The Sextant That Shouldn’t Exist: A Mariner’s Curse in Brass and Glass
They say you can still hear the ocean, even in the middle of Kansas.
That’s what the old man told me. Just before he handed over the cracked leather case—dry, sea-salt worn, and smelling like decades of dust and diesel. He said it had been passed down through four hands, each one claiming it had been “found,” never owned. Never bought. Like it had chosen them.
I wasn’t looking for anything that day. Just digging through rusted tools and forgotten signs at a crumbling estate barn outside Topeka. The kind of place you’d expect to find a Pepsi cooler, not a portal.
But that case. It was calling.
A Compass With No Needle
Inside was... well, I didn’t know at first.
Brass. Solid. Cold. With strange, curved mirrors and levers that clicked too precisely to be handmade, but too imperfect to be machine-born. It had a weight to it—not just in pounds, but in presence. Like something that had watched too much. Crossed too many latitudes. Survived storms that never made the news.
It wasn’t labeled. No maker’s mark. No serial number. Only a set of hand-etched numbers along the arc:
1847.
And beneath it, something even stranger:
APRIL 17, 2031.
Ghost Ships and Future Dates
I thought it was a joke at first. But the seller didn’t laugh. Just shrugged.
“Sailor said it came off the Thorne, or what was left of her.”
Now, I’d heard of the Thorne. A U.S. Navy weather ship that vanished in the North Atlantic in 1956. No mayday. No debris. Just… gone. Rumors claimed she ran afoul of a rogue Soviet sub. Others said she drifted into an unmapped current—something cold and starless that even sonar couldn’t track.
One diver, decades later, claimed he found part of her hull near Greenland. Said the metal was warm to the touch. Said it hummed like a tuning fork when the stars were aligned a certain way.
He died of unexplained exposure three days after.
The Brass That Remembered
When I brought it home, strange things started happening.
The mirrors inside reflected things that weren’t behind me.
The arc didn’t align to the stars—it aligned to… something else. I pointed it toward Sirius one night, and the room grew colder. The lamp dimmed, then surged with a pulse like a heartbeat.
I stopped using it after that.
I didn’t tell my wife about the dreams. About the voice on the wind that called me “Captain” in languages I’ve never heard. About the feeling that I’m no longer entirely landlocked, even when I’m mowing the backyard.
But I’ll say this:
Whatever that thing measures, it isn’t the sea.
Beneath the Wood, the Stars
Some nights, I take it out. Set it on the table. Just to look.
The brass has started to darken in strange ways. Not tarnishing—more like… bruising. The wooden box sometimes shifts, like it's adjusting itself to new pressure. There’s a tiny scorch mark near the latch. I didn’t burn it.
I keep it locked now. But sometimes, when I pass the room, I hear the clasps ticking.
Like it's trying to open.
Or trying to let something out.
Postscript
They say every sailor dies twice.
Once when they stop breathing. And once when their compass no longer points home.
I’m not a sailor. But I know when something’s watching the sky through glass.
And I know when something wants to be found again.
Editor’s Note: A navigation device matching this description was listed in a collector's catalog recently. No claims are made about its origin. But it does appear to be in working order.
🔗 Explore the artifact
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