You know, I doubt I'll ever forget that day.

How could a person? I mean, such events only take place once in a lifetime; thinking about it now makes me glad I have a tongue that generally remains stilled. Very few would believe me, I should think – not only about the particularities of the story, and how loose of a mind it takes to accept it, but in regards to the fact that I managed to survive. Nobody would accept that bit, given his reputation.

But it's true, I swear. If there's anything I can give you, aside from a steady hand, it's an unwavering memory. While I'm at it, I could use some loqua. The thought of his blade, flashing so coldly in the sun, instils a need for drink in a man; but, for the moment, I'll forego such necessities.

I suppose it was a year or so ago. I can't recall down to the very day, mind you, but what I can say was that it was a clear summer's day. Few clouds, great visibility. I could never have asked for a better day to sail. The rotors were responding superbly. Granted, that could've just been the tip-top condition of the ship talking, but, I digress. Needless to say, it was pretty damned nice out. I remember, so vividly, because it was one of the few instances where I've let myself grin in front of other people. Just felt like a lucky day.

I should have known better, really. Probably jinxed myself by diverting from my normal customs of just shutting up and steering. How could I have known, though? I mean, one minute, there we are, just puttering along towards Valua, not a care in the world, and the next, this bizarre looking piece of junk is smashing into the stern of the ship. I'd not had even a second to react: hell, I was lucky that I managed to hold onto the wheel, rather than get pitched over top of it and onto my ass.

The whole vessel started to shake like mad. At least one man fell over the railing, never to be seen again – I somehow doubt he managed to sprout a pair of wings and soar to safety. Arms flung over the wheel, I tried my best to steady the ship, planting one boot firmly against the side of the wheelhouse and pulling with every ounce of my strength to keep that damned hunk of wood upright. The ship was listing violently to the left, despite my best efforts: I could see the men outside dashing down the deck, some nearly rolling with the sudden incline, heading towards whatever the hell was dragging us down.

I still wasn't sure what it was. It had plummeted down with such speed, whizzing overtop of the wheelhouse, that'd I'd barely gotten a glimpse of the thing. Not that it was my concern: no, all I had to do was steer the tub. It's what I was paid to do. The captain and his men would handle the problem. And, well, if we went down, we went down. Such is the life of a sailor, I suppose. Hellish, eh?

Apparently, the captain had decided to redefine my role on his ship, and came lurching into the wheelhouse. He reeked of spent loqua, and bore shining red cheeks. He'd no doubt been gulping the stuff down like water. With a gruff snort he insisted that I head aft and help them dislodge whatever errant object had just smashed into them. Despite the placidity that loqua usually instils in a man, he seemed extremely aroused. Can't say as I blame him. Lashing a rope around the wheel to keep it nice and steady, I decided to go along with his request, since I'd not yet been paid – money upon completion, he'd said. It would be the last time I ever agreed to such contracts.

I'm not sure what possessed me to snag my cutlass before heading out. In retrospect, it was probably pure instinct. I knew something bad was about to happen. Chances are good I saved my life by doing so.

Rounding the wheelhouse, I jogged down the length of the ship – which was, quite happily, evening itself out now – and got my first good look at what the thing had done. The thing, itself, was gone, no doubt joining the doomed sailor amongst the depths of the world: in its place was a huge chunk torn out of the rear of the ship. Smashed planks of wood stuck up at irregular angles. Several men gazed down into the abyss of the lower skies, trying in vain to catch sight of the departed missile.

What they failed to miss, at least at first, was the man hanging amongst the debris of what had once been the rear of the ship.

I didn't see him, personally, until he'd swept himself up onto the deck: to see him move was like watching poetry instilled into the physicality of the world. Every limb swayed with united purpose: he wasted no actions. The act of leaping onboard looked as easy for him as drawing a breath for any normal person.

Any sailor who saw him probably would have mistaken him for a female at first glance, especially those without a sense for combat. His limbs were lithe, svelte; skin fairer than silk. He couldn't look uncoordinated even if he tried. His hair was short – about as long as mine, really – and the colour of fresh milk. The armour he wore was thin, almost skin-tight, yet extremely durable in appearance: the light of the day reflected off of it's silvery contours in a thousand different places. Looking at him was like gazing at the sun.

Only one thing cooled his image: his eyes. Those unspeakably icy eyes. They weren't light enough to make him appear a madman, yet seemed pretty damned close, in my estimation. I can't describe them with any degree of accuracy.

The sailors noticed him pretty quickly. And, much to their chagrin, the majority of them were quite drunk – the captain, apparently, had been holding some sort of party in the holds. As such, their extreme merriment turned quickly to extreme anger (such are the effects of alcohol) at the sight of an interloper on their craft. Every man, from the captain on down, decided they would have the stranger hanged or know the reason why not. After all, they were the proud owners of a huge shipment of moonstones, bound for Valua: the whole shebang promised big dividends for the lot of them. So, fumbling at their belts and holsters, each man snagged their weapon of choice.

Or tried, anyway. I'm pretty sure I, the only one with a clear view of it all, being still a ways back from the scene, was the singular soul to see all of what took place in the next few seconds. The stranger fetched something from his side and, for all intents and purposes, vanished: and what I perceived next seemed inexplicable, for the man appeared as a blur of silver amongst the sailors, his weapon singing, dicing through each drunken fool with unparalleled deftness. When next he appeared, sliding to a silent halt on the opposite side of the deck, every sailor – save myself – was dead. Yet even gravity did not seem to grasp this fact at first, and it took a moment for their soulless bodies to crumple. A few dangled precariously on the edge of the ship, not that it much mattered.

My first though, I now remember vividly, was as follows: "I'm going to die." How could I not think as such? Before me was no man. He – it - was some kind of demon. I know, now, that such is a lie: but at the time, it seemed perfectly credible. It called to mind an old poem, one that my grandfather had related to me hundreds of times as I had been growing up:

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought --

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'

He chortled in his joy.

I had never been able to visualise this sordid creature, this 'Jabberwocky', aside from claiming it as a considerable menace: a timeless evil that, given form, would prove to be my deepest, darkest nightmare. I now had a face for this entity, and it faced me – yet I doubted that any vorpal blade of mine would prove its better. The only 'callooh's and 'callay's uttered that day would be by the monster itself, as it hefted my head.

I've never been so afraid in all my life, and I'm man enough to admit as much. Perhaps it was such instinctive fear that allowed me to see him coming in that moment, for he'd turned to face me, boring into my very being with those deathly eyes. He made the slightest twitch as he moved, and I saw it – and I stepped aside – and then, bright flashing pain seared across my left cheek. Blood had splattered, in slow motion, across the deck: my blood. I was only too happy to let such a small amount escape from my skin in that moment. I knew, instantly, that I'd be scarred for life, but it was better than having my head cloven in two.

Without a second thought I executed a neat little back flip – I'd practised them extensively in my youth, fancying a career as a ninja (my sister had always teased me that I'd probably have made a better ballerina) – and came to a sputtering halt a few meters away from him. My cutlass was ready and clutched in one shaky hand. It seemed curiously impotent at the time, but dammit, I had nothing better to use.

The Jabberwocky (I can't help but refer to him as such now) seemed a little puzzled, as though my dodging was a peculiar development. In all honesty, it seemed that way to me as well: avoiding that monster's attacks had appeared impossible at first. I guess combat training does come in handy now and then, even for a navigator such as myself.

"Hmmm, interesting." The Jabberwocky's voice was low, but not huskily so: it was rather melodic, in a brooding way. "Unfortunately, 'interesting' doesn't buy your life back. Farewell."

He was charging again, a vicious blur devoid of sound – for sound moves too slowly to keep up with the Jabberwocky – but I saw him more clearly this time, and side stepped yet again. My eyes, forced to cope with such disgusting speeds, seemed to be getting better and better at evading this predator's advances. It was still, however, not quite enough: his second cut, a deadly vertical arc aimed at severing one half of my body from the other, caught my hapless cheek in a cross-pattern with the other, still streaming wound. More blood. I performed two perfect back flips in succession and nearly, in my haste to remove myself from his range, went sailing over the side of the ship.

The Jabberwocky seemed wholly shocked at this scenario. The others had been so timid, and easily disposed of: why, then, was I proving a greater challenge? He even appeared a little breathless, as though such powerful and quick strikes were extremely tiring to his thin frame. Not that I was in a better position, myself: kneeling on the deck, the wind knocked out of me after slamming my back into the railing, vital fluid leaking slowly onto the battered wood.

"Hmmmmm." He considered me, eyes gleaming with what seemed at the time rather like mischief and –yes, I think it had been – a little playfulness, sliding the tip of his peculiar sword across the surface of the deck. I can still remember the thin rasp of that sound filling the air. It nearly drove me mad.

"Perhaps I can forestall my mission for a little while. This seems fun."

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Note: The poem is known as 'The Jabberwocky', by Lewis Carroll.