writers_loft | [LJ Story] Part 8

Here's part eight of my ongoing story and would appreciate any thoughts or suggestions on anything, from phrasing to pacing to dialogue. If anyone's totally lost with the characters or what's going on just ask, and the previous parts are on my journal. :) I hope the formatting is alright for everyone.

Rating: PG
Genre: Fantasy
Length: approx 1800 words

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Rain hammered on the dark, broad deck. The Athelo had ridden on the waves for three days and nights, as she cleaved her way further south and past the few underwater rocks left, and had now reached the depths of the storm, where the sea crashed against the hull and spray flew up as high as the sails. Cara clung to the ropes that Galthor had tied between masts and along the rails as a guide, her free arm up by her eyes to shield them.

Finlay turned round to say something, but a sudden crack of thunder drowned him out. She shook her head, hair dripping with water. Not five minutes ago she’d been eating warm porridge for breakfast and already she was shivering with cold.

Farron was at the stern, looking drenched in only his white tunic and trousers. The rich green coat had been left in the dry cabin. “Furl the sails,” he yelled over the noise of the storm, “or we’ll be blown right off course!”

Cara only heard snippets of what he said, but the point was clear; Galthor chivvied the five riggers and Cara, along with a few other men, up into the rigging. The ropes were slick, her rubber soles giving her no help, and she was climbing almost blind. Finlay headed straight for the mizzenmast, and Cara followed his feet. They fumbled on the lines and knots, until one came loose on the topgallant sail. A corner flapped free as the ship reared up on a swell and then plunged, backwards, down into the valley. Cara felt her stomach churn. Her skin was sore from the prick of rain, her fingers felt swollen.

She looked up from her knots and at that moment there was a great flash of lightening. And in the split-second illumination, she saw something vast sliding alongside the sails.

“Finlay!” she cried, grabbing his arm. There came two smaller flashes and he saw it too; a great curve of black flesh, the width of the ship or more, rising out of the sea and looping straight back down. Cara reached out her fingers and felt them graze the slimy, tender skin.

Finlay cupped his hands round his mouth and bellowed down to Farron, “CAPTAIN! SEA SERPENT, STARBOARD SIDE!”

The few men that heard the call let out panicked yells. Two or three dropped what they were doing and froze, too scared to move. “Keep going! It may miss us!” Farron cried at them.

Imlad rushed from the trapdoor, holding a dozen decapitated rabbit heads he’d raided from Laniel’s kitchen, and dropped them over the side. As soon as their bloody necks hit the water the sea serpent jerked away from the ship, sending a wave straight over the deck. The crew held grimly to their ropes and appeared, gasping, when the wave died.

The sea serpent thrashed, throwing the Athelo about like a little cork. Suddenly, one end of it reared up out of the water, higher than the main mast, and looked balefully at the ship; at least, it would have looked if it had eyes. Instead, there were two fleshy mounds where the eyes might be, and the rest of its head was as featureless as a worm. It opened it’s dripping wet mouth and sucked in air.

“Get out of it, you silly thing,” Imlad roared, and threw a neatly aimed rabbit head at its nose. A smear of blood was left behind and as the serpent breathed it sensed the putrid smell and let out a cry. The head fell back into the water with a crash and its coils flailed. The Athelo suddenly bucked; the serpent’s back end had smashed into the underside of the hull, impressing the planks with the indent of its body and tearing away a chunk of the forecastle railing. The crew were thrown off their feet; Cara let go of the rigging and was caught by the scruff of her tunic by a nameless rigger.

“Thanks,” she gasped.

“Sails to the deck!” Galthor bellowed from below. The riggers inched, shaking with cold, down the rigging, three to a sail. Cara could see Witten and Farron rushing to the bow to check the damage; the sea serpent was nowhere in sight now but the waves were still high and throwing themselves at the ship. The Athelo groaned and creaked under their feet, bobbing uselessly without her sails, which were now bound tightly to the deck. Cara wiped the incessant rain from her eyes and took her place by one of the ropes. She looked at the trapdoor longingly; Imlad had warned the crew to stay on deck throughout the storm, for should the ship founder (here he’d patted his forehead with a kerchief) any man below would be unable to escape.

Up on the highest point of the poop deck, Urgrim was steeling himself against the gale. He’d raised his feeble arms into the air and had begun to chant with feverish energy. His voice was inaudible over the storm but the crew hung on his every movement, daring to trust their weather-worker.

That day lasted a lifetime; the crew stayed on the freezing deck, occasionally soaked by spray or a larger wave. One man was lost overboard trying to run between safety lines – the water swept him off his feet and over the rails before anyone could help. Laniel’s kitchen was soaked from sea water gushing through the scuttles and so they had nothing to eat.

Cara huddled as small as she could, her right side warmed slightly by Finlay. And when her fingers were locked together, when her joints were so set that they creaked when she moved them, and when she’s forgotten what it felt like to be comfortable, warm and well fed, Finlay shook her arm and said, “Look, Cara!”

She looked and realised that the sheets of rain was only a drizzle coming from the masts. The storm clouds that had curled above them had thinned and even now she could see the late evening sky through the sprinkling of gaps. Urgrim lowered his hands and weakly tried to make his way back to his cabin. Farron – whose tunic’s hem had been shorn off and whose lips were a pale blue – strode forward and shook his hand.

“That was well done, Urgrim. Well done, indeed.”

Once the sails had been re-secured, the Athelo continued east in a ship’s equivalent of a limp. She was lilting constantly now, as the hold was covered with ankle deep water since the wax plug was wearing thin and Witten had other problems to attend to, like the massive imprint on the side of the ship. A small barrel of good wine was uncorked in honour of the lost sailor, whose name had been Haidon. Imlad led a solemn toast at dinner and everyone drunk their share, each thankful to be alive and astonished at their luck for not having lost more.

“I thought we were as good as drowned when I saw that serpent,” one of them said, staring blankly into his cup. Imlad refilled it with a generous measure of wine and a sympathetic look.

“I ain’t never seen one so big - have you, Imlad?”

“Never,” he replied. “That trick is good with the smaller ones but when it started thrashing about… I know it’d been my fault if we’d capsized.”

A shiver ran through the whole table. A young man leaned a little forward and said to Imlad, “I didn’t understand – I thought you were baiting it!”

“No, lad, if there’s anything they can’t stand it’s the smell of blood. They’re not violent things, but them being blind they just crash right into ships without noticing. A whole fleet’s worth has been sunk that way. We were lucky to get away with just a scratch.”

Urgrim had spent himself trying to calm the storm and wasn’t seen by the crew, but Brenlan was making it well known to everyone – in not so many words – that if Farron had headed away from the rocks in the first place they would have missed the storm by a day or more. He strolled on the decks looking rather smug, ignoring the scoffs of the men and whispers of, “Yeah, but did you see him when the serpent turned up? His trousers were soaked and I’d wager my right leg it wasn’t sea water.”

There was much to do on the sails, since many of the beams and lines had snapped or been thrown askew. It was high up on the foremast, while replacing an old, sodden line with a new one that one of the riggers cried out, “Land on the port side!”

Cara glanced up; the coast was too far to really see, but it was clear that they were past the Icemarsh. The air was fresh, with a hint of something flowery blowing through the sails. She took a deep breath and filled her lungs with the unfamiliar smell. “We’ll be there in a few days, now,” Imlad nodded when she’d clambered down and told him, “Thorus sits in a small harbour just some thirty miles from the Icemarsh. And then… I suppose we’ll have to find you some place to stay.”

Cara’s breath caught. “Can’t I sail with you?”

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “We’ll see. Maybe you should work in Thorus for a while first, eh?”

She could tell he was humouring her. She bit her bottom lip to stop it shaking. “I’ve been good enough as a rigger, haven’t I?”

“Of course! But the Captain can’t just take on anyone who stows away, you know. He answers to someone else first.” Imlad was called away to see to the stores then, leaving her on the deck.

“You alright?” Finlay muttered, putting a grubby hand on her tunic.

“Do I look alright?” she snapped, shrugging his hand away. She could feel her cheeks burning. Stowing away had seemed so easy in Amantra; it had been hard to imagine living anywhere else so she’d thought only about the ship, the crew, the sea. A life beyond that had been too vague – too intimidating – to think about. And now here it was, with the question of how to fill it?

“Captain! Ship ahead!”

They all jumped at the cry. Farron took out a tiny eyeglass and squinted through it.

The ship was a few miles ahead of them, and coming from further south. It was much sleeker than the Athelo, with an elegantly curved hull and high forecastle. It had been painted in various shades of scarlet and orange that were stark against the calm blue waters, and its sails were broad and full.

Imlad emerged onto the deck and peered at it. “That’s a Saxwoldian ship, Captain, I’m sure.”

“I didn’t know they were trading this time of year,” Farron replied, for it was clear that the foreign ship was bound for the same destination as them.

“They ain’t trading, sir,” said a young man of the crew, and he pointed to the very top of the main mast. Flying free was an old, tattered ensign of a faded rose-and-thorn symbol, quartered with a knotted chain bearing a single, red orb.

“Great shakes,” Imlad whispered, “I never thought I’d see that again.”

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Many thanks for reading. :)