Mirror of the Sky

By Patrick M. Fitzgerald

I gazed at the distant horizon, where the sky met the sea. The indigo twilight slowly faded into the dark ocean.

Something in that vast emptiness called out to me. It was more than just a vague desire to see the world. It was more of a beckoning. Like a beacon from a distant lighthouse calling me home.

I looked back at the sailors. Did they see what I saw? Hear what I heard?

“Hey you! Back to your station.” The harsh voice shook me from my reverie. Captain Jessup didn’t even have to give my name. I knew who he meant from his tone.

I grabbed my mop and resumed swabbing the deck. It was an endless task. However much I mopped, more water would make its way on board. Some of it was my own sweat, I was sure. Still, I scrubbed on into the night.

My eyes drifted to the horizon. The moon was just beginning to illuminate the sky, and I could see a shadow under its light.

“Land, ho!” The sound escaped my lips before I realized it.

The captain clamped his hand on my shoulder as cheers rose from the crew. “Maybe you do serve a purpose after all.”

By morning, the congratulations were forgotten as the crew disembarked to make repairs.

The island’s white beach gave way to grassy fields, blanketed by a morning fog. A stream meandered from the forest beyond. At the center of it all a dark mountain peaked above the mist.

The captain sent me to gather supplies with Marten, the ship’s cook. I suspected it was mostly to get us out of the way.

We followed the stream to search for food. In the woods, violet shelf fungus clung to the bark of the trees.

I held one of the purple caps to my lips but Marten knocked it out of my hand. “Could be poisonous, or worse.” He twirled a finger at his temple.

The stream danced along its bed of polished rocks. The sound was musical, almost verbal—as if that call to see the world had been given a voice.

Deeper in the forest, we found bushes of luscious red berries.

“The color’s good.” Marten held one up and squinted. “Should be safe.” He popped it in his mouth and nodded.

We snacked on them as we stocked our packs. Not very sweet, but anything was better than hardtack. I had to rub lavender fuzz off them but it didn’t affect the taste.

The sun fell low behind us as we foraged onward. The fungal shelves grew larger, forming platforms between the trees where they overlapped. Their delicate roots fell like jellyfish tentacles to the undergrowth.

Marten peered into the forest and grimaced. “We should head back.”

“Not yet.” My eyes were fixed on the mountain. “I need to keep searching.”

Marten looked in his half-filled pack and sighed. “Yeah, I guess…”

The stream led into the mountainside, through a narrow crack curtained with tangled moss.

Veins of fungus illuminated the cavern in pale lavender light. The stream glinted in the dim glow. Tiny luminous fish wove their way out from a tunnel in the far wall.

The whispering stream was louder in the stillness. It wasn’t just a vague call anymore. It was a voice.

“Come and see.”

I gasped and fell to my knees. It’s real. I dipped my hands in the water, and the sound grew stronger. I laughed as tears of relief merged with the stream.

“Can you feel it?” I grinned at my companion. “Can you hear it?”

“Yes,” Marten said hesitantly. “And I want to go back.”

“You should come and see.” My eyes locked onto his.

Marten frowned and inched away, clinging to the wall.

“Come and see!” I shouted, resonating with the other voice. Grabbing his arm, I half dragged him behind me.

We emerged at last in the crater of the mountain. Giant mushrooms ringed the edge, their rhizomes cascading down like unkempt hair.

In the center of the clearing was the lake which fed the stream. The fiery reflections of the sunset resembled the lava that had birthed the mountain. In the middle was a small island, carpeted with fungus.

An obelisk of gleaming obsidian rose from the ground. A stone bench formed a ring around the base, eagerly awaiting visitors.

The spire vibrated in a rhythm that echoed the voices in the water.

This was the home of the voice. My home.

As I waded into the water, the humming penetrated my bones. Iridescent fish encircled me, welcoming me home.

I stepped onto the island, greeted by rhizomes stretching up to caress my calves. I knelt on the stone dais and pressed my hands to the glassy spire.

“Let me see,” I whispered in tones that echoed the deep, mystic voice of the island.

I pressed my shoulder to the obelisk. Violet tendrils made their way up my legs and began to embrace me. My skin tingled as they crept into my pores.

“Go,” I shouted in my new voice. “Bring others to join me.”

Marten’s eyes widened in awe as he hurried away.

I leaned back to gaze upon the stars. Delicate fibers wove behind my eyes into my brain.

I gasped as I beheld the heavens anew.

The sky was a crystal mirror, reflecting the world beneath it. In this dark glass, I saw the island as it truly was, the mountain at the center, the ring of forest, and the encircling beach. An eldritch eye turned upward. It was my eye now.

The ocean spread out before me, ripples carrying my message to the distant lands. There lay England, where the echoes had found me so many years ago. My voice would carry back there now and draw others to see what I see.

I would never have to leave.

The world lay bare before me in the mirror of the sky.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Patrick M. Fitzgerald writes speculative fiction and suspense from his home in Missouri. Inspired by the epic science fiction of Isaac Asimov and Frank Herbert, he creates thought-provoking tales of new worlds and their unique denizens. His work has been anthologized in Warriors Against the Storm as well as Havok’s Bingeworthy and Sensational.

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