The Ragged Ambush

After Pan Marek Worski and the main body of the Polabian ambassadors rode off toward the mythical west, the camp did not return to absolute silence. It seemed that a few of the more ragged bandits from the chicken-loving retinue had decided to stay behind.

Their motives, however, were not exactly subtle.

The Shrubbery Strategy

The Greek spotted them first, though to say he "spotted" them implies that they were difficult to find. They were hiding behind the thin coastal shrubbery just at the edge of the camp. And by "hiding," one means they were crouching behind bushes that were distinctly smaller than they were, occasionally whispering loudly to each other, and breaking branches with every shift of their weight.

Within minutes, the entire crew was aware of their presence. The Admiral squinted into the brush. The Boatswain reached for his belaying pin.

"Relax," the Greek said, waving a hand lazily as he poured himself another cup of something strong. "They are completely harmless."

The crew looked at him skeptically. "They're bandits," the Boatswain muttered.

"Yes, but they are ambushing us," the Greek explained, his dark eyes twinkling with that familiar, philosophical mischief. "You see, they want to provoke us into attacking them first. They believe that if we charge into their shrubbery, we will fall into a trap—because, in their minds, there must be a massive, invisible army hiding behind the next shrubbery."

"Is there an army behind the next shrubbery?" the Admiral asked.

"Of course not," the Greek laughed. "But they don't know that we know that. Let them sit in the dirt."

The Greek was a fascinating man. A sailor who could deconstruct a battlefield tactic with the same ease he used to untangle a paradoxical knot. He was, after all, the man who had introduced himself by declaring he was from Crete, and that all Cretans are liars. To untangle the mind of such a man, one must look deep into The Paradox of Epimenides.

The Light in the Dark

While the crew watched the comical attempts at an ambush, the Captain remained utterly detached from the absurdity.

He sat silently by his small, makeshift hut. He did not look at the bushes. He did not listen to the Greek. Every so often, he would emerge to tend to the fire, quietly cooking game from some unseen supplier—or perhaps dead rats, nobody really knew, and given the circumstances, nobody cared to ask.

The smoke from his tiny pipe curled up into the evening air, mingling with the mist rolling off the water. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the cold set in, the bandits in the bushes began to shiver and curse.

But the Captain just sat there. Smoking. Cooking.

Just the light in the dark. Unmoved by the chaos, anchored to something only he could see.

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