Embedded Files
October 29, 1962
By the goodwill of the Ocean Sovereign, I’ve returned to the promised lands. On the holy sands of my ancestor’s beaches, I peer out across the barriers I’d been allowed passage. A storm looms across the waves. The explosive cracks of a tyrannical Heaven threaten neither those upon the island nor the King’s kin stalking the waters.
Still, I feel the warm embrace of my homeland—the land of my father’s father. The welkin upheld upon the back of the bottomless pit. I feared, in my master’s commands, that leaving this isle would mean upheaval leading toward damnation. I know now it is not damnation which casts the prophet into the wilds… it is salvation.
The faithful must tend to the waters and lands as the King commands. None may shirk responsibility when the innumerable eyes keep a vigilant eye. Suffering is foreign to these lands. For it is by the benevolence of he which hungers eternal that we remain unfettered by worldly tribulations.
I have stepped beyond the grasp of our father and found my heart unshackled. Where the anticipation of freedom once hastened my pulse, I, instead, found myself delivered to unfamiliar shores. Forgive me, father, for I have strained by the guidance of your own hands. Thus, I return home fulfilled in the safe cage of open air which you preserve.
The darkness draws in from over the horizon. Forever shall the King’s children and ilk travel these waters. Search out the invaders and ill-sought faithful. Feast as their father may, for they, too, are forever starved.
I am blessed to witness their forms which remain irreconcilable upon this plane. Our father has not forsaken what the Creator had deemed a mistake. Welcomed into the arms of original life, this existence is no damnation. We are not captives.
Stare upon the glimmering shapes of the original sons. Mortal man might mistake them as ethereal madness. Let no soul consider their divine manifestations the simple trick of the mind. Nightmares exist, oh flock of the Starving King, but one may see beyond the horrors and find the grander design.
Fear not the wonders of our father.
These angels from beyond the stars prey upon that which exists beyond our lands. No shackles hold you. Upon these sands, I find myself welcoming that which I once believed captivity.
Oh Sveltandi Konungur, allow my hand to transcribe the word.
I’ve returned from your hallowed works. When we hear the rumbling pit, all must answer.
Seeds have been sown. When all upon these lands have lost the path, let them be reminded. One of the many shall come. The father’s word is truth—and the starving shall seek their fill.
November 12, 1962
By the Tooth of the king, truth is transcribed.
Volume upon volume, the works of our ancestors fill the shelves beside me. Within this journal, I pour my own life unto the pages by the will of the sea’s master—my master. What little tribute I possess to offer, I now give entirely. Should the relic of our father command it, I would spill my veins.
Mankind has constructed all manner of idols beyond the thousands of eyes of the king. Of all the tasks, of utmost importance, of which he entrusted to me, the matter of spreading his truth was paramount. Second only to this was my goal of witnessing that which arrogantly attempts to usurp the blissful kingdom the Starving King once knew.
I have seen these lands by the graces of the king. Light that warms the soul. Wildlife which neither harms nor withers. A paradise which the beloved son has been deprived of.
The horrors of reality are persistent, yet they are merely aches the soul must endure to assist the king in reclaiming his birthright. Our fidelity shall lead us to ecstasy. What ships might fill the bottom of the sea are but a small price to pay for such rewards.
The weight of the eyes once sent shivers across my skin. Father, forgive me for my impudence.
By candlelight, your will is documented beneath the watchful gaze. Though I cannot see the eyes of the king, I know they are ever present.
For our people, for our lands, and for our glory.
Where once we feared the faithful’s perverse rectitude, we now stand the chosen of a merciful deity. Blood is owed; lain before an altar of salty seas. Each and every derelict craft a monument to our king’s might. Locked away, the countless eyes live vicariously through his numerous progenies.
Herleif Arnarson’s deal from ages past has remained as solid as the foundation of our isle. Hunt as they may, and our humanity shall open the door. The lesser may feast so that the king might devour eternal. I have been blessed with sight; the Teller’s gift.
Tell, I must.
The ship, a vessel which fades into the void of history, was set upon by two of our king’s children as the sun first rose to be blocked by gathered clouds. Common is the storm which drags mankind’s fortunes to the deeps, yet upon our waters there exists a more justified end.
Their approach was flawless. Beckoned to the sands, I watched through a fine lens. Whatever the cargo, something upon the magnificent ship called to our king. Though the poor souls upon it may not hear of such glory, heed the word.
Hidden by the rains and darkness, predators beyond man’s hearts approached. Stories tall was the vessel, and all the boldness of man was claimed by that which cannot die. Forever shall strange eons live as Death seeks out the final moments to swallow all—as Sveltandi Konungur desires.
I was called to tell, and so I shall tell.
Over the deck, tendrils of the abyss drew the ignorant into an unholy embrace. As lovers may take hold of one another, the king’s children welcomed the vessel. Shimmering forms of the impossible forms folded steel as a man might fold paper.
My king, my father, spoke to me through the bars of his cage. Where even his brothers and sisters fear his hunger, he whispers just loud enough for me to hear.
Come and see.
And I saw.
Nothing can compare to the awe of these children born before the stars formed. The hungry offspring of our king must feed. We owe them this.
Payment for all that they ingest for our survival. I know not of what they bore. I know nothing of their intents.
Trust in the words of our king.
Their cargo could not protect them. Any arms could not defend against the assault. Their lives are tribute. Flesh has been paid, and so our lives remain. Our way remains.
What scraps fall to the ocean’s floor are simple reminders. Prophecy will come to pass, all believers of the Starving King.
They have fed, and so our king as tasted this world.
He will come. When The End is nye, so our father shall be released from his cage. A brother will fall to desperation. The world will provide the consumption.
As the ship fell to his children, so shall the world fall to his hunger.
December 24, 1962
Of my veins, I transcribe the word of Sveltandi Konungur.
In the months since my travels, I’ve returned to the habits of my forefathers. For this, children of the Starving King, is our way of life. Proper and blissful, a life worth the bargain struck long ago.
The king commands me to write of my travels. His eyes look to the west and then to the south. He leads me to where I remember. A path traveled by his design.
Though my feet stood upon the coasts across the globe, I’ve been recalled to the memories of those in the newest world. Their gluttony draws the numerous eyes of the abyss; calling upon our father without knowing his name or destiny.
In books and upon the gathered spaces of intellectuals, I’d been charged with leaving his mark.
Blessed are those that might gaze upon it. The emblem of the aged man with tusks like the mammoth and a lower jaw which separates in the center. It is simple, yet the elegance is striking in its command of the soul.
I sought those that hunger in the places of great gluttony. Behold our father’s plan.
Even now, the splendid souls of curious minds find my works. The emblem precedes writings. Writings invoke inquiry. Inquiries produce the journey.
Someone will come.
From the west, and from the south.
They will come.
The father knows this, for he has planned it all. My freedom merely a test of my devotion.
I carried his will into the constructed temples that stretch far beyond the sight of man. Horizons filled with the sin of boundless desires. In this, I see that all man has failed to find their truest path.
That set by our father.
Though his brothers and sisters plan against him, they plan against themselves.
Our father plans neither treachery nor for advantage.
Only for the desire to sate that which is unyielding.
Can we not know this pain? Can man not fathom the depths of eternity cursed with emptiness? A man may find his pity metamorphous to despair before a quarter of his life has passed. Still, the king plans to overcome it. His unending hunger shall consume the world, yet our destiny lies within his sanctuary.
The madness of emptiness shall never reach our lands. For this, I traveled far to find one among their prolific flock. One shall come. One shall take to the seas and test himself against the madness which surrounds the lands of our ancestors.
And he shall forever be bound to us—to the king.
From the west, and from the south.
Look to the horizon. Watch for the ships that do not break upon the waves or fall victim to the children of the king. Upon a moonless night, the storm shall block all light from the Heavens to guide the wayward soul to truth everlasting.
Set eyes to the violence of the ocean’s wrath and find he that rides unscathed through the cataclysm. For this man shall be our Teller; in time.
All as the father predicted.
January 3, 1963
I feel it in my spine, and so my veins must empty for the Tooth to transcribe the word.
This relic of our father’s maw has weighed heavily over my heart for years upon years. Where once a child stared out from the beaches with ignorant bliss, I now stand knowing of the terrors our Starving King produces.
Even now, in the dying light of day, I know the thousand eyes watch me. Every scribble is made, and thus it must be judged. Do my words produce pride and honor? Or, have I caused my father shame?
I know, in my heart, the faithful are rewarded.
Hear this, flock of my father, that the king of beasts awaits the day he may return in permanence. Lasting throughout ages until our children’s children are welcomed into the next life, he remains and devours. His eyes shall watch until then. He will examine and note the faithful and the faithless.
I recall the day when Stefan Adalsteinn granted me the Tooth.
The visage of our father, I cannot completely convey to you. The clouded mind of a child may break before such irrational dread. Two men stood upon the sea’s caress, and the heirloom of our forefathers transferred from one generation to the next. I await the day when I, too, may grant this gift to another.
The Teller must write his father’s will.
For you all must adhere to the contract signed in blood and vow.
Honor for our people. Have any broken these lands? Have any anchored themselves to the shore and found glory in conquest?
We carry the father’s will; one and all.
Within us beats the spirit of those children which hunt the seas as ghastly specters—breaking the minds of men. We are as ferocious as the sea when storms remind mankind of their inferiority.
Blessed are we, oh children of the Starving King.
Blessed are we, that a boy may witness as I have and take up the mantle of the Tooth and Teller.
I stand where we stood to write my desires.
The Tooth is heavy, and the king hungers forever.
I know so little of the ache, yet I would gladly share the honor. I await the foreigner that might join our ranks. Know that this fresh soul shall join us in glory. The blessings of your kin are his.
A courageous heart. A thirsting mind. An unyielding might.
The king has sought him, and he shall come. I will be granted my place in eternity when the king reveals himself again. Two souls may come. Two souls may see.
Each of our brethren will remain indoors. Close off the outside world; the thousand eyes will watch. Pray with your families as our ancestors taught. Feast with all that would join you. Our celebration is near. You need not sheep’s blood upon your arch or bread offered in accolade.
Cross the seas; wayward soul. Come and see what wonders await you. The thousand eyes, and a thousand more, prepare the shores for your arrival. Give yourself to that which shall never be conquered.
February 24, 1693
It begins tonight.
All our waiting. Four decades have come and gone, and still I carry the Tooth to the shore. As the father’s flock endure the gathering hurricane, I stand before the storm knowing my father shall save me from winds and bolts.
I await my prodigy. The lands of our ancestors shall become your own. For the king with insatiable appetites predicts it, so it shall pass.
Never before have I seen such a gathering. Shimmering forms of the unfathomable grotesques surf across the blackened sea. Soon, the moon shall be swallowed by the abyss our father commands. All will become darkness as the young of the king bow before a crew which cannot fathom their glory.
Any upon the vessel could lose themselves to the perfection of these timeless beasts. Any might lose themselves before the gathered forces of our savior.
All hail Sveltandi Konungur.
He leads you to the protected shores of Iceland. He leads you to homes of wood and moss where comfort is as natural as the unpolluted air we breathe. Kindness abound. Family gathered in mind and hearts.
I welcome you to our lands where hearts may strengthen as muscle against steel. We who live encircled by the children of the eternal beast… we welcome you.
Cool winds chill my bones, or is it the sensation I anticipate? Will my home be acceptable to you? Surely, the next Teller will find sanctuary in our lands. Let all open their arms as if his blood was of our blood.
Whispers carried upon the winds speak of his arrival. Salty waves taste of the impending transition. Teller to Teller, the truth awaits us both.
Hurry. Winds of my father. Carry the newest Teller to my arms.
Strong? Weak? Tall, short, white, black, loud, quiet, spiritual, or not… not does not matter. There is no description of man that could discourage my excitement. So come, my apprentice.
In the name of he that starves forever in the abyss, damned by the Creator for the curse of his birth, come and see all that is to be yours. For our people, prepare yourself for the weight of the Tooth and the duties of the Teller.
Leave all gluttony upon the seas. The sons and daughters of the king will devour all you offer. Pray that the men upon your vessel keep their eyes to the deck and remain in the king’s favor for shipping you safely over his domain.
Part with all that is your gluttony—all but the ravenous need for truth.
All upon the isle…
Eat their fill.
Drink to their content.
Gather as family and as friends.
We hunger not for the freedom to seek life, the end of natural agonies, nor the empty promises of a dying world. We remain, as we always have. Come invasion, Heaven, or Hell.
We remain.
Come to us and find your hunger sated. Defeat the Creator’s mistake of appetite for the Starving King.
February 28, 1963
Mr. Arthur Drucker has come to us. I did not greet him. Instructed by the whispers from far within the abyss, I heed the orders of our father. As all good children must.
In my study, about the propagating collection of truth, I await his arrival. The town has welcomed him as they do any other. They know not, not now, of his destiny. That he procured safe passage is proof enough that he is worthy of our kinship and generosity. That he is human is enough for our citizens.
There is no need for my anxiety. The heavy atmosphere, thick with a thousand eyes, remind me of my shortcomings. Remind me, oh Starving King, of my mission and strengths. It is through you that the lands of my ancestors flourishes. By your guiding hands, the seed of paradise took root upon this isle.
They bear down upon me.
The eyes.
All these eyes in the candle’s light and the corners where darkness reigns. Mirages which take shape as if to mock my sanity; flickering in and out of reality like dreams fading beyond memory. Still, that weight remains. Each compiling until the agony manifests as an itch or touch.
My punishment grows as the spark into a flame. The pit has taught our father well…
Or was it the king that tutored… no, fashioned the pit?
I know what is to come. My foolish arrogance has wrought this impending storm. Gathering clouds will find me, and my suffering will endure.
You led him to us—to me. When first I saw the man, I forgot my place.
A body lacking physical training. Meek and startled by the shadow which follows him. I judged based this man by the cover of his story; not the value of his content.
A man degreed in philosophy.
Surrounded by the writings of forefathers and countless volumes of foreign works. A man’s mind is the double-edged blade of creation. The Creator bestowed upon us a blessing to formulate all we know, and the mind capable enough to enact the desires of tearing it all down. His disciplines would seem to align with the task before him.
Forgive me, oh father.
I know of my failures. I’d watched him from the end of the bar. My grimace was instinctual, yet his withdrawal from the weak drinks he ordered were upsetting. I regret to admit my disappointment.
The axes of our fathers would never see blood had they been held by such a man. Women bear no warriors. Our ancestors fought back the hordes of the faithful for you, oh father.
Forgive me.
Since the bar, the tingle creeping up my leg has since altered to a slight burn in my back. Signals of the impending storm continue to gather. Muscle spams. Aches. A migraine is growing, but I know it will not come to fruition until the final words have been written.
Just rewards for my actions, surely. Yet, oh father, it is your kindness which prevents my work from suffering. The Teller must know.
Let my words forever be immortalized upon these shelves—as the words of those before me. The Starving King commands it; as his eyes provide a correcting hand to guide me.
Fires now spread through my back. One of the thousand eyes grants me the abyss’s gift.
It may be days before I can write again. Time to think on my transgressions and the future I must provide. Time to suffer and be birthed anew. Let all the flock know that faithful service is our duty. Wondering ships may be lost to sea yet crashing waves and violent storms will guide all back to salvation.
Split open my head should it please you, for I have strayed. Let all your devoted be so prepared to accept. Sveltandi Konungur, your wrath is warranted. Should I be set to walk the trail of Dante without a guide or protective ward, I would understand.
A child may not look to his father and raise his hand for blood. When he does, blood will surely be paid for the honor he had tainted. And a weak child in numerous offspring must be corrected… or be culled.
No paradise may last when the seeds sown corrupt the soil and yield.
As the fire courses through my spine, I pray I have not corrupted the isle. A simple mistake, and I will once again tell for our flock.
Eyes fall upon me. The fires of Hell will not stop me. Shocks, prods, and lashings are of no concern. For whatever awaits me in the coming days, I know my father’s eyes watch me always.
Sveltandi Konungur.
I shall tell, and I shall never doubt.
March 10, 1963
The Teller to proceed me has found me. For days, a wayward son’s disobedience was punished. Let each son and daughter of Iceland know their place. The father’s newest favored son has found his destiny.
Per the father’s design, Arthur knocked upon my door the day my ailments were relieved.
“Is this the residence of one Erik Leifsson?”
Those were his first words to me. Upon the day when he arrived, the eyes of our father lifted their countless curses. Fire and twisted limbs, all vanished at once. The mercy of our father is limitless, flock of the green isle. A son procured, and a son revived.
“Mrs. Sigurdsson, a fine woman, pointed me toward your home. A fine woman. Gave me a grand cup of coffee before sending me.”
I knew that it was not my place to judge. His weak body is no indication of the mind which it possesses. There is no man upon this isle I would turn away from my home.
He is the most welcomed.
Let all know the name of Arthur Drucker, for he shall carry our father’s voice to your doors. He now sits at the table across the room. We discussed his findings, and I offered my home and drinks.
He sips infrequently from his cup as he peruses the volumes. I will not dare judge him for his inability to handle alcohol. If my father deems him worthy, then who am I to say otherwise?
I recall our first conversation.
How he’d stared at me with unsure eyes and fallen shoulders. He corrected his glasses several times though they never fell from his nose. “I’m apologize for the intrusion, but the townsfolk said I might find it here.”
“What do you seek?” It was not to test him. I merely desired to hear him say it.
No man should fear the name of his savior.
Arthur curled himself up as if creating a world only he and I inhabited. He glanced from side to side as if there were stalkers hiding in the bushes beside the short porch and overhang. Glancing past him, I watch for the sea to act as the boy anxiously surveys the area. “I seek the man that knows of S.K.”
He whispered it as if the winds would carry his words clear across the ocean.
“Who asks for… S.K.?”
“My name is Arthur Drucker. You see, I am a philosophy student from America.” The boy shudders as he easily gives his name as if the bushes note the name forever. “In my studies at Yale, I uncovered handwritten notes in several texts of Judeo-Christian texts. You see,” he corrected his glasses again, “I’d been researching the entities of Hell for a paper I’d been required to write. Rather tedious work, but I gathered works from Dante to Lovecraft. All manner of mythos were required for my studies and to formulate the most spectacular paper. Father wouldn’t have anything less.” About to correct his glasses again, he faltered and winced. “I came upon some rather interesting, if not disturbing, writings.
“I read. I reread the notes. The symbols accompanying them were simplistic yet gripping.” I did not nod. I did not interrupt. I simply let the boy speak as he could barely contain his tale. “The interesting part was the detail. The imaginative mind which explained these odd tellings of religious entities must be one of great knowledge. You see, it would be most studious of me to gather the most obscure information I can? I seek the knowledge of the,” he checks the sides of my porch again—the narrow entry cleared beside beautiful gardens and green hills, “S.K.”
“Speak his name.”
My retort shook the boy. He withdrew a step across the wooden porch. “I would.” He continues to scan the horizon. Only green hills of dancing flora greet him. The town is a short distance away. I fear not the wandering eyes of man for thousands of eyes keep an eternal, vigilant watch. “You see, I find myself unable to speak the name without some manner of shakes stealing my balance. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d appreciate your conversation. I’ve come prepared,” he’d fumbled about with the sack at his side until a simple, black notebook was produced. “Please, if you would, let me take notes. I could simply have used your notes, but, you see, I’m sure a direct quote would ensure the highest grades.”
“You’ve come to talk. I’d be happy to.” I looked down to the boy I could easily crack over my knee. Should our forefathers have met in battle, his riches would be my inheritance and his mother would have bore grander sons. “I’ll invite you in… once you say his name.”
Arthur shifted his weight as the moments pass. The wind howled as the boy remained ignorant to the thousand eyes that watched him. He cannot see them, but I saw the shimmering form of a reality beyond our own. He looked to me for answers, and I knew then of the task set before me.
“The,” he dropped his eyes to his feet, “Starving King.”
“Enter. Coffee or ale?” I opened my arms to my home, and our kinship had been born.
I took him into my home. His shy demeanor is almost shameful, yet I place my faith in the Starving King. It is his will and plan. I am merely a vessel for his word, and so I will teach this boy. Perhaps there is a man beneath his flesh, and a prophet within his heart.
He takes coffee with cream. As I prepared his coffee in the ever-watching gaze of the thousands of eyes, the boy stood motionless in the room of my collected works. I must admit, the wonder in his eyes inspires a faith in the lad.
“Take a seat.” I motioned for him to take any of the chairs, comfortable or otherwise.
“So you are Mr. Leifsson.” Arthur nodded and pointed to me with a bouncing finger. “I knew it. I’ve come a long way to speak to you. Those notes?” He placed his coffee carefully on a table; careful to not touch any of the books that were stored across it. His arms then flailed about in excitement. “By God, the details! The retelling of Enoch, the descriptions of Hell, and even the vast details you’d placed into Lucifer and the lords of The Pit.” His eyes glanced off but not to the thousands of eyes which hide in the shadows or creeping through the wooden planks. “What an imagination!
“I mean to say, the works were fantastic. A fresh view on stale ol’ stories. That’s exactly what I need. You’ve captured the essence of it all while remaining relatively true.” He’d nodded with pursed lips—more continuing his rantings for his own sake. “Rather blemished, but I’d say it was well within the expectations of a few millennia separating you and those you based your works on.
“The personification of Lucifer has long been republicized. It isn’t unusual to see you depict him in a more lavish light—though you caught his elegance and madness brilliantly.” For the first time, his eyes caught mine as a man seeing a man. “It wasn’t Lucifer, Baal, Mammon, or the others which caught my eye. No.” He swallowed back; painfully from the look on his face. “It was Leviathan.”
I took my seat at the largest of the two tables in the room. Pulling out my chair, I took a seat to face the man who would come to take up the weight of the Tooth and Teller. Retrieving my silver flask from my pocket, I offer it to my guest first—as is the way of our people.
When he declined, I take my first of many sips. The king does not disparage the value of drink. I take my fill knowing my master may never have his own. I dare not rush my indulgence.
“Sveltandi Konungur.”
Arthur nodded and prepared his notes. The smell of cologne spread like fire through the fields. It wasn’t an overpowered smell, but a pleasant characteristic I will always remember. A man adverse to the stronger drinks applies a scent redolent of sweetened whiskey.
“Yes,” Arthur whispered. “S-svelt…”
“Svel-tan-di.” Another indulgence. “Kon-ung-ur.”
“Right. You see, I’ve never been much for names or foreign tongues.” He took the time to document my phonetic explanation. “That you can speak English makes this far easier. I’d been concerned with the need for a translator. Hopefully this will save on expenses.” He glanced up as if expecting his words to insult. “Not that I won’t compensate you.”
“No need.” I took my third drink before turning to my work. “You’ve come for knowledge of the Starving King—the Leviathan. I will give it to you.”
One book from the top of carefully prepared stacks is handed across the gap. May a man receive the blessings the Creator bestowed upon him. The fruit of life is that which roots itself in the mind of man to bloom and spread. I have eaten from this tree, and I offer my fruit to the next.
“Read this and begin your baptism in the blood of our ancestors.”
May 10, 1963
A man may change himself in a single second. The world can bow to desire in a matter of minutes. As humanity grasps the sun, he may yield grander crops or birth the world in ash.
What may a man do in months? What can the untold might that lies dormant in each and every soul accomplish when the mind is put to the task?
Arthur, my Teller in training, has studied for months. His diligence is rather admirable. He takes to the study as a fish to swimming. He’ll make a fine Teller once I’ve opened the final seals.
Every book is a fable to him, yet they tell of a history the world has remained ignorant to. A man may not know truth when he hears it, but that makes the truth no less absolute. A man’s truth may not be the universal truth. He must learn and adapt.
Metamorphosis may not be simple or pleasant, yet the truth must be learned.
Today will be his day. A red ribbon of destiny has entwined us, and so he is bound to our people. I know his curiosity will anchor him to these shores—our father’s will demands nothing less. The storms that surround these lands will not permit our truths to needlessly pass across the seas.
The countless children of the Starving King keep watch. Looking through my window, across the seas in the distance, I see the shimmering forms in scattered like stars on a bright blue. Arthur keeps his nose to the books—one after the next. Musty papers, the scent of iron scribbled across them, mixes with that sweet whisky as he flips the pages.
He doesn’t look to the windows or the lush, rolling fields beyond. He gazes not to the sea nor the children hunting the endless blue.
He will.
For every child upon the isle comes to know the Starving King’s will. The eternal predators will not forsake us. They guard our shores, and it is just that we gaze upon their maddening wonder. A man capable of this feat, that retains his sanity, proves his worth. For angels have been lost to The Pit, yet our kin blossom in the darkened light. Each to break and be reborn.
He will hear our tale today. Ages old, and still it is heard by every child. For the first time I know of, a foreigner is to hear our history.
So, I will take him from our collections. I will sit him down upon the shores of our people and tell as a Teller tells. When the sun peaks I will explain.
For his studies and for an easier access, begin your studies here—upon the day I break your world so that the father might mend it with truth.
As it was told by our forefathers—
The world is harsh, but man must endure. It was upon this isle that the fathers of our fathers found sanctuary. By the will of their gods, they found a new home.
Across the seas, the lords of ravens and thunder bid us a fair voyage. Wooden ships ferried us to the isle where our futures would take root as deep and strong as Yggdrasil.
But every paradise breeds jealousy. When the angels saw man’s undeserved hands taint paradise, there were those that rebelled. From the seas came those that sought to claim our paradise—to plant the banner of their silent Creator.
Those that rebelled watched as those that remained On High. Silent, one and all. The lives of the faithless, true and simple, were targeted. The predators sought to purify the world in a baptism of blood.
The honor of our bloodline would not allow it. If it was blood they’d seek, then let them find an ocean of it.
As ships would land, blood would be spilled. The fields were tainted with the lives of all—those of the Creator and those of gods gradually forgotten. While mankind emptied veins, the powers that be watched on in horrifying indifference.
Our Ancestors fought valiantly, but victory could not be easily won. Wars raged on, and our people grew tired. Our prayers continued to go unanswered. Gods of battle, of foresight, and of glory… no assistance came.
It was the first of our Tellers, Herleif Arnarson, that heard the first voice. Between the assaults of foreign hordes, he bowed upon the beach. His head to the sand, he offered his life for any of the old gods to answer the cries of his people. For their lives and honor, he would sacrifice all he had struggled to retain.
By Odin’s watchful eyes or Thor’s mighty hammer. By Loki’s trickery or Hel’s unforgiving wrath.
It mattered not to the man with his head in the sand. His people had promised an ocean of blood. For whom, it mattered not; only that it was not the blood of his people.
The hollowness of his heart beckoned beings far more ancient than those of Jormungand. Prophecy be damned, Herleif found his prayers answered by that which sought to devour Valhalla and Earth alike. Quaking grounds, a gathering hurricane, and a swollen sea drew the man’s eyes up from the sand.
Before him, in the dark void where two worlds collided, rose the form of the behemoth. The black seas split as the Devourer’s tusks pierced the waters and shore.
“Take in what might be and what might not.” Herleif would later write in memory of his starving master.
Herleif asked what most men could never fathom. A contract to be sealed in endless blood; signed by the veins of Herleif himself. The Tooth was presented, and the deal was struck.
In the darkness of that storm, Sveltandi Konungur took to scour the seas. At his new acolyte’s behest, the power of the Leviathan was unleashed.
The Creator’s faithful found no glory or holy crusade. As Herleif watched from the shore, the distant visages of ships appeared in the flashes of lightning. Twenty ships threatened the isle of our ancestors.
Another flash and there were only twelve.
Another flash… and only three.
“For our people, for our lands, and for our glory!” Herleif Arnarson bowed as the darkness claimed all upon the sea. The leviathan had revealed his might, and so the first of his faithful sons took the Tooth to tell the tale.
Only of the day when the Teller has been chosen might the Starving King return to feast upon the ocean’s bounty. Instead, he has kept his everlasting contract by calling forth the hordes of his offspring. To act in his stead, the timeless spawns defend our shores and people.
Remember this, children of Iceland.
Remember our beginning as the Teller is chosen. Arthur shall hear this tale, and he shall be forever bound. The contract has been struck, and the Tooth must detail the king’s will.
Today is the day I bear the light to the next generation. Find truth, young Arthur. There are such wonders to behold.
May 23, 1963
It has been days since the boy’s returned to my abode. Truth is a hammer which shatters the weakest glass—humanity. Let all our brothers and sisters attest to the rebirth. When shattered and reformed, the shards might form the most splendid mosaic.
A child must be taught. The king demands structure. Thousands of eyes keep us well secured, and the development of the maggot into the fly is not an immediate process. The grandest of gifts requires sacrifice, children. He has sacrificed all that is reality.
The clear skies and salty breeze of the ocean lulled him into the security of our secrets. Kept documented within these walls and forever immortalized by the essence of our veins, Arthur has been exposed to any book he fancies. I broke our sacred oath to keep foreigners from the father’s truth at the father’s own decree.
I fear no wrath of our chained father, for this was the will of the unyielding glutton. All that is will find its way to the maw of the sea. Where Death himself may seek to reap the Creator and all his creation, our father seeks to taste every atom. To let it go to waste in the hands of the Destroyer would be the grandest of sins. Let us, instead, seek to bring the world to the mouth of our father.
Arthur, the king and destiny beckon you. The trip home will not be an easy voyage. He had told me that the return trip leaves in just a few days. Can I expect you to turn from the greatest of gluttonies? The eternal desire to fill your mind with truth. Your curiosity is but the aftermath of the Creator’s curses.
Find yourself amongst the shattered glass and sharpened edges. Bleed yourself dry. Break yourself in countless reflections where you shift and disappear. Fall beyond what your eyes see and your ears hear.
Reality is as fragile as the devastated pane. How you see the numerous selves is how our father sees you always. Thousands of eyes gazing upon our world from deep within The Pit. He hungers, yet his father, brothers, and sisters have never appreciated his role. The endless gullet has called you forth to tell that which must be told.
Arthur Drucker, return to me and leave the notion of normality behind. Your ship will come and go without you aboard. I do not doubt. Father has shown me the path that must be taken. Yours is forever tied to the people of the isle.
We are your family now. Those that carry the truth of Sveltandi Konungur forward through time. As he watches through the countless shards of glass, he will find the perfect place for each piece. You will be reborn.
When you are… I pray to the king within The Pit that you see him released.
July 12, 1963
Schooling has been placed into limbo where dreams must either float until returning to shore or be lost to the depths of the void. Curiosity has infected the boy since birth. I’ve simply provided the disease an environment to thrive.
Tend to your brother’s and sister’s desires as you would ask for yourself. Bless them with time and patience, and the father will provide you all with comfort. Do not lose yourselves to the sins of his brothers—that of sloth and wrath, pride or lust, pride or envy.
We tend to one another that we never know the Starving King’s eternal punishment. We know of hunger, and we provide what is necessary to sate the soul.
I’ve done all I can to birth an acolyte my father may find acceptable. He saw the spark through the thousands of eyes, and I’ve come to see it, too.
Arthur had little to say the day he’d returned to me. “You see,” he’d corrected his glasses, “I’ve thought about what you’d said.” Glancing over his shoulder, he startled himself upon looking across the waves—perhaps now perceiving what wonders he had never considered. “My research must be more thorough. My paper, you see, should grab the attention of academic mavens.”
Scrunching past me, that sweetened whiskey drifts through the portal with him. I ready his coffee and drink from my flask as volumes are read and discussed. As if I’d forgotten his welcome included an intent to depart, I know it to be false.
His questions are unending, and the feast of knowledge merely invokes a greater hunger. Praise be Sveltandi Konungur. I drink quietly and jot my notes between our discussions.
“This part here,” he points to a section and turns the page toward me. Across the room, I can’t decipher it. Taking it, I find where his fingers traced across the paper. “Yes, that.” He taps the air as if he sees through my eyes. “For our people, for our lands, and for our glory.” He reads these sacred words from memory… but not yet from heart. “I see it repeated throughout many of your collections, but it seems paired with the most horrific of tales.
“You see, I question why it is stated when these,” he gulps back his words as I stare back to him, “children perform their father’s works. These documents seem to lower the moral bar rather low. What beliefs are of value to the people?”
“Have you not been in town all this time?”
I try my best to keep all emotions in check. The boy must grow, and I will continue to tend to the seed which grows within him. Keep digging, and you shall find grander treasures.
“No signs of demonic worship or occult practices.” He shrugs and corrects his glasses. Sipping from his coffee, he exhales softly as if calmed by the bitter taste. “These books are depicted as nonfiction, yet the people seem more akin in morals and community to Judeo-Christians. Their hospitality, the family values, and even their restraint in debauchery…
“I’d not expected this from the populace described in this book.” He sips slowly from his coffee again, the voice becoming gradually more of a whisper. Eyes are kept to the books or down. Is it my visage that invokes this sense of inferiority? Or, is it the king’s thousands of eyes he begins to feel surrounding his every waking hour? “Why this proclamation?”
I drink from my refilled flask and hand the book back to him. The eyes of my father are upon us both. Let all children profess their love equal to the last and the next.
“Our people. Our lands. Our glory.” I whisper and sip from the strongest alcohol I have in the house. “As a man is the body of the people, the heart of the land, and the glorious soul, we give all that we are. Hospitality is the love of our fellow man. Family is the center of faith and growth.” The burning scent from the flask rises like the promise of The Pit. “What man could ignore his father’s wishes?”
“But,” Arthur peers into the void within his cup.
“The devils and demons of Hell demand service and submission.” I lift the father’s Tooth from my shirt. “We bargained with a creature who has had paradise stricken from his grasp, a family that chains him eternally, and still he offers us kindness.” I twirl the Tooth in my hand. The smoothed ivory, chilled yet hot, is like holding a dagger of marble. “In this deal, our people, our lands, and our glory remain forever.
“You’ve come to learn and found truth. We found a god that will protect us as a father should.” Another drink. “One that will sow seeds of gardens once lost to man. One to keep us rooted and strong against all that would seek our destruction.”
Arthur shuffles in his seat. “A rather blunt answer.” His mousy reactions to every discomfort are like that of a child. The weakness of these foreign empires is evident in their most splendid sons. Of this mouse, our father shall make a man.
“I have no reason to lie. No reason to delay.” Finishing off my flask means another trip to the kitchen, but this time the bottle returns with me. The scent burns away the constant aroma of my guest. “Your education is important, Arthur. There is no greater honor than this,” my arms motion toward the library seemingly without a system. I consider the need for a stepstool when considering his size.
“You’ve explained the contract,” Arthur lowers the cup from his lips as his eyes widen. “I’ve not come to grasp the severity of the situation.” Minutes of hushed staring. I would find this uncomfortable if not for the eyes constantly surrounding me. “I think… I’d like to imagine this is all a dream.”
“A dream?”
“Yes.” He nods as if this was the answer he’s always waited for. “A world of light and darkness forever consuming one another. I’ve found more answers in a few months than I have in the entirety of my academic life,” the shattering continues as he verbalizes the transformation. “I cannot turn from the light, yet the darkness of this place shines brighter than anything I’ve known in life.”
That realization is a foundation. The soil is fertilized and tended. I need only wait for the blessed storms to pour down upon the lands. He will grow of his own volition. A man seeks his brother’s growth, but the man must allow room to flourish and bear fruit.
I let my newly conceived brother ponder and speak. Let him find his way by his own words. I will guide as I can.
“You see, I’ve lived without knowing the hunger, the isolation, or the chill of the poor. These qualities equated to the desolate of life or soul.” One hand twitches toward his head. Perhaps the motions of a man meaning to praise a departed Creator, but I cannot be sure. “Yet, I sit here with a prophet of a demon feared by any with a sense of faith.” An uneasy chuckle escapes my heritor. “This line repeats as a battle cry for your people.
“I read it and thought so little of it in the grander scheme, but I dare say I’ve come to realize the power in these words.” He scooches forward like a child intending to whisper to their parent. “This isn’t the mere gathering of the townsfolk to drink wine and sing songs.” He carefully places a hand on his shoulder to point shyly toward the window. “They’re out there, aren’t they?”
“You mean the children?”
He can only nod once. It is sharp and confident—the first time I’ve seen such will squeaking through the cracks of the shattered boy. “I’ve not gone back to the shore since the day you took me. The world shines, wavers, and breaks the longer I stare, but I cannot help myself from standing at the hills just beyond the salty breeze.”
His words begin to hold the mass of his heart.
“Wonderful, aren’t they?” I smile at the memory. I know not their names—a tongue that would drive me mad in the attempt. The sheer brilliance of such eternal excellence, our father has birthed many spectacles that the Creator cannot surpass. “All that we are together can never amount to the grandeur of the Sveltandi Konungur’s brood.”
“And the way you talk.” Arthur stands with the coffee clutched carefully in his hands. “What is this world hidden away from civilization?”
I remove the Tooth from my neck. The weight has grown. As I write, he watches. For the first time, he witnesses how the vein empties willingly for the word of our father. So, he has seen it, so it shall be written and come to pass.
“Come, and I will show you what the Leviathan has decreed.”
And so, Arthur sits beside me. Even now, his eyes watch as I dip the Tooth into the opened wound which will vanish by tomorrow’s sunrise. He must see why every book is written in red ink—for the soul of our people is the eternal tale which he shall read and continue. Let the Teller see so that he may tell.
September 2, 1963
Arthur has joined our community in the celebration of summer’s end. The livestock must be rounded up. The old ways are practiced and the community comes together like insects. No offence can be meant.
Each person has their task and is rewarded justly—each given a job worthy of their efforts and status. None complain and the people proclaim their joy in their labor. Each praises the father in their own way. Praise be to the Starving King and his numerous spawn.
Arthur has yet to walk the beaches. He remains inland among the people. Learning of Mrs. Sigurdsson’s pies, meat or otherwise, are prized among the town. Mr. Sturla’s violin plays as if The Pits opened wide the gates to Heaven simply to shame the angels. Food and drink aplenty, we praise the king without speaking his name.
He is not a king that demands reverence. He does not demand we bend the knee or plant our heads to the dirt. Though it would be just, that is simply not the way of our mighty lord chained deep within The Pit.
There is a moment, within the celebration, that the tents and halls fall silent as I am commanded to speak. Public speaking has often turned my stomach. My words come easy when scribbled across the page in crimson lettering. When delivered to the masses, I find myself stumbling over the spectacles which my king requests be brought to light.
Arthur stood among the crowd as I spoke.
The people had worked themselves tired; as is our way. They deserved the alcohol, the sweets, and the marvelous festivities that mankind joins together in. I stared out over the crowd upon their folded chairs and benches. The air is filled with smoked lamb and the distinct stench of dried fish. I’d already eaten, yet the food draws my mouth to water as the sea.
“Welcome.” The speakers hum and then whine. Clearing my throat, I half-step back. “We gather again as the season comes to an end and we prepare ourselves for the dead of winter.”
The crowd stares at me. Their eyes are heavier than that of the king. He judges with absolute brilliance, but the flaw of man is the questioning mind. As I stare out across the town and those that’ve travelled to witness this gathering, I find comfort in one.
Arthur, the singular entity beyond the bloodlines of our contracted people, stares at me from the middle of the crowd. He chose a seat among a few of the men that find profit in lumber. Their friendship seems to provoke another ethereal anchor which keeps him here. The father sees beyond simple task—relationships, emotions, and even the confirmation of self-worth.
“All that graze have been returned to the house of origin.” I begin our prayer. My hands lift, but the palms fall to the Earth. Let it be said that we raise our voice to be fallen to The Pit. “As we herd and as we produce, so the father sees and answers our prayers.”
They nod their heads in both acknowledgement and service. It must be continued, even as the next Teller scribbles away among his lumberjack cohorts.
“We gather in service of our father, the great Sveltandi Konungur.” Another moment of silence as all pay their respects to the king. I wait for three seconds before continuing. “Pray, children, and recall your year’s transgressions. Speak them in your hearts and know that the father forgives.”
None speak aloud. Not a single member of my congregation, or those that listen via radio, break the pause. A moment for me to catch myself. From here, atop the hills, I can see the blue horizon.
The shimmering children have approached the isle; joining us in the celebration without dancing among the citizens. Their tentacles, scaly or hairy flesh, eyes or none, fins or smoothed skin… no matter the size or shape, the king accepts them all as his children.
In this celebration of two entwined realities, my nerves are soothed by the all-encompassing grace of our starving father.
“The herds are gathered, as we are gathered.” I tap the bulge beneath my shirt and am filled with the strength of all the Tellers before me. “The summer’s end means the harshness of winter, yet we must remain vigilant. In faith, practice, and our duties… we are all one under the father’s eternal watch.
“Hear me!” I cannot resist. The might of The Pit’s unsated hunger draws out the volume. “Open your hearts to the father’s will! Live on in the service of the great glutton. Do as your father commands!” I lift my arms as the heat swells higher. “Let the celebration continue!”
November 14 1963
The final days of our studies have been some of the greatest in my life. My predecessors each had their call to deliver the past into the future. As Michael, Gabriel, Raphael whisper from afar, substituting their father’s absence, I write in my study knowing the full grace of my fallen father.
It’s similar to being a father; I imagine. Arthur’s remained. A sweet child welcomed into the arms of the Ilse and our people. Months have come and gone, and still he remains as the hunting children surround our lands.
The woodworkers have come to welcome him as brothers. Remaining inland, the newcomer has yet to return to the waters for either stroll or departure. Inland, he communes and indulges as the rest.
Where once I drank my indulgences alone, we now share one another’s preferences. Through the morning, coffee drives our works. He sits beside me, reading through volumes of ancient texts as I bleed myself for the new paragraphs. We continue our duties in the afternoon with the warmth of alcohol and fresh meats fueling us.
Arthur had even asked me once, “Are you sure? All that blood!” He’d rushed to grab me a rag not knowing I’d dipped into my veins for three full hours before he’d noticed. “Does it hurt?”
How the lad empathetically dabbed my arm… blood would not cease while work remains. “It does,” I nodded as the fragile man tended to my welcomed wound. “No pain inflicted breaks my will.”
“I’ve not been exposed to much blood,” Arthur had said as he removed the cloth only for another stream to pool along my arm. “You see, I used to be quite squeamish.”
“No longer,” I looked down to the lad.
He hadn’t been ready for the Tooth. A heavy burden, but one to be honored beneath its gravitas. It wasn’t my place to mention destiny, nor to offer him a chance at holding the glorious relic. No bone of the lad is that of a malefactor or simpleton, yet even the most emblazoned soul must heed his father’s commands.
I’d explained how he’d accompany me this morning. To where he has since fled, I return the sheep to his rightful pasture. Today, I gift the simple animal the rights to a soul worthy of this paradise.
Father, your will has been heard. Of all that I have been shown and gifted, I pray you guide Arthur the same. My brother… a son? I am not sure what label this bond should carry, yet I know my heart bleeds for my father and his chosen son.
Upon the sea’s border, I shall obtain all that Sveltandi Konungur has promised. Eternity; existence as an atom in the infinity of the father’s embrace. My veins have filled pages which will remain long beyond my death, and the line of the Teller continues.
Oh father, before the hordes of your spawn… I shall gaze once more upon your glory.
Upon this day, the seas will shudder with your roar and quake in your presence. Come, oh father. Come to the world of man and feast. Though you may never sate your hunger, let your Teller offer you the delights of this world.
Arthur… carry the Tooth with pride and honor.
November 14 1963
I… This…
Arthur Drucker…
My name is Arthur. The Teller of the Leviathan.
In all my years, I could never have imagined such a life. Never could I have considered such nightmares to exist in my waking hours. Yet… here I am.
Erik Leifsson…
You bastard.
Why must I prod myself with this vile relic? Must my thoughts be bled across the page? How can I resist when my hands are not my own… with thousands of eyes watching me from shattered fragments of reality?
You damned bastard…
A young man with no particular features of note. A man without the destined path visible before him. A man unsure of himself or the world which he inhabits.
A man unable to cease the prodding into his own veins…
Why can’t I stop? I imagine a man of a lesser college may experience this need… this queer desire for dwindling inhibition with some manner of substance. Where one man may find divinity at the bottom of a bottle, I’ve been drawn into it like a magnet. Unable to resist. Attracted against all instinct and logic.
Thousands of eyes witness my veins open and refuse to close. I must write until it is done. Until my thoughts are complete.
God… no.
Father.
Father, the unending hunger of The Pit. The Leviathan.
Erik called me to the sea. Hesitant as I was, I knew that all my hours spent within this study were to accumulate there. As the ocean may retreat inch by inch, it soon carries the massive weight of the world to the isle’s shore. Mad as it sounds, I knew the force of nature was to come.
Yet, my master’s voice had soothed all anxiety. I’ve been welcomed as friend, as family, and as one of their blood. In this peculiar nation of civilized devil worshippers. Even writing the thought, I feel as though The Pit trembles with laughter instead of resentment.
A thousand eyes laugh with clattering rows of teeth—endless bone upon bone. I know he understands the pain of my rebirth. As his children gathered at the shores of the isle, I witnessed the shimmering forms manifest into endless horrors.
Where once I knew such irregularities would break what sanity I believed myself to have retained, I now know survival was my clandestine truth. For this, as I sought, has altered me in unspeakable ways.
Tentacles writhed about the ocean like torpedoes flying and submerging. Hair dribbled through the waves like splitting blades, and eyes aimed toward any direction that my mind could perceive.
Can you hear me father? I know you can see me. How my veins open for you though my heart races at the anticipation of death that shall never come.
My task for today is the retelling of my master’s bequeathing of the Tooth and Teller. I write in the notebook he carried always at his side, for it is just in my duties.
“Come,” Erik waved me to follow, “and see.”
The man always smelt of a rugged musk that my birth father could never obtain. When such pleasantries as perfumed hallways fills the memory of my childhood, it is almost cathartic to sense more primal masculinity. A sense of duty, honor, and the undying resolve of a man basking in his sweat and blood.
Through green hills and the whispering winds of a spraying sea, I followed Erik toward that which I knew filled me with dread and peace. I am unable to describe such a contradiction in its entirety, for mankind has yet to manage the vocabulary for such an emotion. Logic of the universe bleeds away with every dip of The Tooth, physics has clashed with reality, and all that is science has been rewritten as the mind fails to correctly blend truth with sense.
Upon the sands, I was led to the path that I would follow. Every step, I felt the need to step carefully into his prints. As if gravity were reversed, I sensed the world would flip upon its head should I stray from Erik’s teachings and paved path.
You see, I’ve come to numb myself. Fear or excitement. Neither seems to quite describe the feeling.
Witnessing the thousands of spawn gather for their father, I saw the horizon glisten, then shine, then form a barricade of aquatic terrors that would bring the world to its knees. Should they act, the leaders of man would break as I had… yet, I fear they would never construct themselves anew from the fragments of their experience.
Erik stood at the edge where water skims the edge of his boots. He motioned for me to stand behind him; now taking my first steps to create the second set of prints.
“I have long been the Teller to our people, Arthur.” Erik didn’t look at me. Perhaps, he couldn’t. He peered out to the ocean as if recalling the name of every child that the father has birthed. “You have read what many have been forbidden to see. You’ve asked the questions that others could never fathom. You’ve learned what others simply wait to be told.
“Upon these sands, you shall see truth and know it to be so. What I show you now is only for you. When the next Teller is called upon, you will know that this soul deserves the glory you bestow upon him. It will call to you from within. It will ring as absolute truth in your soul.
“Can you manage this?” Erik’s voice has always been even. A man seemingly built of driftwood from the shores of his beloved isle. “It is now. Forsaken the lands and rights of your people,” Erik exhales slowly in an apparent state of ecstasy, “you now stand a favored son of The Pit’s famous glutton.”
His voice carried out across the waves only to be thrown back into my face. The beginning of an ending had begun, and a new chapter… a new volume was to begin.
Father, help me. I dip into my veins to transcribe the horrors that existed just beyond my sight.
“Have you come here of your own will?”
I could not answer him at first. It felt wrong and right. Yet, the words came to me, “I do.”
“Then let the father hear your words.” Erik lifts his hands to the sky; seemingly aimed toward the distant gap in the line of children. A thin landscape is visible; far beyond the craving spawn. “Oh father, hear me now. The Teller calls to you!” His voice rises as the impending tsunami.
As the clear skies above fell victim to conquering clouds, I felt that the laws of nature were merely suggestions to be broken at a whim. Not a cloud in the sky, yet I saw how white streams gradually became blackened bulks hurdling toward this epicenter above the distant landmass. It was as if seeing the Heavens inhale deeply of the salty breeze only for the world to suffer the impending darkness. As the Creator draws in life, so there must be death and destruction.
Praise, all that live the word of our father, that such is the reality of life.
Glistening children turned to the opened lands where the gathering storm swirls overhead. The sea began to churn, the sands trembled, and the darkened horizon connected to the sky. Plumes of black smoke rose to bind the unforgiving Heavens to the forsaken earth. A roar tore through the air; smoothing clouds and waves for a second. Deafening was this cry of primal rage… one I cannot confirm came from the depths of earth.
“Come, father! For our people, for our lands, and for our glory!”
Erik’s words commanded the distant isle to shriek out as sparks of crimson filled the skies. Black and crimson claimed all. Sprays of blackened ocean chilled me… or perhaps, it was the anticipation.
I shrunk back while as my master’s maddened grin grew wider.
A howl, or roar, blasted forth. Waves began to split… shift.
I cannot completely recall the visage, but I know my veins open wide in attempt. As if Moses had called the sea to split, a trench began to separate the waters into two. The submerged beast with an insatiable hunger.
Two spines pierce the waves as if a massive mammoth began trudged up the shore. Ivory, of which I knew instantly steel could never match, rose up with dripping streams. Fur as thick as bundles of drenched anacondas hung from the mass; blacks and browns with discolored symbols painted in. What rose from beneath the waves stared down on the two humans upon the sands.
Yellow eyes, dwarfing even the great Erik Leifsson, gaze down with some malformed union of hunger and intrigue. I believed my heart could stop, you see, as my lungs are incapable of taking in the air. It’s as if the world froze… even the moisture in the atmosphere solidified about us.
A face aged by eons, a face of a man, twitched his lips as if he were capable of smiling. The grand tusks tear through his cheeks but parting his lips for a moment reveals the curved rows of teeth awaiting any unlucky prey.
“HETHELOS ERAM.” Quaking the seas and skies, the voice slipped through the lips of the ancient man’s face. Only a portion of his furry neck and head were visible, yet he peered down from twelve feet above. “EZRAMACK IR TOPHIL.”
An old language. One I hadn’t heard before… and was not yet ready to comprehend it. Oh father, the voice which vibrates in my bones… it haunts me even now. Those eyes of molten gold bubbling atop a raging inferno. There was only my master and my new father.
“Arthur Drucker.” I knew not to step forward—simply an introduction. Erik looked back to me; peeling his eyes from the unfathomable horror. “The Teller of our people.”
As magma spewed into the skies and all the world flushed into a darkness that could be felt… Erik turned back to the Sveltandi Konungur with open arms.
“TERNATHY DEVOS, MIR UB ERAM.”
“Blessed be your will, father!” Erik called out to the beast which arched its odd neck back; the beard bleeding into the fur. “Leviathan! Grant me your eternity!”
I…
I felt the world beside me disappear. As if the vacuum of space carved the fabric of time, I felt my wet hair float out and then stick back to my face. The tunnel, like a hurricane, had come and gone with the monster’s breath. In that instant, I watched my master soar into the unending maw.
Teeth, as if collected from every beast upon the Earth, spiraled endlessly into the abyss of the Leviathan’s mouth. Erik’s form bent, dragged across the razors, was pierced by the fangs, was crushed by those of herbivores… until the end of time, I fear he tumbles through the world of hungering bones.
Sveltandi Konungur’s bottom jaw splits at the middle, peeling back the lips to welcome his children in the truest embrace he may offer. Perhaps, deep within the chained brother of The Pit, there exists some corrupted palace to rival that of his unforgotten Heaven.
Perhaps, I lost my master to paradise unending. Perhaps, the horror of his eyes meeting mine… as a row of sharpened bones penetrated his torso… and separated pieces like a chef masterfully preparing fresh cuts of beef.
Oh, father… release me. The blood of my arm has not clotted, and my memories shall forever be seared into present life. No matter the path or the company, my eyes shall forever see a man willingly accepting his immediate demise as the earth spewed forth wrath into the world.
And still, the populace calls for a celebration tomorrow. They did not ask for Erik. Do not fear for Erik, children of the Leviathan. He has found his peace in piece. He has led his people, his lands, and found you all glory to last.
I… Arthur Drucker… am now your Teller.
Surtsey – volcano
14 November 1963
Starving King. Sveltandi Konungur
Erik Leifsson
Arthur Drucker
“For our people, for our lands, and for our glory.” Erik repeated these words to the great creature. “I beseech thee, great Starving King, to gaze upon my companion and judge him. Let us hear your decree and have it be written in blood.”
“My ancestors fought valiantly, but victory did not come swiftly or without bloodshed. Wars raged on, and our people grew tired. It was the first Teller that made contact with the beast and struck the accursed deal.” Erik looked to his right. A wall of books proffered lifetimes of tales and accounts. “Herleif Arnarson took a walk to the sea and prayed to the gods of old. He prayed that his people find their strength beneath Odin’s watchful eye and Thor’s mighty hammer. He offered himself for the battles that would come and promised the seas would run as blood. His prays would be answered.
“His words had been heard by a creature capable of this desire. Let the oceans thicken with the blood of the invaders.” Erik’s trinket switched hands so that his right could pull an aged book of poor condition. It had been removed and replaced thousands of times, and his tale told to many. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” He was no longer speaking to me, but doing as The Teller must. “What came for Herleif was not the Jormungand of ancient prophecy, but one that would swallow the serpent whole. Upon those shores, Herleif saw the ocean split and the tusked devourer’s head emerge.” He set the book atop the table and opened it to a seemingly random page, but practice does produce the mirage of divining. “He later wrote as best his mind could fathom.
“Take in what might be and what might not.” Translating as he read, though much must have been from memory. “The tusks pulled the waves above the shore so that the ocean’s body caved. The face of leather, fur, beast, and man arched back from me to cover the horizon. The eyes of the creature burned with desire for the feast—a hunter that would prey upon any and all. I felt that all was in danger. It was in his eyes that I saw the emptiness of his being. All that he desired; I saw in him what a starving man sees in the fish or fruit. And yet, no man could hunger as he. This beast gazed upon me as a thousand men might gaze upon a single salmon. There was none that could contest him, and still he fed as if the sea and sky meant to tear the meal from his jaws.
“The Heavens dispersed so that the sun shined unwillingly on that which should remain in the eternal dark. This terror of the waves extended that which I sought.” Erik’s voice was firm, but some distant coldness was bleeding through. “Nidhogg and Fenrir together could have done little when compared to the might of this beast. His nostrils pulled in the skies and released a warm gust of rotten flesh and mold. He needed no words, for I heard him within my mind. A silent voice of reason and purpose—a voice that offered our salvation. We needed no savior born of man, but this beast,” Erik’s throat bulged to drop the words back into his body, but they returned, “The Starving King, extended his mighty blessings unto us. I accepted for our land, for our people, and for our glory.”
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