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Never in my years had I seen such a sandstorm at sea! We couldn’t see our paws at the ends of our arms, let alone steer. Must have been fate or a miracle that we ran aground on that beach rather than dashing ourselves against the cliffs.
We saw no sign of civilization from the deck, and the sand stung our eyes terribly. As we waited belowdecks for it to subside, we pored over our map by lantern-light, trying to determine where we’d landed. After all, this was a routine shipment, and we’d never encountered an island in our path before now. Islands don’t simply wander into your shipping lane and plop themselves down like stray cats on the sidewalk! The storm must have blown us further off-course than we’d thought.
For now, we’ve no choice but to wait it out, or hope the tide comes in enough to re-float the ship.
The sandstorm subsided overnight, but the ship has been partially buried. The dunes nearly reach to the deck. It will take us two or three days to dig it out with the men we have, likely more.
I’ve decided to go with my first mate Sonderson and one of the deckhands to see if we can find anybody living here who might be able and willing to lend a paw. I climbed to the crow’s nest to survey the land and see if I could spot any sign of civilization. It’s apparent the island is a good size, with a snow-capped mountain in the distance, and a smaller, burnt peak that appears to be an active volcano. It looks nothing like any of the islands I know to be anywhere near this route, so I am no less baffled now than I was last night.
Between the cliffs we found a watershed, a river leading into the gorge. It is calm and shallow enough to walk, but we must take caution in the event of a flood from a sudden rainstorm. The day is clear now, but we will have to get to higher ground as soon as we are able.
After walking a good few hours along the riverbank, we encountered what appears to be a hunting party. They are grumpuses for certain, with fur the same dusty shades of orange and yellow as the sandstone. They wear necklaces of twine with clay beads and small, circular objects that resemble stylized eyes. I first took them for wearing colorful garments on their arms and legs as well. However, upon closer inspection, they flex and move as easily as flesh and bone, and resemble fruits and vegetables and cooked meat. I asked them about this, but they do not speak our language.
Still, they seem amiable. We are resting at their camp now as they chat amongst themselves. I cannot make out their words, but there is one they repeat with some reverence: Boiga. Is this their leader? I suspect we’ll soon find out.
They carry woven sacks with them, nets and crossbows with rope. Whatever prey they’re hunting, they don’t kill it when it’s caught. Perhaps it’s to preserve the freshness. I can see it writhing around in the sacks, making noises like none I’ve ever heard from a mere animal. My curiosity only grows.
The island-dwellers have brought us to their boat. It is a short, maneuverable canoe for venturing further into the labyrinth of the gorge. As the passage widened, we began to see stairs and dwellings carved into the walls, walkways of wood and rope. It turns out there are many grumpuses here, all with those odd food-like limbs. They wave to us as we pass, smiling. It is difficult not to feel welcomed after such an unlucky landing. How long has it been since they’ve seen visitors, I wonder?
I’ve noticed other strange things as well. I hear no birds. I see small gnats buzzing above the water, but no other insects, not the sort I’m used to. I’ve spotted creatures scuttling about the rocks or flapping overhead, or skimming below the surface. Always brief glimpses, nothing more, as if they are revealing themselves only to me, in secret, as Sonderson claims he has not seen them. Perhaps he simply isn’t looking hard enough. That’s why he’s first mate, and I’m the captain.
We are docking now. I shall write again after we meet this mysterious Boiga.
As it happened, we were led into the dwellings carved out of the sandstone cliffs and up through the caves, until we emerged near the top of the canyon. Although I was all at once struck by the gorgeous view, overlooking the latticework of the gorge with its deep green waters and fiery stone, I was further struck by the grumpus we’d been brought before.
At first, I mistook her for somebody mortally wounded, her fur slick with reddish-brown liquid that covered her head and upper body, until I smelled its tangy odor and realized that it was not blood but barbecue sauce. She was tall, rotund, with a tan coat and deep brown eyes, and I daresay I could not tell you her age, for she seemed both youthful and wise at the same time. She wore a checkered cowl of red and gray, her arms wrapped in strips of linen. Her paws were sandwiches with grasping claws of bacon, and curled potato fries sprouted from her back and tail and in place of her tusks.
Although it should have been grotesque, she seemed unbothered, as if there were a natural outgrowth. She must have seen I was quite aghast, and chuckled.
I cleared my throat, introduced myself as Alodius Wenderknot, captain of the Lorelie, that we were run aground and needed assistance.
To my shock, she replied in my mother tongue. Her voice was gentle despite her height and girth. “Terribly sorry, but you could not have found a more fortunate landing. The storms rage horrific around the island. You’re lucky to be alive.”
I asked how she could understand me, and she only smiled coyly and said that the island had given her many gifts, and so it was her duty to greet all those who washed up on its shores.
We sat together on that overlook as she explained where we had landed. This island is named Sweetmaw by the locals, though Boiga tells me it is not the only name the place has had. It often appears to weary travelers seeking asylum, rest, an escape from their troubled lives. Such a thing ought to be the stuff of legends, but as surely as I put pen to paper, there was no island in our path the last time we made this journey.
I must compose myself, lest I start salivating as I transcribe this next instance.
Boiga asked if my men and I were hungry. We had journeyed all day to reach the city with only jerky to gnaw on, so of course, we were famished. Over the lip of the cliff, one of the creatures appeared, rippling fluidly as it crawled right into her hand. It resembled a rack of pork ribs, but it moved like a millipede, glancing vacantly about with its glassy eyeballs. I knew I had not imagined them!
She offered it to me, the creature docilely sitting in her paw. “Eat this,” she told me. “They are Sweetmaw’s gift to us. There’s plenty for everybody. She will not let you go hungry.”
Saints above, I could not describe the taste if I had all the words in the world. It was heavenly. Tender and succulent, I scarcely noticed there was no bone to crunch between my teeth. After weeks of eating cured meats and hardtack, it was euphoric. Better than any meal prepared by my dear loving grandmother, God rest her soul, but I must be honest.
I never wanted it to end, but Boiga said that I must wait before consuming more. One is enough to sate a fully-grown grumpus for a days. Even as I look upon my transformed paw now, chunks of bone clutching my pen where I once had fingers, I feel at peace. I feel as If I have found my final resting place.
I have sent Sonderson and the deckhand back to the ship to collect the others. They will join us here. I must share these gifts with them. Should they decide to dig the ship free and complete the delivery, so be it, but I will not be coming with them.
I do not envy the grump who tastes paradise and leaves it behind, who tries to satisfy himself with shadows and pale imitations. I will not live with regrets. I have far too many as it is. I have been a sailor all my life, but I am ready to plant my roots. This will be my last entry, so that those waiting for me back on shore will know what became of Alodius Wenderknot.