The Hag of Calix, Book One of the Antillian Scrolls

By Rod Fisher

The Hag of Calix is in the same genre as the pulp fiction that appeared in "Astounding Stories" and other magazines of the mid 20th Century. It traces the adventures of Felic as he fights to recoup his fortune after the loss of his pirate ship and crew. He agrees to take on a mission for Queen Gwenay of Calix, a quest for the missing gem of the Qalandor, and subsequently crosses paths with an old enemy, the brutish Bargonast. who covets the same prize. He is given a royal sloop to expedite the mission but during its renovation he befriends Chessa, a runaway princess from Dagra. The high priest of Dagra, her detested fiance, becomes his second enemy with the resources of the Dagran navy to pursue his intended. The story progresses through subsequent adventures on a volcanic island with hostile natives and a pursuit through gale-whipped seas. Felic becomes the love interest of both Queen Gwenay and Chessa, a frivolous distraction as he battles the odds against him. He is tested by the wrath of men and nature, and by the jealousy of women.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rod Fisher
• Release date: Apr 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311148773

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The Hag of Calix

Book One of the Antillian Scrolls

By Rod Fisher

Edition 2, Copyright © 2018 Rod Fisher

--Preface--

The scrolls of Antillia came to my attention at a summer seminar for linguists held a few years ago at Montreal. The purpose of the seminar was to key the international phonemic alphabet into computer use. The subject bogged down after the first few sessions, so three of my colleagues and myself decided to bypass an exceedingly dry afternoon in the assembly and substitute a wet gathering in a cocktail lounge.

In the subsequent can-you-top-this exchange, based on our individual lines of research, the subject of the Antillean scrolls surfaced. Three of us, myself included, had never heard of the scrolls. The fourth man's information was mostly hearsay.

He told us that a diving team, searching for sunken treasure in the Azores, found the chest containing the scrolls. Their initial discovery was a group of ballast stones from an ancient vessel. They were strewn in an orderly stem-to-stern pattern along a ledge of the sloping sea bottom off Ponta Delgada.

It was not a chance find. They were searching for the remains of San Benito, a treasure galleon of Spain that foundered within sight of shore on a tempestuous day in 1598. Divers of that period searched for the vessel, but the bottom slanted sharply down beyond their range. With the advent of recent undersea techniques, the search resumed, plumbing depths previously impossible.

The divers employed a small submarine specifically developed for bottom exploration. The absence of cannon among the ballast stones should have been a clue that it was the wrong site, but the discovery of a crusted bronze chest induced immediate gold fever.

Of course they were disappointed to find scrolls instead of gold in the chest. The chest was turned over to the authorities. The scrolls ended up in the archives in Lisbon where they were catalogued and filed. It was determined that they were of the 10th century. The language was a curious mixture of Latin and something else. Since the unknown language constituted the bulk of the vocabulary, the scrolls were not readily deciphered. The Portuguese government did not approve an appropriation for further study and the project was tabled indefinitely.

The story of the scrolls fired my imagination. After the seminar I flew to Lisbon and obtained copies adequate for research. I found the alphabet was mainly Roman with a sprinkling of characters that sometimes represented one sound and occasionally an entire word or phrase. Although the familiar alphabet should have been a quick tool for breaking down the language, it did lead me in the wrong direction for a time. I tried, with the help of a learned etymologist, to fit the language into the framework of the Italic group, hoping for a short cut to the method of translation. This failed.

A morphemic approach laid bare the privilege of occurrence and subsequently a grammatical breakthrough. The grammar indicated a Tocharian source. Following through in that direction I was able to find the keys to meaning, context, and ultimately individual words.

The content of the scrolls could best be described as a roman fleuve (lit. river novel), a long narrative dealing with the cross-currents of Antillian society and giving especial prominence to the adventures of the heroic Felic m'Lans (translated Carver of Men).

The setting is the island sub-continent of Antillia, now identifiable only as some portion of the Atlantic Ridge. This undersea mountain range lies north and south in the Atlantic at roughly the longitude of the Azores. The Azores are all that remain above water, although the peaks of Antillia, even in sunken majesty, are in the 10,000-foot class. It was a land created by volcanic action. But it must have submerged without a whimper. Early European cartographers recorded its existence, but it became more myth than fact as the years lapsed.

The Archbishop of Oporto was alleged to have gone there, circa 1093, accompanied by six bishops and refugees of the Moorish invasion. Legend has it that the expedition founded the seven cities, each a Utopian example under the leadership of the seven clergymen. Subsequent Spanish explorers, including Columbus, wasted time and effort chasing the fable as did the great Chinese treasure fleet of 1421.

The admixture of Latin in the scrolls would indicate that the Archbishop's flock might have settled there. But the religion and priesthood of the Dag-Arnak show no Catholic similarity or influence. It is feasible to assume that the Catholic priests were denied the practice of their own religion and made to perform the work of scribes. This would explain the use of a Roman alphabet. Perhaps their efforts provided the first sophisticated written language for the Antillians.

My countless hours of translation have produced this account of an Antillian legend. --R.G.N.F.

Chapter One

Sunrise.

Felic had the helm.

The galley’s big red and white striped square sail filled and fluttered, filled and fluttered, uncertain of its role in the fitful breeze. Felic scanned the horizon as he made subtle adjustments to their course toward the distant mountains of Antillia. It seemed like the start of a normal day, but Felic felt there was something errant--a subtle disquiet filtering the morning sunlight, perhaps a change in the weather.

Many of the crew, tired from the previous day's costly victory, were snoring in the scuppers. The casks and crates of booty, still unpacked and unsorted, were strewn carelessly on the main deck. Some were opened, some intact. Felic was annoyed by the clutter but felt no need to make an issue of it. The plundered Dagran merchant ship was not the easy mark they had anticipated.

Antelo, his first mate, hauled his muscular torso through the cabin hatch and joined him on the quarterdeck. Not much wind, he remarked through a yawn.

Felic nodded. I suspect that will change; I think we're in for a some foul weather.Are you feeling it in your old knee wound, Antelo chided.

Felic grinned. Have you ever known my knee to be wrong?

And what about this? Antelo’s gesture took in the idle crew. Am I to command a sleeping watch of pretty boys?

Rouse them if you wish. They fought bravely and lost a few comrades. He stepped back from the steering board. I think they earned a little extra sleep.

Antelo took over the steering board. I wasn’t expecting a fight when we boarded yesterday.

Felic stifled a yawn. Nor I, he answered. Those Dagran sailors were well armed for a merchant galley.

Ah…go get some sleep. Antelo directed. I will call you if needed.

To Antelo, Felic was not just the captain and leader of their band of marauders. He thought of the broad-shouldered muscular warrior and seaman as a fearless brother whose friendship had been forged in battle. Some would call him a pirate or mercenary, and his name and exploits were the stuff of legends in all of Antillia. The King of Valistia, however, considered him a privateer, sailing under his royal charter. As long as their piracy was confined to the vessels from Dagra, Valistia would be a safe haven.

As the morning progressed Felic's sleep in the galley’s tiny cabin was abbreviated by the exaggerated motion of the ship and the staccato slap of the bow wave. He rejoined Antelo on deck. The sail blossomed with a full belly of steady wind and they were quartering the waves with bow-battering speed. There were no whitecaps but the sea before them was like an oily marbled mix of dark greens, blues and purples reflecting the cloud cover.

Felic took over the steering board and roused the crew to reef the sail and clear the deck. They sorted out the plunder. They tossed the unwanted stuff overboard--things that couldn't be traded or sold for a profit. What remained was resealed and lashed down or stowed below.

The sea has a wicked look about it, don't you think? Felic commented.

Antelo nodded. It does. I don't like it. Something nasty is brewing. He stayed by Felic’s side, scanning the horizon, concerned.

You are like an old woman, Felic teased. It's my watch. Let me do the worrying. Get below and get some rest.

Antelo shrugged, gave the horizon another anxious scan, then went below. As the hours went on the waves started building, carrying ridges of white foam. The wind increased to where the rigging was singing a warning.

Felic called the boatswain, Get a second reef in the sail, he ordered. I’m still going to try to maintain this heading. If the weather doesn't worsen, we will make it to the Great South Bay of Antillia and shelter behind the Isle of Mists.

The seas were building and the ship threw fans of salt spray back over the bow even though the sail was double-reefed. It was an exhilarating ride. It would have been joyful on a sunny day, but today it seemed somehow ominous. The ship was heeling so that the starboard rail was only an arm's length off the water. The crew was complacent, confident in the seamanship of their captain. Being drenched on a slanted deck was nothing unusual in their experience.

The cloud cover darkened in the northeast and fragmented white clouds scudded south beneath it. Felic could still make out the mountains of Antillia ahead. Their dark violet skyline was blending with the sky and would soon disappear. He was torn, debating mental choices only a captain can make. If he could hold the present course they might beat the storm to safety. If he slacked off downwind, however, it could ease the ship's motion and make better speed. But could they find a protective inlet on an unfamiliar shore?

* * *

Antelo gave up trying to sleep. He was tired of being rolled against the sideboard of his bunk every time a wave hit. He slung his feet over the side and slid to the floor just as a violent slamming wave knocked the ship on its side. Lockers and shelves flew open and the contents flew across the cabin. Wine bottles shattered and in the chaos Antelo found himself lying in the starboard bilge looking up at the cabin table, still secured to the deck--now the wall.

His heart stopped for the eternity it seemed to take for the ship to start righting itself. The jumble of flotsam slowly tumbled to the deck and Antelo skipped around the broken glass to the companionway.

On deck, he saw the crates and barrels had been torn free. Some had broken and the starboard rail held back a junkyard of merchandise about to go overboard. One crewman was in the water hanging on to a line. Two men were pulling him to the rail and the second man extended a gaff hook for him to grasp. The ship pitched at the crest of a wave, hung for a moment, then crashed down into the trough. The unexpected motion drove the gaff hook into the man's neck before he could grasp the shaft. His jugular vein was severed, his hands went limp on the rope, and he drifted away in a red circle, a diluted pool of his own blood.

The seaman who had used the gaff looked around fearfully, expecting to be blamed.

Never mind. He's dead, Antelo shouted. Clear that debris off the deck. He fought his way to the helm where Felic stood, spread-legged, his tunic plastered to his broad chest and sinews by the rain and wind. What's on our captain's mind? he asked Felic.

Survival.

Not a one of us will get out of this alive, Antelo joked.

Felic grunted and scowled. True…but I hope that will be a long time from now.

Felic pointed at the distant mountains, now almost undistinguishable from the sea or sky. Are you familiar with the coast below the Great South Bay?

"Somewhat. It's mostly rocky. Cliffs and shoals.'

I fear we will have to change course. The waves keep getting bigger. Have the men slack the braces. We'll go with the wind.

With the change of course the romping ride became an easy lope over the long swells. The sea didn't look nearly as forbidding from this aspect. Felic thought about shaking out one of the reefs then decided against it. They were already moving at hull speed, skidding down the front of the long rolling waves.

To the northeast the sky and sea were a black wall with no horizon. The wind kept picking up and the sail, now taut, was in danger of splitting a seam.

Felic, unable to be heard on deck by the howling wind, asked Antelo to go forward. Have the men furl the sail and put out a drogue. This is getting nasty.

But before the sail could be furled it ripped free of its sheets and became a flailing oversize flag streaming out in front of the yard arm. Antelo had the crew uncleat the halyards and bring the whole mess down to the deck. Before the ship could decide for itself what new direction to take, they got the drogue streaming out to stern, holding the bow downwind.

Now they were at the mercy of the sea. The ship would go as the storm gods wished. There was nothing to do but wait. Felic left the steering board in Antelo’s care and went below to find something to eat. In the litter from their knockdown he found a round of cheese buried under the clutter and cut off a generous slab.

On the quarterdeck Antelo strained to see the distant peaks. A dark mist was changing day to night. The frantic gesturing of a crewman below caused him to look astern. A monster comber was bearing down. It's crest was a weighted mass of curling, churning water and foam. Little waterfalls of spindrift coursed down the steep face. When the breaking crest of the freak wave rose above the stern it looked like the side of a watery cliff. This is the big one, he thought, the God of all waves. He hunched over the steering board, waiting the inevitable. The ship tried to rise up the face but then the tons of water crashed down. It scoured the deck of men, gear--everything. The mast splintered and the rigging was torn free. Antelo was knocked unconscious and hurled overboard as the ship turned turtle.

Down below Felic was about to bite into his hunk of cheese when the wave hit. The stern of the ship went high, hung for a moment, then, as the hull rolled sideways, a deluge of water broke though the companionway. Felic had no time to think before the water was