"Then I saw a beast coming up out of the sea. It had ten horns and seven heads. On its horns were ten crowns, and on its heads were names that insulted God... They worshiped the dragon because he had given his authority to the beast. They also worshiped the beast and said, 'Who is like the beast? Who can fight against it?'"
— Revelation of John, Chapter 13, Verses 1–4
Prologue
Three days of calm, cold rain. Two days of wind, and a great storm worthy of the apocalypse. To someone watching from the mainland, it might have seemed like nothing. Perhaps it was — but not for us. On the 28th day after leaving the Galápagos Islands, we were attacked by a terrible sea creature — nature's revenge upon us whalers: a massive white sperm whale, encrusted with scars. A sea demon, as fierce as a wild aurochs.
A month and a half has passed since then. Our provisions, which were only hardtack, dried meat, and a little water, ran out after four weeks. Winter fell upon us. The first to perish was a crewman named Isaac Cole — one day he was sitting, the next he toppled over and went to meet God. His body began to stink. Some of the other castaways asked for permission to throw him overboard, but… The terrible idea was already festering in my mind. Yet it was the dreadful Codd who gave it voice.
God… their faces — more beasts than men.
But I will not judge them. As captain and leader, I took the lead and organized the act. The man was cut and cooked as best we could manage, portioned and rationed. The taste resembled pork, but with nothing else — just meat and water. No one was murdered. No, not that. But I won't deny the possibility, you know. God forgive me...
Others died and were consumed in the same way, until the drawing of lots began. We had no choice, no hope on the horizon. My cousin Owen drew the shortest straw — he was to be eaten, and the executor would be Charles Ramsdell, his friend. I tried to take his place, but he accepted his fate. I wish I had never set sail again — we should have stayed on that islet with the other three. Days passed. The smell of death never left them. I stopped looking inside the boat and turned only to the sea, not wanting to see my cousin's skeleton and the meat...
One day, I thought it was a mirage — but no, it was land. Land in sight! — I wanted to shout, but I was weak. I didn't know if I could call it luck after all that, but it seemed like a vast island. Had we crossed the Pacific without realizing it? Could it be New Zealand? The wind carried us toward that island almost magically. I thought of God and gave thanks for still being alive despite everything.
I fainted and awoke to waves lapping against the boat. We were much closer now. I saw people on the shore — tiny at first, but with every dozen meters, they seemed to grow larger. And they didn't stop growing.
— "What is this? Am I delirious? Thomas, Thomas! Nickerson! Do you see it? Do you see that?"
— "I see it, Captain. Giants!" — said the youngest crewman, just 14 years old.
— "We're rich! We've discovered something new, something new!"
— "You're raving, man," said Owens, lying on the boat's floor.
— "No, get up and look! They're truly giants!"
The whaleboat ran aground on the sands. George threw himself from the boat, falling face-first into the sand, not caring if he'd be devoured by giants. A poetic irony — the devourer now to be devoured.
He struggled to rise and saw them at about thirty meters — three meters tall. Women, men... One shorter, yet still tall, at least 1.90 meters. A man like us, among giants. They were well-dressed. Two stood out — a woman and the shorter man. They were dressed differently from the others, like a King and Queen. There were soldiers among them, wearing armor.
— "Damn it! This can't be happening!"
He thrashed in the sand, trying to wake himself, pinching his arm.
— "Stop it, Captain," said young Thomas, his voice trembling.
— "God, Thomas, this is just a hallucination. Look at those men — clad in plated armor, giants... clothes from another time. This is a delusion, as Owen says. We're probably dead and paying for the sin of eating human flesh."
— "Help! Please!"
— "The men," said the giant woman. Her voice was like thunder clashing.
— "She speaks our language, she speaks our language, thank God!"
— "You take us for fools, man? Before you, we were," she replied. "Ifingor and Calhir, take them."
Two armored giants walked toward them.
— "No, no, no!" — the young boy tried to run, but collapsed on the sand.
Thomas heard them speak something, but didn't understand. It sounded calming, though.
George fainted on the sand. His last vision was of silver boots — unimaginably beautiful — before him. His gaze quickly lifted. The shorter man stood before him, examining him. Then, darkness.
His memories blurred into a flashback until the moment he awoke — being carried in arms, voices in languages never before heard by human ears, beautiful and terrible in their contest. Houses, marble and glory. Gates, soldiers, and children as beautiful as angels. He was thrown into a bath of burning water — felt as if he were on fire — then the sweet warmth of life. The water seemed alive.
Then he was pulled back out, placed in a resting room. They poured a liquid into his mouth and he heard voices — this time, understandable.
Someone wanted answers to questions about the distant world — where he came from, why he came, and so on.
He was so sleepy... He had never felt such an urge to sleep before.
He must have muttered something about the shipwreck and spoke of the sea demon that attacked them.
— "Damn whale," he thought.
— "My name, my name... George Pollard, sir, King... I was the captain of the whaler Essex."
He used all his strength to look up and saw the lustrous queen — glowing in her golden dress, embroidered like tiny tapestries on the bust. She held a shining fan and her long red hair was bound in golden clasps beneath a golden crown.
His head dropped again onto the plush carpet — patterns of madness danced before him.
George was from a respected family in Nantucket, of high social class. But neither he nor the kings of Europe had ever seen such glory at the peak of their existence.
George witnessed a discussion between the smaller man and the Queen — but in another tongue, so he understood nothing.
— "The monster" — he thought he heard her say.
— "Not yet," — said the man, lifting his head.
— "George Pollard, write a book — but conceal what you saw and heard here. Never speak of this to anyone. It's a request, but things would go badly if you didn't."
— "He will speak," said the woman.
Then he was cast back onto the beach sand, ordered to return to the sea and never come back.
That's it. That's the story of my life. I never told anyone, except you now — and young Thomas, Sir FlintLocke.
— "You were a good man, George Pollard. A shame you never returned to the sea," said the man, with a voice polished and cold like autumn thunder.
George shivered down his spine. His throat tightened. He remembered something.
— "To whom should the gold be credited, seeing as you have no wife or children?" asked the gentleman — Flint.
George didn't understand what he meant. What was his name again? He couldn't recall hearing it.
The man had appeared during a storm, with a suitcase and dressed like a high-society gentleman. Hair combed back to his shoulders. He wore a long overcoat and made a proposal — all George had to do was tell a story.
"Never speak of this to anyone. It's a request... but it would be very bad if you didn't."
The man smiled now — cold eyes, but his voice was sweet and full of life.
— "Credited, sir?" George asked, swallowing the bitterness in his mouth.
— "To one of your relatives, perhaps… A brother — he has a large family. Might need the gold."
The gentleman drew something from his coat — it was a flintlock pistol.
— "Will you go after the others too?"
— "When the time comes."
A crack of explosion shattered the night — black powder erupted from the weapon like fireworks, and smoke filled the air.
— "Goodbye, George Pollard. The eternal captain."