The Fated Land Extract

Read Whetstone now:

The port was the island’s gem; it had the most life, streaming in and out constantly. For miles off the shore, there were boats and ships and flags of every colour. There were never any black flags. They were reserved only for the dead.

Around the middle of summer, the tourists come. Every year they spill off the red ships, dressed in white, and pastel yellow. The colours of the island’s flag, as if flattery could appease the gods. They crowd around the pubs and inn’s and boutiques, flustered under the midsummer sun, until they have three days left. It’s usually around then that they meekly, quietly, approach the steps. There will always be one louder than the rest: not the leader, but someone vulgar and uncontained. The rest at least feign respect. They ascend the steps with guidance from the natives, hurriedly clamouring to the top. It takes them hours. Quietly, they’ll share legends. Often, some of the port’s residents will join them, embellishing the tales or laughing at them. ­

‘No one has been out in my lifetime,’ the teenagers would promise, ‘nor my father’s, or grandfather’s.’

‘And has anybody been in?’ The loudest will always ask, shrill, eyes wide with excitement.

And the teenager dramatically shakes their head, sighing, up until four years before this day. For a man had entered, silently, at dawn. None had been awake to witness it; it was a holiday of rest, and nobody was up before midday due to the last night’s drinking. The village had shook under the sound of the sound of metal crashing into metal.

‘A man gives up his soul to go there,’ they tell the tourists, solemn. ‘All in the search of the land of peace and prosperity.’ 

Read Whetstone in full now: