“Cursed with immortality for eating a mermaid,” Kazuaki confirmed. “A fitting punishment, I suppose. She tried to help me, but I valued my life over hers ... so I was cursed to live more life than any man should ever have to. That’s why I started hunting legends and myths. I hoped, in the beginning, I might stumble across another mermaid one day ... to beg for their forgiveness, I suppose. I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of mythical treasures since that day. But never another mermaid.”
Umbriel saw the regret inside him. “I’m sorry,” she said as she placed a gentle hand on his arm.
“It matters not,” Kazuaki replied, oblivious to her touch. “I put this burden on myself.”
“So you did,” Umbriel agreed, sliding her hand off the captain’s arm and back into her lap. “An unnaturally long life is not without its difficulties. Watching loved ones die, knowing you’ll never get to accompany them. It’s almost unbearable. As is an afterlife with Mimir, I imagine.”
Kazuaki craned his neck back to look up at the stars. “I imagine the same. He took everything from me, even the fantasy of a peaceful afterlife. Now I don’t know what I fear more: dying, or living long enough to watch the world die, knowing full well I can’t go with it.” He turned to face her. “Most of all, I fear succumbing to one or the other without restoring Bermuda’s heart.”
“Oh, Kazuaki,” the Earth Mother smiled and matched his posture, leaning back to look at the sky. “Change takes time. So long as there are no short cuts, I can restore Bermuda’s heart ... just as I can restore Panagea.”
Her words were so nonchalant, so confident, he almost missed the gravity of her statement. The captain stared at her, intense. “You can?”
“Restoring her heart is only a matter of drawing out Mimir’s poison through a series of treatments. Adjusting Bermuda’s condition is well within my realm of capability,” she admitted. “And Panagea, yes ... she is wounded, she is bleeding, but she is not dead. If I could return to her,” Umbriel laid her hands on the soil beneath her, “I am certain I could save her.”
Kazuaki blinked, taken back by her level of certainty. Panagea edged closer to death with each passing day. He did not wish to outlive her. Wandering around a crumbled land of isolation matched the horror of sharing an afterlife with Mimir. If Umbriel could save Panagea ... that would be a far better alternative than his other options. But the most glorious sound to the captain’s ears was her confession she could assist Bermuda.
With confidence in the Earth Mother’s abilities, he took her hand once again and flashed a smile broader than any he issued before. “Umbriel,” he said, showcasing all the charisma he could summon, “would you care to join me, in saving the world?
Chapter Fourteen
The ironclad beamed with a majesty, a commanding symbol of supremacy in Panagea’s metal world. Darjal stood in the vessel’s cast shadow as it sat in Southern’s harbor. A strong wind rippled the Time Father’s hair while he observed the ship from his place on land. Construction should have taken months if not a year. Dedication fueled by vengeance built the warship in three short weeks. The men of Southern and surrounding divisions worked around the clock, day after day, and into the night, with lamplight to aid them.
The undertaking claimed the lives of many. Most died from exhaustion and heatstroke. Some men lost their footing and fell to their deaths off the ship’s ledge. Others suffered when struck by fallen steel beams. The cannons experienced accidental discharges, taking several lives. The working conditions caused men to overdose on various drugs used to keep them awake. Darjal thought the sacrifices were necessary. One couldn’t gaze upon the monumental, metal creation and not feel the deaths weren’t in vain. Their creation was far superior to Kazuaki’s substandard wooden craft.
Engineers crafted the vessel to be smaller; they wanted to be sure it would still be swift in the waters. The size also helped cut down on construction time. It wasted no space, outfitted with enough cannons to claim Kazuaki’s ship on all sides.
The Southern division gave up much of its metal to outfit the ironclad; many of the footmen’s guns had been melted down, leaving them with only their falchions for protection. Businesses ravaged by natural disasters did not receive insurance money to rebuild. Instead, they were issued IOU’s, slips that dictated their money had been claimed by Darjal as the property of the Southern division. The metal and supplies were all to be used in their efforts to hunt Nicholai and Kazuaki. Darjal spared no expense. He craved Nicholai Addihein's destruction. The hunger to end his betrayal grew larger every day.
Their best chance at capturing the rouge Time Father and the legendary captain laid with the ironclad. Darjal drafted more than enough men from the Southern division to operate it. Everything fell into place. Only one loose end existed. He needed a captain.
“You wanted to see me, my Lord?”
Jernal’s voice called out from behind Darjal and the Southern Time Father spun on his heels to face the footman. By order of Darjal, Jernal returned from his endeavor in Southeastern, where he patrolled the border. The soldier reveled in being useful to his division, but returning to Southern ignited an admitted relief in him. There were no signs of Nicholai in Southeastern since he left, and the soldiers sent to keep watch over the border experienced crippling morale loss. Staring at a piece of land where time stood still damaged their psyche. The edges of Southeastern experienced most of Panagea’s natural disasters. Though they hadn’t seen a moment of battle, Jernal lost several men under his command to rock slides and flash flooding. His heart went out to his comrades left behind, but he didn’t miss the depressing environment.
“Ah, yes, Jernal,” Darjal weaved his fingers together and approached the footman with a devious smirk. “As you can see, the ironclad’s complete.”
“I see,” Jernal gazed at the incredible vessel with a noted lack of expression. He heard it neared completion before he returned to Southern. The wind was thick with the outcries of the indignities suffered by the builders. The soldier heard about all the lives lost, not just from Darjal’s division, but those funneled in from neighboring divisions to complete the ship’s construction on the Southern Time Father’s inhumane schedule. “It’s impressive. I understand you had help,” Jernal added.
“Not as much as I would have liked,” Darjal hissed. “Avital York sent Eastern’s most talented engineers. Vadim Canmore gave us Northwestern’s most brilliant machinists, and Carlo Angevin sent Southwestern’s best help.”
“It seems like it was enough,” Jernal noted as he gazed again at the ship. He knew Darjal dwelled on his obsession. The Southern Time Father had money, power, and focus at his disposal. Even with all that, the soldier still marveled at how fast the ship was constructed. It seemed like an impossible feat.
“It is not the need for extra hands that irks me so, Jernal,” the Southern Time Father muttered. “Their lack of action is an affront. I thought Aggi Normandy would have jumped at the opportunity to earn back trust amongst the Fathers after he started that battle with Northern.”
Jernal crossed his arms. To his recollection, it had been Nordjan who initiated the violence, but he didn’t correct Darjal. “Yes, I remember the war between Northern and Northeastern.”
Darjal scoffed. “I would hardly call a short week of slaughter a war. More like a petty squabble between divisions. But it’s the principle. Neither Aggi nor Nordjan issued any help from their divisions, claiming to have sent all their extra hands to Southeastern’s borders. I thought if anybody would have lent help to the cause it would have been Nordjan, seeing as how Nicholai was his little ‘pet project’.”
“Perhaps they did not wish to cause further alarm amongst the public,” Jernal suggested. “There have been so many riots. I can’t imagine it’s easy to keep the peace in an entire division when so many people have questions.”
“No,” Darjal grunted as he straightened the collar of his vest. “I expected more from Nordjan, but Aggi Normandy’s behavior comes as no surprise.
He has grown soft in his age. A shame to see a once-powerful man submit to the weaknesses of pity. These people do not need pity, they need leadership. It is the only way they will stay on the path of righteousness.”
Jernal cleared his throat and tried to change the subject. “And what of Edvard?” he asked, curious about the family dynamic between the two Time Fathers who shared a bloodline. “Has he been cooperative?”
Darjal’s face flattened. “Edvard has been treading the line of bare-minimum effort,” he uttered. “It is unlike him. It’s normal for him to throw his entire self into his duties. He’s performing adequately but has not surpassed my expectations. He, too, claimed to have placed all his extra hands at Southeastern’s borders, having no men left to send to Southern’s aid. The man expects me to believe he can’t lend a hand because he’s busy tending to the public outcries in Western. He should try harder than any of us; all of this is his flesh and blood’s fault.”
The footman concentrated on his breathing to keep his calm. The more Darjal talked, the more it seemed the process turned into everything Jernal feared it would. In the beginning, nobody questioned the motives of the ship’s construction. Darjal issued a public statement saying they used all of Panagea’s land to its greatest potential and needed to commission a vessel to search for other landmass candidates to spread their influence to—but the people were not as blind as Darjal thought them to be. Even the least inquisitive of civilians knew something wasn’t right about Darjal’s statement when they saw how many cannons clung to the vessel.
Waves of public tumults demanding the truth pounded on the doors of every Time Father across Panagea. Rumors spread like wildfire that Southeastern had been frozen. Letters to families in Southeastern went unanswered to those who lived in neighboring divisions. They noticed the exportation and importation of goods from Southeastern came to a standstill. The more signs there were that something was wrong, the more the people questioned. Too much time passed to correct it. Jernal guessed those were the reasons three of the Time Fathers refused to issue assistance. The divisions remained divided on what was more important: dispatching every possible effort to find Nicholai, or maintain as much public peace as they could muster.
“In any case, we have every possible need checked off our list. She is ready to sail,” Darjal explained, beaming with pride at the speed in which the engineers fashioned the ship. He turned to Jernal. “There’s just one more thing: the ironclad needs a captain.”
Jernal followed Darjal’s eyes to the ship, then returned them to the Southern Time Father. He stiffened, apprehensive at what words followed.
“You, Jernal,” Darjal positioned his hands on the man’s shoulders and grinned with confidence. “You will operate this vessel. Find Nicholai and Kazuaki. The deserters too.”
Jernal frowned but corrected his look of disapproval. “My Lord, I do not know the first thing about operating a sea vessel,” he admitted.
Darjal’s look of confidence shifted to one of irritation. “I thought you’d be more eager to receive an opportunity to correct your failures back in Avadon,” he stated. His grip on Jernal’s shoulder intensified as his frustration mounted.
The footman cleared his throat and tried not to show any signs of discomfort at Darjal’s increased grip. “Forgive me, your Grace. I'm honored to be chosen,” he forced himself to say.
“Good,” Darjal released Jernal and stepped back. “You needn’t fear a thing. Just keep the boat afloat and give the men direction. There will be plenty at your disposal. I took a cue from Nordjan on how he handled Northeastern,” Darjal explained. “There will be more men at your command than ever before. If we cannot beat Hidataka’s crew in skill, we will beat them in numbers.”
Jernal listened. “With all due respect, my Lord, it is not Hidataka’s crew which puts me at unease,” he started, “but the rumored immortality of the captain, himself. It’s hard to kill a man who cannot die.”
The Southern Time Father glowered. Darjal held the knowledge of Kazuaki’s condition, but he did not suspect the soldier knew. Jernal was right to be apprehensive. Subduing Kazuaki would be a difficult feat, but Darjal wasn’t about to lose his potential captain. “It’s likely a myth,” he brushed off Jernal’s concern. “I say with certainty that immortality is a ruse. It is more likely that it’s either a series of men who have laid claim to the Kazuaki Hidataka namesake over the years, or it’s a parlor trick. No man can escape death.”
Jernal tried to accept Darjal’s explanation with poise. He still harbored doubts. It was his doubts that made him ask, “Suppose he found the secret to immortality, Lord Wessex?”
Darjal laughed. It was a strange sound. Jernal never heard it from the Southern Time Father, and though it was a sound of amusement, he hoped never to hear it again. “No man would be blessed with such a gift,” he said. If any man were to find that favor, Darjal Wessex suspected it would belong to a more fitting character: himself.
Jernal lowered his eyes and accepted that as the best answer he would receive from the Southern Time Father. He witnessed Kazuaki Hidataka’s abilities in the basement of Avadon’s church. Through the thickness of gunfire smoke, he was certain he saw the bullets pierce the captain’s body more than any human being should have been able to take without succumbing to his demise. Jernal wanted nothing more than to serve his division, to protect his family and those who lived there, but a second standoff with Kazuaki Hidataka had him apprehensive. Duty called him. He had no other choice. “To where will I be sailing this vessel?” he asked, pulling himself out of his head. “Has there been any indication on where he'll surface?”
Darjal scowled at the inquiry. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “The best we surmised is they’ll be returning to Panagea at some point. They have stolen many supplies from Southern’s escape boat, but the sea cannot sustain them forever. You will take this time to patrol the waters. Travel counterclockwise around Panagea. Keep close to the coastal towns and check in often, should I send mail for you. Familiarize yourself with the ship and how to operate it until news comes of where we can intercept them.”
It seemed like a sorry plan though Jernal would never admit it out loud. But he still needed to familiarize himself with seafaring and accepted any extra time he received to do so. “As you wish, my Lord.”
“I grant you a short handful of hours with your family; I understand you hadn’t seen them since they posted you at Southeastern,” Darjal stated, thinking his short allowance to be a grand, merciful gesture. “Say your hellos, and say your goodbyes. The ship departs tonight.”
The soldier nodded though Darjal's orders gutted him. He wanted to hug his wife, play with his kids. Those luxuries would be a short pleasure before duty called to him again. He would hug them all extra tight today; if he were to face off again with the captain, he was unsure whether he'd come back. With the same level of professionalism he always conducted himself with, Jernal replied, “Yes, my Lord. I’ll meet you back here with haste.”
Darjal watched as Jernal departed and smoothed his hands through his hair. He turned his attention back to the ship. A slow smile crept onto his face. Soon, this egregious injustice would be corrected. Favor would shine down upon the great Lord Wessex again. His skin tingled with anticipation. Soon, the blood of the sinners would wash away their indignities, leaving nothing but a clear vision of righteousness for those who bore witness.
✽ ✽ ✽
Avital York loomed over the ledge of his gothic mansion’s balcony, overlooking the state of the division laid out below him. He grew accustomed to the swells of industrious smoke billowing out of the countless factory stacks. They brought promises of advancement in mankind’s continuous quest for growth. Avital lived with that smoke for a long time, finding it more of a symbol than an inconvenience. His division was the most dedicated to the flourishing industries. There were more water purification plants, factories, automotive advancement industries, and research facilities packed into each square mile than any ot
her division possessed. It was with some misfortune it created unrivaled pollution. Avital showed its effects on his face like a badge of honor. Wrinkled, nutrient-deprived skin clung to his old skull, but what some found repulsive, he considered a mark of wisdom.
It was not just the industrious smoke that filled his skies. Though the man’s face often twisted into a permanent look of displeasure, the new plumes of smoke that infected his division vexed him more: those caused by the flames of arson, violent protests from his people as they cried out for answers. Wives and mothers remonstrated, their husbands and sons sent off to other divisions with no knowledge of why other than they had been chosen for a ‘glorious new undertaking’. None of the men sent out weeks ago returned, and the families were no closer to getting any answers.
Avital’s military made any necessary arrests, but the cells of his prisons overfilled with inmates. He made unpopular decisions on how to ‘make room’. With some fortune, a large earthquake caused a deep canyon to form not far off from his home town. It served as an appropriate place to dump the bodies of the disobedient, and the bodies of those who perished in the onslaught of natural disasters. Other towns and cities under his rule were not so lucky—they struggled with places to put their dead, and from what he heard, the smell caused chaos amongst the public.
The rioters were a nuisance, but they did not bother the Eastern Time Father. He knew the public was often blind to what was best for them in the long term. They attached themselves to individual family members, mourning and acting out should any ill befall them, but they failed to see they paved the way for a better life for future generations. Avital did not need their praise. He was not as egocentric as Darjal Wessex. Knowing in his head and heart he did the right thing was all the praise he needed. It was hard to see in the whips and lashes of flames, the suffocating walls of smoke, the ear-piercing screams of protest—but what served as a temporary tantrum from his people would soon shift into gracious understanding once Nicholai was dead, Southeastern restarted, and everything returned to normal.
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 22