These are the stories of five ships. Five stories for five ships.
Now these ships set sail together as one. They shared a common purpose, a common country. The night before they set sail the sailors shared bread and beer together. They shared stories of their previous journeys. The destination of these five ships was to be the same. Fate had other ideas.
The reason these five ships have five different stories written about them instead of just one is that shortly after setting sail they encounter a storm. It is here that we also first encounter these ships and those sailing upon them. Now this is no ordinary storm, no mere weather formation. This is something different. It scatters our five ships further from each other than any of those aboard would have considered, to five completely different fates.
As we will see though the ships set sail with one purpose in mind the men aboard those ships were there for many different reasons. Well if adventure, exploration of the unknown and unseen was one of those reasons dear reader, well they got it, and so much more.
We begin with sea all around, and the storm upon the horizon.
Ship One
The first ship we shall encounter did not need the approaching storm to cause tension aboard. There was already enough of that. This ship was manned by sailors from the navy, soldiers from the army who were there to police the third, and largest group, the convicts. Whilst the rest of the crews celebrated their upcoming journey in one tavern or another, they were kept silent behind bars, staring out at the calm sea in the night.
The captain of this ship stared at the oncoming storm and sneered. He saw it as a challenge, one which he would overcome. With luck he thought it may even claim some of the scum he had aboard his ship. They might be hoping for freedom at the end of their voyage, he was more than happy to free them from the bonds of life should any of them step out line on his ship. The prisoners knew this too. The sailors knew this. Now the storm was whipping up the sea.
Also watching the horizon was the first mate. He viewed proceedings with more trepidation than his captain, for he had seen what was to come. Before they set sail he had been exploring the old town above the harbour having never been there before. He wound his way through narrower and narrower streets as his feet carried him as if guided by some unseen force, until he stepped into a dark room. In this dark room sat an old man, bent with age, skin wrinkled and dry, eyes milky. The old man did not seem surprised at the intrusion, in fact he seemed to be waiting for the first mate. He offered the young sailor a cup of tea as he stepped through his door and with the tea he offered to tell his fortune. The first mate had barely agreed when the old man sprang from his chair faster than a young man would have been able to and tapped the first mate on his head. Images flooded his mind. He saw the five ships ready to sail, he saw the captain and the convicts aboard the ship, heard the cheers from the crowds as they set sail, felt the sea air on his face as they left the harbour, saw the storm, and what came next. When he came to the old man was gone and the sun had set. He left the room and retraced his steps, burdened now with knowing what came next, and that he could do nothing about it.
The storm hit. It was terrible. The captain yelled over the roar of the storm. The ship was a whirlwind of activity. Sailors, soldiers, and convicts alike ran here and there securing what could be secured. The captain yelled another order, and a convict was too slow to respond. The captain tipped him overboard. Everyone moved faster.
The first mate was calm in the storm. He knew he survived this. Nothing would change that. Otherwise he would have been terrified as the others were. Waves towered above the ship and came crashing down on them dragging men away here and there. Where were the other ships? No one could see any of them. It did not matter to the first mate. He knew they would never see any of them ever again.
While wind, rain, and seawater slapped viciously at his face, and the ship rocked and rolled, sometimes seeming like it would tip straight over, the first mate moved with ease to and fro, securing this or that rope, grabbing a sailor or convict’s hand before he was thrown to his doom. It made no difference, he knew that. What was he to do though in the midst of all this terror and destruction? The storm roared in his face, and he was too feeble to muster anything significant in return, and so he continued as his training had taught him.
A noise split through the cacophony of the storm like thunder. The mast had split. It seemed to topple in slow motion at first before it came crashing down on the ship like a hammer. This was it the first mate knew as the mast fell and darkness came over all left aboard the ship.
The storm had been an assault of cold and water, so as the first mate came to it was the heat, and how dry it was that he first noticed. His hands clutched at sand as he stirred. Slowly he opened his eyes to the blinding sun of a desert. Where waves had risen to touch the angry grey clouds now sand dunes met an endless expanse of blue, and sun at its centre.
Whatever force had transported them here had tossed the first mate from the ship which lay broken on the desert a short way from him. His fellow shipmates lay scattered around the ship and were also now rising in confusion. After gazing perplexed at their new surroundings they looked instinctively to the ship where the captain stood now, scanning the horizon, searching for some suggestion of the sea he knew so well. The captain’s face moved between disbelief, anger, and reluctant acceptance. He looked at the mess of sailors, soldiers, and convicts below him on the desert floor and sought to reclaim the unexplainable situation. He began to bark and scream orders until a knife was drawn across his throat. The captain’s blood cascaded from the wound down the side of his ship and into the welcoming desert. One of the convicts had crept up behind him and now threw the dying captain from his ship to the desert floor.
It was a call to action for those who had been transported to the desert. Before long more blood watered the dry desert which drank greedily. Some simply ran out into the desert seeing this as their only chance now for freedom. A group of convicts surrounded the first mate who had barely got to his feet. It did not matter that he was not the captain, that he had not treated them as the captain did, the captain was now dead and he received his mantle and all that came with it. The convicts beat him viciously until his blood mixed with the captain’s and fed the grateful desert.
The first mate could not say how long he lay there in the desert. When he awoke the sun was still high in the sky, the only presence there, haughty in its dominance. Did it ever leave? There was no one left standing as far as he could see. Those who had fled were beyond his sight now. Several bodies littered the desert around him including the captain’s, now a mere husk. The desert had drank it’s fill of his blood and life.
Shakily, the first mate raised himself to his feet, and set to walking. What else was there to do? He had to try and outrun the sun and the fate he had seen.
So walk he did. Those who had escaped the ship already had ransacked it for everything of worth. He set off with only the clothes on his back. The sun hung there ever present, like an axe above his neck. Surely he had been in the storm only a few hours ago? That had been a storm of water, this was a storm of heat, strikingly different to the observer, being in it though he could only feel the similarities. The aggression of the world around him assaulting his senses, his life. He could drown in heat as easily as the sea.
Staggering through the sand he began to see the results of disagreements. As the hours went by he passed one body after another, dry and consumed. The desert was thirsty.
Through mile and mile of desert, up and over dune after dune the first mate persevered, rushing to outrun fate. He fell exhausted down the side a monumental dune, the sand burning and tearing his skin as he fell, tossing his body carelessly. Once he reached the bottom he picked himself up again. Dusting off the sand he looked up to see something on the horizon that was not yet more dunes. It was a city. He had seen it already. His desperation and determination grew. Here came fate. Not if he could help it. The first mate set off with as much vigour as he could muster, trudging through the sand that felt like it was trying to drag him down.
There was a wildness to his gait now, like a wounded animal fleeing a predator. The number of bodies around him was growing again. The desert was also desperate not to let any meals escape. The first mate wondered if anyone had made it to the city. Between the relentless weight of the heat and the desert rising beneath him there was the sensation of being crushed. His eyes were growing dry so that even blinking felt like an effort. He focused on the city in front of him as his vision began to fail him. All he could do was keep his legs moving.
He came close enough to the city that ever through his blurred vision he was able to make out some details of the city. He could see the differences in the buildings, the suggestion of their design, trees between some of them, the hint of sounds and smells extended cautiously out into the desert to him. He fell as he knew he would, on the cusp. As the desert began to drink him he looked up from the sand and saw how close he had come. No closer than he knew he would ever come. Just as he had seen in the old man’s house. It was as it ever would be. He had tried though. He had really tried.
storiesbyadam 