The world of piracy had been his refuge, his muse, and his obsession… and his source of income for several decades. For years, Balin Vaan Buren had lived through his characters, sailing across fictional seas in search of adventures that delighted his audience. His hero, the Red Falcon, stood against empires to free the oppressed, always pursuing hidden treasures and remaining loyal to King and Country. Balin's novels always ended with cheers and songs in a tavern by the docks of Wapping, a conclusion that promised hope even in the darkest times. A somewhat repetitive formula, but one that had brought him a significant audience and had allowed him to pay his debts. However, the waves that once carried him forward had begun to batter him. His latest novel had been a failure. The publishing house had coldly dismissed it, arguing that pirate stories were a thing of the past. As he walked under the light drizzle of London, Balin recalled the episode of his last meeting with the editors at the offices of Hawthorn & Barrington, located on Fleet Street.
"The audience wants realism, romance... no more swashbuckling adventures," they told him at the publishing house.
"I know, that's why I wrote Heart of the Caribbean," Balin replied.
"Balin," one of the editors said, removing his glasses to look at him more closely, "your novel felt like a poor imitation of Liza Haywood's romantic dramas, just set in the Caribbean and with pirates."
"I'm sorry, Balin," the other editor said, standing up and extending his hand. "We wish you the best of luck in your future projects."
After that unfortunate event, which practically buried his career as a writer, he decided to head towards the docks to clear his mind.
As he approached Wapping, the sounds of the port grew louder: the creaking of moored ships, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the wooden pilings, and the murmurs of sailors unloading goods by the dim glow of lanterns. That atmosphere stirred conflicting emotions within him. On one hand, the thrill of that maritime world that had once fueled his creativity; on the other, the melancholy realization that the world he had created and lived in through his novels, according to the publishing house and the times, was now over. Balin sought solace in a nearby tavern by the docks, The White Pelican, the very kind of place where his characters celebrated their victories. But this time, there were no victories to toast. Only a glass of rum and the bitter company of his thoughts, despite the fact that the place was packed with adventurers and drunken sailors shouting and singing to the tune of a badly played melody. A waitress, her neckline daringly low, tried to liven up the atmosphere by singing as she served the tables. Then, a stranger noticed him. A rough-looking man, his face weathered by the sun and marked by scars that spoke of a hard life, approached with a mocking smile.
"I know who you are… you're the novelist," he said.
"And how do you know I'm a writer? I could be a wine merchant," Balin replied indifferently.
"Come on, velvet jacket, powdered wig, and the face of a gentleman. Besides, your portrait is on the covers of your little books."
"I never thought the portrait was so accurate," Balin said with boredom.
The man sat down across from him and placed his mug on the table.
"What's the matter? Are you here to draw inspiration from our misfortunes? To listen to a good tale that will make you rich while the poor devil in the story remains miserable and alone, living off his memories?"
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear sir," Balin replied, "but I'm afraid the reason for my visit is far from cheerful. You might be interested to know that my latest novels have been a failure. My last manuscript, to which I devoted so much time, effort, and love, was rejected. Now I'm on the streets… and my pockets hold barely enough coins, insufficient for my creditors."
The man narrowed his eyes.
"Well, sooner or later, we all get rained on… though some of us were born in the storm and are still there."
They toasted to that and began to talk. Late into the night, between shared jests and drinks, the man hinted that he knew something, a secret about a real story, more fantastic than any fiction Balin had ever written.
"It's a shame I'm an ignorant man. If I had written it, I'd be living in a palace, not in a hovel like this," the pirate said with a sigh.
"I'm burning with curiosity to hear about it," Balin said indifferently, his gaze drifting toward the crowd.
The pirate took his tankard and drank deeply, as if he needed the rum to lubricate the tale he was about to tell. Then, he wiped his beard with the back of his hand, set the tankard down on the table with a heavy thud, and fixed his gaze on Balin.
"There are many legends whispered in the ports," he murmured in a low, gravelly voice, "but few are drenched in blood, death, and madness like this one."
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if afraid that someone else might overhear.
"It was a pirate ship, a vessel hardened by a thousand raids, crewed by men who feared neither God nor the Devil. But the sea… the sea is treacherous, lad. A storm caught them, a hurricane like none they had ever seen. The sky roared like a starving beast, and the waves rose as if they meant to swallow them whole."
He paused, letting the words settle, allowing the image of the shipwreck to form in Balin's mind.
"When the storm passed, their ship was shattered, wrecked upon an island that appeared on no map—a cursed land, if you ask me. The jungle was dense, and the air smelled of something ancient, something that did not belong to this world. They had to survive… to find water, food… but what they found, Your Excellency, what they found…"
He ran his tongue over his dry lips and lowered his voice even further.
"At the heart of a cavern, hidden among rocks as black as death, they discovered a treasure… an unimaginable treasure. Gold, jewels, relics from forgotten ages."
Balin listened with disdain.
"And what's so novel about that?, he asked bored.
The pirate smiled and added:
"There wasn't just treasure. Among the riches, they found a relic of unknown origin, an object that, they say, grants power to whoever possesses it. Since ancient times, kingdoms, empires, and even the Holy Inquisition have tried to find it. However, the curse surrounding the island and the relic doomed the pirate captain who discovered it, and do you know who it was?"
Balin shrugged.
"The very same Verbeck... "said the pirate, pausing for dramatic effect". The bloodthirsty pirate who was a nightmare for the Spanish and other powers, he himself used that artifact until, finally, when he was surrounded by the Spanish and French, who joined forces with a great fleet to defeat him, he fled to his secret island to die along with his cursed crew."
The old sea wolf paused, his gaze lost in memory or in the depths of his tankard. Then, in a whisper, almost inaudible, he finished:
"Since there were no survivors, the location of the place remains a mystery"."
He leaned back in his chair, took another sip, and smiled bitterly.
"Or at least… so they say."
Balin cleared his throat and looked at him with a skeptical expression.
"Forgive me for asking, my good friend "he said", but if no one survived… how do you know this story?".
The man took a swig from his mug, winked, and replied:
"Because I survived. And I have the journal."
From his pea coat, he pulled out an old notebook, its pages yellowed and filled with drawings that seemed like the work of an obsessed cartographer. Every stroke told a story that awakened something in Balin he thought he had lost: inspiration.
The pirate, overcome by alcohol, began to sing old sea shanties before falling into a deep sleep. It was then that Balin made his decision. He looked around, making sure no one was watching, and with trembling hands, he took the journal and left the tavern. Outside, the night enveloped him as he held the notebook against his chest, like a lifeline in the midst of a storm. He didn't know if the pages contained a true tale or the ramblings of a drunk, but he was sure of one thing: this was his chance to write the story that could restore his lost glory. Perhaps, this time, he would achieve the literary success he so desperately needed to escape his mounting debts.