Post by orinocoflow on Apr 15, 2010 0:09:21 GMT -5
Lightning flashed across the sky, blinding any who were looking at it and lighting up the world around. The wind howled in the air, whistling around the masts and billowing the sails to their fullest extent, threatening to snap the wooden masts in two. Thunder rolled, shattering the sounds of anything other than itself. The ocean below it tossed and churned the small ship struggling to pass across as if it were no more than a toy in a child’s tub.
The cabin boy, a fellow of about fourteen named Damien, gripped the railing in his hand as the ship came crashing down into the waves, sending water everywhere. He closed his eyes instinctively as the water, heavy with salt, splashed across his face, stinging his cold nose and broken lip. He had fallen against a mast the other day, splitting his lip, and though the salt helped it close and heal faster, it hurt, regardless the fact that he had had it many times before.
As the ship rose and fell with the next wave, he was enveloped in a column of water. Sputtering, Damien grasped the black cloak he wore around him, pulling it tighter around his body, thankful he had received it from the captain the week before. Unlike the outside of his clothing, everything under the mantle was dry.
A heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder as the next flash of lightning broke the murky blackness, and, turning, he saw the captain standing above him.
“Go on below, lad,” he heard faintly, though no doubt the man was yelling. “It is much too bad up here for you to stay safe. Ye could be swept off, ye know.” The captain, somewhere in his late thirties, early forties, was about as fatherly a figure as Damien had ever had, and definitely the kindest he had known in his short lifetime. If any of the rest of the crew teased him or made him feel uncomfortable in any way, Captain Donaldson was one of the first to stand by him. Nodding quickly, Damien turned and went below deck, careful not to slip on the sleek surface.
In the galley, he smiled when he saw the rest of the crew gathered, as well as some of the passengers. Walking up to Keith, he sat down beside him.
Keith was twenty, but a wonderful friend, and he placed a bowl of steaming food right in front of Damien, who was now shivering from the chill. While he ate, he looked around the room at the other occupants.
Lord Byrom was a handsome man in his late twenties, but no one knew where he had been that he had required this journey by ship, and though he had a lean, athletic build, he had probably never done a day of hard work in his life. His agile hands were not marred by a single callus, not even from writing, though he was obviously well-educated. During the trip, he had often been seen with either a book or a pad and pencil, reading or writing some sort of text. Unsure what to make of him as a man, Damien respected him because of his rank, for it was never wise to upset a wealthy man over a simple matter.
Beside the lord sat a lady, her dark hair falling over one graceful shoulder. She always had on a beautiful, expensive dress, the silk shining in the light cast from the lamp in the room. Her name was Meav, and Lord Byrom had had an eye on her from the first day they met.
On the other side of her was a corner hidden in shadows, but Damien knew better. One of their passengers, a brooding man named Ryan, was known to cling to the shadows as a white to rice; he seemed to be part of them. He was dressed from head to toe in black, and wore a long leather cloak that floated down from his strong shoulders to his black leather boots. His voice, rarely heard by any, was hoarse, in a threatening way, as though if you took one wrong step it would be your last. All of the crew steered clear of him, but Meav would occasionally speak to him in the evening. Lord Byrom was, surprisingly, comfortable around him, given the difference in title and character, but there were rumors passing that they knew each other from before. Keith had once whispered to Damien in the dark that this Ryan spirit was a buccaneer, come to take over the ship. Dismissing such talk as gossip, Damien had not believed him until one night, he had seen Ryan standing on the deck, a dagger visible in his bootleg and a pistol at his side. When the man had turned to him, Damien tried to find a way to pass by him, but found that the only way was right past the fearsome character. Trembling, he had crept as close as he dared before sprinting to his destination; and when he stood on the opposite side of the ship, catching his breath, he thought he heard a quiet, evil laugh coming from the man. Since then, he believed almost everything Keith told him.
Now, Damien shuddered and glanced up as another fellow sailor came in, rainwater streaming from his hair and coat. Planting himself on the other side of Keith, he helped himself to some of the meal, keeping a wary eye on the patch of shadow near Meav’s right side. Finishing quickly, he got up and scampered out of the room, one ear cocked over his shoulder, straining to hear any signal that might foreshadow the dark man stalking after him. When the door slammed shut, Damien could not help but chuckle, knowing that Ryan would not do something as obvious as that. If he did anything at all, it would be when there were no witnesses and it was dark out.
Just as they were all relaxing by the light of the lamp, Captain Donaldson stormed in, the wind rushing into the room while he struggled to close the cabin door.
“Come on, all of ye lads, we need you on deck. One of the sails has torn free, and I need ye fellows to tie it back down. It’s out main sail, and if we lose control of that…”
“…we can very easily lose control of the ship and fall off course,” finished Keith, leaping up. “Is the boom still down, or did the ropes split on that too?”
“It’s still up, but it isn’t long before we lose it,” came the terse reply over a shoulder as the captain raced back out into the thunderstorm.
“A Thiarna, déan trócaire,” murmured the blond as he grabbed his coat before following his captain. While the rest of the crew did the same, muttering a quick prayer prior to exiting the room, Damien felt left out. Should he go after everyone else and help, or stay inside like the captain had told him to? Deciding on the former, he buttoned the cloak and headed out, the wind immediately grabbing at his light form when he was outside. The strong airstreams, combined with the waves splashing on the low deck, he was pulled off his feet, tossed him against the ship’s side. He swatted for the railing to save himself from going over, but the wet wood was too smooth to hold on; he tumbled over the edge.
Just as he felt a spear of ice-cold fear shoot up his spine, his coat snagged on a notch in the railing. The breath was knocked out of him when the leather stopped his fall short, his chest strained from the unexpected impact. Helpless, he swung as gravity and the rolling motion of the ship took their toll on him. Dimly, somewhere in the background, he could hear a voice yelling his name, telling him to hold on for just a minute longer. But the cloak would not be told the same thing; it began to slip free of the score on the railing with each of his swings, about to send him to the deep. Scared more than ever before, he began to pray in the old language,
After what seemed like an eternity, a pair of hands tugged at his arms, bringing him back to the safety of the deck. Someone, not to tall, rather short, actually, picked him up and carried his limp body into the cabin room, where all was silent save for the crashing of the ocean outside.
Coming back into himself, Damien glanced around while careful not to turn his aching neck. Tasting something sour and metallic on his tongue, he realized his lip had broken once more, but this time was bleeding much stronger. Then his sweeping gaze landed on the only man in the room who was as drenched as he, yet not a sailor. RYAN.
The black-clad figure sat not in his usual corner, but in the flickering light created by the oil lamp. He was casually wringing out his coat from the rain, but looked up as if he had felt Damien’s eyes on him. His were a strange color, almost white, so pale were they. Like ice, thought Damien, shivering. But knowing whom he owed his life to, he sat up and uneasily walked over to Ryan, his steps slow and uncertain. “Thank you, sir, for helping me out there…” he trailed off as Ryan’s eyes flashed an eerie neon blue color, but then returned to normal.
“It was nothing, lad. Just be careful next time, true?” He shot Damien a quick smile, and then went back to his task. Shifting his feet, the boy nodded once and slipped out of the room to go to his own.
The next morning, he heard the boatswain whistling the crew up onto the deck. Grumbling, he slipped out of the makeshift bed and jogged up the stairs, almost tripping in the way there.
“LAND!” came the dry from all who were there. “Down by the horizon!”
“We should get there by dark,” declared Keith, judging the distance. “And the sky is clear tonight, so we shouldn’t have any trouble, mates. Come on, get to it!”
But as the sun made its way across the blue, wispy clouds set in, as well as a deep fog. The moonlight reflected off of the mist, making it appear silver, the gleam blinded the lads in a mysterious way. A distant wailing could be heard, and when the crew heard it, they glanced at each other in fear. Even Ryan shifted on his feet, unnerved by the sound. The word “banshees” was whispered by them all as they held on to ropes and waited for the captain to call out a command.
* * *
A heavy mist sat on the shore, masking it from both the sailor searching for land as well as the man on the beach attempting to pierce it with an experienced eye. Knowing that this was a common occurrence in this part of Hibernia, the man ordered his companions to beat the drums, bringing the ship home to its heartland. But little did it do, for the sound echoed through the fog, ringing in the sailors’ souls as they strained to see the dangers hidden below the black waters.
After a few hours of navigating and beating of the drums, the two met in a harbor nearby. The passengers left, thanking the captain and crew, they left. Just before turning away, Ryan pressed something into Damien’s hand, and then followed Lord Byrom and Meav.
So they do know each other, mused the boy, watching them leave. Opening his palm slowly, he glanced down. Inside were an old coin and a note. Frowning, he pocketed the gift before someone else noticed it.
“Thank you, lord; you have brought us safe to shore. Be our strength and protection ever more,” murmured Damien as he heard another man come up to Captain Donaldson and request a trip to one place or another by ship. As the two men went inside to discuss details, he breathed in the fresh air and ran to a familiar cave on the beach. He had found it while exploring a few years ago, and every time they were home now, he always went to it, even if only for a few minutes.
Drawing the coin and note out, he read the latter first. The hand was scrawled in a rapid manner, as though the letter had been written in a limited amount of time.
Hello lad,
This coin has quite a bit of a history in itself, and I found it to be a form of a lucky charm, as it were. Hope you keep it for the same purpose, for in a life like yours there will need to be some protection to prevent those accidents from occurring again. If you don’t find it to work, I can tell you that this coin is worth…
When Damien read the number, he gasped aloud. A man he had known for only a few weeks had given him something that was worth more than he could even imagine. And it had been a luck charm, so to Ryan, it was worth impossibly more. Swallowing hard and blinking, he tried to read the rest of the note.
Best of wishes,
Ryan Kelly
The signature was written in a stylish hand, a stark contrast to the practically-illegible writing before it. His head still spinning form the price, he folded the note and placed it in a pouch he wore around his neck, and then looked at the coin. It had a leather strip on it to tie and loop around the neck; it was also dirty, so Damien wiped the muck off…and froze.
The coin was solid gold.
The intricate design on it told him that it was from Hibernia, but from long ago, and the year was…1111. He sat down right there in the sand, gaping at the coin. In that cave he stayed all night.
In the morning, when he heard the captain calling him, he looped the leather ribbon around his neck, the coin right over his heart. Sighing, he jogged back to the ship, preparing for another voyage.
“Hear our hymn from the heartland; hear our prayer; steer us through stormy waters; lead us there...” Damien chanted along with Keith, knowing that the prayer had never gone unheard. He knew that those who scoffed at the saying never sailed for long, drowning at sea. Placing a hand over the coin, he felt it warm to his touch, and immediately felt better.
But as they sailed away, he felt eyes on him. Looking back to shore, he saw a figure in a long, black leather cloak standing there. Ryan raised a hand in farewell, and Damien could only stare back, his hand slipping up to clutch the gold coin to his chest, nodding stiffly. After a moment, the man put his arm down, but stayed there, watching the ship until Damien could no longer differentiate between him and the landscape. Then he was gone.
THE END
Hope you guys like it!
The cabin boy, a fellow of about fourteen named Damien, gripped the railing in his hand as the ship came crashing down into the waves, sending water everywhere. He closed his eyes instinctively as the water, heavy with salt, splashed across his face, stinging his cold nose and broken lip. He had fallen against a mast the other day, splitting his lip, and though the salt helped it close and heal faster, it hurt, regardless the fact that he had had it many times before.
As the ship rose and fell with the next wave, he was enveloped in a column of water. Sputtering, Damien grasped the black cloak he wore around him, pulling it tighter around his body, thankful he had received it from the captain the week before. Unlike the outside of his clothing, everything under the mantle was dry.
A heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder as the next flash of lightning broke the murky blackness, and, turning, he saw the captain standing above him.
“Go on below, lad,” he heard faintly, though no doubt the man was yelling. “It is much too bad up here for you to stay safe. Ye could be swept off, ye know.” The captain, somewhere in his late thirties, early forties, was about as fatherly a figure as Damien had ever had, and definitely the kindest he had known in his short lifetime. If any of the rest of the crew teased him or made him feel uncomfortable in any way, Captain Donaldson was one of the first to stand by him. Nodding quickly, Damien turned and went below deck, careful not to slip on the sleek surface.
In the galley, he smiled when he saw the rest of the crew gathered, as well as some of the passengers. Walking up to Keith, he sat down beside him.
Keith was twenty, but a wonderful friend, and he placed a bowl of steaming food right in front of Damien, who was now shivering from the chill. While he ate, he looked around the room at the other occupants.
Lord Byrom was a handsome man in his late twenties, but no one knew where he had been that he had required this journey by ship, and though he had a lean, athletic build, he had probably never done a day of hard work in his life. His agile hands were not marred by a single callus, not even from writing, though he was obviously well-educated. During the trip, he had often been seen with either a book or a pad and pencil, reading or writing some sort of text. Unsure what to make of him as a man, Damien respected him because of his rank, for it was never wise to upset a wealthy man over a simple matter.
Beside the lord sat a lady, her dark hair falling over one graceful shoulder. She always had on a beautiful, expensive dress, the silk shining in the light cast from the lamp in the room. Her name was Meav, and Lord Byrom had had an eye on her from the first day they met.
On the other side of her was a corner hidden in shadows, but Damien knew better. One of their passengers, a brooding man named Ryan, was known to cling to the shadows as a white to rice; he seemed to be part of them. He was dressed from head to toe in black, and wore a long leather cloak that floated down from his strong shoulders to his black leather boots. His voice, rarely heard by any, was hoarse, in a threatening way, as though if you took one wrong step it would be your last. All of the crew steered clear of him, but Meav would occasionally speak to him in the evening. Lord Byrom was, surprisingly, comfortable around him, given the difference in title and character, but there were rumors passing that they knew each other from before. Keith had once whispered to Damien in the dark that this Ryan spirit was a buccaneer, come to take over the ship. Dismissing such talk as gossip, Damien had not believed him until one night, he had seen Ryan standing on the deck, a dagger visible in his bootleg and a pistol at his side. When the man had turned to him, Damien tried to find a way to pass by him, but found that the only way was right past the fearsome character. Trembling, he had crept as close as he dared before sprinting to his destination; and when he stood on the opposite side of the ship, catching his breath, he thought he heard a quiet, evil laugh coming from the man. Since then, he believed almost everything Keith told him.
Now, Damien shuddered and glanced up as another fellow sailor came in, rainwater streaming from his hair and coat. Planting himself on the other side of Keith, he helped himself to some of the meal, keeping a wary eye on the patch of shadow near Meav’s right side. Finishing quickly, he got up and scampered out of the room, one ear cocked over his shoulder, straining to hear any signal that might foreshadow the dark man stalking after him. When the door slammed shut, Damien could not help but chuckle, knowing that Ryan would not do something as obvious as that. If he did anything at all, it would be when there were no witnesses and it was dark out.
Just as they were all relaxing by the light of the lamp, Captain Donaldson stormed in, the wind rushing into the room while he struggled to close the cabin door.
“Come on, all of ye lads, we need you on deck. One of the sails has torn free, and I need ye fellows to tie it back down. It’s out main sail, and if we lose control of that…”
“…we can very easily lose control of the ship and fall off course,” finished Keith, leaping up. “Is the boom still down, or did the ropes split on that too?”
“It’s still up, but it isn’t long before we lose it,” came the terse reply over a shoulder as the captain raced back out into the thunderstorm.
“A Thiarna, déan trócaire,” murmured the blond as he grabbed his coat before following his captain. While the rest of the crew did the same, muttering a quick prayer prior to exiting the room, Damien felt left out. Should he go after everyone else and help, or stay inside like the captain had told him to? Deciding on the former, he buttoned the cloak and headed out, the wind immediately grabbing at his light form when he was outside. The strong airstreams, combined with the waves splashing on the low deck, he was pulled off his feet, tossed him against the ship’s side. He swatted for the railing to save himself from going over, but the wet wood was too smooth to hold on; he tumbled over the edge.
Just as he felt a spear of ice-cold fear shoot up his spine, his coat snagged on a notch in the railing. The breath was knocked out of him when the leather stopped his fall short, his chest strained from the unexpected impact. Helpless, he swung as gravity and the rolling motion of the ship took their toll on him. Dimly, somewhere in the background, he could hear a voice yelling his name, telling him to hold on for just a minute longer. But the cloak would not be told the same thing; it began to slip free of the score on the railing with each of his swings, about to send him to the deep. Scared more than ever before, he began to pray in the old language,
After what seemed like an eternity, a pair of hands tugged at his arms, bringing him back to the safety of the deck. Someone, not to tall, rather short, actually, picked him up and carried his limp body into the cabin room, where all was silent save for the crashing of the ocean outside.
Coming back into himself, Damien glanced around while careful not to turn his aching neck. Tasting something sour and metallic on his tongue, he realized his lip had broken once more, but this time was bleeding much stronger. Then his sweeping gaze landed on the only man in the room who was as drenched as he, yet not a sailor. RYAN.
The black-clad figure sat not in his usual corner, but in the flickering light created by the oil lamp. He was casually wringing out his coat from the rain, but looked up as if he had felt Damien’s eyes on him. His were a strange color, almost white, so pale were they. Like ice, thought Damien, shivering. But knowing whom he owed his life to, he sat up and uneasily walked over to Ryan, his steps slow and uncertain. “Thank you, sir, for helping me out there…” he trailed off as Ryan’s eyes flashed an eerie neon blue color, but then returned to normal.
“It was nothing, lad. Just be careful next time, true?” He shot Damien a quick smile, and then went back to his task. Shifting his feet, the boy nodded once and slipped out of the room to go to his own.
The next morning, he heard the boatswain whistling the crew up onto the deck. Grumbling, he slipped out of the makeshift bed and jogged up the stairs, almost tripping in the way there.
“LAND!” came the dry from all who were there. “Down by the horizon!”
“We should get there by dark,” declared Keith, judging the distance. “And the sky is clear tonight, so we shouldn’t have any trouble, mates. Come on, get to it!”
But as the sun made its way across the blue, wispy clouds set in, as well as a deep fog. The moonlight reflected off of the mist, making it appear silver, the gleam blinded the lads in a mysterious way. A distant wailing could be heard, and when the crew heard it, they glanced at each other in fear. Even Ryan shifted on his feet, unnerved by the sound. The word “banshees” was whispered by them all as they held on to ropes and waited for the captain to call out a command.
* * *
A heavy mist sat on the shore, masking it from both the sailor searching for land as well as the man on the beach attempting to pierce it with an experienced eye. Knowing that this was a common occurrence in this part of Hibernia, the man ordered his companions to beat the drums, bringing the ship home to its heartland. But little did it do, for the sound echoed through the fog, ringing in the sailors’ souls as they strained to see the dangers hidden below the black waters.
After a few hours of navigating and beating of the drums, the two met in a harbor nearby. The passengers left, thanking the captain and crew, they left. Just before turning away, Ryan pressed something into Damien’s hand, and then followed Lord Byrom and Meav.
So they do know each other, mused the boy, watching them leave. Opening his palm slowly, he glanced down. Inside were an old coin and a note. Frowning, he pocketed the gift before someone else noticed it.
“Thank you, lord; you have brought us safe to shore. Be our strength and protection ever more,” murmured Damien as he heard another man come up to Captain Donaldson and request a trip to one place or another by ship. As the two men went inside to discuss details, he breathed in the fresh air and ran to a familiar cave on the beach. He had found it while exploring a few years ago, and every time they were home now, he always went to it, even if only for a few minutes.
Drawing the coin and note out, he read the latter first. The hand was scrawled in a rapid manner, as though the letter had been written in a limited amount of time.
Hello lad,
This coin has quite a bit of a history in itself, and I found it to be a form of a lucky charm, as it were. Hope you keep it for the same purpose, for in a life like yours there will need to be some protection to prevent those accidents from occurring again. If you don’t find it to work, I can tell you that this coin is worth…
When Damien read the number, he gasped aloud. A man he had known for only a few weeks had given him something that was worth more than he could even imagine. And it had been a luck charm, so to Ryan, it was worth impossibly more. Swallowing hard and blinking, he tried to read the rest of the note.
Best of wishes,
Ryan Kelly
The signature was written in a stylish hand, a stark contrast to the practically-illegible writing before it. His head still spinning form the price, he folded the note and placed it in a pouch he wore around his neck, and then looked at the coin. It had a leather strip on it to tie and loop around the neck; it was also dirty, so Damien wiped the muck off…and froze.
The coin was solid gold.
The intricate design on it told him that it was from Hibernia, but from long ago, and the year was…1111. He sat down right there in the sand, gaping at the coin. In that cave he stayed all night.
In the morning, when he heard the captain calling him, he looped the leather ribbon around his neck, the coin right over his heart. Sighing, he jogged back to the ship, preparing for another voyage.
“Hear our hymn from the heartland; hear our prayer; steer us through stormy waters; lead us there...” Damien chanted along with Keith, knowing that the prayer had never gone unheard. He knew that those who scoffed at the saying never sailed for long, drowning at sea. Placing a hand over the coin, he felt it warm to his touch, and immediately felt better.
But as they sailed away, he felt eyes on him. Looking back to shore, he saw a figure in a long, black leather cloak standing there. Ryan raised a hand in farewell, and Damien could only stare back, his hand slipping up to clutch the gold coin to his chest, nodding stiffly. After a moment, the man put his arm down, but stayed there, watching the ship until Damien could no longer differentiate between him and the landscape. Then he was gone.
THE END
Hope you guys like it!