The Epic of Wilkes Tempest

The fire popped and hissed as another log settled into embers, sending a brief cascade of sparks up the stone chimney. Shadows danced across the study walls flickering over ships with torn sails, monstrous silhouettes, and heroes larger than life. Ones born from nothing more than flame, and imagination. At least the children believed so when pappy was reading from the dusty old books. As he shuffled to his arm chair the children leaned closer without realizing it, as though his presence itself was a tide for their attention.

"Tell us the story again, grandpappy!"

The wild scattering of bright-eyed children sat on the rug and stared up at the old sailor. He rocked slowly in his chair, wood creaking beneath him in tired protest, and took a long sip from his flask. Whatever had once been etched on its surface had long since been worn smooth by decades of salt, sweat, and storms. Age and salty winds had carved deep lines into his face, and his joints crackled nearly as loud as the roaring fireplace when he leaned forward to rise. He groaned, shuffled across the room, and retrieved the heavy tome from its honored place on the shelf. He tucked the old thing into the cradle of his lone arm, the stub of his right arm stopped at the elbow. He grunted as an old injury to his knees argued that he ought to be sitting still.

"Yer meanin’ this one right, kiddos?" he asked, thumbing the spine. "The Epic of Wilkes Tempest?"

They nodded in a frenzy. Wolf tails wagged hard enough to thump the floor. Equine ears rotated sharply forward, never leaving his face. A pair of gelatinous children wobbled in place, their translucent bodies rippling with excitement. One of the smaller ones had already climbed halfway onto his boot, hugging it like a lifeline. He chuckled and scooted the nervous little girl onto the rug.

"Settle, settle," he said, easing back into his chair. "I’ll read it again if you really want me to. Don’t go cryin’ to your parents when I get to the scary parts though. They’ll make poor pappy sleep in the cellar again."

"Nooooo!" several voices cried out at once.

"Pappy can sleep in our room! No need to be cold in the cellar!" one of the older grandsons called out. The lad hopped up and struck an attempt at a fierce pose tail still swishing as his ears pinned back. "We’ll stand guard all night!"

The old sailor squinted at him, his one good eye needing time to focus after the years. He reached up with his remaining hand and scratched at the edge of his weathered eye patch, a habit as old as the scar beneath it. While jogging his memory about his hundreds of dozens of grandchildren the lad's smile made the dots connect. Kalin, grandson of the Second Wolf of Waves, so his great, great-grandson is turn. The resemblance was undeniable, from the steel in his gaze to the silver color of his salt-scented fur.

"Right," Pappy murmured, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "You Fang-Tempests are no joke, eh? Well then, brave Kalin, you can stand guard for the little ’uns. Who knows, ye might prove worthy to be the next Wolf of Waves."

Kalin straightened immediately, chest puffed with pride, and took his post near the door.

With a satisfied nod, Pappy cracked open the book. The pages were yellowed and stiff, the ink uneven in places, as if written during a rolling sea. A few corners were darkened with old water stains. Logi- Pappy guessed it to be blood, brine, or something else entirely. The title page bore a crude illustration of a ship caught beneath a spiraling storm, lightning frozen mid-strike.

He cleared his throat.

"In the days when the sea still answered to names, and the wind carried the grudges of gods, there lived a sailor called Wilkes Tempest…"

The room fell silent.

Pappy’s voice changed as he read, losing some of its playful rasp and gaining the weight of memory. Even those who had heard the story a dozen times felt it. The way the air seemed to thicken, the way the fire dimmed just slightly, as though listening too.

"Wilkes," the story read, "was born beneath black clouds and screaming wind. The midwife swore the storm had waited for him, circling the village until his first breath split the sky with thunder." The smaller children had huddled together as a pack almost. As if the group of them could defend themselves from any larger than life threat.

"By his tenth year, he could read the waves like others read books. Charting fishing routes as if he was writing simple sentences. The lad was smart, and brave too." Pappy read to them, his voice took on a nostalgic air, the visage of their grandfather faded slightly. Strands of black slowly reintroduced itself to the salty grey hair.

" By fifteen, he’d survived his first shipwreck." Logitur spoke, a soft electric crackle came with his voice as he spoke from memory rather than the book itself. His descendants looked mystified at the transformation. Their plan of rejuvenating their forefather had worked slightly, if only temporarily.

"By twenty, the sea had begun to recognize him." the baritone of his voice returned to a full bass. Warm and strong as the gulf off the coast. A faint halo formed above his head as if made by fishing hooks being strung together end to end. His singular eye regained a playful glint that had faded over time. The children stared with baited breath before one piped up with a question.

"Was he scary?" a small gelatinous voice whispered.

Pappy didn’t look up from the book as he paused in the brief recounting. "He wasn’t kind," he said honestly. "But he was fair. And the ocean respects that more than prayers."

He turned the page. Another wave rolling over the old sailor's body. His back straightened slightly, only a scant few lines remained on his face. The raggedy captain's coat regained a deep navy color with slate trim.

Kalin swallowed hard but didn’t move from his post. Fear of disturbing his ancestor's recollection would undo the transformation. The chapter came to a close however, and the reversing of the ole captain's age began to fade.

Pappy paused, closing the book with care. His body didn't pop or creak as he rose this time. Rather than an arthritic shuffle he slowly waltzed on sea legs. He slowly slid the book back into it's place, drumming his fingers on the cover.

"And that," he said softly, "was what made him worthy kiddos."

The fire crackled. Outside, somewhere far beyond the walls, the wind howled just for a moment. A brief scream against the quiet peace.

"Tomorrow," Pappy added, rising carefully from his chair, "we’ll see why exactly the man was chosen to be a saint."

No one argued. Not even the bravest among them, they hugged their pappy good night and wondered to their own sections of the palace. The old man stood silently for a moment after hugging the last child good night. He moved swiftly now that his crowd had scampered off. Eyes darted to stare at his reflection for a moment, smiling.

"Pappy is what I am now?" he chuckled in amusement at the idea, of finally finding place enough to rest and earn a true sign of age. He shifted his warn cap and picked up a picture.

A younger visage of his self stood, jet black hair beneath a grey sailor's cape. A lean, muscular form clad in only a toga and dozens of tattoos. He was mid laugh with arms slung around two older gods. His brothers...

To his right a brunette king, clad in shining armor with regalia in beautiful shades of blue and red. The king stood smiling warmly, returning the embrace of the youngest god in the painting. His mind was jogged once more as he remembered his brother's name. The Harem King, defender of the innocent. Omnius.

Under his left was the broodiest of the three. Skin pale as ivory, eyes aglow like heated steel. Atop his head sat no adornment, instead shimmering locks of hair the same burning orange as the flames of war. He stood, gauntleted arms folded across his chest. His armor was black with gold trim, not glamourous like either of his younger brother's. The faintest whisp of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Calamity Vokal. Slayer of the wicked.

"They used to call me Logitur the God Emperor of Honeypot."