by Laura McCorry
21 Days Until Landfall
They say kneeling on the top deck of the Offerata cart on its pilgrimage to the sun goddess Za’ani is the highest honor. There’s no staff and no captain, only the giant hoarbeest that pulls the double decker cart across the narrow bridge over the Salten Sea. Four leagues from land, there’s nothing out here except the singing monks, the sea monsters, and me.
They sing all day, all night, in an endless act of devotion. I can never tell where one chant ends and another begins. The monks compliment me on my chapped, red knees that I slather in honey balm at the end of each day. They are the Elected—a curious mix of political aspirants and disgraced devotees hoping for redemption.
All I did was answer the usual gruff summons of “Riga, my office!” and listened while my editor described the Executive Office assignment and pretended to ask if I wanted it. We both knew I did—a hungry young reporter eager to make a name for myself and eager to bend the old systems of power until they broke.
“None of the monks who cross the Salten will return,” my editor warned. “Though they’ve guaranteed you will, as a member of the press.”
I looked down at the new hole I’d pierced in my belt to keep my pants up. Unfortunately, both meanings of ‘hungry’ applied.
“None except the Supreme Leader,” I answered cheekily. I didn’t know much about the journey then, only that it was long and arduous.
My editor shook his head. “There’s nothing I can say that’ll convince you not to go?”
“Can’t think of anything,” I answer cheerfully. It would be the story of the century—shining the light of truth on the mysterious ceremony that decided the next Supreme Leader.
He sighed. Slumped behind his desk. “Go with the blessings of Za’ani. But you better come back and you better bring proof.”
I practically skipped out of there, a naive little fool.
Now, the sun beats down on the unprotected top deck. I sway on my knees. The monk’s chanting laps at my brain, dissolving the boundaries of time. The cart’s metal-rimmed wheels turn over, covering one plank after another on the endless bridge.
My eyes glaze over. The wheel becomes the center of the universe—a fixed point. I can finally see the planet’s rotation, turning end over end around the stationary wheel.
What if the bridge goes on forever over the pink monster-infested sea?
Would the monks ever stop their singing?
“Watch out!” A female monk jerks me back from the cart’s edge. “You could’ve fallen in,” she warns with raised eyebrows.
Fear licks my ribs, late but eager. A tentacled blue arm slaps the surface of the water, echoing her warning. The creature dives before I can glimpse its body.
#
13 Days Until Landfall
The days all blend together crossing the Salten.
The hoarbeest that stands as tall as three men plods forward.
The cart wheels turn, turn, turn on the bridge.
I grew up loyal to Za’ani, but I’d let my devotion lapse. Somewhere along the way, I’d come to believe that you were either blessed by Za’ani or you weren’t. I still take my turn in the monk’s endless devotion on the top deck.
When I’m not there, the lower level of the open air cart is a relaxed, convivial place to be. Ten monks recline against bags of rice, popping grapes into their mouths and boasting of conversions, their goldenrod robes pooling around their knees. Some claim fifty souls, others whole towns that they’ve brought into the fold of Za’ani. They lecture each other on the proper delivery of oratory.
If it sounds like a yacht party of politicians, don’t be misled—the Offerata famously carries nothing in the way of creature comforts—we sleep on bare wooden planks. But her galley is stuffed to the gills with crackers and cheeses, preserved meats and canned fruits, every luxury nonperishable food item imaginable, including the finest wines and deep casks of water.
Supposedly enough to last the journey to the country of the sun.
But only one of the dozen monks will be chosen to become the next Supreme Leader. Maybe. There hasn’t been a coronation in my lifetime. The rest of the monks will live out their days worshipping the sun goddess in a land of plenty. And if the Executive Office can be believed, I’ll be on the return journey, with or without a companion.
After all, no reporter, no story.
A ripple of raucous laughter jolts me to the present. Even as the monks’ conversation soars louder, the lower level doesn’t drown out the sung prayers from the upper deck. Their voices carry across the leagues of empty sea.
No, not empty. After leaving the coastal salt flats and moving over deeper water, monster sightings have increased.
I confess, I spend hours staring into the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of them, though always at a safe distance from the cart’s railing now. The old stories tell of scaled pikerfish that crawl out of the shallows to chomp at the feet of children out of bed. Or the tentacled ghanost whose black ink makes sailors forget their own names. The monks say the monsters out here have jaws wide enough to snap whole tree trunks, with teeth that stink of rot. Nightmare creatures with scales and talons, who feed on human flesh.
“What’s the count today, Riga?” asks a monk with silver earrings. He leans an arm on my shoulders, releasing a waft of rank body odor.
“Nine, I think,” I answer with a cough before stepping aside so he has to drop his arm. I was hoping to add to the count, my pulse spiking at every ripple on the water.
He chews on his lower lip, wiggling a significant growth of dark beard. “Downright terrifying, that.” He slaps my back. “Keep a look out. Them monsters are everywhere.”
The monk leaves but his words linger in the air as I stare out at the smooth surface of the midday sea, as reflective and impenetrable as a mirror.
#
8 Days Until Landfall
The hoarbeest pulls on. My knees have thick calluses now like the monks. More than once, when I’m close to sleep, I’ve caught myself singing their hymns. But I never know the words once I wake.
I stumble down the stairs at the back of the cart after a long shift above. My body aches and my stomach growls with anticipatory hunger before a meal. Which still surprises me. Back home, it never complained so much. Perhaps because it was used to such a meager diet. But on the Offerata, I’ve been fed. All in all, I feel strong and sure of myself, my mind clear.
The lower deck doesn’t seem as crowded as before and it takes me a full minute before I realize why—there are only two unopened sacks of provisions left with the fattest monks reclining against them. We’re running out too quickly.
Perhaps that means we’re getting closer to our destination?
Something gnaws at the back of my mind before clamping like lightning on my brainstem, a jolt of animal fear coursing through me.
Some of the monks must be hoarding supplies. Perhaps they aren’t as certain as they claim about what awaits us in the country of the sun. If the odds are stacked against you and the reward is uncertain… I know enough about human nature to know how that deck of cards falls.
#
5 Days Until Landfall
I tap the plank that hides my modest food stash beneath the lavatory floor. The board moves, but barely. I tear another strip from the bottom of my shirt and wedge the pried-up board back in place more securely.
I fear I’m late to this game. Even as supplies dwindle, the monks continue their indulgence. The hoarbeest is specially bred to go without food and water for long periods. It’ll refuel when we arrive. But I can’t eat seagrass and coastal larberries—and who’s to say we’ll find the same plants growing on Za’ani’s shores? What good is a guaranteed return passage if I arrive as an emaciated corpse?
The lavatory door bangs shut behind me and I resume my post on the upper deck.
I’ve stopped pretending to pray. All I do is search for monsters now.
The water is clear today, revealing the jagged, dark cracks where the sea floor disappears into an abyss. Over the pink salt shales, mottled shadows drift and chase each other, too big to be schools of fish. My skin crawls even as I can’t look away.
A loud thump sounds from under the bridge. The monks join me in craning their heads over the sides without breaking their chant.
“What was that?” I ask, but nobody answers. I’m seated in front, right behind the swish of the hoarbeest’s tail.
The shadows in the water draw closer, making it seem like the bridge is built directly over the abyss. White froth churns on the surface and the thumping noise returns. Monsters, but I can’t tell what kind.
The monks glance at each other with pale faces and trembling jaws. Their chanting wavers. The hoarbeest picks up the pace and this scares me more than anything else.
Screams erupt as two giant silver-scaled monsters launch themselves out of the water, using their large pectoral fins for temporary flight. They land on the cart in a spray of blood, their fins slicing down to the bone on the monks’ lifted arms. Jaws snapping, they writhe on the deck, trying to reach us.
A large monk grasps one of the creatures behind its fins, trying to heave it overboard. But the monster twists and catches the man’s stomach in its jaws. The monk’s loopy, bright pink entrails spill out on the deck. He tries to speak, his mouth moves in a familiar pattern, but I can’t tell if his last breath is a scream, or unthinkably, the broken hymn.
Only the monk on my right continues chanting, staring straight ahead. I shake their shoulders. We should do something, not just sit there.
“Together now,” calls out a stocky monk with greying hair. She balances a long wooden oratory perch on her shoulder, wedging the other end beneath the foremost monster’s belly.
I rush behind her, my sandals squelching. Others join us and we leverage the beast over the edge of the cart. It smacks the water broadside, sending up a tremendous spray.
Further back, other monks manage to throw off the second monster.
My clothes are splattered in blood and guts and saltwater while my heart pounds so fast it’s hard to breathe. I want to bathe. I want to lie down somewhere safe. I want to be anywhere but this goddessforsaken cart. I start for the stairs to the lower deck as the monks toss the body of the disemboweled man overboard. I expect the others to join me but the monks kneel to rejoin the chant, clutching their wounds.
#
3 Days Until Landfall
We lose two more to their injuries, both at night.
My eyes still blurry with sleep, a grunting noise rouses me. Clouds cover the stars, though a crescent moon hangs low on the horizon, revealing indistinct shapes moving around me. The unmistakable sound of a splash pops my eyes wide open.
“The other one, too?” someone asks in a low voice.
The shadows bend over a sleeping form and lift with another grunt. I know that monk, the younger female who had kept me from falling overboard early in our journey. Fever had set in and she hadn’t eaten since the attack. Her lacerated arms had clotted and then oozed with green-tinged pus.
There’s a second splash. I close my eyes even though I didn’t see a thing. Perhaps it’s a mercy. The journey seemed simple enough when we left. The hoarbeest pulls the cart to the country of the sun. One monk would return with me, or no monks, but they were promised a life there. Why wouldn’t Za’ani save her disciples?
I can already hear my editor saying, you knew there were monsters.
It’s a dangerous journey. So why doesn’t the Offerata carry medical supplies? The pomp and circumstance of our departure seems more important than the success of our journey.
By the light of day, the monks are quieter than before, except for their singing. I can’t muster the energy to ascend to the top deck and take my turn in their devotion. My stomach is quiet too, like a beaten dog that no longer cries. I scribble in my salt-battered notebook to train my focus elsewhere.
The silver-earring monk slides his gaze to me. “It’s not every year a Supreme Leader returns,” he remarks.
The five other monks shift to attention. One reaches toward her waist but stays her hand. They’re silent, watching Silver Earring and me. The cart creaks and water laps gently at the bridge.
I swallow, suddenly nervous. “I know.”
“I just want you to write it down,” says Silver Earring with a pretend yawn. He cares more than he lets on.
The grey-haired woman glares at us.
“I will,” I say, my heart jumping in my throat. Everyone knows I’m here to document.
“Mind your devotion,” grunts the woman to Silver Earring.
There’s no apparent hierarchy among the monks, but he scurries to his feet and ascends the ladder. They sing to Za’ani without ceasing. For the first time, I wonder how many of the monks are true believers.
#
2 Days Until Landfall
The space beneath the lavatory floor is at capacity, but I won’t need to find another hiding spot—there are no more provisions to pilfer. The second water tank grows lighter by the day. Last night after the moon had set, I pried up the waterproof membrane from the first tank and wrapped it around my torso. Now I’m twice as uncomfortable for the dubious benefit of someday collecting rainwater. It feels like penance, which is harder to relinquish as a concept than prayer.
It hasn’t rained since the Offerata set forth.
The hoarbeest pulls on, oblivious to the plight of its passengers. The lower deck is eerily silent, each monk curled up in a miserable posture I know well. I wonder if this is the first time they’ve felt real hunger.
Even the hymn on the upper deck strikes me as slower and more dirge-like. I settle into a side perch so I can scan the Salten. When you’re looking for monsters, they’re easy to find.
There’s a scuffle and something large flies through the corner of my vision. I hit the deck, heart thumping. Is it the same type of monster or a new horror?
The sound of a splash has me rising. It wasn’t a monster launching out of the water to attack—it was someone jumping into the sea, or being thrown.
The heavyset monk with a silver earring is floating on his back. The hymn pours out of his mouth, full and resonant, as monster shadows circle beneath him. He has moments to live, and he’s singing.
It would be a fool’s errand to dive in after him. And anyway, I’m not strong enough to save him and myself, even if the impulse is there.
In a flash, an iridescent pikerfish sinks its talons into his thigh. The monk is pulled beneath the surface and his voice drops out of the chant.
My head swims. The sun shines bright overhead, blinding me.
It’s not every year a Supreme Leader returns. The monk didn’t say ‘is chosen’ and for that, he was punished.
He was trying to warn me. The monks know they won’t return and for some reason, they want me alive until the end. And yet, belief is twined so tight around the human core, his final moments were devoted to Za’ani. Danger lurks all around me and it’s not confined to the sea.
#
1 Day Until Landfall
We’ll make landfall tomorrow, though I don’t know what time. The sea is calm, the sun a ribbon of orange rising over the bridge. It must be shining directly in its eyes, but the hoarbeest doesn’t stumble.
The remaining fresh water is gone. I go to the lavatory to check my stash, not for the trickle of dark liquid that pours out of me. The preserved meats and dried out biscuits are still there and my mouth salivates uselessly. I dare not dip into it. Not when I’m questioning everything I’ve been told about Za’ani and the country of the sun.
As long as the hoarbeest can find something to eat.
As long as we all get fresh water soon.
Then the monks can go on to whatever awaits them and I can turn the cart around. That thought is the only one keeping me going.
#
1 Day Until Landfall
The sun tilts low behind us and my pulse races, thinking about the coming night. It seems a bad omen to enter the country of the sun while the goddess is sleeping. But there’s a sweet smell on the wind and the sea has grown shallow and more deeply pink. Salt crystals form fantastical shapes off the sides of the bridge.
The remaining monks are restless. They sway on their knees as they sing and sometimes their eyes roll back in their heads. Even on the lower deck, they sit at attention, not talking. It feels like we’re playing a game where we’ve all been assigned roles, but I’m the only one who doesn’t know mine. And it’s not actually a game.
Finally, land appears on the horizon. Low-slung with little vegetation. Nothing more than a rocky island. I wait for an explanation but none comes. It’s the end of the bridge.
#
Landfall
I blink my eyes open, head groggy, limbs tingling. A blurry memory of being handed a water flask surfaces, then recedes. Something’s different. It’s too dark to see. There’s a whiff of smoke on the breeze and the waves sound louder as they crash over rocks.
The cart isn’t moving. Stillness after so many days of journeying drives a stake of fear through my brain. I widen my eyes, straining to see by starlight… which shouldn’t be there. I’d fallen asleep on the lower deck.
I stand on trembling legs. For now, I’m unharmed. I’m alone in the partially disassembled cart, at the end of the bridge, on a rocky island at the edge of the world.
A light jumps up on the dark mound of land and I hear the monks singing around a fire.
I fashion the waterproof membrane into a backpack with a bit of twine. With shaking hands, I pry up the lavatory board and recover my stash of dried food. Then I step out of the cart.
Loose sand shifts beneath my feet as I walk toward them. A stiff wind rounds the dark coast, blowing my hair in my eyes. My foot drops out from under me, landing in a small stream flows toward the sea. I kneel and gulp eagerly. It tastes awful, but it’s not salt and that’s all that matters.
As I get closer, firelight splashes across their haggard faces, making the monks unrecognizable. They’re burning the upper deck.
I drop to my hands and knees to hide. I can still make it back. The lower deck hasn’t been destroyed. I can turn it around. The hoarbeest—where is it?
Then my stomach drops out of my body when I see its enormous silhouette before the fire. The monks all simultaneously reach beneath their robes. Light glints off eight steely blades right before they plunge them into the beast. Its scream rises, fractures on an eerie high note, somehow ringing in the air even after it must be dead.
I can barely breathe. They promised I would return.
They lied. How can I get back without the hoarbeest?
Given the size and scarcity of the island, I don’t need to be told what happens next. I wonder how many of them knew, or suspected, from the start? How many of their prayers were for Za’ani and how many for themselves? It’s tradition that the Supreme Leader sends out the Offerata every year—but wealth protects wealth, power protects power. Of course nobody has returned for years.
I won’t wait to see who, if anyone, emerges from the fray.
Write it down. I had. I would. I would tell the truth, never knowing if it would be enough to change someone’s belief. The story of the century, if I make it back.
By the faint starlight, I pluck a strange wildflower and its seed pod. It weighs nothing in my hand, takes up almost no space in the world, and yet I hope it’ll supply my burden of proof.
My footsteps thud against the wooden planks as I turn my back on the country of the sun. The monk with the silver earring was right—there are monsters everywhere.
© Laura McCorry 2026
Laura McCorry is a writer and sourdough enthusiast who lives outside of Washington, DC. Her work is forthcoming in Black Sheep Magazine and has appeared in Breaking Into the Craft and Poetry Quarterly.