Duncan slowly and gracefully walked over to the railing at the edge of the deck on his ship, the White Oak. He leaned against it, taking a long, contemplative look at the serene ocean below him. At this particular juncture, both the White Oak and its enigmatic counterpart, the Vanished, had emerged from the mystical realm known as the spirit world and were now floating on the tranquil, deep-blue sea. The water beneath the White Oak was crystal clear, serving almost like a mirror that reflected the image of another ship, the Black Oak. This shadowy reflection was shrouded in a misty aura, and from deep within its dark silhouette, a few lights flickered to life, glowing softly but noticeably.
After a significant amount of time had passed, Duncan finally broke his gaze from the reflective ocean surface and sighed softly. “Quite the spectacle we have here, Lawrence,” he commented, his voice tinged with awe. “You’ve certainly had one extraordinary adventure to share.”
Lawrence, who had been standing respectfully at a distance, replied cautiously, “Indeed, it has been beyond incredible, Captain. I’ve spent decades sailing these seas and encountered numerous unexplainable phenomena, but what we went through with Frost takes the cake. However, the risk was worth it because I was able to bring Martha back.”
Curiosity sparked in Duncan’s eyes. “How is your wife, Martha, now? And how did you manage to coordinate the operations between these two ships you each seem to control?”
Lawrence looked earnest as he responded, “Martha and her ship, the Black Oak, now essentially function as a shadow counterpart to the White Oak. As you can see, her ship is the one reflected below us in the water. But when the need arises, the Black Oak can manifest in our world as a phantom vessel and sail alongside the White Oak. Alternatively, the two ships can switch places between light and shadow. This allows us to navigate deeper into the spirit realm, bypassing obstacles in the material world. We’ve already done this once while navigating through the area known as Frost, and it worked exceedingly well.”
“Intriguing,” Duncan noted. “Did Martha teach you these methods? This sort of, let’s call them, sailing techniques?”
“Yes,” Lawrence nodded solemnly. “Martha was lost in the mirrored, spiritual world beneath what we know as the Cold Sea for over ten years. She’s acquired a wealth of knowledge during that time. In past voyages, she has acted as our guide.”
Duncan remained quiet for a moment, his eyes once again focused on the reflected image of the Black Oak in the water below. Finally, he broke the silence, “Would it be possible for me to speak with her privately?”
Lawrence hesitated for a moment, his face reflecting a mixture of surprise, nervousness, and caution. “May I inquire as to~”
“Don’t worry,” Duncan interrupted, “I only want to get a better understanding of the people who serve under me. The Black Oak may be an unusual ship, but on these seas, no vessel is stranger than the Vanished. I can be quite tolerant as long as there are no hidden secrets.”
Lawrence seemed to exhale a sigh of relief. Although he remained somewhat hesitant, he nodded in agreement, “Alright, I’ll make the arrangements and let Martha know.”
Satisfied, Duncan nodded in return and then turned his attention to Alice and the individual known only as “Sailor,” who were crouched on the deck nearby. They were intently poking at a captured bug with tiny sticks, engaged in a lively debate about whether or not the insect possessed a soul.
Alice was skeptical that the bug possessed a soul, mainly because she couldn’t see any ethereal threads attached to it, which, to her, indicated the absence of a soul. Meanwhile, the “Sailor” was convinced otherwise. He passionately argued that he had observed bugs in Bartok’s mystical garden that indeed had souls. He even ventured a whimsical hypothesis about “Little Gatekeepers”—tiny beings the size of bugs who were tasked with guiding the souls of deceased mosquitoes from the mortal world to their final resting place. These gatekeepers were especially busy during the summer months, he claimed, particularly pestering the souls of those who had passed away in June and July.
Both were visibly surprised by the audacity and creativity of each other’s arguments, almost as if each considered the other to be bluffing. To Duncan, who was silently observing this odd interaction, the entire spectacle resembled a contest between two individuals playfully competing to outdo each other in absurdity. Watching them for too long could almost make a bystander feel as if their own intelligence was being compromised by the sheer foolishness of the discussion.
Standing next to Duncan, Lawrence was equally silent and bemused by the scene. After a while, Duncan simply shook his head and said, “Let them play.”
Lawrence chuckled softly. “I agree. It’s a better use of their time than howling at the flagpole as they were doing earlier.”
…
Soon after, Lawrence had a secluded room prepared on the White Oak. The room’s centerpiece was a large, ornate mirror. Once everyone else had left, Duncan turned to face the imposing mirror.
“I need to speak with you,” he announced, directing his words at the reflective surface.
Almost instantaneously, the mirror’s surface turned pitch black, as though consumed by a dark, flowing liquid. Out of this abyss emerged a silhouette, which gradually solidified into a woman. She wore a white shirt, brown vest, and pants.
“I heard from Lawrence that you wanted to speak to me privately,” she said, standing before the transformed mirror and meeting Duncan’s eyes with calm assurance. “It seems you’ve noticed something.”
Duncan slowly pulled a chair from the side of the room and sat down, maintaining eye contact with the figure in the mirror. “There were too many inconsistencies. Your multiple shadows obscured certain details, making it challenging to ascertain the true nature of the Black Oak. But it wasn’t enough to fool me,” he said calmly. “Martha, how much of ‘you’ is actually you?”
“Less than one in a thousand,” she responded, her voice tinged with a certain melancholy.
Duncan fixed his gaze on her. “One in a thousand is a small fraction. Yet, you still identify as Martha. It’s as though you sincerely believe in this identity.”
Martha in the mirror nodded. “That’s because ‘Martha’ is the only complete personality within this complex amalgam of identities. Without a coherent personality to serve as an anchor, memories are just blank canvases. Going through them wouldn’t create a sense of ‘self.’ Over time, these vast and chaotic memories have been reorganized in countless ways. In the end, I believe that ‘Martha’ is the only ‘representative’ capable of managing this chaos. I need to be Martha, and Martha needs to exist.”
Duncan leaned back in his chair. “So, you’re essentially a hybrid entity. And you’re withholding far more than you’ve let on to Lawrence. A significant portion of the consciousnesses that have fallen into that mysterious sea over the past fifty years has become a part of you. Or should I say, you’ve absorbed or devoured those consciousnesses?”
“‘Devour’ is a rather loaded term,” the figure known as Martha in the mirror began, “but it doesn’t capture my experience. I haven’t actively consumed anything, nor do I have any interest in souls. There’s a powerful force deep within the mirrored space that engulfs everything in its path. The ‘memories’ that constitute me are merely the vestiges, the residual fragments that survived this overwhelming force. These tiny fragments eventually coalesced, much like how particles of dust gather to form clumps. Martha didn’t exist prior to this aggregation; she’s merely a spectral entity that arose from these fragments, somewhat belatedly assuming the role of stewardship or caretaker over them.”
Duncan furrowed his brows, contemplating her words. “Remnants left after being crushed by some massive force, you say? Then why was the entity we know as Martha not obliterated as well?”
“Because of Lawrence’s presence in this sea,” the mirrored figure smiled faintly. “You favor him, and so in a way, your favor extends to me, to Martha.”
Duncan fell silent, mulling over this. Finally, he spoke, “The realm within the mirror is non-linear, discontinuous.”
“Exactly,” Martha confirmed. “In the mirrored space, space and time don’t flow in the manner you’re accustomed to. Ends may precede beginnings. You helped create Martha, and now she stands before you, answering your questions.”
Duncan exhaled softly. “A massive amalgamation of information and memories… That explains your vast knowledge. It’s not just your extensive time in the mirrored realm, but also the multitude of memories you’ve absorbed or merged with. But let’s get back to the initial point. Can the fraction that identifies as ‘Martha,’ which constitutes less than one in a thousand of your entity, truly maintain a stable sense of self forever? Is there a risk that this ‘caretaker’ personality will eventually be overwhelmed by the sea of disparate memories, forgetting its identity and turning into a chaotic and dangerous lost soul?”
The woman looked up, her calm face betraying a sense of courage. “Like you were once?”
Duncan remained unflustered. “No, I journeyed much further into the abyss than you. The subspace I explored is darker and more mysterious than your mirrored world, making me potentially far more hazardous. Hence, I understand the catastrophic potential of a lost soul running amok, even one less volatile than I was.”
Martha remained silent, contemplating his words.
Finally, she broke the silence. “Do you recognize me as ‘Martha’ now?”
Duncan took a few moments to consider his answer. Martha was a minuscule part of this multifaceted hybrid, but for the personality that identifies as “Martha,” this complex entity was her entire world. Her existence and self-awareness were not in doubt, even if her future stability was questionable.
His mind briefly wandered, envisioning a tranquil scene—a gentle sea breeze, the rhythmic ebb and flow of calm waves. It was a momentary vision, but it solidified his resolve.
“Yes, I recognize you as Martha,” he finally answered. “The risks of what you could become do not erase what you are now. You exist as Martha, and that’s what matters at this moment.”
The entity in the mirror, Martha, seemed to draw a sense of peace from his words, perhaps the closest thing to solace a being of her complex nature could experience.
He found himself standing on the surface of the water, each footstep creating gentle ripples that fanned out around him. Sunlight dappled through the leaves of overhanging trees, casting flickering shadows on the water’s surface. Fish leaped gracefully from the water, defying gravity as they swam through the air around him in a languid dance. Their scales glinted, capturing the sunlight and reflecting it back in radiant flashes.
Casting his gaze downwards, Duncan studied the water beneath his feet. At first glance, it appeared clear, almost glass-like in its transparency. But a deeper look revealed that the clarity was deceptive, a mere surface illusion. Beneath lay depths shrouded in mist and murkiness, so indistinct and inscrutable that he could barely make out anything below.
Just then, more aquatic creatures broke the surface of the water, ascending into the air and joining the circling school of fish. They were remarkably similar to the fish he had dreamt of during his very first fishing trip as a child, a dream that seemed both a lifetime ago and strangely immediate.
Duncan’s eyes abruptly refocused, shifting from the vivid mental tableau back to the room’s reality. The mirror in front of him held a shadow, a swirling mass of darkness that seemed to writhe in anticipation as if awaiting his final verdict.
“Miss Martha,” Duncan eventually spoke, shattering the lingering silence, “Welcome to the Vanished Fleet.”
In response, the chaotic, formless shadow that filled the mirror abruptly contracted. It once again assumed the shape of Martha, the female adventurer garbed in a white shirt, brown vest, and pants. The turbulent darkness that had been roiling behind her seemed to settle as if pacified.
Meanwhile, on the deck of the White Oak, Lawrence found himself perplexed. He had been overseeing Alice, the puppet-like figure and the mummy they called “Sailor,” who were engrossed in an odd experiment with a bug. Glancing down at himself, he noticed the restless, green, ghostly flames that had been haphazardly flickering around him for the past three days were now receding. His spectral form, which he had been unable to fully control, seemed to stabilize. It was as if the spectral flames, which had been frequently activated without his intent, had finally found a state of equilibrium, becoming a controllable part of his being.
The consistent ‘trigger’ or ‘stimulus,’ which had been causing the flames to activate involuntarily, seemed to have inexplicably vanished.
“Control?” Lawrence murmured to himself, his brow furrowed in confusion yet tinged with a new sense of possibility.
