Musical selections:
Island of the Anthropophagi- Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta, Mvt. 1 by Bela Bartok
Land of the Centaurs- Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis by Ralph Vaughan-Williams
The next morning seemed about normal. The sun was bright and the snow was fresh. All was well.
Norway threw open the curtains. "Good morning, Scandinavia!" he said cheerfully. This was greeted with groans, moans, and mumbled protests from his friends.
"Dear God, why?" Denmark said, burrowing his face into his pillow. "We were sleeping!" He then made the mistake of opening his eyes. The amplified sunbeams bouncing off of the snow hit Denmark square in eyes. "AAAARGH!" the sandy-haired one bellowed, clutching his traumatized optical sensors. "Denmark, for the love of whatever you pray to, shut up," came Sweden's muffled and very measured voice emanating from Åland's pillow. "I second," Iceland piped up, hugging a demon like a teddy bear and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The other two members of the party still slept through the ruckus, but not for much longer.
Åland's was gently shaken from slumber by his boyfriend. "Sweetie, we need your help," Sweden said. "Hmm?" came Åland's sleep-induced response as he fumbled for his glasses. He put them on (almost poking his eye out in the process) and looked at what Sweden was pointing to.
Finland was still very much asleep. The other Nordics didn't dare attempt to wake a slumbering Finn, for good reason (Denmark winced from remembering the last time they had; he hadn't been able to sit on a hard surface for weeks).
"Oh for Pete's sake. You just gotta do it like this." He shakily stood up, wobbling a little, standing over his cousin. Clearing his throat, he bellowed "Herää, laiska paskiainen!" He then grabbed the emergency whistle from the first aid kit and blew; a piercingly shrill sound caused Finland to shoot out of bed and pin Åland to the ground, holding his previously latent knife to his throat.
"Now, do we really want to do something like that?" Åland growled, pushing Finland off of him. The other nation gave him a look of pure poison, then issued the same quintessentially Finnish glare to the rest of the group, as if suggested that messing with him would result in a meeting with the aforementioned knife.
"Alright, so we better be getting ready," said Norway, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had ensued. As Sweden and Åland started packing everything up, Finland came to Norway with a map. Using gestures, he indicated that he wanted to know where they were going next; Norway seemed to be the person to ask because a: he was the trip coordinator and b: because he was the most patient and easy to understand.
"We'll be going up this crest on the park's border," he said, using his finger to trace on the map, "and then going down into this valley. Hopefully, that'll be the place of our next checkpoint." Giving a single nod in assent, Finland went off to gather up his minimal gatherings.
Within one hour, they had assembled in front of the hiking lodge. Skis were on the feet of everyone minus Denmark; being the smallest, he could afford to ride in the sled that was being pulled by Norway. With that being said, they set off.
It was a gorgeous day, they had to admit. The blue sky seemed to expand without cessation; only in the far off distance could they see a wall of grey clouds. "Where's that cloud bunch hanging over, Norway?" Iceland said, pointing in the distance. "Russia," Norway joked. They all, especially Finland, had a good laugh at that.
As the crossed the ridge that Norway had mentioned to Finland earlier, a sudden cloud appeared in front of them, making it difficult to see. "Halt," Norway called, and everyone caught up to him: Iceland, then Sweden was next , then Åland, and finally Finland.
"This is here for a reason," Sweden declared.
"What makes you say that?" said Åland, frowning.
"It appeared out of nowhere. There was no forecast of clouds, nor did we see it elsewhere on the path. It has to be here on purpose."
"Norway," Denmark squeaked, "didn't you say that this was where Jotunheim used to be?"
"Yes, but we've scoured these mountains and haven't come up with anything," Norway said. Then he paused.
"However… they did notice strange things occurring here. Not huge, but very… out of the ordinary. Bizarre weather, enormous animals, other things of that paranormal ilk."
They continued to look at the cloud that was blocking their path. "So, what do we do?" Sweden said.
"We go through it," Iceland said. "Do you see any other way around it?"
"Iceland's right," said Sweden, although he definitely did not seem thrilled with that prospect. "We have to go through."
And so they did.
It seemed to go on forever, like they were stuck in purgatory, doomed to be skiing through a mysterious fog for all eternity. Then, the end appeared.
They emerged out of the clouds onto a small hill that stood in the middle of a small island. The sky was cloudy. A perpetual layer of mist hung over the ground, which was composed of mosses and a stubborn brown grass on a hard soil that seemed to be completely devoid of any nutrients that could be used to grow more complex vegetation than this. Or maybe potatoes.
They surveyed the extent of their new surroundings. It consisted little else other than the hill they now stood upon, looking thoroughly out-of-place. At the base, there was a tiny village of maybe ten houses. A pebbly and rocky beach sat on the shore, further down. They could make out a shoreline in the far distance, barely making that out through the overcast weather. What caught their attention, however, was the galleon parked on said beach. It was very old, and flew a ratty and mildew-spotted Unionsmerket that hung on by a thread.
"So, uh, any idea as to where we are?" asked Iceland. "The lack of snow, mountains, and blue sky suggests that we're not in Norway anymore."
"Our best bet is that village down there," Sweden said. "Maybe if we asked around?"
Every one of the huts appeared deserted. When they went in, a wretched smell would greet them, along with the skeletons and corpses of its former inhabitants.
They approached the only hut that appeared to be occupied. An old crone answered the door; she looked like some sort of witch doctor. She gave them an unnerving, toothy grin. "Oh, bless the gods!" she exclaimed. She looked incredibly frail, like she was about to keel over any moment. "With your help, the famine could be over!" An exchange of raised eyebrows took place amongst the Nordics. "Oh?" asked Sweden. "Yes, yes… come in, dears," she said warmly, beckoning them into her hut.
It looked ancient, and very rudimentary furniture dotted the single room. She arranged five chairs in a circle, than left. "Back in a moment," she said. "Just getting the seed."
Sweden looked about the room. It had a dirt floor, a sod roof, and walls made with dirt. Curiously, a flag hung on the wall, a large flag. It was a blue field with a white Nordic cross. Sweden didn't recognize that flag, so he made a mental note to research it later. If there was a later. And at that moment in thought, he noticed the crone messing around in a pit outside. "Hey, does anyone else have a feeling of foreboding?" he asked. "Something feels very askew."
"No duh," Denmark said. "We come through a mysterious cloud-portal to a remote island somewhere in the ocean where it's always cloudy and there's a rotting ship from the 19th century moldering on the beach. Frankly, I don't think we're panicking enough."
"DENMARK, LOOK OUT!" Sweden suddenly screamed. Denmark ducked just the crone swung a mallet of some sort at Denmark's head. Now they were on the defensive. "RUN!" Iceland yelled, and so they did. They ran for the beach; maybe the old ship could provide cover.
"Sweden! Norway! Help! Somebody!" Denmark yelled. The crone had gotten hold of his foot and was dragging him towards the pit she had been digging earlier. Sweden and Norway were much too far to make a difference, and the other two speaking Nordics were busy hauling everything into the boat. When the Saga of Denmark appeared to be over, a loud BLAM echoed through the world. The crone dropped dead, and while everyone was too stunned to speak, Finland, wielding a smoking hunting rifle, grabbed Denmark and hauled him over. "What are you waiting for?" he growled at the rest to their complete shock. "Get on the fuckin' ship!"
As they left the mysterious island via the only way off, the ship, like some kind of curse was lifted, suddenly returned to its former glory. "That was weird," Åland said. "I think that the whole thing was beyond weird," Norway said. Then Iceland came running down from the crow's nest (because of course he would be the only one willing to go up there). "You guys, the cloud is back!" That got everyone's attention. "Maybe we're going back home!"
"Or maybe we're not," Sweden said, emerging from below deck with a large, heavy book. "I've been reading."
"Of course you have," muttered Denmark.
"I think that we are in for something more than we bargained for," Sweden continued, momentarily throwing a nasty glare at Denmark. "This is the ship's log. You ought to read this."
They gathered around. The pages were blotchy with water damage, and they could only make out about 10% of the writing. It also didn't help that the entries were multilingual and in no specific pattern- a series of four would be in Danish, and then one in Finnish, and then three in Swedish, and then seven in Norwegian. But they were able to make out several pieces of crucial data, which was interpreted to them by Sweden.
"This is their first entry: 15 June, 1887. And this-" he pulled out a series of similarly heavy, large books- "is the last: 17 May, 1906." He went back to the first book, and started reading.
"26 September, 1887. We have successfully weathered the storm. The Swede and the Finn have managed to account for all damage- we have have lost all hands, save the four passengers, an Icelandic galley boy, and myself. We seem to have ventured into a cloudy, fog-ridden sea, no ocean I'm familiar with. Only a small, bleak island remains on the horizon." Sweden flipped through the rest of the entry. "That's all of the legible writing there is, but that's not what worries me." He flipped to the next entry, and gulped before reading.
"30 September, 1887. Gustav writing. We have successfully escaped from the Island of the Anthropophagi. Captain Meren-Kulkija is in his quarters; Arvo and Hans are trading off. We have done all we can; nothing can stave off the slow march of death. Niels is tending the wounds of the galley boy. Now, we only go off into the Mist that seems to be our guide…"
Sweden looked up and shared the same look of mild horror as the rest.
Denmark asked, "Several questions. One: What is, or are, Anthropophagi? Second: Is that Mist what it sounds like?"
"I have a feeling what an Anthropophagus is, and it may help to explain a lot. Also, yes, Denmark, I believe that is what we're heading into." At that moment, they emerged from said Mist, and found themselves back in Jotunheimen, with all of their stuff.
"All in favor of a lodge meeting?" Norway said.
Everyone rose their hand.
"All right, all right! Places, everybody!" Norway said, clapping his hands to call attention. They had assembled into probably the most informal lodge meeting every conducted. They were in sleepwear, eating the pelmeni that Finland had brought. Denmark was in the process of demolishing the beer supply, while Sweden had the entire volume of ship's logs, plus any other things he could find. Finland was polishing his knife while looking angrily at Åland.
"Sweden, the floor is yours," he said, sitting down. "Okay. So, I've been doing some translating. Here's what I've been able to gather."
"On the first entry, which was 15 June of 1887, Captain Lars Meren-Kulkija logged a crew of 25 hands. The ship was on its maiden voyage. The purpose of the ship was as a freighter, but also took minimal passengers. On this day, he commented on the arrival of four students, who were going to go to Stockholm for university: a Norwegian, a Swede, a Dane, and a Finn.
"Things started to go wrong almost immediately. On 20 June of 1887, a storm not experienced in centuries hit them as they left Bergen. It blew them completely off course." He thumbed through some of the parchments. "The storm didn't subside until almost a month later. At that point, they had sailed into an ocean that didn't appear on any map; they could only presume that they were floating adrift in the North Sea." More shuffling. "Than we get to the first contact. We had already heard what Captain Meren-Kulkija had to say, but I found something else." He pulled out a leather-bound tome in the same dimensions as a paperback novel. "When we arrived, I rooted around the bookshelf over there… and found this." He opened it and read the first page: "A Norse Odyssey. Compiled from the Ship Logs of the Sjöman and the Personal Diaries of Niels of Norway, Hans of Denmark, Gustav of Sweden, Arvo of Finnish Russia, and Ástráðr of Ice-Land. Hmm," Sweden wondered out loud. "There's no Ålander." Åland shook his head. "Oh, yes there is. The captain."
"Lars is Swedish, that's for sure. But Meren-Kulkija? Merenkulkija is Finnish for…" drawing a blank, he cued his cousin for the answer. Finland looked up, noticed the anticipating eyes of the audience, the cue of his cousin, and grunted, "Seafarer."
"With that, I think we can deduce that Captain Lars 'Seafarer' is an Ålander," Åland said proudly. "Imagine that! One of my own, from my tiny island, a sea captain!"
"Don't get your hopes up, sweetie," Sweden said gravely. "He dies first."
That brought Åland down to Earth like a meteorite.
Denmark raised his hand. "Um, Sweden? What exactly happened on the Sjöman?"
"After their encounter with the Anthropophagi, they landed on another island. This is where I got confused." Shuffling noises.
"Hold up," Iceland said. "You never did address what 'Anthropophagi' means."
"Cue scary music. Dim lights," Sweden said. A chilling violin tremolo of a minor second played while the lights dimmed just so. "How do you think he does that?" Denmark asked Norway, who shrugged in response.
"Do you remember the old grammar school we had to attend?" Sweden asked.
"Yeah. Sister Francis rapped my knuckles with a ruler until they bled for telling her to read the Small Catechism," Denmark said with not a little contempt.
"Yes, anyway, do you remember your Latin and Greek roots?" Sweden asked.
"You're joking, right?" Norway snorted. "I barely passed that class."
"That's because you spent class time doodling pictures of you and my sister holding hands in the corner of your parchment," Sweden deadpanned. "Anyway, do you know what the prefix 'anthro-' or 'anthropo-' means?"
"Doesn't that mean 'humans' or along those lines?" Denmark asked, scratching his head.
"Very good," Sweden remarked. "Now, this one is tricky. -phagus, -phage, -phagi."
That took much longer for people to figure out. There was a ponderous, heavy silence until Åland broke it. "It means 'to eat', doesn't it?" He said, very quiet. He had put the two together, as had the rest of the group. They were silent in horror.
"Yes, 'Anthropophagi' means 'human-eater'," said Sweden. "And, according to the book, there was a whole colony of them when they landed on this island 128 years ago. There was a battle in which they killed most of the Anthropophagi; the ones that lived through probably died due to famine. There are sketches," he said, passing the book around. Indeed, rough ink sketches of buildings, rooms, the people. The Anthropophagi were crude, barbaric-looking fellows, dressed in rags that they wore as cloaks and kilts. Once the book got around, Sweden returned. "The writer- I think it's the Swede- says that the Anthropophagi flew the flag of the Shetland Islands, so they presumed that was where they were." He clapped his hand to his forehead. "Of course! That's what that flag in the crone's hut was! I can't believe I didn't put those pieces together!"
"Going back to what I was asking," Denmark said, "What, exactly, happened next?"
Sweden smiled grimly. "Well, let's find out," he said, handing the book to Denmark. "It is your turn tonight, ja?" Denmark gulped, nodded, and began to read.
The Isle of Anthropophagi had severely traumatized the remaining crew members. All but six were dead after the storm and the cannibals: Niels, Hans, Arvo, Gustav, Captain Meren-Kulkija, and Ástráðr the galley boy. The captain was in the process of dying after taking a nasty cut from a sword on his chest. Gustav had taken the helm of captain, and was creating a map of this new and utterly bizarre world.
From what he could attain on the crow's nest, they were now floating adrift in the Grey Sea, as he had called it; it was, indeed, a dull grey. Come to think of it, the sky was too, 24/7. There wasn't any sun or moon; just grey, cloudy sky. They kept time by looking at the ship clocks, which (miraculously) still worked.
Several days after the Anthropophagi, Captain Meren-Kulkija died. They did a short funeral rite, then threw his body overboard in tradition. "Well, what do we do now?" asked Arvo, eyeing the distant horizon. "We wait for the next land, and hope we don't die," Hans said, taking a drink.
Just then, as if God had heard them, they heard Ástráðr cry out, "Land! I see land!"
Rushing to the prow of the ship, they could indeed see a distant shore, but without any other traceable landmarks they were unable to determine how far away it was. Holding out a monoscope, Gustav said, "I think it's about 15 leagues or so. Can't be much closer than that."
October 7, 1887- Hans writing. We have spotted a distant shore, and have estimated its distance at 15 leagues. Only the good Lord knows what horrors- or blessings- await us in this new land.
After another four days of sailing, they woke up to the ship slamming into something; it rocked violently. The four compadres stirred. Another violent collision; this time they ran headlong into a rocky shore, throwing them from their beds.
They had landed upon a mysterious land. It was definitely bigger than the Island of the Anthropophagi; it wasn't even immediately apparent that it was an island. From what they could immediately ascertain it was covered in a dense forest; snowcapped mountains rose in the far distance.
They hadn't made it five meters from the ship when they were greeted by the denizens of the land they had arrived at.
"Who goes there?" called a voice from the forest; deep and authoritative.
"We are men from the North!" Hans yelled back. Gustav and Niels were supporting Ástráðr, who had his leg in a splint; he had gotten nailed by a slingshot back on the island. Arvo was standing beside Hans.
A centaur trotted out of the forest, joined by two smaller centaurs; all armed with bows. "I said, who are you? Not where you were from."
"And he said, we're men from the North," Arvo growled. "I'm Arvo. Hans, Gustav, Niels, Ástráðr," he said, pointing to them in kind. The centaur in lead kept his bow at the ready, but told his two supporters to back off. "I'm still not sure if they are to be entirely trusted," he said, "so we're taking them to Hovhaness." He turned around and said to the five, "Follow me. Do not think of taking up your arms. It would be unwise."
They walked through the forest. It was dark, tangled and thick; mists crept around the low roots. "Stay close," the tall centaur called. "It's not uncommon for individuals to go into this wood and not return."
Than the tone of the forest changed. It went from dark, dank, and murky to solemn, filled with light, and dry. They started to see villages cropping up throughout the wood, with centaurs emerging to gawk at the two-legged visitors. Soon, they approached the edge of the forest, and a valley opened up to them. In the vertex sat a magnificent city. The centaurs picked up their pace, and the five had to break into a jog to keep up.
They approached a magnificent gate wrought from a metal that none of the five had ever seen before; it seemed to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it. Two centaurs the same size as their guide, bearing war helms and swords, opened the gate with assistance from creatures that the humans had never seen the likes of before; they resembled a cross between wolves and elk.
Hans was immediately smitten with this new land. It attracted him like a moth to a flame. This feeling was accentuated when they entered the centauri city. It was like Ancient Rome was transplanted to a Norwegian valley; high, snowy peaks rose on either side, with garrisons defending the vale.
"Call for the king," the centaur yelled to a page. The centaur ran into a large marble building that must've been the palace. "Enter," he said, pushing the five forward with the butt of a spear.
"The entry stops here," Denmark said.
"Aw!" Iceland pouted. "I want to know more about the centaurs!"
"Sorry, but that's all there is," the Dane continued. "Plus," he said, yawning, "I'm tired and we have an early start tomorrow. If we're truly living through this book, we'll find out soon enough."
And the lights went out…
The story I use from here on out is on that I created for an opera.