Cascade

The police are here, and I have not removed the malodorous corpse of Father Dickinson. Through blurred vision, however harsh my circumstances, I must release the burdens crawling ever harsher onto my shoulders. May I seek repentance for the horrors I have witnessed and committed.

It was my journey to discover purpose that led me to Father Dickinson. My travels had consumed me, for within my soul lay a hunger for the exploration of humanity. At each passing state, each passing country, I endeared myself with the locals. Their stories passed from their lips to my churning belly, where I consumed the whole of their experiences and culture. Thus, I continued to enlighten my own sensibilities in pursuit of even greater possibilities. Scandinavia was simply my latest stop, a place of rest recommended warmly by my academic peers. Their thoughts shifted of course to the simple pleasures, but in expressing their desires I continued to hear the same town roll off their tongue; Lofoton. I must confess, my only reason for falling to curiosity was the manner in which they spoke of this place. Off their lips their words reeked of inebriation, yet I knew for certain that they were of sound mind. This was enough for me.

Fortune looked down on me that day, for mere moments after setting my boots onto the docks of Britain did I spy a congregation heading towards a sea worn ship, sails marked with the unmistakable crest of Norway. They lurched upon the boat as I inquired regarding the vessels destination. Though uncouth and covered in sweat, the sailor I spoke to confirmed the vessel’s final destination, and with that confirmation I made the necessary arrangements to board the vessel.

This journey was long, but through good graces one that could only be described as peaceful. As the days waned into weeks of travel, it was inevitable that I would communicate frequently with the other passengers. This was where I met Father Dickinson. He spoke to me through pale words, only punctuated with the splashing of his sickness into the melodic sea, a man of weak constitution who nevertheless fast became an engaging conversationalist. His eyes, dark as the ships deck, would light up when we found ourselves conversing more frequently as he explained his purpose. He was in fact a visitor from France, his congregation a body seeking to enlighten wherever they tread. Yet those within his congregation were quite aloof, and though I attempted conversation many times through our journey, they continued to preserve with pursed lips and sour dispositions. Dickinson would wave their behavior away as being journey weary, but upon the sighting of the birds and the confirmation of lands fall, he confessed to another purpose.

“You see,” he spoke “we are storytellers and guides to greater purpose. Our words flock together those who suffer in silence so that they may partake in the salvation of the Lords knowledge. Through these stories, we heard of another which may bring forth new enlightenment and the great expansion of the Lords teachings. We have found new purpose, a place to gain exponential knowledge.” He looked to me, a new acquaintance on the high seas. “You are hungry, anyone with the drive to greater possibilities can sense a kindred spirit. Accompany us, so that our destinies can travel the same path of ever increasing enlightenment. I believe no knowledge has ever been more coveted then what myself and my fellow worshipers are about to uncover.”

Of course, I accepted. Of course, I landed upon the shores of Norway with Father Dickinson and his followers as we made our way further into the country towards Lofoton.

How I remarked upon the feature of all the men and women I would kill with my bare hands, our doom fast—