Truly do I admire those seafaring explorers and hold them in great esteem. They are intrepid men. After all, it is terrifying to venture onto the ocean under sail. Why, there are squalls and storms, hidden rocks, magnetic mountains, rough and sticky seas. If there aren’t whirlpools, then there’s turbulence, and if not turbulence, then currents. It teems with a plenitude of sea monsters and serpents, tritons, hippocampi, mermen, dolphins and flatfishes. The sea is awash with diverse sanguisugae, polypi, octopodes, locustae, cancri, pistrixi et huic similia. The most dreadful place is at the end—for where the ocean finishes, beyond its edge, begins Hell. Why do you think the sun is so red when it sets? Because it reflects the infernal fires. What is more, there are holes spread over the entire ocean, and when a caravel imprudently sails over one, it tumbles straight into Hell. It is clear it was created in such an image to stop mortal man sailing the seas. Hell is the penalty for those who break the rules.

But, from my experience, it won’t stop the Portuguese, since navigare necesse est and there are islands and lands beyond the horizon that need discovering. Distant Taprobane must be drawn on maps, the route to mysterious Zipangu described on roteiros, and Insulae Fortunatae—the Isles of the Blessed—marked on portulan charts. One must sail ever further, in the wake of Saint Brendan along the route of dreams, to Hy-Brasil, towards the unknown. In order to make the unknown known.

And that is why—quod erat demonstrandum—our world is diminishing and shrinking, because soon everything will be visible on maps, portulan charts and roteiros. And suddenly everywhere will be close.

The world is shrinking and becoming depleted of one thing: legends. The further the Portuguese caravels sail, the more islands discovered and named, the fewer legends there will be. Another one vanishes like smoke. We have one less dream. And when a dream dies, darkness fills the place orphaned by the dream. Then monsters awake at once in that darkness, particularly when our minds are lulled. What? It has been said before? M’lord! Is there anything that has not already been said?

Oh, but my throat is dry… What would I say to a beer, you ask? By all means.

What do you say, devout brother of Saint Dominic? Aha, that it is time I stopped digressing and took up the story again? Of Reynevan, Scharley, Samson and the others? You are right, Brother. It is. Thus do I resume it.

Anno Domini 1427 dawned. Do you remember what it brought? Indeed. It cannot be forgotten. But I shall remind you nonetheless.