III

There are some destinations defined not by the place but by the journey. In all my travels, nowhere have I found this a more applicable statement than with the island-shitty of Purgia. It is a place without location, found by those who seek it not; or perhaps better put, it is a site that finds those fated to visit its wasted shores and depths.

Indeed Purgia is rarely quested for, and even seasoned travelers cannot agree on where it lies. Most would have trouble placing it on a map, leaving between them a bewildering set of similar yet contradictory stories. I know the path which led me there the first time, and I still feel a twist in my gut when I think of the rocky outcrop marking its shore.

On my last day in Gorges I happened upon a stroke of luck and ran into an old traveling companion. We made plans to reacquaint ourselves, and that afternoon we ate sumptuously and at great length, drinking many bottles of exotic milk liquor over tales of our journeys. I was hesitant to part so quickly, but my travel on the evening tide had been arranged and I could not convince my companion to join me. So it was with some regret that I hauled my battered chest to the docks and boarded the trawler. We set sail at once, and soon I was fast asleep in my chambers.

I dreamt of torrential rain, mudslides, and volcanic outpourings. A particularly violent eruption woke me to shouts from the deck above. The first glint of morning light shone through the porthole, and, owing to the long journey planned ahead, I wondered at first how long I had slept that there should already be such commotion. With a feeling of some dizziness I attributed to seasickness, I grabbed my coat and climbed up into the cool sea air.

Never will I forget the first sight of its rocky crags over the bulwark of the ship, a place which I instantly recognized despite my virgin approach. Alongside this alien familiarity I felt a certain feeling of uncertainty, and even a vague hope that I was errant in my identification. A seaman ran by and I grabbed his shoulder, inquiringly: Purgia, indeed.

Its shoreline spread wide ahead of us, and with the wind at our back it only became more vast. One by one the other passengers roused from their slumber and we gathered at the rails, starting with no small apprehension at the vast coastline.

Jagged rocks loomed over swirling whirlpools, promising a treacherous landing–if a landing at all. The miasma of fog hovering over the shoreline did little to ease the anxiety of the crew and passengers. As we neared anxiety turned to panic, and at the first sounds of waves crashing against the magnesial cliffs my brow ran cold, my guts turgid with fire.

Yet as we drew close to the maelstrom, a strange possession took hold of me. Like the most orthodox of pilgrims to Porta, I became consumed with a fervor for reaching that shore—no matter the cost. In the clefts of rock I began to notice palaces, and in the exposed reef a safe harbor. Beautiful sirens called from the whirlpool’s edge, and I bathed to their tune in my own sweat, sweet bile rising in my throat, fire at the door of my anus.

The vortex approached and I gripped the rail white-knuckled, feeling not fear but anticipation. With a final spasm of inevitability the vessel dipped toward the deep. Simultaneously the ship exhaled–or rather screamed–a guttural, wet effusion. Where my orifices ended and the ship’s began I cannot say, for I was submerged in darkness as we dove into the saline abyss.

It may be that Purgia is truly an Atlantis; I cannot say. Had I not seen the palaces in the sea-tormented bluff? Where do the beautiful women, basking in song at the eddy’s edge, sleep at night? There is certainly a realm of which we know little, reached only through this calamitous path. Submerged for a fortnight after being swallowed by the vortex, it is where I and the remaining survivors had passed that time before being disgorged like so much detritus into the harsh light of the sea surface.

When I awoke, I was floating in a field of wreckage, the island shitty of Purgia nowhere to be seen, the songs of its denizens lost save to my memory. I heard a nearby groan and made weak strokes to the ship’s single skiff, floating in the wreckage and miraculously undamaged. It housed the several other remaining survivors, and I dragged myself over its edge to rest in a sagging heap in its stern.

We had little to say to each other; I was empty and exhausted. Yet I was also filled with a peculiar serenity I had not felt for weeks, the excesses of Gorges left behind me. The experience had voided me of my worldly sins, leaving me lost at sea and yet liberated. I had the feeling that with a nap, and perhaps some good nourishment, I could emerge energetic and cleansed.

As you no doubt surmise, we were indeed rescued, though I will spare you the mundane details. I cannot wish this journey on another. Yet, having lived to tell the tale, I can say this: the most terrifying aspect of the approach to Purgia was not the violent crush of the sea against our doomed vessel, nor the apocalyptic downward rush, but rather the orgasmic, howling discharge of my companions as we plunged into the void.