Mutiny and Shipwreck

1588-01-23
Western Sea

The tension that had simmered below decks finally boiled.
Food and water were nearly gone, and the captain’s ledger seemed the only thing fatter than our bellies.
At dusk a knot of men confronted him—voices raised, hands on hilts.
I knew the fear in their eyes; I had cut through it in training, but there is no drill for hunger.

They seized the captain, bound his hands, and walked him out along a plank lashed over the rail.
He met my gaze and gave a small salute—the salute of our promised guild—then stepped into the red wake of sunset and was gone.

With the most seasoned sailor lost to the deep, the mutineers argued over charts and currents.
They scoffed at caution and steered for a wall of cloud, certain the fastest road lay through the heart of the storm.

When the squall struck, it was like facing a giant with a stick.
Masts splintered; sails tore; the deck heaved to fling us into the dark.
Ropes screamed. Spars scythed. Men who had called me Master clung to rigging and prayed.
Somewhere in the blackness the keel kissed unseen rock, and the Westward Trader broke her back.

I caught a loose plank and held as the sea tossed me like a leaf.
Between wave and wind I thought of the eight-pointed star—of lines begun, lines ended, lines crossed by folly.
The promise of a guild sank with the crew, but I remained afloat.
Land lay somewhere ahead. A new chapter waited on its shore.