It began 20 years ago, in that isolated chamber in the long-forgotten cellar in the Archives. There, he had been captivated by that ancient story of glory and splendor, of a kingdom with wealth and power rivaling none. His small wooden sloop rose and fell in the rough seas, though he was not fazed. It lined up with his predictions, meticulously calculated, learning from each of his 27 failures. Now, he saw the grand outline of a great island in the distance. His life’s work had come to fruition. He had arrived in Ducktenya.

In those archives, he found in that ancient story a fantastical description of the island: a grand kingdom, encapsulated in magnificent cliffs and overrun with magical pine forests. A grand empire forged from the dirt and rebuilding a new golden age each time it fell. It seemed as if it was blessed by the gods; always rising from the ashes of every war, constantly developing, consistently growing. He had read stories of great heroism, such as the Siege of Ducktenya, where the people had risen up in spite of their invaders and drove them off their homes and soil. In his mind, he would be remembered in the history books, his story told for generations to come.

He landed on the island’s soft, sandy shores and trudged through the wet soil as he reached the cliffs. By the cliffs, he recognized the signature rock strata that had been documented in the Archives. He had studied that map, and he knew he had landed on the northern shores. Just a little longer to the south, and he’d find the only entrance through the cliffs. He could not wait any longer: he had to see the culmination, the climax of 20 years of his life. 

He felt his heart beating ever faster as the explorer sprinted to that ancient port, sand dispersing, unsettled by a torrent of wind and feet. When he reached his destination, he saw a dilapidated harbor that seemed to have been left without maintenance nor care. This puzzled him, as he had always heard about Ducktenya’s dominion over the sea and exploration. He brushed it off, and ran past the port. Perhaps the fabled kings of Ducktenya had abandoned the seas and exploration. He barely recognized a Ducktenyan merchantman, sunken to the bottom of the harbor until he saw what had been waiting for him: at the entrance of the port, there were the ruins of a town, long abandoned and reduced to a sorry sight of dilapidated roofs and collapsed buildings. 

This could not be it, this could not have been what 20 years led to. But, to his dismay, this was the legendary Ducktenya. It lined up with the countless days studying that manuscript in the dark corners of his home city’s coffeehouses; a port on the eastern beach and the towns, still built in the distinct Ducktenyan style no doubt a century after they were abandoned. As he walked through the overgrown streets, he began to collect his thoughts. In those archives, he had been promised a land of plenty, of wealth unimaginable, but yet here he was, in the ruins of that earthly kingdom, with the hopes of himself attaining a grand amount of treasure sinking. Sinking like the Ducktenyan ship he saw in the old harbor, sinking to the depths of that perilous void. 

On that day, he surveyed what was left of Ducktenya. He found villages long abandoned, buildings turned to ash, and roads overrun by the pine forests and thick shrubbery. However, he found the central citadel of the city, with its impenetrable walls long turned to rubble and the fabled castle nothing but a foundation. What had happened to the kingdom of a thousand years? He was in his forties now: half of his life wasted on an impossible venture. Surely he could find treasure somewhere? Perhaps the savings of an aristocratic family, or even the treasury of a Ducktenyan king, hidden away from the prying eyes of his people? 

It was midday, but he began his search with rigor. Through the cobblestone roads, overgrown streets, and collapsed buildings, he gingerly explored and carefully examined what was left. On he went to that forsaken hill and the remnants of that once grand castle, peering into the empty remnants of what once was Ducktenya’s pride and glory. But by the end of the day, all he had discovered was an old chest, which opened to two Ducktenyan silverins, the lowest value Ducktenyan coins. He began to doubt his better judgement, how had he let 20 years of his life slip out of his hands? All for nothing, all for naught. That journey of his younger years left him with two Ducktenyan silverins: a meaningless relic in the new world. 

He set up camp in the dilapidated remains of the only building still mostly intact: a small house, barely large enough for a kitchen at the tallest hill on the island. There, his thoughts began to fester. Anger, frustration at his older self that he had spent this long on a stupid island. A stupid legend, two stupid Ducktenyan silverins. 27 attempts, long nights and the sacrifice of his life’s savings for a useless venture. How had he allowed himself to be captivated by a silly book, hidden away in the Archives for undoubtedly it's unreasonable fantasy? Rage consumed him as he threw the chest and his silverins at the wall, mindless in his fury. The ancient structure shuddered under the impact, as the rotten wood creaked, squealed, and then collapsed. 

Panic-stricken and clearer-minded, with his heartbeat intensifying in his chest, he hastily abandoned his temporary camp and crawled past the splinters left of his old shelter. He slept in the stars that night, anger succumbing to regret as he felt his heart sink. He could’ve sold them as antiques, gotten something from his expedition, anything to count towards his 20 years. When he reached sunrise, he desperately looked through the wooden splinters of the house. Perhaps last night was a dream, perhaps he had not remembered correctly. Maybe they were still somewhere, hidden beneath the splinters, at the foot of the hill, or returned to their original location! His last-ditch efforts revealed nothing but the somber truth: he had squandered the only reward of his adventure. Despondent, he spent that day collecting his bearings and searching what he had once passed. Back he went, to those antique cobblestone roads and overgrown towns, through dilapidated houses and ashes. He stumbled past the sunken Ducktenyan merchantman, and trudged the soft sand that had once seemed so promising. As he weighed anchor, he felt an overwhelming feeling of sadness and regret. If only he had allowed his better judgement to take the helm, if only he kept those two Ducktenyan silverins!

The decades that passed his discovery left him with neither fame nor riches. With no tangible proof of his expedition, and the rather secretive nature of the Archives and their contents meant his story was not taken seriously. In his search, he did not gain great riches or even just recognition. However, he believed this fate was indeed the best reality. Those years after the expedition gave the explorer time to think of his visit in a different light. His visit to the island had only resulted in nothing but destruction of an ancient site; perhaps it was best to leave the last legacy of the Ducktenyans alone. He had also held on to a fragile, ailing memory of the island, keeping its ember glowing until he could find a day to spark a fire. Similarly to the Ducktenyans who rose from nearly every defeat in their history, it was imperative he held onto hope of a better future. Without hope, there could be no such ember, and there could be no fire. If hope is abandoned, there cannot be success.