Chapter 44

Carrack’s return to the city was an arduous trek. Each step reignited the old wound in his leg, its pain echoing the desolation around him. Buildings loomed over him, streets narrowed into claustrophobic corridors. He pressed on, clutching the violin case, feeling the dynamite’s weight under his jacket.

Upon reaching the square, he noted Alistair’s nod of acknowledgment and the sinister shadow’s unsettling advance near the statue’s base. The shadow’s proximity sent a shiver down Carrack’s spine, its presence more palpable than before. But it was Alaina’s absence that made his heart pound, driving him to quicken his pace, giving the shadow a wide berth as he moved toward the square’s center.

“Where’s Alaina? Is she … ?” Carrack panted, his breaths labored.

“Her time here has ended; she fulfilled her role,” Alistair said. “Do you have it?”

“Hold on,” Carrack said. “I need answers first. My men—Crow, Foeham, the islanders, even Franzen. What happened to them? Tell me!”

Alistair sighed, a note of disdain in his voice. “Their fates have been sealed, part of a grander scheme beyond your concern. They’ve found their solace contributing to a purpose far greater than their previous lives here.”

Carrack’s unease deepened as he remembered what he’d seen at the fort and felt his hand tighten around the dynamite. “Not everyone seemed to embrace this ‘greater purpose’ of yours.”

“People often resist what they don’t understand,” Alistair replied. “But if it eases your mind, we can reveal what became of your people. Yet, be mindful—time is of the essence, as you can see.”

Carrack, his gaze flicking to the encroaching wraith with its features coming more into form that became an unsettling reflection of himself wearing the most sinister of faces. He felt fear claw at his resolve, his hands beginning to shake, and the primal urge to flee flooded his mind. “All right, fine! What must I do?”

“Play it,” Alistair instructed.

“Play what?”

“Your violin. Let the first melody that comes naturally flow from your mind,” Alistair urged.

Fumbling with the case in his trembling hands, Carrack hastily retrieved the violin. As the shadow neared, whispering unsettlingly, the violin slipped, clattering to the ground. He snatched it up, his grip nearly crushing it as he set it to his shoulder. Grating screeches filled the air as he attempted to play, the wraith’s unsettling whispers intensifying.

Carrack’s melody wavered at first, but as he delved deeper into the familiar motions of his violin, his hands began to steady, finding solace in the warmth of the music. It was as though a long-lost friend had welcomed him back after a prolonged absence, amplifying the serene sounds with each note. He recognized the tune, “Saint of Evermore”, with its rhythmic storytelling, its flowing melody, and its poignant beauty, narrating the journey of a sinner seeking redemption to win the hearts of Evermore’s people. Yet, the distorted echo of a grotesque parody from a place known as Elsewhere lingered in his mind, its nightmarish performance unfolding before him. Determined, he played with increased fervor, willing the haunting memory to recede into the darkest recesses of his consciousness.

As the music flowed, the wraith’s presence began to dissipate from his consciousness. Opening his eyes, Carrack watched it wither into the ether until it vanished completely. A cleansing sensation, akin to the one he felt while gazing at the celestial lights, washed over him. Glancing upward, he noted the ominous lights in the sky dimming and disappearing one after the other. The cautious comfort he had clung to gave way to a burgeoning optimism, as both the physical and mental ailments seemed to dissolve with each note. The tempestuous clouds that had once shrouded his mind now parted, revealing a ray of internal sunshine that warmed his very soul.

God, I missed this, he thought, a profound connection with his violin stirring him deeply, causing his eyes to glass over with emotion.

Then, the music halted abruptly. Carrack finished his song, nearly gasping for air, realizing he had been holding his breath throughout the performance. Beads of sweat cascaded down his bald head as his shoulder throbbed, feeling as if a bruise had formed beneath the skin. He glanced upward once more, only to find the ethereal lights extinguished. Turning, he noticed the absence of the wraith, not even the discomforting, invisible presence it had cast remained. His optimism wavered upon seeing Alistair and the statue still there, a part of him clinging to the hope that their disappearance would mark the end of his otherworldly ordeal.

“You look reborn,” Alistair observed with a hint of awe, “as if you’ve cast off the very weight of the world from your shoulders.”

“Nearly all of it,” Carrack remarked, his eyes narrowing as they fixed upon Alistair.

“I see,” Alistair responded, nodding patiently. “Well, I am confident the spell transfer succeeded. We can feel it coursing through us, and she feels it with every heartbeat.”

“Enjoy it as much as you like. What’s next?” Carrack’s suspicion burgeoned at the seemingly ideal resolution unfolding before him, his guard inching back up in anticipation of unforeseen repercussions.

A keen awareness flickered across Alistair’s face, registering Carrack’s doubts. “Nothing, as far as you’re concerned. Your part is over.”

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“My role …” Carrack echoed. “Like how Alaina finished hers and then … just disappeared.”

“Precisely, though not as dire as you imply. You’re not going anywhere. Stay here, continue living, or not,” Alistair elaborated, his tone suggesting a mind preoccupied with future concerns.

“And what of you? Or should I say both of you?”

“We, or rather she, has a whole new life to explore, thanks to the foundation this island has laid and the vitality you’ve provided by removing that cursed specter.”

“You mentioned showing me what became of the others on this island,” Carrack said cautiously.

“And she intends to do just that,” Alistair replied, his voice morphing into a bizarre mix of various tones and pitches as the familiar sound of crackling and gurgling filled Carrack’s ears once more.

Carrack suddenly felt the vice-like grip of hands seizing his arms, forcibly throwing him onto his back. He was then dragged away from the statue by two figures clad in garrison uniforms, their faces obscured by the awkward angle at which he was being hauled. Carrack struggled fiercely, attempting to break free, but each movement only made their hold more unyielding. Eventually, he was flung onto the ground outside the perimeter where all the footprints had ceased. Springing to his feet, Carrack faced his assailants with heightened alertness, ready to fight, only to find himself utterly defenseless upon recognizing them.

Standing before him were Sergeant Crow and Captain Foeham, their bodies appearing awkward and disjointed, much like Alaina’s had been, though somehow less grotesque. The sight of his once-comrades, now seemingly possessed and gruesomely altered, sent a chilling paralysis through Carrack. Their eyes, lifeless and bloodshot, stared back at him as windows to the void where their souls once resided. Clutched in Foeham’s scorched hand was the dynamite, secretly taken from Carrack’s coat.

“Thought I got all of them,” uttered Foeham’s body, the voice morphing into Alistair’s chilling tone. “A valiant effort, but ultimately in vain.”

“What have you done to them!” Carrack’s voice cracked, a crescendo of terror overwhelming him. “Is this the ‘greater purpose’ you’ve inflicted on everyone?”

“This?” the bodies of Foeham and Crow asked in unison, each gesturing toward themselves. It was then that Carrack noticed the lines of disturbed earth trailing their steps, Foeham and Crow’s feet obscured beneath the soil. “In a way,” they replied as the ground around the statue began to quiver, the soil cracking, churning, and swirling ominously.

“When I first encountered the Mistress, she was formless, a swirling mass of the emotions, desires, and yearnings that my crew and I harbored. She yearned for one thing—to exist. Ever adrift on the fringes of reality, she longed to immerse herself in the tapestry of human emotion: the joy, the sorrow, the mundane, the thrilling—all of it! My grief resonated with her the most, forging a bond so profound that I retained my senses amidst her presence, unlike the rest of my crew. She offered solace and sought only one thing in return: to materialize, to be as real as you or me. And so, I obliged, encasing her spirit within this very statue before you.”

The voice of Alistair became submerged in a maelstrom of voices, each one spilling out from its mouth in a dissonant chorus. “Now, with your aid in feeding her that foul sorcery, the thread has been cut, the lights extinguished, the portals sealed. She exists solely here, bound to this reality.” As he spoke, the ground transformed into a grotesque display of shock and horror. Limbs, appendages, and unnamable pieces of flesh probed, flailed, and thrashed beneath the soil like a legion of worms in a frenzied dance. It was a spectacle devoid of humanity, a manifestation of pure, unbridled chaos, of one grotesque being. Carrack stumbled back, his stomach churning at the sight and the sudden descent of Foeham and Crow into the writhing mass.

Carrack stood immobilized, his mind incapable of formulating any response to the ghastly spectacle before him. He was frozen, a prisoner to an extraordinary scene of horror. The monstrous entity churned beneath the dirt, its full grotesque form shrouded and leaving the rest to be horrifically imagined. His eyes darted as he noticed his violin, previously discarded in the scuffle, eerily floating amidst the tumultuous soil, eventually settling at his feet.

“You play beautifully. I do hope you’ll continue,” the monstrosity gurgled hauntingly. “Saint of Evermore is indeed a fine piece, emblematic of redemption at its finest. Yet, if I recall correctly, the sinner is only revered posthumously, after spending a lifetime burdened by the weight of his sins.”

Carrack’s head began to throb unbearably; he clutched at it, desperate to quell the escalating pain, but it only intensified. It was as if an invisible force were hammering at the doors of his consciousness, breaking through to inundate him with memories. Suddenly, he remembered everything: The Maron, a civilian transport on the river, brimming with refugees. Amongst them, one hid a weapon, prompting an order—his order—to set the vessel ablaze. Carrack’s mind’s eye was seared with the image of the boat engulfed in flames, its passengers leaping into the river only to meet him and his men on the banks, ready to ensure no one survived. He recalled the unspeakable acts of cruelty, the mirth he found in the chaos, and the haunting melody of his violin playing over the screams. These memories, just the tip of an iceberg of atrocities, flooded back, leaving him reeling with horror. Overwhelmed and revulsed, Carrack finally unleashed a scream that tore through the silence, a visceral release of all the agony trapped within.

“‘I believe you will make a fitting saint yourself, Saint of Helena.”

“You promised to take it all away!” Carrack sobbed.

“I liberated you from the part of you that reveled in those horrors. But I will not absolve you from the weight of remembering your deeds. This was, after all, my inquisition, and I deemed you culpable of every sin.”

“You … You—”

“Monster?” the Mistress interjected with a hint of irony.

The excruciating pain in Carrack’s head subsided as the memories found their permanent place. Overwhelmed, he stood motionless, each recollection unveiling a new layer of horror. Tears streamed down his face, not from sorrow, but from a profound sense of hopelessness that drained him of any solace or prior self-perception. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground, a broken man.

Carrack watched as the grotesque form before him contorted and began to submerge further into the ground, the statue descending alongside it. And as it vanished beneath the soil, the Mistress’s parting words echoed, “Farewell, Saint Carrack.”

Within minutes the rumble disappeared. The mashing, rustling, and labored moaning breaths went silent beneath the earth. It was gone. It had left. There was nothing left to see of it. Carrack was still, staring at the site that was now empty while his mind swirled with the experience. He felt sick, his stomach groaning at the lingering memory of what he’d seen and smelt. His mind was numb, unable to fully understand what he’d ended up seeing and playing party to. But ultimately, he saw himself for who he was, a monster. It was in his trance that he felt a rain drop fall heavy on his head, until the deluge returned in full.

Carrack sat there, with nothing but a blank stare and empty mind. He sat alone on the water choked mud. On the island of Helena. There he sat, at the edge of the world, where all it did was rain.