Maldivian Folktale: Vigani

"String Travel presents another Maldivian Folktale edition for this year’s Halloween.

This time, we share the myth of "Vigani", a name carried through Maldivian culture as a symbol of misfortune. A bad omen, a shadow blamed when things turn for the worse, when luck fades, and something unexplainable lingers just beyond reason. Happy Halloween!"

The crew of Miyaru were legends once — fishermen from Thuraakunu, the northernmost island of the Maldives. Fishing was in their blood; the sea had fed their fathers and their fathers’ fathers.

Ilyas, their captain, was a man carved by the ocean — rational, proud, hardened by years of salt and wind. His crew were his brothers in spirit: Saleem, the cook, and Shifau, his mechanic — devout, superstitious men, but clever in their craft. Naseem, the old helmsman and first mate, carried a lifetime of wisdom and folklore in his veins. And Hassan, the silent navigator, once a soldier, spoke only when the sea demanded it.

Together, they were the famed figures that made the legendary vessel the pride of Thuraakunu — a name once said with awe. But the ocean had changed. The fish were scarcer, the waters warmer, and the catches smaller. Overfishing, pollution — Ilyas could blame many things, but deep down, he felt it was fate mocking him. The glory days were dying, and the sea no longer answered his call.

Pride is a cruel master.

So when Ilyas found a way to restore his name — a smuggling gig, a quick fortune — he convinced himself it was destiny. The job was simple: meet a Sri Lankan vessel called Crescent beyond Maldivian waters, take aboard its contraband, and sail home unnoticed.

His crew hesitated, but the one to speak, Saleem, the most loyal, saw the desperation in Ilyas’s eyes and gave him his final contribution — words that haunted them all, except for Ilyas.

“I won’t be part of what will forsake us,” Saleem said.

He replaced Saleem with a young newcomer — Rafiq, bright-eyed and eager, a deckhand who grew up idolizing Miyaru’s crew. Ilyas, the captain, was his biggest hero.

They left at dawn under the guise of a routine fishing trip. Families waved from the jetty, unaware of the true mission. Rafiq’s parents, proud yet anxious, watched their son set out on his first voyage — his dream come true.

The day passed quietly, the nets coming up light and empty — vindication for Ilyas. His plan stood true due to another bad haul. Never wavering from his true goal, his mind was fixed on the night ahead. At 22:00, they set their bearings and crossed into international waters — forbidden territory. The horizon was an endless black seam, stitched only by stars.

At 01:00, they reached the coordinates. No sign of the Crescent.

Another hour passed. Nothing.

Naseem grew uneasy. “We should head back,” he said. “There’s no shame in turning around.”

Ilyas’s voice hardened. “And go back with what? Empty nets? Empty hands? You want to tell the island their captain came back a failure?”

He looked out across the void, the dark sea rippling like an animal breathing beneath him. Somewhere deep within, something stared back.

A light. Faint, flickering. A silhouette of a vessel drifting on the black water.

“There,” Ilyas whispered. “That’s her.”

They approached, but as the shape grew closer, the air changed. The cold deepened, the silence grew heavy, and even the wind seemed reluctant to touch the hull. The ship looked abandoned — rusted, skeletal. No lights, no sound.

“Doesn’t look like a smuggler’s vessel,” Hassan muttered.

Ilyas ignored him. He ordered Hassan and Shifau to board with him, leaving Naseem and

Rafiq on Miyaru. They tied the boats, climbed across the ropes, and vanished into the derelict shadow.

Inside, everything reeked of rust and decay. Empty corridors stretched into darkness.

The air was thick, damp, and heavy with the scent of old salt and something else — something like coral left too long in the sun.

“Captain,” Shifau said softly, “this place… it’s wrong.”

“Keep looking,” Ilyas barked. “There must be someone here.”

They searched the decks — nothing. No crew, no sign of life. Ilyas sent Hassan back to bring the others, while instructing Shifau to inspect the radio room. Moments later, Hassan brought Naseem and Rafiq.

Naseem, filled with anger at this absurd and unnecessary endeavor, confronted Ilyas.

“What do you hope to gain here? We have to go back,” Naseem shouted.

Before Ilyas could respond, a scream echoed. They found Shifau clutching his arm, blood pouring from a deep gash.

“I’m sorry, Captain, I screwed up,” he stammered, pale.

They needed first aid. Naseem ordered they head back to their ship — but as they rushed onto the deck, a greater horror awaited them.

Miyaru was gone.

The ropes hung slack into the water. The sea was calm, as if it had simply swallowed their ship whole.

Panic set in. Naseem urged they stay put, wait for dawn. Ilyas, half-mad with disbelief, insisted they search deeper for help — for answers. Shifau’s wound worsened; his pain was inhuman for just a laceration. No, this was different — as if something beneath his skin writhed with him. Naseem stayed behind to tend to him while Ilyas, Hassan, and Rafiq went below.

As they searched, they found a log on a table in the captain’s quarters — pages soaked and brittle. The entries spoke of a whaling vessel from East Asia that had chased an enormous whale across the sea. The pursuit had drained their fuel, leaving them stranded. Then came strange phenomena — a rainbow in the night, men falling ill, raving about the sea “calling” to them. The final line read: It’s so beautiful. We embrace it.

Deeper inside, they found a shut door marked “Engine Room.” The word was scratched out, replaced crudely with “QUARANTINE.” Hassan suggested that this so-called quarantine might hold the medical supplies they needed, and the captain agreed.

They forced it open. The stench hit first — rot, brine, and something unholy. Corpses lay everywhere, fused with coral and shell, flesh hardened into brittle reefs. The walls shimmered faintly, as if breathing.

As they entered this hall of horrors, navigating through the bodies in a desperate search, Ilyas found another log — this one a journal belonging to the captain of this derelict ship. His words began orderly, then descended into madness as Ilyas read through aloud. He confessed to locking the crew below, calling it “a necessity.” He wrote of their transformation, their “ascension,” how “the ocean was reclaiming what belonged to her.”

The final entry echoed the earlier log: It’s so beautiful. We embrace it.

They had to leave. To survive, they had to escape. They fled back to the deck hoping to reunite — but found it empty.

Naseem and Shifau were gone.

Ilyas stood staring into the black horizon, silent, his eyes glazed. Hassan called his name — no response. Then a voice, cracked and trembling, came from the shadows.

“You won’t get anything from him.”

Naseem stepped into the faint moonlight, his shirt torn, his face blood-soaked, twisted with deformity beyond recognition.

“That man has doomed us all,” he said. “He couldn’t stop. Not when there was nothing left to take.”

Hassan stumbled backward, knowing something wasn’t right. Rafiq’s hand trembled near his belt. Desperate, he reached out to his captain, pleading for something — no response once again. As Rafiq stared into that blank face, he noticed that Ilyas’s gaze never wavered. Rafiq followed it — and saw a sight that made his stomach churn, his soul sink — the rainbow in the dark.

“Look at your captain” Naseem spat. “That damn Vigani stares into the abyss because he thinks he can tame it. Even now, when it’s claimed us all.”

Naseem’s call was ignored by Ilyas and Hassan, who lamented silently at his words.

“Don’t believe me, do you? Watch!” Naseem threw something.

It rolled across the deck — a head. Shifau’s head. Mangled, coral growing from the jaw.

Rafiq screamed. Hassan froze. Ilyas still did not move.

“See that? Ilyas, still blinded by greed, can’t even look away from that curse to see his old friend lying before him,” Naseem coldly sneered, while Ilyas never wavered from his gaze. “Say something, damn you!” Naseem roared.

Ilyas’s lips parted. His voice was calm, far away.

“It’s so beautiful,” he said. “We should all embrace it.”

With some unfound strength, Naseem lunged at Ilyas, snarling, tackling him to the deck, biting, clawing. As he shredded Ilyas’s face, Hassan tore him off, struggling to restrain the old man.

“Go!” Hassan shouted to Rafiq. “Run!”

Rafiq fled, half-sobbing, stumbling into the bridge, locking himself in. Scrambling for help, desperate to somehow escape this hell and make it back home, he noticed the radio suddenly flickered with static. He grabbed the microphone.

“Hello? Someone, please, help me! Everyone’s dead — please!”

Nothing.

He tried again. “Anyone! I don’t want to die here!”

Not wanting to give up, he checked the radio — lights still working — and as he was about to plead again, he was interrupted.

A voice.

A woman’s voice, faint, melodic.

She was singing.

Rafiq froze. The song was familiar — an old lullaby, the one his mother used to sing when he was small, because of how much he dreamt of going out to sea, to be part of the Miyaru crew. His breath caught. The radio hissed, her voice clear now, soft and distant, singing him home.

He sank to the floor, tears streaking down his face, eyes empty. He realized he got his wish — he was part of the crew, the damned crew. For some comfort, he began to hum along, rocking gently beside the transmitter. His voice cracked, then steadied, as he sang with her — awaiting the sea’s final embrace.

Days later, the Sri Lankan vessel Crescent was seized by the coast guard. During interrogation, the crew revealed their contact point — the Maldivian vessel Miyaru.

A patrol was sent. After hours of searching, they found her — drifting silently.

No crew. No signs of life. Only rotting fish and salt-stained nets.

As they prepared to tow her, the radio came alive.

A man’s voice sang softly through the static.

It was the same lullaby — a lullaby of dead men, forsaken by the ocean that they tainted.