Prologue: The Storm
The waves lashed at the wooden ship, rocking it violently. Its hull creaked loudly, seemingly ready to come apart at the seams. On the first day of the unceasing storm, they still bothered to stay outside, struggling against the wind, rain, and damage to the meagre rigging. It felt like a struggle against ill fortune itself.
Now, with the mainmast gone, and most of the rescued sails taken below deck, they saw no point to the drudgery anymore. There wasn’t really anything they could do. Either this storm ceases and they see land, any land soon, or they were done for. It was all in God’s hands now. They were huddled down below deck, a cramped space, hoping for the best. A fair few crewmen, even those who occassionally neglected their local church service or put more stock in seamen‘s superstition, were now praying to the Lord or the Virgin as if there was no tomorrow. Maybe there wasn’t.
Two smaller ships with their comrades in the trade had already been destroyed, capsized and smashed during a particular onslaught of sea water. Only a single man had been saved, thrown off board into the waters. The raging waves carried him close enough to their ship to allow for a rescue. Clutching the thrown rope like mad, they slowly hauled him in, despite wave after wave threatening to sweep them off the small, simple deck. The man was now huddled in a corner of the hold below deck, along with the rest of them.
Though the deck’s boards were fastened together tight, with any gaps carefully sealed, the massive storm had taken its toll on the well-crafted work. Now, small trickles of water were flowing in here and there, through ever-growing little holes or slits. The sealant between the boards was giving in. Tiny beams of murky light, signifying the overcast sky outside, were piercing the relative darkness of the ship’s underbelly.
An elongated puddle of water had slowly begun to form at the bottom of the ship. The men avoided this puddle, keeping their feet and legs in as dry a place as possible. One of the carpenters was trying to plug the trickling gaps. Not without difficulty, punctuating his effort with occassional cursing under his breath. One or two of the men occassionally gathered the water into cups or a bucket, braved the stairs to the deck and then splashed the water outside, as far away from the middle of the deck as they could.
"I told you... You’re wasting your time," muttered one of the tired sailors, his voice betraying a clear resignment to their fate. The first time he said that, the carpenter shot him an equally tired, but vaguely angry look. Now he payed his remarks no attention at all, and kept tirelessly plugging the openings, as if in a trance.
There had been a lot of tension in the crew ever since they were forced below deck. First came an argument over whether they should make more room by throwing out some of the barrels with the latest catch. Though they might subsist on some of the fish they caught, many had argued it would be better to lose some of the fish. They were dead weight and they took up too much space. If the crew were to ever survive this storm, nevermind return home, bringing plenty of fish back home would be the least of their worries.
After some initial reluctance, a few of the heavy barrels were hauled up with great difficulty to the deck hatch, then pushed to the door of the cabin in the aftcastle. Wind and torrents of raindrops came blasting inward as one of the men carefully opened the door and two other tipped the barrels and let them roll and slide off the deck. One barrel smashed itself against the wall of the forecastle, with the waves then washing down its loosened hoops, broken planks and slippery contents. Never to be seen again.
In the middle of the deck stood the ugly stump of the mainmast. Already partly broken by the storm, the crew made the hard decision to sacrifice it already several days ago. The stump still bore the deep cut marks from their axes. Some of them covered the surface erratically, proof of the haste and fear with which the sailors and carpenters hacked into the mast, in order to down it into the sea.
They didn’t fear the barrels would get stuck on the deck, as it no longer featured its original wooden railings. Those had been cut and torn down not long after the mainmast, when the crew had realised the railings were catching a huge amount of the sea water and rain water striking the deck. With the railings successfully dismantled and much of them gobbled up by the inhospitable waves, willingly destroying the mainmast didn’t feel as harsh in hindsight as it otherwise would have...
Barely an hour before they decided about chopping down the mast, an unusually large wave had struck it. This tipped the ship abruptly towards its starboard, to the point that it was nearly floating on its side. The terrified men inside were all of a sudden pushed in the starboard direction. Accidentally hitting into each other and into the inner side of the hull, they gained some minor injuries in the process. Remembering the two other, unlucky ships, the crew stopped hesitating and sent its best axemen to relieve their ship of its mast.
Now some of the same men who had toiled with axes like mad were silently watching the surreal scenery outside. They lingered for a moment longer than they needed to, perhaps somewhat awestruck at the force of nature they were facing. Nevertheless, the raging storm, along with the sad sight of the vanishing barrels and destroyed mainmast, compelled them to quickly shut the door again. Easier said than done. The gale kept pushing the door inside with great force, as if to mock the ship‘s crew. Finally, they succeeded in shutting and barring the door again. A vague semblance of quiet surrounded the men once more.
With the closing of the door, the small room had been plunged into near-darkness. Holding up a humble wooden lantern with a protective shroud, one of the men briefly illuminated the entirety of the aftcastle’s cabin. Smaller items had been thrown around by the rocking ship, during the course of the last few days. In a minor consolation, nothing seemed smashed or lost for good. There was some wetness beneath the door, but the onslaught of water hadn’t gone much further into the room. They were lucky that the ship had an access hatch to the lower decks directly from the aftcastle’s cabin. It would have been rotten luck if the only hatch leading below was available on the outside deck. Thankfully, the one over there had been nailed down tight early into the storm. For now, their ship felt somewhat safer than when the storm began. But it was a rather illussive safety – they had holed up well from the ravages of the outside weather, but they no longer had meaningful control over their own vessel.
Already used to carefully balancing their gait, with the ship swaying from side to side, the men slowly returned downstairs. Adding to the uncomfortable atmosphere of this small space was the small amount of light present. Only three candles provided some respite from the darkness. They didn’t have that many candles left and weren’t willing to squander the remaining ones easily. The hold below deck smelt of fish, wood, salt, sweat, burnt candles and vomit. It was a strange, suggestive sight. You felt like you were descending into Purgatory in miniature. Or limbo...
One of the younger crewmen, known to be a pious but also fearful fellow, was now quietly muttering something. Some of the men were looking on in disaproval or even with a hint of anger. Others payed him no attention. Some idly listened to him, tired or deep in thought, or both. An older crew member sat near the younger man and tried to humour him.
"Why could it not be so ? Why could this not be a Second Flood ? We are like Noah now. A non-steerable ship, unending storm and rain, endless sea."
The older man sniggered.
"Pah, blather, if I ever heard one !", he proclaimed and turned his head around somewhat theatrically. "You see any ladies or creatures of the earth aboard this ship ? If there’s a Second Flood upon us, and we’re meant to be some new Noah, then our Lord had probably made a few unintentional oversights," he let out a brief chuckle. No one was in any sort of mood for a heartier laugh, but making light of very overt fear was something of an experienced seaman‘s staple.
"Who is to say a second Flood hasn’t started since we’ve left port ? Who is to say it couldn’t be upon us ?" objected the young man..
"Look, I’m no priest or other schooled churchman, but didn’t our Heavenly Father promise Noah that he will nevermore send a flood on the human race ? The rainbow and all that..."
"Yes, I suppose. But what if we have angered our Lord anew, to such an extent that he has let go of that promise ? I think there is much in the world that would anger our Father. Look at what is happening in our land, what we keep hearing about. War, death, destruction, even common people double-crossing and hurting their fellow men."
The one Englishman in the crew, by rumour a former soldier, raised his head at that remark, frowned. He then lay back on the impromptu bunk he was using for napping.
"Come now, lad," said the older sailor, with a sincere hint of incredulity. "Are you questioning God himself ? The same God who sent his Son to save us all - us, sinful people ?"
This confused the anxious young man, who seemed fairly immersed in his bout of doomsaying.
"Well..."
"If there’s a kernel of truth to this whole Noah idea of your’s, wouldn‘t it make sense that our remaining ships are the arks that God is sending to a better place ? If some Flood has truly descended upon the world because of our grave, grave sins," the older sailor put some comical emphasis on the words grave, "who is to say God isn’t sending us to safety ? Through trials and tribulations, he might be guiding us to some land in the west."
"Um... What ? What do you mean by that ?" asked the younger man, befuddled.
"To some hitherto unknown paradise. A paradise that lies west." explained the older sailor, his voice deliberate, filled with near-religious awe. Many had noticed he is barely surpressing a smile or a chuckle.
"Don’t speak nonsense," scoffed the weary captain, who had been mostly silent up until now. "Every man who knows something about faith and the nature of the world, knows that paradise... lies in the East."
As grave as the mood was, the captain’s remark provoked a cautious laugh in some of the men. The captain and older sailor both conjured up a faint smile.
"Know that I was only half joking," said the captain, with a more serious tone. "Who knows if someone has ever been blown off to the west as far as we have. Men, whatever happens in the coming days and weeks, we need to work together. If this accursed storm ever passes, we need to do everything in our power to find dry land, repair our ship and attempt to return. Maybe it is a complete fool’s hope, but we must count our blessings."
"Oh, captain," sighed a fisherman. "Ever-hopeful, are you ? Even now ?"
"What sailors would we be if we gave up hope ? Chin up, men. While I don’t know anything about what the Almighty has in store for us, I don’t think we’re headed towards punishment for our sins. Maybe we are being tested, maybe we are to prove what brave and capable sailors we are. If God truly has some purpose for us, perhaps he’s putting us through some early purgatory, to absolve us of our more lighter sins."
Upon hearing the captain’s speculation, some shrugged, some scoffed, some frowned, one or two tittered a bit, and some just remained silent or asleep. One of the two Flemings aboard the ship looked towards the captain and nodded slightly. He admired the man for bothering to find some cheer, any cheer, in these horrid, terrifying circumstances. Not exactly an easy thing to do, with the constant rocking and creaking of the hull, or the muffled but audible rumbling and whistling of the rabid wind outside. Hard to gather hope when faced with a natural backdrop of such power and hostility.
The captain slowly looked around the cramped space below deck, then mustered a hint of a smile. He didn‘t need to say anything more. And why would he ? None of them had much to say at this point. They could only hope for the storm to end, within a few days at the latest, and then think what next. They could only pass that bridge once they’d reach it, if they’d reach it at all.
Strangely or perhaps tellingly, the quietest and most nonchalant of the crew was the newcomer, fished out at sea when his home ship went under, bringing a waterry grave to all his fellow sailors. The men took good care of him, and though he wasn’t ungrateful, he hadn’t said much since the rescue. At times, they worried about the soundness of his mind, but he seemed peaceful and content with their predicament. Maybe he was struggling inside, unsure whether to be happy he was spared from the sea or afraid because of all the dire possibilities that lay ahead of them.
The only recent bit of knowledge about the storm they could count on, was that the wind was blowing westward. Ominous in and of itself, as it was blowing them even more off course than they already were. Blowing them away to... somewhere. Somewhere westward, to their dismay. Perhaps also northward, southward, they couldn’t tell with any sort of certainty. Certainly westward.
Earlier, some of the men had lashed out in anger at the captain and the wealthier men, for suggesting this godforsaken voyage in the first place. It was one thing to set out on the open ocean, in order to secure a catch in places where others did not dare. It was another thing entirely to push one‘s luck to the same degree as them.
In the past few years, the little fishing fleet had made some brave forays far into the great ocean, to the west of all known lands. But never as far as this one time. The very last time, as many of the surviving crew members no doubt thought at this point. Hardly anyone could blame them for those gloomy, defeated thoughts. Any hope for return seemed foolish, at best.
Even if the storm calmed down and dispersed, they were lost at sea, with a barely working ship. They could still fish, they had plenty of equipment for that. But who knows how long they could keep it up, how long they could gather rainwater for drinking ? Maybe they could reach some land, any land, and replenish supplies there for a return trip home ?
For all they knew, there might be nothing this far west, and further west. For all they knew, they might go sickly or outright mad within the coming weeks. Living in such cramped conditions, in nauseating weather hardly conductive to human well-being, would get to even a patient person in excellent health, and with a full, content belly. Deep in their hearts, they feared the inevitable descent into angry infighting.
The last of the men to descend back below deck from the aftcastle was the lantern-wielder. Before he returned from the cabin, he carefully walked over to what appeared to be larger chests or footlockers, standing next to one of the walls of the room. Fishing out an old steel key, he unlocked both wooden chests, and raising each one’s lid, held up the lantern briefly. Everything seemed to be in place. He felt a mild sensation of relief.
The captain had all axes, hammers, chisels, nails and larger knives gathered early into their involuntary refuge below deck. He had entrusted the lantern-bearer with keeping these carefully under lock and key. If a brawl broke out, these precautions would lessen the threat of angry or crazed crewmen stabbing and chopping each other to bits, or damaging the hull in a fit of blind rage. The men were allowed wooden spoons, wooden cups and a few small eating knives only. Anyone failing to comply would be under threat of being sent outside, with the aftcastle’s door barred to them for good. Needless to say, the men accepted the captain’s strict deal.
As the lantern bearer observed the contents of the chest, he noticed the sole sword aboard, the property of one of the crewmen. There were also a few small sheaths of crossbow bolts, for the smaller crossbows they had stored in the cabin. The crossbows weren‘t locked away, as they were practically useless without bolts.
Completing his thankless rounds, he locked the chest, made sure no water was leaking into the aftcastle, and descended below deck. Lantern in hand, like Orpheus.
The wind kept howling.
----
Finally, after what seemed like a gruelling eternity, the storm began to slowly disperse and go quiet.
That wasn't the end of their dire troubles, what with the mast gone for good and no sails to help in the calming seas.
A day after the storm had finally passed, in the morning, two lookouts assessing the damaged deck suddenly shouted. And kept shouting, excitedly. They darted inside the aftcastle, one of them slightly tripping at the door frame. The one who got in faster kept shouting... But not out of fear. His eyes shone with an astonished light, not seen since the storm-induced woes had started.
One word.
"Land ! Land !!!"
The captain and one of the Flemings immediately ran outside, quickly followed by three or four fellow sailors who had heard the news.
Land.
The captain put the edge of his hand against his forehead and peeled his eyes. One of the lookouts wildly flailed his arm, finger stretched to its fullest, arm darting back and forth. The lookout kept shouting "There ! See ? There !" and began to laugh happily.
Though the captain had to squint, it was hard to doubt his crewmates' claims. On the horizon, presumably to the west or the north, a dark silhouette was becoming visible. Still a thin sliver, it was no doubt a coastline of some sort... Based on how it seemed to stretch far across the horizon, some of its upper lines appearing hillier than others, this was no mere island. If an island at all, it wasn't just large, it was outright huge.
Though the captain never considered himself a greatly learned man, his rich experiences conjured up an oddly familiar memory. And that memory sent a chill down his spine. The coast of the land in the distance seemed to stretch as broadly as the coast of their homelands, seen from a distance whenever they were sailing back home with their weeks worth of catch. Whatever land lay ahead... it was indeed... enormous.
Though the captain never considered himself a philosopher either, two questions now pestered him, like few before in his entire life: What land have we stumbled upon here ?! And are we even the first to find it ? He was so deep in thought that he almost completely ignored the growing cheering of the men on the deck.
The ship was still propelled by its acquired momentum, and by the now far gentler westward winds, the distant remnants of the storm. He noticed that they must be headed somewhere northward as well, feeling the ever-increasing strength of the winds from the west. Prevailing, eastward winds from the unknown coast ?
Regardless of where their current masters, the waves and the winds, would blow them, one thing seemed certain... They wouldn't be blown back to sea before they approached the land. The sliver in the distance kept growing and the ship was headed straight for it.
----
With all the stress they’ve been through, they had lost any concept of how long they’ve been caught in the storm. Possibly for six agonizing days... perhaps a week ? No one knew for sure. And for many years to come, none of them would have a clear idea on what day they first saw the coast of the unknown land. Those who would return home – for not all of them could or chose to – would learn what day that was.
The 12th of April, in the Year of Our Lord 1425.
----
The waves lashed at the wooden ship, rocking it violently. Its hull creaked loudly, seemingly ready to come apart at the seams. On the first day of the unceasing storm, they still bothered to stay outside, struggling against the wind, rain, and damage to the meagre rigging. It felt like a struggle against ill fortune itself.
Now, with the mainmast gone, and most of the rescued sails taken below deck, they saw no point to the drudgery anymore. There wasn’t really anything they could do. Either this storm ceases and they see land, any land soon, or they were done for. It was all in God’s hands now. They were huddled down below deck, a cramped space, hoping for the best. A fair few crewmen, even those who occassionally neglected their local church service or put more stock in seamen‘s superstition, were now praying to the Lord or the Virgin as if there was no tomorrow. Maybe there wasn’t.
Two smaller ships with their comrades in the trade had already been destroyed, capsized and smashed during a particular onslaught of sea water. Only a single man had been saved, thrown off board into the waters. The raging waves carried him close enough to their ship to allow for a rescue. Clutching the thrown rope like mad, they slowly hauled him in, despite wave after wave threatening to sweep them off the small, simple deck. The man was now huddled in a corner of the hold below deck, along with the rest of them.
Though the deck’s boards were fastened together tight, with any gaps carefully sealed, the massive storm had taken its toll on the well-crafted work. Now, small trickles of water were flowing in here and there, through ever-growing little holes or slits. The sealant between the boards was giving in. Tiny beams of murky light, signifying the overcast sky outside, were piercing the relative darkness of the ship’s underbelly.
An elongated puddle of water had slowly begun to form at the bottom of the ship. The men avoided this puddle, keeping their feet and legs in as dry a place as possible. One of the carpenters was trying to plug the trickling gaps. Not without difficulty, punctuating his effort with occassional cursing under his breath. One or two of the men occassionally gathered the water into cups or a bucket, braved the stairs to the deck and then splashed the water outside, as far away from the middle of the deck as they could.
"I told you... You’re wasting your time," muttered one of the tired sailors, his voice betraying a clear resignment to their fate. The first time he said that, the carpenter shot him an equally tired, but vaguely angry look. Now he payed his remarks no attention at all, and kept tirelessly plugging the openings, as if in a trance.
There had been a lot of tension in the crew ever since they were forced below deck. First came an argument over whether they should make more room by throwing out some of the barrels with the latest catch. Though they might subsist on some of the fish they caught, many had argued it would be better to lose some of the fish. They were dead weight and they took up too much space. If the crew were to ever survive this storm, nevermind return home, bringing plenty of fish back home would be the least of their worries.
After some initial reluctance, a few of the heavy barrels were hauled up with great difficulty to the deck hatch, then pushed to the door of the cabin in the aftcastle. Wind and torrents of raindrops came blasting inward as one of the men carefully opened the door and two other tipped the barrels and let them roll and slide off the deck. One barrel smashed itself against the wall of the forecastle, with the waves then washing down its loosened hoops, broken planks and slippery contents. Never to be seen again.
In the middle of the deck stood the ugly stump of the mainmast. Already partly broken by the storm, the crew made the hard decision to sacrifice it already several days ago. The stump still bore the deep cut marks from their axes. Some of them covered the surface erratically, proof of the haste and fear with which the sailors and carpenters hacked into the mast, in order to down it into the sea.
They didn’t fear the barrels would get stuck on the deck, as it no longer featured its original wooden railings. Those had been cut and torn down not long after the mainmast, when the crew had realised the railings were catching a huge amount of the sea water and rain water striking the deck. With the railings successfully dismantled and much of them gobbled up by the inhospitable waves, willingly destroying the mainmast didn’t feel as harsh in hindsight as it otherwise would have...
Barely an hour before they decided about chopping down the mast, an unusually large wave had struck it. This tipped the ship abruptly towards its starboard, to the point that it was nearly floating on its side. The terrified men inside were all of a sudden pushed in the starboard direction. Accidentally hitting into each other and into the inner side of the hull, they gained some minor injuries in the process. Remembering the two other, unlucky ships, the crew stopped hesitating and sent its best axemen to relieve their ship of its mast.
Now some of the same men who had toiled with axes like mad were silently watching the surreal scenery outside. They lingered for a moment longer than they needed to, perhaps somewhat awestruck at the force of nature they were facing. Nevertheless, the raging storm, along with the sad sight of the vanishing barrels and destroyed mainmast, compelled them to quickly shut the door again. Easier said than done. The gale kept pushing the door inside with great force, as if to mock the ship‘s crew. Finally, they succeeded in shutting and barring the door again. A vague semblance of quiet surrounded the men once more.
With the closing of the door, the small room had been plunged into near-darkness. Holding up a humble wooden lantern with a protective shroud, one of the men briefly illuminated the entirety of the aftcastle’s cabin. Smaller items had been thrown around by the rocking ship, during the course of the last few days. In a minor consolation, nothing seemed smashed or lost for good. There was some wetness beneath the door, but the onslaught of water hadn’t gone much further into the room. They were lucky that the ship had an access hatch to the lower decks directly from the aftcastle’s cabin. It would have been rotten luck if the only hatch leading below was available on the outside deck. Thankfully, the one over there had been nailed down tight early into the storm. For now, their ship felt somewhat safer than when the storm began. But it was a rather illussive safety – they had holed up well from the ravages of the outside weather, but they no longer had meaningful control over their own vessel.
Already used to carefully balancing their gait, with the ship swaying from side to side, the men slowly returned downstairs. Adding to the uncomfortable atmosphere of this small space was the small amount of light present. Only three candles provided some respite from the darkness. They didn’t have that many candles left and weren’t willing to squander the remaining ones easily. The hold below deck smelt of fish, wood, salt, sweat, burnt candles and vomit. It was a strange, suggestive sight. You felt like you were descending into Purgatory in miniature. Or limbo...
One of the younger crewmen, known to be a pious but also fearful fellow, was now quietly muttering something. Some of the men were looking on in disaproval or even with a hint of anger. Others payed him no attention. Some idly listened to him, tired or deep in thought, or both. An older crew member sat near the younger man and tried to humour him.
"Why could it not be so ? Why could this not be a Second Flood ? We are like Noah now. A non-steerable ship, unending storm and rain, endless sea."
The older man sniggered.
"Pah, blather, if I ever heard one !", he proclaimed and turned his head around somewhat theatrically. "You see any ladies or creatures of the earth aboard this ship ? If there’s a Second Flood upon us, and we’re meant to be some new Noah, then our Lord had probably made a few unintentional oversights," he let out a brief chuckle. No one was in any sort of mood for a heartier laugh, but making light of very overt fear was something of an experienced seaman‘s staple.
"Who is to say a second Flood hasn’t started since we’ve left port ? Who is to say it couldn’t be upon us ?" objected the young man..
"Look, I’m no priest or other schooled churchman, but didn’t our Heavenly Father promise Noah that he will nevermore send a flood on the human race ? The rainbow and all that..."
"Yes, I suppose. But what if we have angered our Lord anew, to such an extent that he has let go of that promise ? I think there is much in the world that would anger our Father. Look at what is happening in our land, what we keep hearing about. War, death, destruction, even common people double-crossing and hurting their fellow men."
The one Englishman in the crew, by rumour a former soldier, raised his head at that remark, frowned. He then lay back on the impromptu bunk he was using for napping.
"Come now, lad," said the older sailor, with a sincere hint of incredulity. "Are you questioning God himself ? The same God who sent his Son to save us all - us, sinful people ?"
This confused the anxious young man, who seemed fairly immersed in his bout of doomsaying.
"Well..."
"If there’s a kernel of truth to this whole Noah idea of your’s, wouldn‘t it make sense that our remaining ships are the arks that God is sending to a better place ? If some Flood has truly descended upon the world because of our grave, grave sins," the older sailor put some comical emphasis on the words grave, "who is to say God isn’t sending us to safety ? Through trials and tribulations, he might be guiding us to some land in the west."
"Um... What ? What do you mean by that ?" asked the younger man, befuddled.
"To some hitherto unknown paradise. A paradise that lies west." explained the older sailor, his voice deliberate, filled with near-religious awe. Many had noticed he is barely surpressing a smile or a chuckle.
"Don’t speak nonsense," scoffed the weary captain, who had been mostly silent up until now. "Every man who knows something about faith and the nature of the world, knows that paradise... lies in the East."
As grave as the mood was, the captain’s remark provoked a cautious laugh in some of the men. The captain and older sailor both conjured up a faint smile.
"Know that I was only half joking," said the captain, with a more serious tone. "Who knows if someone has ever been blown off to the west as far as we have. Men, whatever happens in the coming days and weeks, we need to work together. If this accursed storm ever passes, we need to do everything in our power to find dry land, repair our ship and attempt to return. Maybe it is a complete fool’s hope, but we must count our blessings."
"Oh, captain," sighed a fisherman. "Ever-hopeful, are you ? Even now ?"
"What sailors would we be if we gave up hope ? Chin up, men. While I don’t know anything about what the Almighty has in store for us, I don’t think we’re headed towards punishment for our sins. Maybe we are being tested, maybe we are to prove what brave and capable sailors we are. If God truly has some purpose for us, perhaps he’s putting us through some early purgatory, to absolve us of our more lighter sins."
Upon hearing the captain’s speculation, some shrugged, some scoffed, some frowned, one or two tittered a bit, and some just remained silent or asleep. One of the two Flemings aboard the ship looked towards the captain and nodded slightly. He admired the man for bothering to find some cheer, any cheer, in these horrid, terrifying circumstances. Not exactly an easy thing to do, with the constant rocking and creaking of the hull, or the muffled but audible rumbling and whistling of the rabid wind outside. Hard to gather hope when faced with a natural backdrop of such power and hostility.
The captain slowly looked around the cramped space below deck, then mustered a hint of a smile. He didn‘t need to say anything more. And why would he ? None of them had much to say at this point. They could only hope for the storm to end, within a few days at the latest, and then think what next. They could only pass that bridge once they’d reach it, if they’d reach it at all.
Strangely or perhaps tellingly, the quietest and most nonchalant of the crew was the newcomer, fished out at sea when his home ship went under, bringing a waterry grave to all his fellow sailors. The men took good care of him, and though he wasn’t ungrateful, he hadn’t said much since the rescue. At times, they worried about the soundness of his mind, but he seemed peaceful and content with their predicament. Maybe he was struggling inside, unsure whether to be happy he was spared from the sea or afraid because of all the dire possibilities that lay ahead of them.
The only recent bit of knowledge about the storm they could count on, was that the wind was blowing westward. Ominous in and of itself, as it was blowing them even more off course than they already were. Blowing them away to... somewhere. Somewhere westward, to their dismay. Perhaps also northward, southward, they couldn’t tell with any sort of certainty. Certainly westward.
Earlier, some of the men had lashed out in anger at the captain and the wealthier men, for suggesting this godforsaken voyage in the first place. It was one thing to set out on the open ocean, in order to secure a catch in places where others did not dare. It was another thing entirely to push one‘s luck to the same degree as them.
In the past few years, the little fishing fleet had made some brave forays far into the great ocean, to the west of all known lands. But never as far as this one time. The very last time, as many of the surviving crew members no doubt thought at this point. Hardly anyone could blame them for those gloomy, defeated thoughts. Any hope for return seemed foolish, at best.
Even if the storm calmed down and dispersed, they were lost at sea, with a barely working ship. They could still fish, they had plenty of equipment for that. But who knows how long they could keep it up, how long they could gather rainwater for drinking ? Maybe they could reach some land, any land, and replenish supplies there for a return trip home ?
For all they knew, there might be nothing this far west, and further west. For all they knew, they might go sickly or outright mad within the coming weeks. Living in such cramped conditions, in nauseating weather hardly conductive to human well-being, would get to even a patient person in excellent health, and with a full, content belly. Deep in their hearts, they feared the inevitable descent into angry infighting.
The last of the men to descend back below deck from the aftcastle was the lantern-wielder. Before he returned from the cabin, he carefully walked over to what appeared to be larger chests or footlockers, standing next to one of the walls of the room. Fishing out an old steel key, he unlocked both wooden chests, and raising each one’s lid, held up the lantern briefly. Everything seemed to be in place. He felt a mild sensation of relief.
The captain had all axes, hammers, chisels, nails and larger knives gathered early into their involuntary refuge below deck. He had entrusted the lantern-bearer with keeping these carefully under lock and key. If a brawl broke out, these precautions would lessen the threat of angry or crazed crewmen stabbing and chopping each other to bits, or damaging the hull in a fit of blind rage. The men were allowed wooden spoons, wooden cups and a few small eating knives only. Anyone failing to comply would be under threat of being sent outside, with the aftcastle’s door barred to them for good. Needless to say, the men accepted the captain’s strict deal.
As the lantern bearer observed the contents of the chest, he noticed the sole sword aboard, the property of one of the crewmen. There were also a few small sheaths of crossbow bolts, for the smaller crossbows they had stored in the cabin. The crossbows weren‘t locked away, as they were practically useless without bolts.
Completing his thankless rounds, he locked the chest, made sure no water was leaking into the aftcastle, and descended below deck. Lantern in hand, like Orpheus.
The wind kept howling.
----
Finally, after what seemed like a gruelling eternity, the storm began to slowly disperse and go quiet.
That wasn't the end of their dire troubles, what with the mast gone for good and no sails to help in the calming seas.
A day after the storm had finally passed, in the morning, two lookouts assessing the damaged deck suddenly shouted. And kept shouting, excitedly. They darted inside the aftcastle, one of them slightly tripping at the door frame. The one who got in faster kept shouting... But not out of fear. His eyes shone with an astonished light, not seen since the storm-induced woes had started.
One word.
"Land ! Land !!!"
The captain and one of the Flemings immediately ran outside, quickly followed by three or four fellow sailors who had heard the news.
Land.
The captain put the edge of his hand against his forehead and peeled his eyes. One of the lookouts wildly flailed his arm, finger stretched to its fullest, arm darting back and forth. The lookout kept shouting "There ! See ? There !" and began to laugh happily.
Though the captain had to squint, it was hard to doubt his crewmates' claims. On the horizon, presumably to the west or the north, a dark silhouette was becoming visible. Still a thin sliver, it was no doubt a coastline of some sort... Based on how it seemed to stretch far across the horizon, some of its upper lines appearing hillier than others, this was no mere island. If an island at all, it wasn't just large, it was outright huge.
Though the captain never considered himself a greatly learned man, his rich experiences conjured up an oddly familiar memory. And that memory sent a chill down his spine. The coast of the land in the distance seemed to stretch as broadly as the coast of their homelands, seen from a distance whenever they were sailing back home with their weeks worth of catch. Whatever land lay ahead... it was indeed... enormous.
Though the captain never considered himself a philosopher either, two questions now pestered him, like few before in his entire life: What land have we stumbled upon here ?! And are we even the first to find it ? He was so deep in thought that he almost completely ignored the growing cheering of the men on the deck.
The ship was still propelled by its acquired momentum, and by the now far gentler westward winds, the distant remnants of the storm. He noticed that they must be headed somewhere northward as well, feeling the ever-increasing strength of the winds from the west. Prevailing, eastward winds from the unknown coast ?
Regardless of where their current masters, the waves and the winds, would blow them, one thing seemed certain... They wouldn't be blown back to sea before they approached the land. The sliver in the distance kept growing and the ship was headed straight for it.
----
With all the stress they’ve been through, they had lost any concept of how long they’ve been caught in the storm. Possibly for six agonizing days... perhaps a week ? No one knew for sure. And for many years to come, none of them would have a clear idea on what day they first saw the coast of the unknown land. Those who would return home – for not all of them could or chose to – would learn what day that was.
The 12th of April, in the Year of Our Lord 1425.
----
♫
O Fortuna
velut luna
statu variabilis,
semper crescis
aut decrescis;
vita detestabilis
nunc obdurat
et tunc curat
ludo mentis aciem,
egestatem,
potestatem
dissolvit ut glaciem.
O Fortune,
like the moon
you are changeable,
ever waxing
ever waning;
hateful life
first oppresses
and then soothes
playing with mental clarity;
poverty
and power
it melts them like ice.
Petike
proudly presents
The Westward Wind: Of Amerindians and Castaways
O Fortuna
velut luna
statu variabilis,
semper crescis
aut decrescis;
vita detestabilis
nunc obdurat
et tunc curat
ludo mentis aciem,
egestatem,
potestatem
dissolvit ut glaciem.
O Fortune,
like the moon
you are changeable,
ever waxing
ever waning;
hateful life
first oppresses
and then soothes
playing with mental clarity;
poverty
and power
it melts them like ice.
Petike
proudly presents
The Westward Wind: Of Amerindians and Castaways
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