The Journey Begun (2 page)

Lll

PART ONE

Now the word of the Lord came

unto Jonah the son of Amittai, saying,

“Arise, go to Nineveh, that great city,

and cry against it;

for their wickedness is come up before me.”

J
onah
1:1-2

Prologue

Afloat the Great Sea

786
b.c.

url the sail! By the gods,
furl the cursed sail!”
Shem’s hoarse shout scarcely pierced the screaming of the wind through the ship’s
taut
rig lines. He hugged the gunwale rail as another monstrous wave crashing over the deck tore at his grip and fought to wash him overboard. The captain grimaced at a sharp crack piercing the tumult. He turned to see the oaken mast split along its grain as it twisted before the gale. Shem flinched against the stinging sea spray and pledged a silent oath of allegiance to whatever god would show mercy and calm the storm. Shouts and curses penetrated the din as the ship’s crew fought to keep the prow aright and into the wind, but all attempts to steer proved futile. He could do little more than watch his battered sailors slosh and stumble through the water surging across the pitching deck. They struggled at their tasks while dodging loose cargo. Shem was amazed no one had yet been pinned beneath a bale or lost overboard.

The tempest caught the
Ba’al
Hayam
in the open sea a day south from Cyprus. It roared in from the northeast with little warning and caught the heavily laden merchant vessel plowing a sluggish path toward the Phoenician port city of Acco. The ship rode too low in the water to come about in time to meet the onslaught at the bow, so Shem ordered the cargo jettisoned to lighten the vessel. But even now every wave pounding the hull and flooding the deck sought to send her into the depths. As parcel after parcel went overboard, his mind flashed to Omer, the Judean owner of the
Ba’al
. Omer would be incensed at the loss. This was an important run and the salt, timber, and oil put aboard at Kition and Paphos were costly. But salt and timber were not his concern right now. He had a crew to save and a ship to bring home—with or without its cargo. Running the business was Omer’s job. Running the
Ba’al
was Shem’s.

“I can’t keep her into the wind!” The shout came from Simon, his helmsman.

Shem twisted around to see the sailor grappling with the steering bar as the sea fought him for control of the rudder. Simon dug at the platform with his heels, but the decking was too wet for traction. He managed to stay upright only by wedging the bar between his arm and his side.

“I need some
help!”

Shem groped along the rail until he was abreast of the helm. As he paused to gauge the distance to the platform, Simon’s feet shot out from under him. The helmsman fell back, his legs flailing in the air as the steering bar reeled on its pivot. Timing his move against the pitching deck, Shem set his jaw, pushed off the gunwale, and scrambled toward the struggling seaman.

As he reached the tiller, the bar backlashed and struck him in the chest. He toppled backward, the rudder bar skimming the top of his head just before his back slammed onto the deck. He grabbed one of Simon’s legs and hugged it to his chest to prevent sliding back toward the gunwale and the sea beyond.

The helmsman grimaced as his captain’s weight bent the bar against his ribcage. “This is
help?”
he grunted.

Shem reached up and grasped the tiller. Releasing Simon’s legs, he chinned himself until he could gain a foothold. Simon regained his balance and together they wrestled the rogue tiller still.

Shem shouted against the wind. “You got it?”

His helmsman clenched his teeth and nodded. The captain released the steering bar and grabbed a nearby coil of rope to tie it off. He decided the best they could hope to do was stabilize the rudder, stow the sail, and try to ride out the storm.

“We need the sea anchors.” Simon wiped his eyes and squinted through the gathering dusk.

The captain jerked his head in agreement and finished lashing the tiller in place. The two of them set off for the bow, sliding across the deck and clutching each other’s shoulders for support. A sharp crack cutting through the tumult snapped back the captain’s head. His eyes widened as the fresh-water amphora tore loose from its bindings against the forward bulkhead. The massive earthenware container crashed to its side and wobbled down the sloped deck toward them.

“Watch forward!”
 
Shem shoved Simon aside and the helmsman fell to the deck. Both men froze, staring at the amphora bearing down on them out of the gloom. It was nearly upon them when another wave surged over the deck, obscuring the huge pot from their sight. The wave slammed Shem against the gunwale and spun Simon further down the deck. The captain stared wide-eyed into the driving rain. A sudden movement to his left sent his heart into his throat and he covered his head with his arms. The cistern shot past him, brushing his elbow as it crashed though the rail and disappeared over the side. He raised his head in time to see the container disappear into the whitecaps, its splash barely audible above the storm.

Shem seized the rail and stiffened his stance against the foam roiling around his legs as the water trapped on deck rushed to escape through the smashed railing. He scanned the deck for his fallen helmsman, but Simon was nowhere in sight. Shem muttered a curse as the churning water crested at his hips and fought to tear him loose from the rail—but the curse caught in his throat. He glimpsed a prone figure tumble past him, carried by the cascade pouring through the hole.

Simon!

Shem lunged over the rail. He gripped the gunwale with one hand and swiped at his helmsman’s bulk with the other. As Simon’s legs cleared the side of the ship, Shem’s fingers snagged a tangle of cloth and clenched it into a wad. He jerked as Simon’s weight strained his grip on the gunwale, but his fingers held. He yanked the seaman back against the side of the ship but couldn’t budge him any further. The captain found himself locked between a fight for his crewman’s life and the preservation of his own. His outstretched arms wrenched at the joints from Simon’s dead weight and he strained to drag the inert sailor over the lip of the deck, but he lacked the leverage and the strength. Shem’s clutch on the gunwale began to weaken, his fingers cramping and pain shooting up his wrist. He gritted his teeth and forced one more heave against Simon’s weight. The shock was more than his burning muscles could take and his fingers slipped their grasp on the rail. Wild-eyed, Shem howled as he pitched toward the edge, his fist still tangled in Simon’s shirt.

As Shem tilted out over the heaving sea, a sharp blow jolted him between his shoulders. His shirt pulled tight and he snapped back, suspended over the edge with Simon dangling beneath him. A massive arm thrust itself under his shoulder and across his chest nearly squeezing the breath out of him. He felt himself lifted back toward the rail. The arm shifted him to the side and hoisted both him and Simon through the craggy opening. The sound of ripping fabric split the air as Simon dragged across the splintered remains of the gunwale, the wooden shards shredding his shirt and gouging the length of his back. Shem released Simon and tumbled to the deck.

“Where do you think
you’re
going?” growled Uri, the ship’s burly carpenter. He hoisted his captain to his feet.

Simon groaned and rolled over. Uri and Shem helped him struggle to his knees. The shaken helmsman reached around and gingerly explored his lower back with his fingertips. Warmth poured over his palm, and he brought his hand back to see scarlet streaks curling down his wrist.

Shem snorted. “Wait for landfall next time before you decide to debark, eh?”

Simon managed a weak smile and wiped his bloody hand on his shirt. “Thanks.” The three men huddled against the aft bulkhead out of the wind and Simon peered around the deck. “We seem more stable. Is the storm passing?”

Shem shook his head. “I don’t know about that, but we got the sea anchors into the water. She seems to be keeping to the wind.”

Uri coughed and wiped his eyes. “Never seen one this bad before. You?”

Shem shook his head. “Not for a long time.”

“You hear the mast split?”

The captain nodded and cursed his luck. “What took so long to furl the sail? It should’ve been stowed long before the gale hit.” He squinted toward the mast, now a dark shadow in the dusk and rain. “There’ll be lashes for this,” he growled.

“You might go easy, Captain. Remember, you sent most of the crew belowdecks to secure the cargo. With all the water pouring into the hold, it was nigh impossible to get back topside when the worst hit.” Uri met Shem’s glare. He was one of two crewmen who earned the right to stand eye to eye with the captain. Simon was the other.

Simon nodded. “Uri’s right. You and I were the only ones on deck when the storm peaked.”

Shem’s reply cut short as another mountain of water cascaded over the bow. The three men braced themselves as a wall of foam hissing down the deck pinned them against the bulkhead. The water subsided and they staggered back to their feet.

The captain cleared his eyes and sputtered, “All right, all right.” He peered across the deck at a lone plank of cypress wood wedged against the bulkhead, probably all that remained of their cargo. He shook his head. “Omer’s going to have fits. This was a big haul.”

Simon shrugged. “You did what you had to do. No choice.”

Uri nodded his agreement. “No choice.”

A sharp snap broke Shem’s thoughts as the tiller won its struggle with the rope. Simon grabbed Shem’s shirt and yanked him out of the way as the bar sliced through the space where the captain stood.

Shem steadied himself. “Thanks. We’re even.”

“What say we not keep score?” Simon quipped.

Shem nodded, signaled at Uri, and all three men lunged at the wayward helm.