Chapter 97 “Who is making the list?”
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As Duncan stared into the mirror, it felt like he was gazing into another room, like an outsider with his face pressed closely against a windowpane. Inside that room, he saw an exceptionally tall young woman. Something about her profile struck a chord of familiarity in him. After a moment’s pondering, the realization dawned on him—she was Vanna Wayne, the inquisitor whose reputation had reached its zenith in the land of Pland. Her image had frequently graced the pages of newspapers.
Confusion swirled through Duncan’s mind. Why was he seeing this? Why was he observing a disciple of the Storm Goddess as if through a mysterious window? Was there some concealed link between them that he was just now becoming aware of? When had this strange connection formed? Why had he not perceived this unseen tie until this very moment? These thoughts surged through him but were swiftly interrupted by something he saw in the mirror.
Duncan’s eyes focused on what Vanna was reading—a meticulously formatted document. The holy symbol of the Storm Goddess was prominently displayed at the top. The text began with an announcement directed to all ship captains, accompanying priests, and guides navigating the Boundless Seas. It spoke of an anomaly, labeled as ‘099,’ which had recently deviated from its expected behavior. The document warned of a perilous curse capable of decapitation, discussed the origins of something called the “Doll Coffin,” and also cited records related to the “Alice Guillotine.”
His eyes trailed down the document, keen to absorb every word. But just then, he found that Vanna’s figure obstructed the text, specifically hiding the last sentence that discussed an “attack” on a ship named White Oak. Try as he might, he couldn’t see past her to read the concealed information.
Feeling a growing sense of urgency, Duncan began to mumble softly to his reflection in the mirror, “Move aside, move aside…”
Simultaneously, Vanna, who was in the lounge, felt a subtle sensation as if a gentle breeze had grazed past her ear. She instinctively glanced to the side and noticed that the window was slightly open, allowing the cool sea breeze of the evening to drift in.
The room was lit by oil lamps whose flames flickered softly, casting a comforting glow that seemed to push away the ominous feeling that nightfall often brings.
Satisfied that the room was secure, Vanna set the document aside and turned to the regional bishop who was with her. “Put it away. I trust that the bishops in the city-states will manage this situation with the utmost care; it’s safe.”
Acknowledging her words, the regional bishop promptly gathered the document and switched on the room’s electric lights, which were significantly brighter than the oil lamps, effectively dispelling the lingering dimness of the twilight. “Will you be heading back to the Storm Cathedral tonight?” he inquired.
“Bishop Valentine is expecting me for a discussion on some urgent matters,” Vanna acknowledged, offering a slight nod of her head. “There’s been increasing unrest within the city-state recently. We might need to organize a large-scale prayer event to bolster the cathedral’s spiritual shield over the entire city.”
As she spoke, she lifted her eyes to the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Outfitted with several light bulbs, it illuminated the room so brightly it felt like daytime. “Ah, if only electrical lighting had the same power to repel evil as flames do. It’s so much more efficient and far-reaching.”
“You make a valid point,” the regional bishop concurred, opening his hands in a gesture of agreement. “However, the unfortunate reality is that electricity lacks the sanctity inherent in flame.”
Vanna shook her head, choosing not to elaborate further. She said her goodbyes to the regional bishop and made her exit from the lounge.
After the lady’s departure, the oil lamp near the window momentarily flickered as if reacting to her absence before resuming its steady glow.
During the fleeting moment when Inquisitor Vanna had turned her head, Duncan had caught a glimpse of the document’s final line. The most critical piece of information for him was a short phrase: Vision 005—Vanished.
“So, they categorize the Vanished as a ‘Vision,’ and its numbering is curiously high,” Duncan pondered, resettling at his desk. A puzzled expression crossed his face. “But what’s the methodology behind this numbering system?”
Nina’s textbook had touched upon the subject of anomalies, discussing their numbering, names, and even mentioning a “list.” According to the text, the guidelines for this list originated in the ancient kingdom of Crete. However, the book was frustratingly vague on how the numbering system worked or who was in charge of assigning these numbers. It merely stated that each religious institution had the authority to interpret and announce these numbers, generally reserving lower numbers for anomalies that were particularly bizarre, dangerous, or historically significant. Duncan hadn’t paid it much heed initially, but his curiosity was now piqued.
“Is the numbering based on the sequence of discovery?” he wondered aloud.
If the system worked that way, then the vision known as the Vanished, which had a documented history of only about a hundred years, couldn’t possibly warrant such a low number. There were anomalies in the world that dated back much further; theoretically, all the lower numbers should already have been allocated.
Alternatively, if the numbering system was based on the level of risk or danger an anomaly posed, wouldn’t the numbers need constant updating? Whenever a new anomaly was discovered or reevaluated, its risk factor would have to be reassessed, leading to an overhaul of the entire “ranking” system. Such a practice would be cumbersome and highly impractical to implement.
While the textbook Duncan had consulted made it clear that an anomaly or vision’s danger level wasn’t always perfectly aligned with its numerical ranking, it did explicitly state that generally speaking, those with lower numbers tended to be far more perilous and horrifying than those with higher numbers.
This led Duncan to ponder an intriguing question: if the current list of anomalies and visions remained largely stable over time, not requiring frequent updates, then the person or entity responsible for compiling it would almost need to possess prophetic abilities. They’d have to be able to predict the “rankings” of anomalies and visions not just at the time of their discovery but also to anticipate future discoveries. They would need to leave “open slots” in the ranking for particularly powerful anomalies and visions that hadn’t yet emerged.
Duncan’s newfound skepticism regarding the list’s mysterious origins intensified after encountering the entry labeled Vision 005—Vanished. However, he decided to shelve these doubts temporarily. He had a more pressing issue at hand—Alice and her mysterious background tied to the cursed coffin from the White Oak. “I need to step out,” Duncan announced to a dove that was perched on his desk as he rose to leave his quarters.
As he entered the chart room, the mechanical goat head stationed there swiveled around at the sound of the door opening, its wooden parts squeaking and chattering. Upon seeing Duncan, it began its routine address: “Name—”
“Duncan Abnomar—but let’s skip the formalities. Where is Alice?”
“Ah, the great ship—” The goat head started its standard dialogue after verifying Duncan’s identity but was abruptly cut short, leaving it squeaking mid-sentence. “You’re seeking Miss Alice? She might be in her room, possibly counting her hair strands or some such activity…”
“Counting her hair?” Duncan paused, bewildered. “What new eccentric behavior is this? Never mind. I’ll find her myself; you keep steering the ship.”
Without waiting for a reply, Duncan briskly exited, leaving the door swinging shut behind him. The goat head stared at the abruptly closed door in puzzlement.
“I didn’t even have the opportunity to say much,” the goat head eventually muttered after a prolonged silence, sounding rather dejected. “Is my conversational prowess deteriorating?”
Just then, the door to the captain’s quarters creaked open slightly, and the dove named Ai slipped through the gap. It flew over to the table and landed.
“Chat for five bucks?” Ai cocked her head, blinking its tiny eyes at the goat head.
“Absolutely, absolutely! I’m happy to chat with anyone willing to talk!” The goat head’s spirits lifted instantly. Adhering to the shipboard ethos that ‘we’re all crew here,’ it wasn’t choosy about its conversation partners. “What shall we discuss? Do you have the ability to communicate in the way that I do? I’ve always wondered—”
As they began to converse, the mood in the room became noticeably lighter, pushing aside, at least for the moment, the lingering questions and unsolved mysteries that weighed on their minds.
“Make some fries.”
“Uh?” The wooden goat head looked puzzled. “I’m sorry, did you say you want—”
“Make some fries.”
“If you’re trying to engage in a conversation about maritime dining options—”
“Make some fries.”
“Is that the only phrase you can utter?”
“Make some fries.”
The goat head let out an exasperated sigh, resigned to the limits of the conversation. It couldn’t fathom why the normally articulate dove was suddenly fixated on fries.
Meanwhile, Duncan was blissfully unaware of this strange dialogue happening in his absence. He swiftly crossed the ship’s upper deck and descended to the sailors’ quarters. Arriving outside Alice’s cabin, he hesitated for a brief moment, organizing his thoughts before knocking gently on the door. “Alice, it’s the captain.”
A jittery voice from inside the room replied, “Pl-Pl-Please, come in.”
Duncan’s eyebrows involuntarily arched at the stuttering response. Nevertheless, he opened the door and entered.
What he saw defied all norms of the ordinary world. There, sitting at a small table next to a bed, was a doll dressed in a Gothic-style long skirt. Its detached head was held in its own hands, and it was facing a dressing mirror on the table. Its hair, a cascade of silvery-white locks, flowed down like a waterfall from its decapitated head. When it noticed Duncan, the doll’s exquisite, delicate face broke into a tentative smile. “Cap-Cap-Captain, goo-goo-good evening…”
“Put your head back on,” Duncan instructed.
The doll obeyed with a simple “Boop,” as if reattaching a detached head was the most normal thing in the world.
Duncan took a moment to absorb the sheer oddity of the scene before him. He found himself captain of a ship where a decapitated doll could casually sit and chat. However, he also acknowledged that this was just one of many bizarre episodes he’d come to expect on board his ship—a ship that seemed to be a magnet for the paranormal. As strange as this particular event was, it was merely another chapter in the ever-unfolding book of his incredibly surreal life.
Poor Alice is so scared to being bald!
Get the poor bird some fries!!!
I screenshotted the “Five bucks for a talk?” part, I love it so much. The line and description of her movements makes them seem like a prostitute and a john making a deal.
5 bucks just for a talk? No thanks, I’ll just talk to my hand.