The Ghostfaces

by John A. Flanagan

  Heron swooped up the face of another roller, then slid down the back, sending more spray across the decks. Those not on duty huddled under tarpaulins, hastily snatched around them.

  Hal grinned to himself. It was cold. It was wet. And he loved it. This was what his life was meant to be, he thought, the freedom of movement that a good, seaworthy ship gave him. The exhilaration of meeting and taming the wind and the sea.

  Then a shower of spray hit him in the face, and he spluttered and coughed. A hand nudged him and he dashed the spray out of his eyes to see Lydia beside him, holding out a tarpaulin cloak.

  “Cover up, idiot,” she said, “before you drown.”

  She took the tiller while he hauled the cloak around him. He smiled at her gratefully.

  “Thanks, Mummy,” he said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Mummy yourself,” she muttered, then sought shelter in the leeward rowing benches. A wave broke over the bows and water surged the length of the deck. Kloof, fastened by a length of rope to the mast, snapped at it and tried to bite it as it swirled around her. She seemed to be enjoying herself, Hal thought.

  They spent the rest of the morning tacking back and forth as they made their way north along the coastline. By midday, they had left Hibernia behind and could see the dim gray coast of Araluen and Picta to starboard. It was wet and cold and uncomfortable but that was a minor concern to the crew. They were young and hardy and they were used to conditions like this. They had sailed in wet, icy weather virtually since they could walk. Skandians didn’t stay in port because of a bit of cold weather.

  And besides, they were heading home and that was sufficient reason to put up with a bit of discomfort.

  In the early afternoon, they rounded the northernmost point of the coast of Picta, and Hal, after giving himself plenty of sea room, set a course to the east. The wind was on their port side now and they were on a reach, possibly their best point of sailing. The Heron swooped and skimmed over the rollers like her namesake, and they all felt the elation that came with sailing fast and heading for home.

  Mid-afternoon, Thorn left his customary position at the foot of the mast, where he huddled with Kloof, sharing her warmth, and paced back to the steering platform. The rest of the crew were following Lydia’s example, crouching in the leeward rowing well, wrapped in cloaks and tarpaulins, heads down and chins tucked in to conserve warmth.

  Thorn gestured with a thumb to the north. “I really don’t like the look of that,” he said.

  Hal followed the direction of his thumb. A black line of thick, heavy storm clouds, shot through with flashes of lightning, blotted out the ocean.

  It was still a long way away. But it was coming straight at them.

  chapter two

  Hal glanced quickly to starboard. The gray, rugged line of the Picta coast stretched across the horizon. He wouldn’t clear it by the time the storm reached them, and then they’d find themselves on a lee shore, with the wild wind and sea driving them down onto the rocks of the coastline. He came to a rapid decision.

  “Going about!” he yelled. When he was sure he had the crew’s full attention, he signaled to port. “Go!”

  He hauled on the tiller, and the Heron swung smoothly into the eye of the wind, then across it. Simultaneously, Stig and Stefan brought the starboard yardarm and sail down, then hoisted the port sail as the bow came round. Ingvar, Lydia and Jesper all manhandled the loose, flapping mass of the starboard sail, gathering it in and lashing it into a tight bundle. The wind filled the port sail and the twins hauled in on the sheets, hardening it into a tight, smooth curve and driving the ship forward with renewed urgency. A wave smashed against the starboard bow, showering them all with spray. They ignored it, save for Kloof, who barked delightedly and snapped at the flying salt water.

  Heron was now racing at full speed toward the west. Hal glanced from the coastline to the approaching mass of the storm. They’d clear the coast of Picta with time to spare, but beyond that, farther to the south, lay Hibernia. He needed sea room. The moment the storm hit them, they’d begin to lose distance downwind and he wanted to be well clear of the Hibernian coast when that happened.

  Thorn made his way aft and stood beside him, his eyes fixed on the storm front. More lightning flashed among the black clouds, and this time, Hal could hear the distant rumble of thunder.

  “You’ll need to get that yard down before the storm hits,” Thorn told him, and Hal nodded. The slender, curving yardarm and its big sail would never stand up to the force of that raging wind.

  “For the moment, I need the speed it gives us,” he said. “We need to get clear of the Hibernian coast. The faster we go, the sooner that will be.”

  Thorn chewed his lip. Hal was right, he thought. And he trusted the young man’s judgment. Hal would pick the right time to lower the sail.

  Hal gestured to Stig, who was watching them. The tall youth came aft to join them, walking easily along the plunging deck without need for handholds.

  “Something in mind?” he asked.

  “I’m going to wait till the last minute to drop the sail,” Hal told him. “Get the sea anchor ready and get the storm sail ready to hoist.”

  The storm sail was a small triangular sail that was hoisted on the forestay of the stubby main mast. It would give them steerageway in the high winds, without overstressing the mast or rigging. Stig nodded and returned to the bow, where he called Stefan to help him rig the sea anchor. This was a long, conical-shaped canvas drogue, with its wide end held open by a circle of light, pliable cane. When heaved over the bow, it would hold the ship heading into the wind and slow their downwind drift until Hal could get her under way again with the storm sail.

  Once it was ready, lying in the bow beside its coiled rope, Stig and Stefan began clipping the retaining rings of the storm sail onto the heavy forestay, then attached the halyard that was permanently rigged so they could haul it up. When all was ready, Stig rose, turned toward Hal and waved.

  “Now we wait,” Hal said. He wondered whether he should try to edge the ship to the north to give himself a little extra sea room. Then he realized that this would slow his westerly movement. Better to use the speed he had to clear the Hibernian coast, he thought. Any northing he gained would be quickly negated by the storm. He glanced nervously at the coastline. They were crossing it quickly. Another fifteen minutes and they’d be clear. If the storm gave them fifteen minutes.

  “Wind’s veering,” Thorn told him. “It’s shifted to the northeast.”

  That was definitely good news. If the wind was coming from the northeast, their downwind path would be southwest, which would take them away from Hibernia and into clear ocean.

  And that might make all the difference, he thought.

  Suddenly, the Heron was engulfed in a howling, battering, almost-living force as the wind slammed into the little ship, driving spray and solid water with it so that they were blinded by the sheer mass of it.

  The storm had covered the remaining distance with incredible speed, hitting them with full force.

  Heron heeled wildly to port, her leeward gunwales driven momentarily under, shipping huge amounts of water. Hal opened his mouth to bellow orders, but the crew were way ahead of him. Ulf and Wulf released the halyards, spilling the air out of the sail and letting it flap wildly, cracking and smacking like a giant whip. At the same time, Stig heaved the sea anchor over the bow while Stefan and Ingvar lowered the port yardarm and gathered in the sail. Stefan suffered a vicious cut to his forehead from one of the wildly whipping ends of the sail, but in a few moments, they had it under control, with the other available crew members throwing their body weight on it to contain it.

  Heron jerked upright once the sail was released, rocking wildly and sending seawater sloshing from side to side in the rowing wells, but the central watertight section did its job and gave the ship a reserve of buoyancy. The sea anchor was tak
ing effect too, hauling the ship’s bow around to face the wind and sea.

  Clearing the spray and salt water from his eyes, Hal could see Stig heaving the storm sail up into position. Then he felt the tiller come alive as the storm sail took effect and the Heron began to claw her way diagonally across the storm. Hal knew that they’d still be losing distance downwind, but they were angling out to the west, and there was a good chance that they’d be clear of the Hibernian coast by the time they reached it.

  He hoped.

  He flinched as there was a massive flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a deafening detonation of thunder. Kloof, lashed to the mast, howled in fear.

  Thorn leaned closer to Hal. “She didn’t like that,” he shouted.

  Hal grinned nervously in reply. “I wasn’t too fond of it myself,” he said. He was glad Kloof’s reaction had distracted the others. Nobody seemed to have noticed that he had actually jumped in fright at the sudden flash and boom.

  He felt his skin tingling and the hair on the nape of his neck rising. Thorn obviously felt it too.

  “Another one coming,” he warned. Almost instantly, there was a blinding flash and a deafening crack as a lightning bolt struck the sea close by. The water steamed briefly, but the vapor was snatched away by the roaring wind.

  Again Kloof howled her displeasure. Hal shook his head and blinked. His retina was imprinted with the aftereffect of the flash, seeing a jagged purple shape for some seconds after the actual event. He was vaguely aware that lightning usually centered on the highest point available and wondered why it hadn’t hit their mast. He leaned closer to Thorn and said as much, but the old sea wolf shook his head and pointed to the massive waves marching past them.

  “Waves are higher than the mast is,” he said and Hal realized he was right.

  They shot down the back of one of the waves, then climbed laboriously up the next face. As they smashed through the crest, they were suddenly exposed to the full force of the wind again. Heron was laid over on her beam ends once more, then she righted and slid down the back of the wave, moving into its wind shadow and slicing her bow into the water in the trough. Twin explosions of spray fanned out either side of the bow as she buried her nose into the sea, then slowly came up. Seawater surged along the deck and out through the scuppers as she began to climb the next wave.

  It was a monster—one of those freak waves that rise up in a storm that are half again as big as their fellows. Hal realized that the wave was higher than the length of the ship and, as Heron climbed and her speed began to drop off, he had a heart-stopping moment when he thought she would lose forward momentum and slide backward into the trough. Then she surged through the face of the wave some three meters from the top, smashing the water aside, shaking herself like a soaking-wet dog and then plunging down the far side.

  Again, the bow bit into the sea in the trough. Again, spray and solid water exploded out to either side. Stig, making his way aft, seized hold of the standing rigging, wrapping his arms and legs around it as water surged thigh deep down the length of the ship.

  As the wave passed, he released his grip and staggered the last few meters to the steering platform.

  “She’s holding up well,” he said.

  Hal had to admit he was right. Heron was riding the massive waves and thundering wind like the seabird she was named for. But superstition warned him not to appear too positive. The gods of the sea had a way of punishing such hubris, he thought.

  “So long as the storm sail holds and we don’t spring a plank or two,” he said.

  Stig dashed water out of his eyes and frowned at him. “You’re a cheery soul,” he grumbled.

  Hal shrugged. There was always the chance—with the violent impacts the ship was suffering as she smashed down into the troughs of the waves—a plank could be started and the ship could spring a leak. He didn’t think it would. After all, he’d built the boat himself and knew every join and every rivet in the hull. But it was possible.

  He glanced astern and felt his heart rise into his throat. The coastline was much closer now, closer than he would have thought possible. Even as Heron continued to claw her way up and through the waves, the storm was driving her backward toward the lee shore.

  There was nothing he could do about it. He was holding her on the best possible course, covering as much distance to the west as they could. His arms ached with the effort of holding the tiller but he wasn’t prepared to turn it over to one of the others. It was his ship, after all, and his responsibility. And when he discounted any false modesty, he knew he was the best man for the task at hand. He was a more skillful helmsman than any of his friends.

  Thorn’s left hand gripped his shoulder and he nodded his head astern. Hal swung to look again in the direction indicated. He felt a jolt of fear as he saw a line of black rocks jutting like fangs from the sea, at one moment hidden from sight by the spray bursting around them, the next rearing their razor-sharp heads above the surface, as if searching for the ship bearing down on them.

  The three friends were silent. Hal measured the bearing to the rocks by closing one eye and keeping the sternpost aligned with them. After a minute, he realized the angle was changing, slowly, but sufficiently to let them slide past.

  “We’re going to miss them,” he said.

  Thorn and Stig looked doubtful as Heron reared up another wave face and smashed through and down. For a few moments, the snarling, threatening rocks were hidden from sight. Then, as they soared up the next wave, they could see that the reef was now to starboard. They would slide by safely. Not by much, but by enough.

  Hal flinched as one of the rocks emerged from the seething ocean only a few meters from their stern, then seemed to race away down the starboard side of the ship. It had been a close thing, he realized.

  There was another vivid flash of lightning and a crashing roll of thunder a few seconds later. But this one was farther away than the previous lightning strike and he considered it dispassionately. Stig gained his attention and pointed to the Hibernian coastline, now well to the east.

  “We’re past it,” Stig said.

  Hal nodded emphatically. He heaved on the tiller and swung the ship’s head to the west, the wind filling the storm sail and heeling Heron over under the pressure.

  “Let’s get some sea room,” he said, and headed his ship out into the unknown wastes of the Endless Ocean.

  chapter three

  Days passed and the storm continued unabated.

  “How long can a storm like this last?” Stefan asked Thorn. The crew were huddled together in the meager shelter of the port rowing well, draped in tarpaulins, in a vain attempt to keep dry. Hal and Stig were by the steering platform, Hal’s hands still clenched around the tiller, Stig with his feet braced wide for balance and his arm around his friend to keep him steady on his feet. It had been days since Hal had managed any meaningful rest. He had snatched the odd catnap from time to time when Stig or Thorn could persuade him to relinquish the tiller. But the slightest change in the ship’s motion, the occasional jolt from a wave slightly out of the normal rhythm, would have him back on his feet in an instant, seizing the tiller and taking control once more.

  Thorn looked up at the gray sky, full of scudding clouds, and immediately wished he hadn’t as cold water trickled down his neck through a gap his movement had opened.

  “Days,” he said.

  “It’s been days already,” Jesper pointed out. Thorn looked at him, this time moving carefully to avoid another shot of water down his neck.

  “Weeks then,” he said. “Knew a storm like this once that lasted more than two weeks.”

  “As bad as this?” Stefan asked.

  Thorn considered his answer, then shook his head. And cursed as the unthinking movement released more water inside his clothes.

  “No. This is the worst I can remember.”

  “T
hat’s comforting,” Lydia mumbled, sitting with her head lowered and a tarpaulin cloak pulled up tight around her face and neck.

  Interesting, Thorn thought. She had less sailing experience than any of the others. They had all been raised on boats and on the sea. Yet she seemed to have a stolid confidence that they would make it through the storm. A lot of girls in her position would have been reduced to gibbering terror, he knew, then realized a lot of men would be the same.

  “You’re not worried?” he asked her.

  She raised her eyes to meet his. “Yes. But there’s precious little I can do about it, so there’s no point letting it get on top of me,” she said. “Besides, you’re all constantly telling me that Hal is the best helmsman you’ve ever seen. I’m sure he’ll bring us through it.”

  That was certainly true. But Thorn wondered how long Hal could continue like this. He’d been at the helm virtually since the storm had hit them. His eyes were red-rimmed from salt water and fatigue, and he was hunched over the tiller like an old man. Sooner or later, one of them would have to relieve him. Hal needed sleep—hours of it—whether he liked it or not.

  Thorn glanced sideways at the young skirl. As he did, he saw Hal lurch and stumble with an unexpected movement of the ship. Stig moved quickly to steady him and Hal muttered a silent “thanks” to his friend. He shook himself and stood erect, blinking those sore, red-rimmed eyes and stamping his feet to stimulate the blood flow in them. His legs and feet must be aching, Thorn thought. Within a few seconds, Hal’s upright stance sagged once more with weariness and he was again left supported by Stig’s muscular arm.

  “That’s it,” Thorn said to himself. He cast aside the tarpaulin cloak and clambered onto the deck of the ship, lurching toward the two figures at the steering platform as the ship jerked and jolted under him.

  Stig looked at him, a question in his eyes. Hal remained staring doggedly forward, his hands locked on the tiller.