The Place of the Broken Pillar

While examining the great library at the estate of Cardinal Pierre le de Roux, I happened upon a curiosity of some minor importance. It was a secret antechamber behind a wall covered in manuscripts related to maritime history. On the left hand wall was a painting, an old man of war, as used in the previous century in the great wars, with sails billowing, waves crashing about it as it struggled in the midst of a violent tempest. Directly ahead of me was the antique mahogany helm of a ship, possibly the same kind as the man of war from the painting, covered in a thin veil of dust. And to my right the chamber contained a small desk with an ancient yellow candle and a dusty worn leather tome resting next to it.

I lit the candle from my lamp, and as the golden light rose and fell upon the room I felt as if I was no longer in the forgotten derelict chamber but instead in the cabin of some mariner upon the seas of old. I sat behind the rough desk and opened the latched leather tome, taking care not to let the time loosened pearls fall from their holdings in the spine. The yellowed vellum pages turned with creaking and crumpling as if all the years of disuse were being released from them. And upon the dusty pages I read thus:

“There is a place at the very mouth of the Mediterranean Sea, where two large bronze columns rise from the sun warmed waters. These are the pillars of Heracles and for good reason, for they are gigantic and a threat for all wishing to sail beyond them. I am from the small village of Jarasa, founded long ago by the remnants of Carthage. In Jarasa fishermen and their sons would sail on summer’s first day to touch the pillars in the bay. We hoped in doing so we may gain some of the legendary strength of Heracles to bring in the large catches.

We fished all through the summer and the first of the autumn when the fish are large and their meat is sweat. And when the late autumn’s storms were drawing neigh we would look to our homes and families and ensure we had caught and dried enough fish for the long winter. If we had not we would then travel to the port town of La Mera and buy the rest of the needed fish for our families.

One stormy autumn day, I went with my father to La Mera to purchase seal oil for our lamps, ours having been spoiled by rats that summer. As we fought the wind and rain from the storm to get back to our small boat at the docks, we tried to keep the oil covered and safe from the elements. We sailed back home towards the Pillars and Jarasa, but as we drew near, a sudden light appeared on the western seas. And as we sailed closer we beheld a most terrible sight.

A large man of war, sails torn and flags shredded had collided with the left pillar bending it and sending a large crack along its length. The ship was on fire and lodged firmly into the breaking pillar. Already debris and bodies from the ship floated in the cool Atlantic current that swirled about the burning core. And then I saw them. There were people still on the wreckage, some clinging to the Pillar, others on parts of the wreckage. Most were yelling and waving their arms calling for help. Apparently none could swim.

We loosed out sails and made haste to try and save as many or any if possible. But an adverse wind was blowing and the debris nearly impaled our small craft before we could draw within range to help. We could do nothing and so we simply rode the bucking and billowing ocean as we watched and waited for a miracle.

There was one, only one, person who could swim. He seemed to be a boy of about seventeen or eighteen, with dark hair and eyes and a strong frame. He looked as if he may have been a kitchen boy from his attire, but his bearing, standing there upon the swaying wreckage with lightning and fires illuminating him, made him seem as some divine prince of the sea. With a quick leap he was in the mountainous sea, swimming up hills of water and riding down them into the abysmal valleys of cold, grey-green water.

We sat ready in our boat, the wind and the current still against us, with line in hand to aid him once we could. But then surprisingly he had not swum far before he came to a woman and her small child who begged his help. He took the child and placed her upon his neck, then placed his arm around the woman and began to swim towards our vessel. When he reached the furthest part of the wreckage, the one closest to us, he placed the woman and child upon the large raft of debris and swam back.

He soon returned with an elderly gentleman and his wife, both clutching each other fiercely as they feared the raging waters. Then he went back again, fatigue beginning to show in his strokes as he returned this time with his head barely above the waves, two children on his back and their parents under each arm. He went again and returned with a finely dressed lady who was complaining that the children had been rescued first. Still the boy said nothing and went back yet again, the fires upon the wreckage spreading faster.

He drew near several gentlemen dressed very finely and all three leapt upon his back at once. They began to sink and as they did they fought one another as they were drowning, the boy trapped beneath them. He surfaced and managed a breath of air before he was pushed under by the greedy men in the fancy suites yet again. Kicking free of them he swam away but did not get far before another group of people jumped upon him. Women grabbed his arms, men his legs, while more and more of the finely dressed ones leapt upon his back, and then upon one another, in order to escape their doom.

But there were too many and he could not carry them all, and so the weight of their great number slowly began to drag him under the churning salty water. His head went under the swarming mass of humanity as more tried to escape upon his back from the dreaded fires. Then with a loud groan the bronze pillar snapped completely and fell upon the burning ship and the pile of humanity. There was a large crash, and a mighty wave that turned the currents around. We sailed closer and rescued those he had placed upon the outer timbers and took them back to Jarasa, then we sailed with a group of men to the place of the broken pillar.

We searched many days but could not find his body and we realized that he must still be beneath the bronze pillar somewhere on the deep sea floor. We buried the slain and used the timbers from the ship to build a large wooden trident upon the overlooking hill in memory of the day. I kept the helm of the ship which washed ashore, forever wondering at the hands that guided them all to their destinies. And from that day forth when our fishermen sailed out on summer’s first day with their sons, they asked not only for the strength of Heracles but also for courage of the unnamed boy who gave his life to save so many.”

As I finished reading this tale I looked with awe upon the helm that stood in this sacred shrine. I also noticed for the first time the dark and ominous sea chest in the corner. I went over to open it, but a feeling of dread came upon me. I felt filthy, as if I had defiled this sacred chamber with my inquisitive presence. So I decided that I would not look within the chest. Instead I made my way out of the library and afterwards set sail for a little known village on the Mediterranean Sea where I too might sail out upon a boat to ask for courage at the place of the broken pillar.