The Journey Begun (21 page)

Twenty-three

imon peered over the gunwale. Gentle swells massaged the hull as the
Ba’al
glided through the glassy waters of the Great Sea. Two dolphins paced the prow, darting and diving in play with the ship. Their antics cut thin grooves through the shimmering waves, strewing sparkling trails in the midday sunlight. Birds soared high in the cloudless heavens, white dots dipping and swooping against the azure sky. The gods were pleased, the sea calm, the world at peace.

He cocked his head toward the stern.

Jonah lay sprawled over the rail, both arms dangling over the edge. His head drooped at an off angle as he stared at the undulating sea beneath his perch.

Simon glanced back at the water. “What are you looking for?”

“My stomach.” Jonah moaned.

“Your stomach? What’s the matter?”

“Can’t talk. Too sick.”

“Sick?” Simon scratched his head and again surveyed the peaceful seascape. “You’re joking.”

“Can’t joke. Too sick.”

“It’s a perfect day for sailing.”

“There
is
no such thing.”
[B37]
 

Simon frowned. “Your stomach’s probably too empty. Maybe something to eat would help. I have some dried fish—”

“No! Don’t—” Jonah croaked, but it was too late.

The helmsman averted his eyes out of courtesy until Jonah regained control. “Sorry.”

“Ohhh.”

Shem’s sardonic voice interrupted. “Problem?”

Simon made it a point to avoid Shem as much as possible since they left Joppa. He knew his captain didn’t need to ask to know he was responsible for the deadweight now retching over the side of his ship. Not only had Jonah been of no help to the crew, his incapacity was a hindrance. It didn’t take long for word to circulate among the men either, and they didn’t spare Simon their disapproval. The worst, though, was the tension it created between the helmsman and his captain. Simon also counted Shem as his friend. The few discs of silver from Jonah weren’t worth the hassle from the crew or the rift with his captain.

“No. Just checking on him.” Simon turned but didn’t meet Shem’s eye.

“Get him below.”

Simon paused. “Captain, I know I shouldn’t have—”

“Get him below.” Shem
[B38]
 
walked away.

Simon sighed and turned back to face Jonah. “You need to go below. I can fix a place for you to lie down. Maybe that’ll help.”

Jonah didn’t move. Taking him by the arm, Simon eased him away from the gunwale and over to the cargo hold. The two men stumbled down the ladder, with Simon watching his charge carefully to dodge any further bouts of nausea. The sailor pulled three bags of grain together for a makeshift bed and Jonah collapsed onto them.
[B39]
 

Simon shook his head and turned toward the ladder. He never reached it.

Lll

 
“What in the name of the gods was
that?”
Shem struggled to his feet after being slammed against the aft bulkhead. He wiped at a stream of blood flooding his eye from a split eyebrow while he fought for balance against the deck, which now canted up at an abrupt angle. The apprentice seaman manning the helm was thrown from the tiller and lay unconscious by his side.

Shouts from stunned crewmen echoed from the hold, and two men working the bow ropes tumbled past Shem and crashed into the bulkhead beside the inert helmsman. The ship came to a standstill with the prow pointing toward the sky, and all went quiet.

Shem braced himself and tried to fathom what was happening, but nothing in his twenty-six years’ experience at sea helped. For the first time in his life, he was speechless. He had no idea what to do, what to think, or what orders to give. As he fought with the impossibility of the situation, it occurred to him that the
Ba’al
was moving backward! He swung his head around and stared at the swirling water as the ship pushed against the tidal current that only moments ago carried it forward.

A crewmember lying crumpled against the bulkhead moaned and reached for the tiller to pull himself up. As he grasped the bar, the deck lurched. The bow dropped back into the water, curling flumes of spray away from the sides of the ship. The deck settled and the vessel tipped to starboard. Shem realized the cargo had shifted in the hold. The
Ba’al
once again lay atilt in the water, but now the list was worse. He pushed away from the bulkhead and stumbled to the gunwale. As he peered into the depths for any sign of what the ship hit, he caught movement. His eyes went wide, locked on a massive shadow sliding beneath the hull. His throat went dry as the gray mass disappeared from sight.

Leviathan?

The first thought springing into his mind shocked him. Tales of the elusive sea monster were perennial staples in the inns of every port city lining the Great Sea. The few who glimpsed the beast—or at least said they did—swore to the truth of their words, their testimonies often resulting in brawls with their skeptics. Shem himself scoffed at the stories, passing them off as figments of detached minds bored from long months at sea. But this was different. There was no explaining the dark silhouette he saw. Its movement denied the possibility of seaweed. There was no flotsam in sight. He was familiar with this route and he knew there were no shoals, no land at all, anywhere near. The collision was very real, though, and he had injured crewmen to prove it.

As he strained for another glimpse of the shadow, the water around the ship began to heave. He gripped the gunwale and his jaw dropped as the color of the sea went from blue, to green, to gray, and then to black. Shem jerked his head up as a lightning bolt arced the length of the sky. Its ragged tentacles tickled and probed the underside of an enormous black cloud that radiated from above the ship and raced across the heavens, stretching out to every horizon. Thunder exploded from the sky, shuddering every plank and beam in the ship. He covered his ears as the first huge raindrop stung his face.

The ship picked up speed as it slipped into a valley between two mountainous waves that swelled over the mast. Shem stood, immobilized, as the waves crested and roared down toward him. He closed his eyes against the crush of water poised to smash the ship to splinters and send them all to the bottom of the sea. But the crush didn’t come.

He dared another look as the ship shot out of the trough the instant the waves roared into the void. The surge threw the
Ba’al
forward and showered the deck with sheets of spray and foam. Shem froze, awestruck at the speed and severity with which the gale struck. Countless waves no smaller than the first two ringed the vessel. He tried to gauge the wind, but it gusted from all directions, twisting and straining the weakened mast as the sail snapped and buckled. It was as though the
Ba’al Hayam
became the center of the universe with the sea and the sky collapsing in on her from every direction.

The maelstrom allowed Shem little time to ponder, but an unbidden thought did penetrate the tumult and impaled itself in his mind. The shadow with no shape, the storm with no beginning—were the gods besetting him? The
gods?
He didn’t believe in
gods!
Oh, they were fine for blaming things on when trouble hit, no doubt—but
gods?
Why him? Why the
Ba’al
? His eyes widened in spite of the rain pricking his face. What other explanation could there be? A shout behind him snapped his trance, and he twisted away from the gunwale.

The two fallen crewmen cursed as they struggled to regain their balance against the bulkhead. One of them tugged at the still figure of the unconscious helmsman, yelling against the wind to rouse him. The sight of his disabled crew refocused Shem back into the role of captain. He flailed an arm at them while hugging the rail with the other.

“
Furl the—”

A brilliant flash shattered the mast and engulfed the sail in flame. Smoldering shreds of leather swirled to the deck and hissed onto the soaked deck. The
Ba’al
reeled as the fallen mast offset her balance, but she righted herself just as another swell collided with the bow. Shem shuddered. If it had fallen to starboard with the ship already in a list, they’d have capsized. Shem muttered a vow to the gods as the weight of the spar over the gunwale righted the vessel. But the lightning strike left the
Ba’al
with no means to manipulate the wind. The captain swore again as he found himself at a loss for commands. He peered toward the stern to see the loose tiller swiping arcs through the air above the prone form of the apprentice helmsman.

“Simon!
Simon!”
 
Shem’s glare swept the deck but there was no sign of his veteran seaman.

Lll

A bale of flax tore loose and tumbled from the stack of cargo. It slammed into Simon’s midriff, snapping him back to consciousness. He jerked his knees to his chest, gasping for breath, and rolled onto his side. A livid bruise marred his cheek where it had slammed against the hull after the collision. Blood bubbled from a split lip and coated his mouth. He gagged and spat the sickening warmth as more cargo tumbled down the sloping floor from the elevated bow. He covered his head against the onslaught.

When the last parcel came to rest, he pushed to his feet. Struggling for balance, he took one step forward and the bow dropped, throwing him down again and bursting the cargo stack loose from its bindings. More bales of flax rained down, throwing up fibrous dust that burnt his eyes and choked him. As he fought out of the pile, a deafening clap of thunder echoed through the hold. The sunlight streaming through the cargo hatch faded and the hold went dark as he heard the first dull pops of raindrops hitting the upper deck.

A storm? How could that be? There wasn’t a cloud in the sky!

Simon scrambled over bundles of cargo toward the ladder. Rain pelted his face as he grasped a rung and hoisted himself toward the upper deck. He scrambled to the top of the ladder and pushed his head through the opening. As his hand touched the top rung, a flash of lightning blinded him and a deafening crack of thunder hammered him back into the hold. He tumbled down the rain-soaked ladder and crashed onto his back. Heaving to regain his breath, he squinted up through the rain and saw the mast collapse across the hatch. Smoking shreds of sail whirled down through the hold and onto the wet planking near his legs. Simon paled, realizing the mast would have crushed him, had he not fallen back into the hold. He regained his feet and edged back up the rungs. Reaching the top, he peered around for more tossing debris before crawling onto the deck.

“Simon!”

He heard his name, but couldn’t tell where the shout came from. Craning his head toward the tiller, he saw his apprentice sprawled on the deck and the loose rudder bar thrashing the air. Simon stayed on his hands and knees out of the wind and scrambled to the tiller. He timed a grab for the bar and wrestled it still, squeezing it between his arm and his side. Instinct took over and he peered forward to gauge the wind and the sea for a proper tack. His eyes widened at the mountains of water crashing into each other and bearing down on the ship. It was the same no matter which way he looked. There was no head to the storm. There was nowhere to steer.