It looms in the darkness, perhaps fifty yards to starboard. When the crew spot it, they are mystified. What could be standing so tall out of the pelagic void? The captain is dumbfounded. Then another appears, closer than the last, but still too far for the vessel’s lights to reach. Its black shape stretches upward, blotting out stars, its peak indiscernible.
The captain pulls the vessel to port, all the way around to reverse course. The promise of full nets is forgotten. He fears they will run aground, as there must be something beneath the inky waves. Must be a solid surface from which these anomalies have sprouted. Somehow you know that it will make no difference. You think to tell him, but decide against it. There is nothing to be done now. The ocean’s voice is a cacophony in your ears.
More columns appear, on every side. The crew is frightened. Turning the rudder no longer seems to have any effect on your course. One column finally drifts close enough to the port side to be illuminated. It is difficult to describe it, even to yourself, as if your own eyes will not report what they have seen. It is not natural, you are certain of that, but neither was it made by man.
You hear a great roaring noise, and at first believe it to be the voice of the sea growing angry. But the crew can hear it too. They are in a frenzy. Looking forward, you can see nothing but darkness. No stars, real or reflected. But you are calm. The hideous thought returns to you, fully formed, but strikes you now as a simple matter of material truth.
The sea is jealous of her bounty, and you have taken more than most.
The captain is screaming while he feverishly turns the wheel. The roaring of water has become deafening. You look back to reassure him.
“It is too late, Captain. There is nothing to be done.”
He cannot hear you. It does not matter. The vessel pitches forward as it crosses the threshold of darkness. You look into the face of the sea.
The stars are beckoning.
