Setting sail 4- Sailors' Shelter

Gray and heavy, the storm continued to beat down on the remainder of the Gracious Pearl’s crew. Erik and Leif had both been thrown overboard, Rangpar was chasing them in the dinghy, and Barry was manning the helm. The captain had clambered up into the crow’s nest to try and spy out where the eye was. To see how much longer Wilkes would have to repeat himself and keep swinging his arms into the wind. The problem was that the young sailor was growing fatigued.

Casting for over thirty minutes was taking a toll on him, intention wasn’t enough to beat down a storm. The incantation for strong gust had instead become a mantra, the only words rattling in his skull as he continually blew air against the storm’s pattern. Another deep breath sucked air into his burning lungs, just to have to blow it all back out before any relief came. His arms were numbed from the swaying motion to guide the wind against the storm repeatedly. Spots like stars clouded the edges of his vision while the rain pelted him. Thousands of tiny drops hammering against his resolve, trying to coax him into collapsing to the deck.

“For the sake of freedom. Surge along my chosen path. Strong Gust!” The words forced gritted teeth to rattle in his jaw. The wind answered his request to a mild degree. It was growing slower the harder he pushed himself, endurance once again proving to be his fatal flaw. He shook his head weekly and repeated the phrase. He wasn’t in an ideal situation by any means, but he was keeping a slim chance from turning into a chance of rescue. That alone drove him forward.

Calmer waters lay just beyond their reach, the eye of the storm was barely a mile out. The dinghy was a dot behind them, surging through hellish waters to rejoin the greater crew. Barry had to choose between saving the lost crew more quickly and all of them having to fight the storm, or giving them a safer return. Wilkes stared up at him for a moment, trying to get a read on his expression. His focus being split let the storm’s winds blow harder against them. His footing slipped out from under him as he tumbled to the side. Head first he met the railing of the stairs that led up to the helm. A burning pain throbbed along his nose, and he was forced to breathe through his mouth now. Blood ran down his face, snot bubbled along with it as it dripped alongside the rain. His hands gripped the railing tightly, his knuckles turning white with strain. He coughed and wheezed as the words still sputtered out unevenly. Unable to fully stand again he insisted on forcing himself to cast again through the pain.

“For… the sake of free-dom. S-surge along my chosen p-path. Strong- Strong Gust!” The words came, but the wind did not. He wrenched hard, his feet slipping along the deck as he forced himself to stand again. The blood was actively being washed away, when an idea came to him. Incantation, Intention, and The Body. Those were the three components he knew he’d need for a spell. He crammed fingers into his nostrils, drawing blood over his rain slick hands. He didn’t speak the incantation, but repeated it in his mind as he made the motion again. The crimson liquid flew like it had in the forest, carried along an unseen current in direct opposition to the storm. If his lungs would fail him, then another part of his body would be forced to comply. With a grim expression he kept drawing on the blood still streaming out his nose, no longer directly digging fingers into his wounded face.

Small red blobs departed from him, floating away on the wind as they slammed against the wind he could feel. A visible representation of his battle with nature. The eye of the storm drew nearer and nearer. He just had to hold tight. His teeth felt they were going to be ground into nubs at this rate. His vision was going dim, the stars closing in more and more. It felt like looking out through a keyhole at this point. The boat still swayed beneath him, years of experience letting him lean into subconsciously. The mantra repeated in his mind, more blood flew into the wind, and the storm was still kept weaker. In the back of his mind he knew this was a fleeting method, the blood was run dry just like his throat. Then what would he do? Create new wounds? The scars along his arms from old stitches stared up at him, but he simply refused. Beatrice had spent enough time helping him get those closed the first time, reopening them for the sake of a thousand yards in a storm… for the sake of her cousin’s survival, her father’s survival, for his survival. Perhaps he could.

Clumsy steps led him across the deck, subconsciously he still kept casting. The process had become nearly autonomous, a second nature as he stood in the heart of all the danger. The loss of blood was slowly catching up to him, a compounding light headedness. In the back of his mind he knew to fall here would cast him into the sea, all of his efforts barely buying any time in the face of the storm. Erik, Rangpar, Leif, they’d likely have drowned out there besides him if he falters now. It would all have been pointless. At least he’d see his mother again.

“Not yet.” He mumbled as he braced himself against the mast. “Can’t go… dyin’ yet.”

Numb fingers drew a length of rope from the rigging. Stumbling there he began to tie himself onto the mast, if his feet failed again he wouldn’t be cast aside. As long as the ship held, so would he. Conscious or otherwise he’d keep casting, every fiber of his being wove itself towards that goal. Another spray of salty water ran over his face. He clung to the mast with the burning embers of consciousness, eyelids growing too heavy to hold open. He gripped tighter, finger nails carving light trails in the wood grain. A vain attempt to keep himself awake, even growing desperate enough to slam his forehead against the mast. The jolt of pain was distant and did nothing to keep him alert. He just wanted to keep everyone safe, however he could. Something clicked into place as the idea swirled within the winds of his mental incantation.

“F-for… For the sanctuary of those I hold dear. I make my body a bulwark in the storm. Sailors’ Shelter!” At first nothing happened, the wind returned in full force. The whistling in his ears was deafening, the creeping weight of failure settled upon him for a moment. He relaxed his grip and was ready for the wind to take him. For the salty spray to finally swallow him whole as he was swept away. Nothing happened.

The ship kept sailing along, almost peacefully. The captain’s laughter rang in his ears. Blinking hard, Wilkes forced himself to take in the scene around him. Sunlight had broken through the clouds. A second hole punched through the storm. Not an eye, not nearly large enough to be one, but a hole. A gap that seemed to be moving with them. Shelter in the storm. Leaning against the mast he just gazed up at the brilliant blue with a halo of mottled gray, his mouth agape at the sight. The remains of the downpour slowly sloshed off the canvas that had battened the hatches. Captain Tellish clambered his way down from the crow’s nest and whistled on seeing the state of his employee.

“Well shit lad, if I’d known ye knew magic like that I’d’ve taken you on a hell of a lot more deep sea journeys.” The captain laughed after he spoke, a gleeful sound that was a welcome reprieve from the constant hammering of rain. He stopped laughing once he noticed the trail of dried blood on Wilkes’s face. “Aww shit ye broke yer nose lad!”

A couple fussing noises from the gruff older man as he barked orders at the remaining crew on the ship were all Wilkes heard. He stood limp as a dead fish hanging from line. The knot he’d tied with the last bit of his will kept him upright, and even then he could feel his hurried work straining. The bleeding from his nose stopped, but all he could smell was the metallic stench of blood. He’d need to wash his shirt after all of this too. Dried blood and snot were one nasty stain. At least when he’d get back soon there’d be new shirts at the tailor’s. Maybe he could try them on for Beatrice, then spend a full day cuddled up with her and Daisy. That’d be nice. Real nice. His eyes shut again, when he felt a tapping on his face.

“Lad ye prolly rattled yer skull when ye busted yer nose. Gotta give ye a once over before I can let ye go sleepin’. See others take hits like that and not wake up since they wanged their head too hard.” Barry spoke with mild concern. His pipe was relit and his halo of smoke once again returned. For some reason a dopey smile spread across Wilkes’s face at the sight.

“C’mon, y’know the ole skull o’ mine is emptier than a net in winter. Nothing to go wanging in there. Just lemme sleep.” Wilkes argued with the goofy expression. Barry swore under his breath and held up a finger.

“You just follow my finger and how it moves lad. Then ye can sleep.” The digit was wagged around and Barry grimaced hard. Wilkes kept his eyes on it, and he honestly couldn’t tell what had Barry so concerned. He was fine, except for the aching in his nose, the numbness of his limbs, the feeling of ants crawling up his legs, and the exhaustion.

“Right follow yer finger from here to home, can I sleep now?” Wilkes asked and Barry’s grimace deepened into a scowl. The knot was untied and the younger sailor collapsed into the waiting arms of his mentor. Heaved like a fresh catch over the older man’s shoulder the pair went below deck where Dortas stood next to a makeshift hammock. Wilkes curled an eyebrow as he was gently rested into it.

“Dortas, ye keep him hydrated until we get back home. He’ll be on a week’s bed rest when we get back. Went and got himself concussed.” Barry’s voice was intentionally quiet, but Wilkes heard it all the same. He relaxed into the ropes, letting himself be cradled by the labor of his apprentice’s hands. It wasn’t as comfortable as his bed back home, but taking the weight off his aching feet was nearly orgasmic. He rolled his head to the smile and gave Dortas a wide grin.

“Told ye we’d be alright.” Wilkes spoke hoarsely, his voice a half croak. The dopey grin was only half returned by the gnomish bargelad. A few steps now more aptly timed with the swaying of the ship made his approach timely. Wilkes's smile widened at that, even if his brain felt like it was stuffed full of cotton he could appreciate that.

“And we are. I trusted you, just glad to see you were right.” Dortas did his best to sound chipper, but he was still visibly rattled by the storm. Brave as he was, seeing the hell nature could unleash in the blink of an eye for the first time was what usually made the difference between a barge lad and a sailor. Seemed Dortas was fit to be the latter afterall. One thing bugged Wilkes though.

“Wheresh Svend?” The question tumbled out in a half slur.

“Svend is on the main deck jury rigging what snapped in the storm. I’m keeping you hydrated and fetching buckets to toss the sea water back where it came from.”

“Fingersh are numb, gonna sleep it off yea. I’ll uh… I’ll talk to ye when I’m up lad.”

“Right, sleep tight Wilkes.” Dortas spoke calmly, or at least it sounded calm enough considering everything that had happened. Suddenly a deep black overtook the view of the lower deck. Sleep took a firm hold of him, and once more he began to dream.

His eyes fluttered open slowly as a new view spread out before him. A sky laden with stars each twinkling with their own glory. Something sweeping across the horizon and swaying in the breeze. It was a deep orange, maybe amber, colored field in front of him. Grain that was fully grown and healthy, every stalk seemed to be the cream of the crop. Enough wheat to feed a million people for months by his own estimate. Distantly he heard a sweet melody. It was strangely familiar as it carried across the beautiful field. He rose slowly from where he lay, curled as he had been in the hammock. His head lifted higher, but still fell short of the stalks. Pushing gently, he parted the stalks as he wandered towards the song. It grew louder until he could finally hear it clearly. Feminine voices, high soprano as Erik would’ve called them, filled his ears. The last of the stalks parted by his hand gave him a clear view of a small hill. The voices kept singing as he carefully walked up.

He noticed now that he felt impossibly light. Each step nearly bound as he moved. The weariness of fighting back the storm for almost an hour had vanished. Distantly he still felt the stinging in his assumedly broken nose, the bleariness of tears skewed part of his vision even now. Halfway up the hill, the voices rose slightly in pitch, but they didn’t seem aware of him. A singular tree came into view now, oak without any leaves from his guess. Some sort of key instrument joined them, either a harpsichord or piano, he had only heard the latter once before in his life. Notes resonated with a heavy bass in harmony with the women’s voices now. It had to be multiple as he swore he heard chords being sung. When he finally reached the summit of the small hill he found himself to be alone there. In the distance he could spy other hills, but the field seemed impossibly large. Crossing to the other hill might’ve taken days if he tried. With no other option he sat down at the foot of this tree.

His foot bumped something small. Wooden and with a body that was relatively round. A long wooden neck came from the top. It was either a viola or a violin, he didn’t know the difference. Hell he didn’t even know if that’s what this really was. Yet all the same, staring at it there he felt compelled to play. To join the distant song. The bow belonging to this violin found its way into his hand. He placed the stringy looking part against the strings of the instrument and pulled with one slow motion.

A low, somber note echoed from his hill. A pause in the song silenced the field and hills. He stared around under the admittedly bleak sky. He pulled again, adjusting the instrument to rest against his collar bone. He slid the bow repeatedly, sloppy chords rang out. The rest of the song did not return. He lowered the borrowed instrument, but before it fully left his hands distant harmonies resounded back to him. Three parts in one. He continued to play, clumsy and amateur; he joined the great song. Something rose in his chest as he did. The song was sad, admittedly, but seemed to be moving towards bitter sweet. A lift into the major and out of the minor stirred his aching heart. He recognized the song now. It was the song his mother had sung while rocking him as a baby and small child. The song she soothed his fear of storms with. Wordless, but the melody still struck him.

His eyes strained as he looked to one of the distant hills. A woman with dark black hair that crashed in waves like the sea seemed to be staring directly at him from across the impossible gap. He dropped the instrument while breaking into a sprint. His feet trampled stalk after stalk as he chased the quieting song. He stumbled but didn’t allow himself to slow, he could still hear it, still hear her. He just needed to keep going, to go faster.

“MAMA! I’M COMING MAMA!” He screamed into the now silent field. His fingers clawed through earth as he tore his way atop the opposing hill. The final echoes ringing in his ears. A fallen tree atop a hill, a smashed music stand, and not a sign of any other person. The piano still played faintly. Hauntingly. Its music changed into a much more foreboding tune as his eyes focused onto the third hill he could see. A man was sat with his back to Wilkes. Hair like playful white clouds pulled in golden bands.

“Don’t go destroying this place. Go on and wake up… son.” The stranger’s voice carried like the wind. Barely above a whisper yet clear as day. It was indescribable beyond that, too familiar to misplace but to foreign to fully remember. The ground seemed to soften from packed earth to wet mud. Rising up to his chest in an instant as his own weight forced him to sink. He clawed through it with his hands, kicking furiously as if he could swim his way back into the dream.

“DAD! DAD DON’T LEAVE ME AGAIN! I’M SORRY, PLEASE!” His voice was hoarse again as he kept screaming, the mud caked his fingers as the piano simply kept playing. It had changed into a lament, a deeply sad song for mourning. It wasn't until his head was fully submerged in the warmth of the mud that