It may have begun earlier than the storyteller recalls. It may have begun in a village called Turnblow, as the remainder of a hot summer shower was dripping in steaming rivulets down the roof of an old inn, to splatter at last on a grimy stone windowsill in an explosion of brassy color. Every so often a creaking door would open and the fluid mixture of noise and yellow light would pour into the dark street corner, remindful of the busy commotion and conversation that went on inside. Beside the rain-bejeweled windowpane, two sailors sitting at a shadowy table could see lightning silently snapping against the pink horizon of the Fangrush Sea.

"You confuse me," the younger of the two said. "With all your talk of disaster, destruction, whatnot--here you sit preferring those brutal waters just outside o' the harbor. Take a look out there. A storm's already cooking on that skyline."

The old sailor glanced out at the Fangrush, laughing inaudibly, and looked back at the amateur. "Careful what you say." His voice was low and gravelly. "You're no old seadog yet." He waved a token that hung from a chain around his neck; then his face became serious. "Mark my words, boy. That southernmost sea all you rascals are off to cross for profit--one day they'll be callin' that the Deadly Sea, and not for wrong reason. Just you mark my words. There will come a day when not a single person in all Arbenia, sailor or no, will cross that sea, for profit or anything else."

"Deadly, eh?" The youth laughed out loud. "The calmest waters I've ever seen, old fellow. I doubt they will ever be called 'deadly.'" He grabbed his hat and stood up, taking a final sip of ale, and then promised sarcastically, "Your warning has been taken to heart. Well, when I get back we'll laugh about that. See you, ol' salt, I've a vessel to board tomorrow."

The roughened sailor watched him go.

"When you get back," he muttered with a cryptic smile. "Oh, you'll laugh, boy. Laugh, indeed."

Fleehand would have been a better choice. It was the largest and most traveled piece of ocean, to the west of the land of Arbenia, but unfortunately the craft of ambitious sailors wasn't intent on travel. It was prize money and value that they sought, off in distant lands that had yet to be explored, and the open, southerly sea provided their route. The Fangrush Sea was out of the question; although it was nearby--as close as Turnblow's port--it had always appeared treacherous from land. Of course, a few ships had come through it, on rare occasion, but it gained them nothing. Experienced masters like the old sailor from Turnblow had been there. But this last sea, it was thoroughly intriguing. No one knew how far this sea stretched, for no one had ever returned from it. No one, for that matter, was even known to have set sail there. The waves appeared calm all the way to the dusky horizon. So these new explorers left their safe, vast home of Arbenia and ventured out into death with a taste for adventure.

From the moment they left land things seemed to go awry. Thunder rolled, barely perceptible at first, miles and miles away. Then, steadily and without stopping, it grew louder, and finally it was a lion's roar so loud that the sailors could not hear each other speaking. Wind whooshed down from the darkening clouds, and whipped and flogged the sails to ghostly shreds. An unearthly darkness fell over the ocean.

Distraught and worried at this illogical turn of events, the sailors tried going back. The same young man from the pub in Turnblow was calling to a fellow shipmate.

"Turn 'er back nor'west! We can't clear this!"

"...can't!" The answer was clogged with the noise of the thunder. "Lost my bearings back at...too...hour ago!"

"Take my compliments to--" the sailor began, but suddenly there was no more noise. He looked back fearfully. Arbenia was completely out of sight. There was only the velvet sea, endless deep stretches of menacing water, and a sky of purple clouds swarming overhead.

The thunder had stopped. A frightening quiet swept through the air. For a long minute the sailors stood upon the deck, turning round and round in dread, watching for whatever cruel deed the storm might conjure up next. All they could hear was the quiet lap of black water on the sides of the ship, and beyond that nothing aside from their own breathing. Slowly, out of some horrific dream, a long strip of blue lightning rent through the stern of the ship. It shot up into the air, but remained writhing and twisting without a sound and shooting out its pale roots. Then the noise returned. There was a deafening crack like a pool of ice being split, then a shudder that vibrated through the entire hull. A mast tumbled down in flames. The sailors shouted, but the thunder rumbled again and overwhelmed their voices.

While the ship's occupants were distracted by the lightning, the waves had grown tall and furious. They smashed against the portside, as if encouraging the ship to capsize. The young sailor tried again to redirect them.

"Where's the captain?" he shouted to his friend up the deck, who strove to maintain the topsail.

After a moment came the hesitant answer. Now it was broken up by the noise of the crashing waves, and the hissing wind.

"The captain's dead! Taken when...fell under the yard...instant...'fore everything washed out."

No more was said. As the great watercraft heeded the command of the waves, creaking and moaning as wooden supports broke inside it, the deck swerved sideways. Several men hanging to the spar of the mast were pitched into the air, lost in a tube of seawater as it curled over and broke upon the ship. It was now overturned. The sailor from the pub managed to clamber onto the side, which was rising out of the water. He stumbled as another wave broke, coating him in salty spray. But he had seen something on the horizon. He stood up on the unstable, curving planks that made up the side, staring intently through the darkness over the water. Something stood there, as if it had been waiting: a mound, tall and gray at first, growing as it neared. The sailor could almost see the green trees on the appearing island's overgrown, solemn face. It glowed faintly and shimmered between falling rain and lightning.

Then there was hope! If the ship drifted a little further, of course, he had a chance of making it to the island.

The rain made no difference to the raging fire at what remained of the stern. The flaming mast had rolled off into the ocean, and now there was a creak that sounded like a scream as the burning wooden deck crumbled away, bringing another shattered mast down with it. The sailor held his breath. He was afloat on half a ship.

Quickly the flames rushed down the railing, flickering now over the side. The sailor felt it giving way beneath him. He stood up. Braced himself, and leaped off down into the water.

It was a long jump. The rain seemed to pound him down with its own sparkling droplets, down through the oily spew and into murky depths. It was hard to tell where the air stopped and ocean began; they were both drowning him in torrents. He felt a cold smack against the water, and heard a screaming, rushing noise at his ears. Moments later he burst through the surface, choking on the salt-strewn air. He splashed exhaustedly toward the burning, broken mast.

The mast floated on the waves, bobbing up and down but quickly smoldering. The sailor grabbed it, oblivious to the burning, hot ash that lay there. With a great heave that took all his strength, he turned it over, extinguishing the rest of the flames. There he floated for a long time, draped over the blackened wood like a dead thing. Gradually the waves lessened, and evening light seemed to return to the world. The broken ship was gone from view. In one sudden movement, like an answered prayer, the sailor's feet brushed against a ridge of sand. He stood up on it in amazement, pushing away the mast and letting the remaining waves smash over him. He had reached the sandbar. The island rose up before him, and an exposed reef of heavy rock ran beside him on a thin peninsula. Hope had returned. He splashed through the crested waves, carrying himself closer and closer to the shore.

Thunder died away. The sailor was encased in a wave for a second, then he fell back onto the sand, inches from dry land. Tiny loosened shells were towed back with the clear water while foamy surf broke down on the sand near his face. The sailor stumbled wearily onto the hard ground. He was there! He had made it...

The rain stopped. Somehow the waves ceased their movement, and the sea appeared calm again. There was no sound on the island. The sailor ran down under the lining of trees, drawing out a long sword in preparation for whatever might confront him there. Then, as soon as he entered the forest of unfamiliar plants, noise arose worse than the thunder. Some loud bird or insect gave a shrieking cry, and others joined it. The island was filled with a terrified screech.

Something flew down through the air. It landed with a soft thwock in the wet sand in front of the sailor. He stooped and picked it up: a black dart, with an edge as sharp as a shard of glass. Then he was hit. The sole survivor of the burned and sunken ship fell facedown in the sand. A second black dart had rained down out of nowhere.

They had come from high on the hills of the island. Behind those mossy, rocky cliffs, behind a mountain with a peak like death, someone was waiting, and would not let anyone discover the island.