February 25th, 1681
The ink whispers across the page, a faithful confidant in the quiet of my quarters. It is my thirty-third year of life, a year I foresee etched deep into the annals of history. The chill of Paris still clings to my skin, a remnant of the snow-laden whispers among old friends. But it is not the cold that preoccupies my thoughts—it is the flame of destiny that burns within.
We stand at the cusp of a monumental exodus, drawn forth by a celestial ballet. The portent loomed large over our clandestine gathering in Bohemia’s ancient forest, uniting us in purpose. America beckons, a vast tapestry of uncharted wilderness and promise—a new world where our practices might bloom unfettered by persecution’s cruel hand.
I am chosen to lead this voyage. It is an honor that lies heavy upon my shoulders, as heavy as the weight of the sea upon a sinking ship. The mantle of ‘The Storm Whisperer’ adorns me not just with reverence but with an expectation to navigate beyond tempests both physical and metaphorical.
I confess to these pages what I dare not speak aloud: fear gnaws at me. Not fear for myself, but for those who place their lives in my hands—my crew, those intrepid souls who will journey across the ocean’s vast expanse to plant roots in foreign soil.
My mind turns to Jamestown, Plymouth, and of course Roanoke, those nascent settlements clinging to life or tried on America’s rugged shores. Tales reach us even here, stories of hardship and survival against great odds.
Jamestown, they say, was a fool’s errand from the start. A marshland chosen for its concealment from Spanish eyes rather than its suitability for life. Those first settlers—so unprepared for the reality of the land they sought to tame. The whispers of starvation, disease, and desperate acts echo across the ocean and through time. The Starving Time, they called it, when even the bindings of books did not escape their gnawing hunger.
And yet, from such despair arose a semblance of stability. The cultivation of tobacco breathed life into their economy, a crop that promised prosperity but also sowed the seeds of future discord.
Then there is Roanoke—the Lost Colony—an enigma shrouded in mystery. A settlement vanished into thin air, leaving behind only cryptic carvings: “CROATOAN,” a word that haunts like an incantation with no clear meaning. I am aware of the events that transpired, for they were revealed to me in a vision.
Before my mind’s eye unfolded the grim tableau of Roanoke, that ill-fated colony lost to time and legend. It was as if I stood amongst them, a silent witness to their unraveling.
I saw them in their daily toil, their faces etched with the rugged determination of those who dare to tame wild lands. But a shadow loomed over them—a blight that crept into their midst with the stealth of twilight’s approach.
Their crops—a source of sustenance and hope—bore the curse unbeknownst to their desperate hands. The rye, twisted and blackened as if scorched by an invisible flame, was harvested nonetheless. Hunger gnawed at their bellies with relentless fervor, and they consumed the tainted grain without suspicion.
As days passed into nights and back again, a malevolent transformation befell them. Their minds, once clear as dawn’s first light, became shrouded in mists of confusion and terror. I witnessed a man, his face contorted in fear, speaking in hushed tones to shadows that danced just beyond perception.
Another figure—a woman—laughed with hollow mirth as she wandered aimlessly through the settlement, her eyes vacant and unseeing. Yet another writhed upon the ground as if seized by invisible hands, his cries piercing the stillness.
The madness spread like fire through dry brushwood. Accusations flew from lips twisted by paranoia; trust disintegrated into suspicion and fear. They saw phantoms in every corner of the dense forest that hemmed them in—specters that whispered dark omens and lured them towards oblivion.
Some colonists vanished as though swallowed by the very earth beneath their feet. Searches yielded naught but more questions—no trace remained save for footprints leading into the wilderness that abruptly ceased as if plucked from this realm by unseen forces.
Others met fates more grisly still—bodies discovered bearing wounds most unnatural, as though torn asunder by beasts or perhaps by their own brethren driven to extremes of violence.
Through it all ran a thread of palpable dread—the sense that they were ensnared in a web woven not just by human folly but by something far more ancient and malevolent.
I now understand this scourge that plagued them was Ergot—a blight born from the very soil they sought to claim. My knowledge of such maladies is not scant—I am well-versed in the lore of herbs and fungi that possess power both curative and corruptive. Ergot can induce visions and convulsions; it can warp perception so completely that one may no longer discern reality from fevered dream.
This revelation casts a pall over my spirit yet also kindles within me a flame of resolve. We must guard against such fates befalling our own endeavor; we cannot allow our new world to be birthed from such tainted soil.
I vow to employ every ounce of my knowledge to prevent this. The preparations for our journey must include not just provisions for body but also for mind—we must carry with us antidotes for poison both physical and spiritual.
I lay out my ceremonial tools—a circle of salt, a crystal, runes carved from yew wood—and I beseech the stars for guidance. The candles flicker as if in response to my silent invocation. I cast the runes upon a chart of the Atlantic and lean closer to interpret their message.
I trace the edges of the runes with my fingertips, feeling the ancient grooves worn smooth by time and use. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, tasting the salt in the air. It mingles with the scent of burning wax and something more ethereal—the tang of destiny. The space between breaths stretches, an eternity in a heartbeat. I open myself to visions, to whispers from beyond.
In my mind’s eye, I see it—a river winding through untamed wilderness. The water flows with purpose, carving its path through dense forests and around stoic mountains. The Great River. It is a lifeline through a land lush and fertile.
My fingers brush against a rune—Laguz—its meaning clear: water. It is not just a symbol; it speaks to me of movement, of flow, and of life itself. Another piece falls into place as Raidho reveals itself next, urging me towards a journey, one that follows this mighty river’s course.
The vision sharpens like a chart coming into focus beneath a cartographer’s lens. We are not to make our stand on the eastern shores as others have done before us. No, our destiny lies inland—farther than many might dare to venture.
I peer deeper into the tapestry of fate unraveling before me. There it stands—a valley nestled within the embrace of mountains. They rise like guardians over a hidden jewel within their midst: A Valley.
The runes continue their silent chorus—Ehwaz—partnership; Gebo—exchange; Othala—inheritance. They speak of collaboration with those we find there, an exchange not just of goods but of knowledge and culture—an inheritance we may share with future generations.
With trembling hands, I chart our course anew upon maps marked by ambition and now redrawn by providence. Our passage will take us across treacherous seas to verdant shores—a gateway through which we must pass.
The King summoned me yesterday, his voice a clarion call piercing through the hum of anticipation that fills Paris. In seven days, I shall lay eyes upon our vessel for the first time—the ship commissioned to carry us to a new destiny.
The very thought sends a current of exhilaration through my veins. It is one thing to chart a course in the mind, quite another to see the tangible means by which we will traverse the great expanse of ocean. Yet with this excitement comes a surge of responsibility, for it is upon this ship that our hopes are pinned, and in her hull that our futures will be cradled.
I have made lists, extensive and meticulous, of all that we shall require for our journey and subsequent settlement. My quarters are strewn with parchments—each a catalog of necessities for survival and success in an untamed land. Foodstuffs must be ample and varied, for we cannot subsist on hope alone. Barrels of salted meats, casks of grain, and sacks of dried legumes shall form the cornerstone of our sustenance. We must also carry seeds—wheat, corn, vegetables—a promise sown for harvests yet to come.
But provisions alone will not suffice. We need tools—spades and ploughs to turn the soil; hammers and saws to build shelter; needles and thread to mend cloth. These are the sinews and bones upon which a settlement is fleshed out into a thriving community.
Then there are matters of defense and trade—muskets and powder; trinkets and baubles with which to barter or forge alliances with those who call our destination home long before our sails crest their horizon.
And let us not forget books—for knowledge is as vital a resource as any metal or grain. Tomes on agriculture, medicine, architecture—these will be the bedrock upon which we construct not just buildings but society itself.
I have pressed my case to the King regarding these requirements with both fervor and diplomacy. Yet there is another matter that weighs heavily upon my heart—one I must address with utmost care.
The people who accompany us on this journey must be chosen with discernment that goes beyond mere skill or knowledge. They must possess fortitude—the strength of spirit to face adversity without faltering. This New World will not yield its treasures lightly; it will test us in ways we can scarcely imagine.
I harbor no illusions about the nature of our undertaking—it is no pleasure cruise nor an excursion for the faint-hearted. It concerns me greatly that among those eager to join our ranks might be individuals ill-suited for such trials—those whose lives thus far have been cushioned by wealth and privilege.
The very idea that we might be encumbered by spoilt offspring of affluent witches—individuals who view this endeavor as little more than an adventure or an escape from boredom—is intolerable. Such people would be a liability—a crack in the hull that could sink us all.
I intend to impress upon the King the critical importance of vetting each candidate thoroughly. I seek assurance that those who step aboard our ship do so not because their lineage demands it but because they have something genuine to contribute.
As I ready myself for the ship’s inspection, I am keenly aware that what awaits me is more than mere timber and sailcloth—it is hope incarnate, wrought by human hands into a vessel that will carry us across worlds.
The King expects much from me—as well he should—for it is not just a ship he has commissioned but a dream he has entrusted into my care. And I will not falter; by starlight and storm alike, I will steer us true.
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