Vinilla's website!

Starved For Peace

"It's done. I've finally finished it."

"The book..?"

"Yes. Could you come here?"

"Of course." Davey walked over to the old man's desk and leaned over his shoulder to see a brown paper package, addressed to somewhere in London.

"I hope it is of good use to whoever's hands it ends up in." Evans mused.

"You don't know?"

"I'm sending it to the office of a good old friend of mine, though there's no guarantee that that same friend will still be occupying that office all these years later. It could— potentially— arrive at the desk of a complete stranger."

"Well, I hope they do a good job, whoever they are."

"That's all that either of us can hope for." Evans sighed, praying that he wouldn't be let down by whoever it was in the London Office. The Obra Dinn's story was one that needed to be told. "Can I ask you to bring it to the Office of Affairs for me? I've been troubled by some shortness of breath lately. I'll cover the postage."

"Yes sir. It's not a problem."

"Thank you. Good lad. You can find some coins in the drawer over there." Evans pointed a finger over to his bedside table.

Davey followed the instructions without question, digging out a handful of coins from within and stuffing them into his pocket. He then went to pick up the package, and was caught off guard by how heavy it was, nearly dropping onto the poor old man's lap as he tried to lift it. He knew that it at least contained the book, but not much else. What on earth was Evans sending...? He didn't really feel like prying into the matter. Whatever strange mechanism allowed someone to solve the Obra Dinn's mysteries five years after they took place was one Davey was not interested in learning about.

That pocket watch.

It must've been something about that pocket watch.

Evans had offered Davey its use a few times before, but he could never bring himself to agree to it. Something about it unsettled him to his core. Something strangely... alive in that piece of metal. Something incredibly macabre.

Davey had to get this thing out of his hands as quickly as possible. He hastily bid his farewell to the doctor and rushed out to town. He snaked his way through crowds of people, keeping his head cast down.

A. Grenstal

The name on the package. It couldn't escape his vision as he avoided eye contact with the Tangier natives. Would this person, whoever they were, really be capable of reconstructing the tale of the Obra Dinn? Would they be willing to? And then Davey had to ask himself, would he want to know the tale that they uncovered? He considered the question time and time again for years, and never had he come to the same conclusion twice. He couldn't think about it right now. Better to just leave it for when the completed book returns. If it ever does return, that is.

The French Office of Affairs sat in waiting before him, the inside dark, hazy, full of impatient people trying to ship off and receive their own packages and letters. The sight of them all rooted Davey to the ground where he stood, the grip on the heavy package loosening. He took a breath. Come on, Davey. You've dealt with far worse than this before. You'll be fine. He moved forward.

When Davey at last returned home, that unnerving package finally out of his hands, he found that Evans had gone to bed, leaving him with Jane and Emily.

"Henry told me that he finished that blasted book." Emily said.

"That's right. I was out posting it for him just now."

Emily huffed in slight frustration. "You too, then? When will either of you understand that it's best to just let the past be in the past?"

Jane hid her face even further into the book she was reading.

"It's.. not that easy. I try to bury it as much as I can but it always surfaces again. I can't go by a day without being reminded of it in some way." Davey explained.

"Don't dwell on those reminders then, put yourself back into the present moment. Henry does the opposite, just to spite me, it seems. Always finding an excuse to slip away from us and into the past. You can't be picking up traits from him, you understand, Davey? You can't become obsessed in the way he is."

Davey couldn't really wrap his head around what she was saying. But he wasn't one to question it, and so he gave her a nod and went to his room without anything else to say. All there was to do now, he supposed, was wait.

~~~

"Parlez-vous anglais?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything in for Henry Evans?"

"No."

"Alright. Have a nice day."

Every Monday. The same ritual was carried out.

"Parlez-vous anglais?"

"Yes."

"Anything for Henry Evans?"

"No."

"Alright. Have a nice day."

Davey grew quite tired of it.

"Checking for Henry Evans?"

"Yes."

"Nothing is in, sorry."

"Thank you anyways, have a nice day."

The workers got used to the ritual quickly.

"Sorry, nothing for Mr. Evans."

"Thank you. Have a nice day."

Would it ever end?

"Nothing for Evans, sir."

"Alright, thank you."

Yes. It would.

"Something for Evans arrived yesterday."

Davey couldn't understand the words at first, as the clerk left him alone at the counter to fetch something from the back. Only did their meaning come to him when the clerk returned with a brown paper package, very much similar to the one he sent off all those months ago.

"Here you go, young man." The clerk patted it, gesturing for Davey to take it.

Finally, it's here. The truth. Sitting right here on the counter before him, a real, concrete item he could put his fingers on.

"Sir, your package."

"Ah, s-sorry, monsieur. Thank you so, so much." He picked it up. Physically it was lighter than the other package, but the knowledge that it carried was far more than any other burden Davey had to carry. He plodded along back to the house again, for the first time bearing the thing that Evans so desperately wanted to see again. He entered, slipping past the common area without a word and peeking his head into Evans's room.

"Doctor?"

"Hm.. Davey... Hello."

"It.. it came. It's here."

Energy jolted through Evans's frail body, pushing him upright in his bed and motioning Davey to enter the room. "Well, come in here then! Let me see it, please."

Davey obeyed, taking up a chair beside Evans's bed and gently placing the package into his lap. Evans tore away the wrapping, leaving behind the book. He ran his trembled hands across the leather, eyes wide, as though the information within was the most important in the whole universe. He found his way to the edge of the cover and flipped it open.

Return of the Obra Dinn

A Catalogue of Adventure & Tragedy

1807

He quickly flipped past the next few pages, containing his preface, the table of contents, and all of the materials he had provided to the inspector himself. The manifest swiped from McKay's ledger, the sketches ripped out of Spratt's notebook, the maps stolen from Nichols's quarters.

He reached over to turn to the next page, the one entailing the first death aboard that wretched ship, but paused as he remembered the boy sitting next to him.

"Do you.. want to see all of this?"

Dammit. That question was rearing its ugly head at him again. He still wasn't sure which of the answers he decided on, really. Did he want to know what happened to Davies...? Knowing a truth that was ugly and horrible was perhaps much worse than just not knowing at all. Ignorance is bliss? Was that how the saying went? But... ignorance was all Davey had known after the terrors of the deep first attacked the ship, and the feelings that have stayed with him ever since were far from blissful. Then again, maybe knowing the truth would be even worse than whatever this is. Uncertainty meant there were excuses. The possibility that there was a positive outcome, a reality in which.. he might be okay. In which he even if he was dead— had died a noble death. But there was also the chance that he was far from alright, that he had done horrible things after Davey had left the ship.

To hell with whatever Emily had told him before. The past mattered, no matter how hard one tries to run away from it. He had to know if he was to find any peace at the present.

"Can you just.. tell me what happened after we left?"

"..I suppose so." Evans flipped back to the table of contents and ran his finger along it until it found Chapter IX: Escape. He flipped to the corresponding page and began thumbing through.

Alfred Klestil (bosun) was torn apart by a terrible beast.

Evans frowned. Seems his hasty treatment of the fellow had failed.

Paul Moss (1st mate's steward) was killed with a sword by Leonid Volkov (topman).

This death, and the one that followed, were already all too familiar to the two men looking at the book. Evans skipped over the next page, now wading into unknown waters.

Olus Wiater (gunner's mate) was shot with a gun by John Davies (fourth mate).

"What in God's name..?" Evans muttered as his eyes followed the words written out on the page.

"What? What does it say?"

Evans stayed silent for a moment, an answer he did not want to give dancing around on his lips. "Davies.. Davies murdered someone, son."

"What...?" Davey shook his head. "N-no! You're lying!" He reached out for the book. He had to see it with his own eyes to believe such a vile, poisonous claim.

Evans had no strength in his arms to fight back, nor did he have the desire to damage the book, and so it left his grasp and went into Davey's. He pored over that sentence over and over again. Reading never came naturally to him, even after instruction from the others, but even still it was simple enough for him to understand. Davies.. shot someone. And that person died. Why? Why would he do such a horrendous thing?

It was wrong. It had to be. Davies couldn't have done such a thing, right? He'd never take the life of another living person, right?... Davey knew he'd never do something like that...

Didn't he?

For the time Davey had worked for him, Davies came across as a compassionate, thoughtful man, entirely incapable of a thing as abominable as murder. But then again, Davey had known him for not even a month, hardly enough time to know who he truly was. Maybe he was just the same as Nichols, a wicked man who wore a perfect, imperceptible mask of kindness and civility, fooling everyone into trusting and adoring him. Maybe murder was perfectly within Davies's nature the entire time, and Davey was nothing more to him than another foolish victim falling for his facade.

He sniffled, his eyes becoming blazing hot as an inferno of emotions welled up behind them. He no longer felt anger towards Evans, instead drowning in confusion over the man he had been thinking about and looking up to for five years. "I- I don't understand..."

"We cannot see the entire story behind this death, Davey. Perhaps it was for the best that Davies took that man's life."

Davey frowned. Maybe Davies's actions were fueled by compassion. But he couldn't know for certain. Perhaps he was fueled by greed. He flipped to the next page.

John Davies (fourth mate) was clubbed by Henry Brennan (seaman).

That was it? Hit over the head by some lowly seaman? These aren't the answers he wanted. He wanted so much more out of this. This book was to let him finally put the Obra Dinn behind him into the past, but instead it sent him back onto its decks, trapping him in the deepest, darkest, most rotten corners. He was never going to know the whole truth. Uncertainty over Davies's fate had only been replaced with something far worse: uncertainty over his own memories, his ability to judge people for who they really were. He knew nothing about who Davies really was, despite thinking the world of him. He thought him to be a saint, an angel among men, when really he seemed to be a demon. This truth had done nothing but hurt him, shattering his own faith in himself into pieces.

Davey returned the book to Evans's lap. "I don't want to read any more of it."

"I'm sorry, Davey, that we can't know more. But he always seemed to be a good fellow to me. I'm sure he had his reasons."

"I don't really know what to think anymore. I.. I need to rest now. Good night."

"...Good night. I.. I'm sorry it had to be like this."

Davey left the room, leaving the old man alone with that book of his. He went outside, craving the cool night wind blowing over his skin. The distant, quiet roar of the ocean beckoned to him. The memories of the past were here to stay, riddling his mind, asking him whether his experiences were genuine, taunting him with the full truth of Davies's actions.

Peace, it seemed, would not find him here.