text: Why in a former life I agreed to take part in this expedition, I couldn’t begin to fathom. I take not even the slightest comfort in knowing that in that world, any man who refused the opportunity to work with Archibald Norington was a damned fool. Now, when I see where his hubris and his lust for notoriety have taken us, I find myself wondering, *What did I feel I had to prove, and to whom did I need to prove it?* The ship we arrived on has long since disappeared into darkness. Our line of rowboats is guided by small lanterns propped on each bow, the lot of us trusting Archibald’s famously instinctual sense of direction. But in my heart of hearts, I know unquestioningly that we approach the nameless mountain. I’m no stranger to fear or anxiety. The primal fear coursing through my veins is not born of my own thoughts. It’s a feeling native to this place. I feel like a rabbit seeking warmth in a den of wolves. We should not be here. “Jenkins,” I’m addressed, “stop shaking the damn boat.” I was unaware of my trembling. I don’t acknowledge Winslow or his remark, but I take a deep breath, clench my muscles, and steady myself. Soon I see a green glow on the horizon. Like a faint mist at first, but growing in intensity as we draw near it. “What is that?” asks Winslow, over the sound of his oars in the water. “I could tell you,” Archibald calls back from the lead ship, “but I won’t for the sake of your own sanity.” I write down the exchange in my log. “Cryptic cunt,” Winslow mutters under his breath. I leave that out. Before I know it, the green is all around us, a bright, pulsing glow from the depths of the sea. None of the lore of the nameless mountain has mentioned any such phenomenon. I wonder if Archibald truly knows its source. I have my doubts, but I was hired to record his journey, not my opinions of him. I peer over the edge of the boat. Do I see faint, dark shapes swimming under the surface, or do I imagine it? Soon I look up to see green light reflected against a dark surface, and a short while later I can hear the water splashing up against the rocks. The nameless mountain rises before us. We skirt around the side until we arrive at a large split in the mountain, as if it had been cleaved in two by God himself. *The ancient arrogance of man. Believing his own image could reflect that of a deity.* My skin erupts in gooseflesh and a chill creeps down my spine. The thought is not my own. It’s a voice I’ve never heard before. Neither male nor female. It is toneless. Emotionless. Yet somehow it speaks with absolute authority. Do I tell my companions? I immediately chide myself for my own foolishness. No matter what I tell them, all they’ll understand is that I’m hearing voices, and I’ll find myself chained to a rock the instant we reach the shore. If I’m lucky. *“Who are you?”* I think as loudly as I can, if such a thing is even possible. Silence. Lightning strikes above, briefly illuminating the nameless mountain. I cannot see where the peak meets the sky. Perhaps it surpasses it, bridging us to the heavens. Who are we to know? *You are nothing.* Tears are running down my face. This is not my imagination. I am being spoken to by whatever being dwells in this forsaken place. Foreboding seeps into my bones, icing my veins. None of us are prepared to meet what awaits us here. Yet I cannot run, and I cannot warn the other men. An urge to jump in the water in a desperate attempt to swim back to our ship is dismissed when I look over the boat and see more dark objects than before. Just deep enough below that I can’t make out their true shape. But I can see their immense size, and the speed at which they move. I don’t need a voice to tell me what will befall me should I attempt that venture. My fate, it seems, is sealed. When finally we reach the shore and step onto solid ground, the green glow vanishes. We find ourselves in perfect darkness. Torches are lit after a period of cursing and stumbling, and we look around us. We stand on a small beach encased on either side by mountains, angling inward toward each other to eventually create a narrow alley. That path is the only way onward. Archibald takes the lead. If he is as fearful as I am, he’s doing a masterful job at disguising it with bravado. A smaller part of my consciousness posits the question of whether he has the emotional intelligence required to experience fear. Petty as the notion is, I allow myself a small smile. It does little to subdue the pit in my stomach and cold coursing through my veins, but it’s something. Our troup walks in a single file through the mountain pass. As an extra precaution we’ve tied a single rope around each of our waists, the length of rope between us about that of a man. It’s a promise that, no matter what, we’ll stay together. Another small comfort. Dissonant whispers echo in my ears. None in the party reacts, so these too must be in my mind. Perhaps I have gone mad. The void in my stomach grows. I lose track of time as we march. At times it feels like we’re ascending. Other times descending. Other times, not moving at all. The whispers in my mind grow louder and louder, til I can hear nothing else. Soon they are joined by fleeting, incomprehensible visions that are forgotten as quickly as they appear. With every step my inner world becomes a chaotic storm of light and sound. Colors I’ve never seen blossom into fantastic shapes and fade away. I see seven silhouettes, vaguely humanoid, standing in a row. They beckon to me. The whispers in my head seem to be coming from them. Before I can truly see them they vanish in a swirl of smoke. I come to my senses and find that we’ve truly stopped moving. The mountains surround us in a perfect circle, and the ground we stand on is pristinely smooth. “Dead end,” Winslow says. “An astute observation,” I reply, my intrinsic sense of sarcasm briefly outweighing primal fear. Winslow glares at me. From the rear, Quinn, the company cartographer, calls us to attention. “What happened to the trail?” he asks, his voice shaking. We all turn and face what simply cannot be reality. We are encapsulated by seamless mountains, too steep to climb. There is no path to be found in any direction. We are trapped. None of us knows what to say. Even the legendary Archibald Norington is left staring forlornly at the starless sky, facing the reality that his sense of self purpose led him to a doom he cannot understand. Soon I hear the whispers return. Only this time, everyone else hears them too. Archibald snaps out of his trance and holds up a hand signaling our party to remain silent. The gesture feels less than necessary. At first, no words can be made out. The whispers sound like a harsh wind in a summer rainstorm, fluctuating from a deep rumble to a shrill scream. It sounds as though they descend from above. As the sound gets closer it gets quieter, calmer, until all the whispers have coalesced into one discernible voice. The one that spoke to me twice before. *The writer was warned*, it says. *The writer could have saved you.* The men all turn to me. I can’t see their eyes, for their faces are masked in shadow. “What does it mean, you were warned?” Winslow asks me. I no longer see any reason to lie. I tell them what I heard when we arrived. After a long silence, Archibald says, “You knew we were coming into the presence of a god, and said nothing?” “Would you have believed me? Would it have changed anything?” My breath is wasted on words of reason. Archibald grabs me and lifts me easily into the air. “You killed us all with your cowardice.” There is an inhuman hatred in his eyes as he throws me into the mountain. My breath is driven from my lungs and my vision swims. He’s on me again in an instant. He grabs my shirt in a hand and strikes my face once, twice, thrice. I feel my jaw break, my teeth dislodge. Surely someone will come to my aid. Someone will remember whose venture this was. Who truly led us all into ruin. *Insatiable lust for more than what is given will lead all mankind to ruin.* Archibald draws a knife and plunges it into my chest. A sharp pain in my sternum wakes me in my cot in the lower deck of *God’s Compass*. I know I dreamt, but I have no memory of it. The door to my cabin opens and I’m blinded by the light of a lantern. When my eyes adjust, I see Winslow, fully dressed and looking impatient. “They’re getting the boats ready. I suggest you prepare.” Winslow gives me a moment to light my own lantern before he returns to the upper deck. I dress quickly, and then dig through my chest to find my log. Archibald has asked me to document the entire voyage for his memoirs. When I find the log, my thumb touches a damp spot on the leather cover. Odd. I pull my hand away. My thumb glistens red in my lantern’s glow. *Blood?* I see that the corner of the cover is crinkled, as though it’s been heavily used, though I haven’t written a word in it. But when I open to the first page, it is my handwriting. *Why in a former life I agreed to take part in this expedition, I couldn’t begin to fathom.