The King of the Wharf

Push me adrift,

lest we stoke the boreal flames ire

So we may be indulged by Neptune’s gifts

from the the crowned Stranger,

of whom we have come to revile

He lives beyond the docks

one must not speak his name

or the tides frenzy will surge

and bring about the waves.

Oh what a thunderous dirge it makes!

His herald,

the Siren’s pain.

do not heed her clarion call

for

She weeps

for those left upon his severed shore,

her tears swell the sea

and bring about the rain

The King sits

upon a throne of broken oars..

“Untitled Sailors rhyme,

circa 19th century.”

The North Atlantic is a harsh mistress, those that attempt to claim its bounty more often than not end up swallowed whole by it’s swirling depths. These lost souls feed an abyss full of ancient indifference that cares not for the folly of men. When the moon sits high in the painted night, full, pulsating with power, the ocean itself rises from the waves to remind us of our place in this world with a sacrifice of blood. The stories are always different depending on who tells you and how much they might have had to drink that night, but the name they whisper is the same:

The King of the Wharf.

In the small fishing village of Anchor’s Landing, Maine the natives that trace their roots back to the town’s founding claim he appears based on one’s connection to the sea. Reports from Fishermen state seeing grotesque amalgamations of aquatic life; sick chimeras of grasping tentacles and venomous barbs that rend flesh with ease. Lighthouse keepers believe him to appear in the form of a lanternfish emitting a hypnotic light that lures its victims to a watery grave.

While the most common sightings by Boat Captains are said to be disjointed wooden figureheads that commonly adorned older sailing vessels. Swollen with seawater and draped in vegetation, appearing before shipwrecks and other disasters where there is no shore to be seen. If properly placated, decades can pass in the blink of an eye and the King of the Wharf remains in the recesses of the Atlantic, waiting to receive what is owed to him once again. Tonight, the moon pulls at the Ocean with a rough hand and the locals are beset by a chill deep set within their bones.

Perhaps these omens are the harbingers of his return.

None believed this more than Terrence McGill, a dour man of 40, Terrence had lived his entire life in Anchor’s Landing like his father's forefather before him. Terrence served as the proprietor of the only inn in town, aptly named the Mother of Pearl, a rough gem tumbled smooth by the sea just a few short feet away. The inn’s tavern was deserted save for the tortoiseshell tabby, Harold, who kept the inn free from vermin in exchange for a warm, dry place to sleep away the winter months. Terrence didn’t mind the company, afterall, the slow season was meandering closer and closer with each passing day. This often meant no business until spring, leaving Terrence with nothing but time. Terrence raised his mug closer to his pursed lips. He didn’t like having free time, free time meant he had time to think and on any other day he might have welcomed it.

“But not today.” He thought to himself as he looked out past the docks peering into the dark, churning tide. It was the 30 year anniversary of the disappearance of his grandfather, Phillip McGill, swept away by the sea in a freak accident one blustery night. Terrence knew this was not the whole truth, he knew because he was there that night and witnessed all the legends he had heard as a child come to life. A foreboding sense of deja vu overcame Terrence as he recalled the memory:

It was quite late into the evening and Terrence had long been put to bed, but like any mischievous child he remained awake reading by lantern light in a makeshift fort of pillows and sheets. Finally, the call of slumber had reached young Terrence when suddenly the front door whipped open with a deafening thud, rudely jolting him back to consciousness. Creeping towards his bedroom window he peered through the fogged glass and noticed a familiar figure hastily making his way towards the end of the town’s main dock. It was his Grandfather, garbed in a black rain slicker. Terrence always obeyed his elders, especially when it came to his Grandfather but something compelled him to see where he was off to at such a strange hour.

Slipping out the side door, Terrence managed to catch up to his Grandfather, finding a hiding spot behind a pallet of crates near the docks edge. The storm itself seemed to crescendo in intensity with a mighty flash of lightning. Once Terrence’s eyes adjusted to the dusk once more his Grandfather was no longer alone. Standing before him was a gaunt figure several feet taller than any man, adorned with a crown of bleached coral and eyes of iridescent pearl. Terrence’s heart dropped several leagues, the stories that he had been told since he was a small child were true, the King of the Wharf was real, and he was here to take his tribute of blood.

Terrence could not make out the short exchange the King and his Grandfather were having due to the roaring rain, yet somehow knew what was going to occur next. The King of the Wharf extended his webbed hand and placed it on his Grandfather’s right shoulder; forcing him down on his knees in submission. Terrence could not avert his gaze no matter how hard he tried to run, enthralled by the Kings’ unholy influence. The blustering winds howled in unison, as if in blood thirsty anticipation and with a flash of crimson light the King and Phillip McGill were gone.

Terrence didn’t recall much after that, waking up in his bed as if it was all just a bad dream. Although it soon became clear what he saw was real when the local sheriff and his father told Terrence that his Grandfather was gone, providing no further elaboration or solace. Terrence’s father was never quite the same after that, drinking himself into an early grave.

Ironically enough, all this reminiscing of the past only left Terrence even more confused about what was real and what wasn’t. Feeling particularly weak he quickly went behind the bar and grabbed a stiff drink to take the edge off. Terrence seemed unable to even enjoy the silence of his solitude due to the storm shutters violently bucking against the window every odd moment. His solution? Draining the entire fifth of homemade whiskey in record time in order to dull his senses. Quite soon after polishing off the whiskey Terrence passed out, slumped in one of the Tavern’s booths with the tumbler still in hand.

A few hours later Terrence was awoken by the scent of rain, groggily rising from the tavern booth he noticed that the inn’s front door was wide open.

“Odd.”

Terrence thought to himself, those doors are designed to withstand the mightiest hurricane and would only open by hand. It couldn’t have been the cat, Harold much preferred to stay dry. Terrence chuckled to himself and scanned the tavern for a sign of the tabby, who was no longer nestled snugly in his favorite nook. After a quick sweep of the inn Terrence deduced that the cat must have wandered outside into the storm, which meant that he would have to venture outside and rescue his feline friend. So with a great sigh of exasperation Terrence McGill took his first shaky step out into the howling rain with hope that Harold had not been swept away by the raging Atlantic.

Making his way down the main dock, he found his footing unsure due to the winds and to the whiskey. Somehow, over all the noise he heard a faint meow towards the end of the dock. Reinvigorated by Harold’s call, Terrence trudged down the water soaked planks and found himself at the end of the dock. Harold was not alone. Casually nestled in the pale scaly arms of an old friend.

It was the King of the Wharf, just as Terrence had remembered him from all those years ago.

“Let him go!!!” Terrence slurs, his voice barely a whisper over the orchestra of the sea. Much to his surprise the King gently places Harold back onto the dock and gestures for Terrence to approach him. Almost completely enthralled, Terrence had no choice but to comply and stumbled forward. Now left on his bruised knees in front of the King; much like his Grandfather all those years ago. From underneath the Kings’ robe tentacles writhe forth and lift Terrence’s chin up, leaving him to the mercy of the King’s iridescent gaze.

“Terrence McGill.” the king whispers with an ironic dryness. “You must fulfill your familial contract like your forefathers before you, lest this land be beset by my wrath and receive no bounty from my realm until all debts are paid. With this decree you shall understand my truth is absolute, your eye to be opened to revelation through my grace.” Terrence finally understood why his Grandfather left that night, he was upholding an ancient agreement that kept Anchor’s Landing prosperous through noble sacrifice. His Sacrifice. With a curt nod Terrence agreed to the King’s terms, closing his eyes and bowing his head in acceptance. In that moment of acceptance a great wave crashed over the dock, consuming them both in the blink of an eye.

The Authorities stated that Terrence also had a penchant for the drink much like his father and had fallen into the water that night, another tragedy for the town of Anchor’s Landing, Maine. Although, there were others who knew better. They knew that Terrence now served as a faithful servant in the court of The King of the Wharf, now and for all eternity underneath the rolling waves of the Sea.