by Rod Fisher
Chapter One
Sunrise.
Felic had the helm.
The big square sail filled and fluttered, filled and fluttered, uncertain of its role in the fitful breeze. It seemed like the start of a normal day, but there was something errant--a subtle disquiet filtering the morning sunlight. Felic noticed it in the squeak of the helm. The wood had swollen. That usually meant a change in the weather.
The watch, tired from the previous day's victory, were mostly asleep in the scuppers. They had not finished with the casks and crates of booty which presented an untidy clutter on the main deck. Some were opened, some intact. Felic was annoyed by the clutter but felt no need to make an issue of it. They had fought bravely and lost a few comrades in the battle; he would restrain from a reprimand. The plundered merchant ship was not the easy mark they had anticipated. Its crew was well-armed and prepared. Antelo, his first mate, joined him on the quarterdeck. "Not much wind," he remarked through a yawn.
Felic nodded and rang the bell for the change of watch. "I think we're in for a some foul weather."
"Are you feeling it in your old knee wound," Antelo chided.
"Have you ever known my knee to be wrong?"
"Forget it. Go to bed." Antelo shot back and took over the helm.
As the morning progressed Felic's sleep was abbreviated by the exaggerated motion of the ship and the staccato slap of the bow wave. Ordinarily it was muffled in the aft cabin. He rejoined Antelo on the quarterdeck. The wind was steady and the sail was full. They were quartering the waves with bow-battering speed on a broad reach. There were no whitecaps but the expanse before them was like an oily marbled mix of dark greens, blues and purples under the cloud cover.
"The sea has a wicked look about it, don't you think?" he asked Antelo. .
"It does. I don't like it. Something nasty is building."
Felic rang the bell. When the new watch came on deck he took the helm and ordered the sail reefed. Antelo stayed by his side, scanning the horizon, concerned.
"You're like an old woman," Felic teased. "It's my watch. Let me do the worrying. Get below and get some rest."
Antelo shrugged, gave the horizon an anxious scan, then went below. As the hours went on the waves started building carrying ridges of white foam. The wind increased to where the rigging was singing. Felic ordered a second reef in the sail. He still maintained the heading. If the weather didn't worsen, they would make it to the Great South Bay of Antillia and shelter behind the Isle of Mists.
The crew finished sorting out the plunder. They tossed the unwanted stuff overboard--things that couldn't be traded or sold for a profit. What remained was resealed and lashed to the deck.
The seas were building and the ship threw spray back from the bow even though the sail was double-reefed. It was an exhilarating ride. It would have been joyful on a sunny day, but today it was somehow ominous. The ship was heeling so that the starboard rail was only an arm's length off the water. The crew was complacent; coping with a slanted deck was nothing unusual in their experience.
The cloud cover darkened in the northeast and fragmented white clouds scudded south beneath it, not unlike a flock of sheep chased by a wolf. Felic could still make out the mountains of Antillia ahead. Their dark violet skyline was blending with the sky and would soon disappear. He was torn between choices only a captain can make. If he could hold the present course they might beat the storm to safety. If he slacked off downwind, he debated mentally, it could ease the ship's motion and make better speed. But could they find a protective inlet on an unfamiliar shore?
Before he decided a rogue wave made the question moot.