A Trip to Forget

The Silvergrey Sea

Part Seven: What Is and Should Never Be

A Trip to Forget

* * *

I exhausted my considerable supply of profanity about fifteen minutes into my trip on the Silvergrey Sea.

The Hermetists had warned me the Sea was in foment, but nothing could have prepared me for this. Chrise, I needed a drink. I looked at the puke covering my trench coat. Perhaps not just now, though. I settled for looking at the storm, as closing my eyes had spectacularly failed to calm my stomach. I wished this nightmare of a journey over.

I couldn’t see the sky of the Sea. I hadn’t seen it at all in the three and a half eternities since I left the Port under Azhure’en, in fact. Mountains of waves speeding by and crushing down like the wrath of a god which, if the info from the Herms as true it literally was, obscured it. If not for the enclosed hull of the bullet shaped vessel, the fury of the tempest would have swamped and drowned us long ago.

The pilot seemed undisturbed by the violence through which he motored. I had tried a few questions near the start of the journey but could not make myself heard over the fury, even with the muffling the craft afforded.

Needing something to do to avoid puking again, I spent most of the trip contemplating the horrible things that would likely manifest once I got to the Evanescents. I didn’t bother taking out my epad as I just knew it would lead to another round of ralphing.

One: Were the islands even still there?

Two: Would the pixie Onyx’s info really help defeat the Sea God?

Three: Where were the other Elements?

I was concerned specifically about the Fyre Child. Not because she was my daughter, I told myself, but because, if she had been—’killed’ wasn’t the word. Disincarnated, maybe?—all this worrying might be for nothing, at least for the present.

Having reached no comforting conclusion, but at least having avoided shaming myself again, I made it to the end of the Sea voyage as the tiny ship entered a fjord of the Evanescents. I could tell because I could finally see something besides heaving, brightly lit grey water.

The violence of the Silvergrey dropped sharply, then ceased altogether as the ship passed four Hermetists, two-by-two, on either side of the narrow inlet. They were standing as they chanted something I couldn’t make out. Their hands were up as if they could physically hold back to torrent of the Silvergrey Sea. A flash of light, tinged blue, in the air in front of them indicated they were doing a fair job at exactly that. The sweat beading their faces told me they were having difficulty.

Finally, the craft stopped, thumping against a dock.

I kept moving for a little while, vowing never to board a ship again. ‘Fuck it,’  I thought. ‘I’ll walk back to Noir.’

I had to be helped onto the dock. Pride, whither goest thou?

Leaning on a short male Hermetist dressed almost entirely in black, I managed to light a cigarette after a few tries. A Hermetist in the Mother Lodge had had an ample supply of lung congestors. I was surprised; I didn’t think any of them indulged. The first couple of hits of nicotine did wonders for my steadiness.

Looking around while I fed my addiction, I wondered why I still couldn’t see the sky. Was it the shield blocking the view?

No.

Just above me, a rippling movement.

In a moment of horror, I realized I was seeing water lapping at an invisible surface—a dome of energy covering several square miles. It slid off and I briefly saw the sparkle of the ever-present sky over the Sea. Another wave smashed silently against it. The light dimmed and the sky vanished again.

It was the Silvergrey Sea. We were under it; or it was over us. Talk about a storm surge.

“Mr. Tranker…?”

I turned at a hand on my arm. Standing before me was a tall female Hermetist, mostly in white with accents of red and one black boot. Her eyes were golden, her skin an iridescent blue. “The Kokkinos will see you now; if you’re ready, that is.”

It was difficult to make out the sense of the latter remark. Her deep voice was oddly accented, preventing me from knowing if offense was the proper response. I had never seen her race, but my gut said elf. My brain asked me if the trip here had fried too many neurons; no fæ were in the Order of Hermes, by choice. Abram had occasionally lamented that never had a fæ been convinced to join.

“I suffer from motion sickness, myself. My world is almost without large bodies of water.” Her world…so, not an elf.

A moment of friendly fellow feeling, then. I let her take the lead.

Hermetists crowded the narrow ways between soaring spires of deep indigo rock. I had never seen so many Children of Hermes one place before. Following in my guide’s wake, I had little trouble making headway. The Herms seemed eager to make way, whether for her or me, I did not know.

The way forward wound and split several times. The light was dimmer than I thought possible. Finally, brightness ahead.

The way broadened into a large open space. Hermetists in their scores were scattered over it. Several were helping to maintain the dome. Others were clustered around a debris field over a mile away.

Closer to, the red-clad Hermetist turned as we approached.

He held out a hand, “Mr. Tranker. I am the Kokkinos, Consecrator Elect of Hermes.”

“Master. I take it Abram Hermit is not here.”

His brow furrowed. “Regrettably, no.”

“What happened here?”

He gave me an abbreviated version of the events surrounding the explosion. “I was told you have information relevant to this.”

I hesitated. Should I trust him? There had been so many factions battling within the Order of Hermes. Trust in the wrong person could be worse than fatal. I said as much, hoping his response would help me decide.

“Your mistrust is well founded, detective, but the Meraculus Mercurius is no more. All survivors of it are part of the effort to thwart Poseidon, now. Until this is settled, there are no factions within the Order.”

‘Have to trust him,’ I thought. I laid out all I knew and what I and the pixie, Onyx had planned.

Afterward, the Red Elect was thoughtful. “Onyx is known to the Order, a færie of great wisdom and much respected.”

I was mildly surprised at this. I didn’t think the fæ and mortals had any significant contact, anymore. That the Hermetists should be the exception made sense, though.

“You know your plan hinges on help that we cannot count on, except—” here, he smiled—”that Abram may be in a position to do just that.”

“Where is he?”

“Last we were able to determine, he was close to two of the Elements and to the fæ chosen for the transformation.”

“Can we reach him?”

Here the Kokkinos paused, looking embarrassed, “There’s a slight problem with that…”

—Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, October 2026

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