Isaac Robinson, April 28, 521
The first light of dawn stings my eyes as I groan back to consciousness. My mouth is parched, my tongue swollen and sticky with the taste of salt and bile. A cold sweat clings to my skin despite the already-warm black sand beneath me. Every shallow breath makes my ribs ache.
The world sways violently as I try to sit up. The volcanic beach stretches out in the pale morning light, the normally jet-black sand now a dull charcoal in the predawn gloom. Behind me, the silhouette of a volcano cuts a jagged line against the lightening sky, its peak wreathed in sluggish gray steam.
My stomach lurches as the smell hits me - that rotten-egg stench of sulfur, stronger now in the cool morning air. I barely have time to roll onto my side before I'm retching up nothing but acid and seawater, my whole body convulsing with each painful heave. The vomit splatters onto wet sand, the acidic stench mixing with the volcanic gases.
The tide pools nearby steam unnaturally in the crisp dawn air, their surfaces iridescent with mineral slicks. My vision swims as I collapse back, the black sand clinging to my damp cheek. The rising sun paints the ocean in sickly yellows and greens, the waves moving sluggishly like oil.
A distant seabird's cry echoes across the empty beach, the sound making my throbbing head pulse harder. I try to focus on what seems a village down the shore, but my eyes won't cooperate - the thatched roofs blur and double in my vision.
The heat is already building as the sun climbs higher. My skin feels tight and feverish, my muscles weak and trembling. I know I need water. Need shelter. But right now, even lifting my head makes the world spin dangerously.
As the first direct sunlight hits my face, I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain. The black sand beneath me seems to pulse with heat, or maybe that's just the fever. The village might as well be miles away.
The world tilts with every staggering step as I drag myself toward the cluster of thatched roofs. My throat burns, my legs shake like they might buckle any second. The black sand has given way to packed earth, the sulfuric stench fading beneath woodsmoke and the salty tang of drying fish.
A woman stands by a weathered wooden house, pinning faded linens to a clothesline. Her back is turned, her movements steady and practiced. I try to call out, but my voice comes out a cracked whisper.
I take another step. The ground lurches beneath me.
"Help..." It's barely more than a breath.
The linens flutter in the morning breeze as my knees give out. The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is the woman turning, her eyes widening, her hands reaching out as I crumple to the dirt.
Isaac Robinson, May 1, 521
A sharp, metallic taste lingers in my mouth as consciousness returns. The murmur of hushed voices cuts through the fog in my head.
"Do you think he's a pirate?" a boy whispers.
"Pirates have scars and eye patches," a girl replies matter-of-factly. "This one just looks sick."
I force my eyes open, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the window. Two faces hover at the foot of the bed—a boy with sun-bleached hair and a gap-toothed grin, and a girl clutching a seashell necklace, her brown eyes wide with curiosity.
When they notice I'm awake, the boy gasps and stumbles back. "Mama! The dead pirate woke up!"
My throat burns as I croak out, "Not...a pirate." The words come out barely louder than a whisper, but the children freeze.
The girl leans closer, studying me with sudden fascination. "Then why were you in the ocean?"
Before I can answer—not that I have one—heavy footsteps approach. The scent of salt and herbs grows stronger as a shadow fills the doorway.
The boy tugs on someone's skirt. "Mama, he says he's not a pirate!"
I try to prop myself up on my elbows, but the room tilts dangerously. The last thing I see before darkness threatens to take me again is a woman's calloused hands reaching toward me, her voice firm but not unkind:
"Dead or not, pirate or not—let's get some water in you first."
The door bangs open.
Before I can even lift my head from the sweat-damp pillow, the woman is already looming over the bed - her silhouette framed by daylight, one hand resting on the curved sword at her hip. The blade's leather-wrapped hilt is darkened with years of grip, the metal crossguard nicked from use.
She thrusts a steaming wooden bowl toward me. The smell hits like a physical blow - rancid seaweed boiled in vinegar.
"Up," she commands.
I barely get my elbows under me before she's dragging me upright with surprising strength. The room spins violently as she shoves the bowl into my hands. The liquid inside looks like swamp water, with chunks of...something floating in it.
I take one sip and nearly vomit.
"WHAT IN THE HELLS IS THIS?" I roar, spitting brownish droplets across the straw mattress. "IT TASTES LIKE ROTTEN FISH!"
The little boy gasps from the doorway. His sister claps her hands over her mouth, eyes dancing with delight at the outburst.
The woman doesn't flinch. She simply draws her sword halfway from its scabbard with a sharp metallic hiss.
"Either you drink it," she says calmly, "or I knock you unconscious and pour it down your throat while you sleep. Choose."
I gulp.
With a shuddering breath, I raise the bowl to my lips - and throw it back like a shot of bad whiskey. The vile concoction burns all the way down, coating my tongue with what tastes like liquefied volcanic rock. My entire body convulses in protest.
But within seconds, a strange warmth spreads through my chest. The pounding in my skull lessens. My vision clears just enough to see the woman's satisfied nod as she sheathes her sword.
"Good," she says. "Now that you're not dying..." She pulls up a stool with her boot. "...tell me why the currents washed you up on my beach with no boat, no weapons, and," she eyes my shaking hands, "no sea legs to speak of."
The woman's grip tightens slightly on her sword hilt as she studies me. "Give me your name boy"
"Isaac," I say, my voice still rough from seawater and sickness.
She tilts her head, waiting.
"Robinson. Isaac Robinson."
Something flickers in her eyes—recognition? Suspicion?—but it's gone before I can be sure. She exhales sharply, then nods. "Lira Varek." She gestures to the children hovering in the doorway. "My son, Jory."
The boy—sun-bleached hair, a grin missing two front teeth—bounces on his toes. "Hiya, shipwreck!"
"And my daughter, Nessa."
The girl is younger, maybe seven or eight, with serious dark eyes and a grip on her mother's belt. She doesn't speak, just watches me like she's deciding whether I'm worth the trouble.
Lira ignores them, her gaze locked on me. "Robinson," she repeats, testing the name. "That's a mainland name. Not from any island I know."
Jory gasps. "Like the stories! The lost sailor!"
Lira's jaw tightens. "We'll see." She pulls up a stool, the wood scraping against the packed-earth floor. "When you're strong enough to sit up properly, you'll tell me how you really ended up on my beach."
Nessa finally speaks, her voice quiet but firm. "He smells like the deep water. The kind that pulls you under."
Lira's fingers tap once on her sword. "Then we'll hear his story before the tide comes back for him."
The firelight carved shadows across Lira's face as she studied me, her sword balanced across her knees. Jory hovered at the edge of the room, rocking on his heels, while Nessa lurked behind her mother like a silent shadow.
"Start talking," Lira said.
I swallowed, my throat still raw from seawater. "I wasn't supposed to be on a boat at all."
Nessa's dark eyes flicked up. "Then why were you?"
"Because I'm an idiot." I dragged a hand through my tangled, salt-stiff hair. "I needed passage south. No ferries, no flights. Some guy at the docks said he'd take me for cash—just a quick hop along the coast. I didn't even ask what kind of boat."
Lira's fingers stilled on her sword. "You got on a vessel without knowing what it was?"
"It floated. That's all I cared about." I winced at the memory. "Then the storm hit. The guy—captain, whatever—panicked. Next thing I know, he's shoving me into a life raft that looked like it hadn't been checked since the war."
Jory gasped. "Did it have holes? Did sharks circle you?"
"Jory," Lira warned.
I exhaled. "I don't know what happened after that. Just… black water, then your beach."
Nessa stepped forward, her voice quiet but sharp. "You don't know currents. You don't know boats. You should be dead."
Lira's grip tightened on her sword. "She's right. The sea doesn't spare fools." Her gaze pinned me. "So why are you here?"
The fire crackled.
I had no answer.
But Nessa was still staring at me like she could see the truth written in saltwater on my skin.
"Last chance," Lira said. "Tell it true this time."
I swallowed. The lie I'd prepared turned to ash in my mouth.
"I stole it."
Jory gasped. Nessa didn't react at all.
"The boat," I continued, staring at the dirt floor. "Wasn't mine. Just some dinghy tied up at the marina. I needed to get away fast and... it had keys in the ignition."
Lira's boot scraped against the stool as she leaned forward. "You're no fisherman."
Nessa's voice cut through the smoky air like a knife. "What did you do?"
The fire popped. Outside, the wind carried the scent of salt and something darker.
"Enough," I said hoarsely. "Enough that when the storm took that boat, maybe the sea was doing the world a favor."
Lira's sword rasped as she stood. "We'll see what the tide washed in with you tomorrow." Her shadow loomed against the wall. "Pray nothing finds its way here."
Jory whimpered. Even Nessa looked unsettled.
I kept my mouth shut.
The fire had burned low when Lira finally stood, the wooden stool scraping against the packed earth floor. She jerked her chin at the children—Jory scrambling to his feet, Nessa slipping silent as a shadow toward the door.
Lira paused in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dying embers' glow. She didn't turn when she spoke.
"You lied twice."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"First about the boat. Then about why you took it." Her hand rested on the sword at her hip. "A man doesn't hide small truths that hard unless the real one would drown him."
I opened my mouth, but she cut me off with a sharp gesture.
"I won't ask a third time." For the first time, her voice softened, just slightly. "Not yet. But listen well, Isaac Robinson—lies are stones in your pockets. Keep collecting them, and you'll sink."
Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving me alone with the whisper of the waves outside—and the weight of everything I hadn't said.