Veracity (26 page)

I'd grabbed onto the helm as soon as Mikkel let go, but within only a few minutes, it had become noticeably harder to keep it from spinning on its own. The ship wanted desperately to follow the whims of the sea, but I found that it was still, luckily, somewhat feasible to keep it from doing so.

There was nothing for us to do but watch that barrier creep closer, shivering in the frigid skin of our useless clothes, running back and forth to secure lines and rigging that were being knocked loose by the wind, and by the waves that were breaking over the deck with increasing severity; waves that reached their heavy white hands over the rail, and slapped us in the face with their shocking cold. Whenever this happened, our eyes would shoot open, mouths gaping, standing rigid as the stun of the cold water ran over our bodies, trickling to our feet and thieving every bit of warmth that we'd managed to regain since the last wave. And the amazing thing was that, despite having several waves crash over us, the surprise that they brought never really lessened, it was the same unbearable shock every single time.

But despite the endless shivering, the flinching of the water, the tossing of the boat in all directions, and the constant imbalance, our storm sail was still keeping the ship steady, and we were managing to carve through the hilly landscape relatively well. And because of this, the raised sail was, if not necessary, then undoubtedly an advantage; it was clearly helping us, not hindering us, and I honestly wouldn't have lowered it for anything in the world. So, given the circumstances, I think it was impossible to have prevented what happened - after all, the very last thing on my mind was a gust front.

Sometimes, inside the heart of a storm, the cold air that is being circulated throughout accumulates as one mass, and if that mass becomes too much for the updrafts to support any longer, the whole thing plunges to the surface, and once it hits, it sends out a frontal wave of dense and turbulent air in every direction - like a furious prophecy of things to come.

The wind was changing direction by the minute, the sail flapping at either edge, our telltales (the small bands of flailing material that are used to indicate the direction of the air current) had already wrapped around themselves several times, obscuring any accurate reading, so I had no idea where to steer the boat, and had resolved to simply follow the path of least resistance, veering from port to starboard, regardless of the wind, only watching the black sea, and shying away from the most intimidating swells as best I could. Unfortunately, we happened to be directly facing the storm when the gust front hit.

All of a sudden, the sail whipped full in the opposite direction. The ship shuddered, everyone tumbled forward, and above the waves and the wind, we could hear a horrible ripping sound over our heads and the distinct noise of metal wire cutting the air. I slid onto the deck, though still near the helm, and was covering my head with my arms, convinced that rigging of some kind would be crashing on top of me any second; but nothing came.

When I finally picked myself up off the ground and looked around me, I could see that the whole crew was on the upper deck. I imagine they felt the jolt and heard the sounds, and so had come to assess the damage. They were all looking at something, and I followed their eyes to see that the storm sail was now flapping in the wind. It had almost ripped completely free of its rigging, only being attached at the foot.

Now we were really in trouble; and every one of them decisively understood that, looking around, desperate for someone to lead them, to save them, to do
something
. Instinctively, they looked to Mikkel. And seeing everyone's pleading faces pointing at him, finally, he decided to take control.

20

Mikkel turned and ran back to the hatch, kneeling beside it and gesturing for everyone to climb down into the lower deck to regroup. Thinking about it now, he might have already decided that we should just retreat to the safest place and hope for the best, but at the time, his intentions were unclear. The only thing that was clear was that he was in charge - and that none of us, including myself, were going to question that for a second. Obeying the order, I began staggering toward the hatch as quickly as I could, and as I moved over the flashing white floor, I noticed that there were streaks and smudges of blood running along the surface beneath me. At first, I actually thought they might belong to me, spurting from some wet and painless wound that I had yet to discover - until I slid down the stairs to meet everyone in the lantern lit darkness and saw Aimil standing there, his face oozing red. He must have been slashed with some of the rigging that had blown when the gust front hit, a diagonal slit cleaving his pale skin from forehead to jaw. Water ran down from his hair through the wound, thinning the colour and consistency of the blood as it dripped off his chin in thin, easy drops. Yet all things considered, I don't think the cut could have been a luckier one, as it had passed right between his eyes, but had somehow managed to leave both of them undamaged. And, being Aimil, he didn't really seem too bothered by it, looking as complacent as ever, an apologetic expression almost pushing through the seeping mess of his face, as if he were sorry for the inconvenience of his bleeding.

Once we realized he was well enough to function, we turned our attention back to Mikkel; there were more pressing things to worry about. The ship was now being tossed about as if it were a leaf bouncing along the surface of a swollen river. As soon as the storm sail was destroyed, we'd completely committed ourselves to the impulses of the ocean, and everyone could feel the difference, the ship suddenly swaying dramatically from side to side, running loose in the slopes of the waves.

We couldn't talk at first, trying to steady ourselves as a mass of bodies, first pushing, then pulling one another, but always ending up pressed against one of the walls of the gangway. Finally, some of us started to grab hold of the stairs, and one by one, we all caught onto the idea.

But just as we were beginning to feel steady and were waiting for Mikkel to speak, someone asked Niels what was wrong, which of course made everyone look his way. He was staring up through the hatch with nothing less than abject horror. "Oh
no
!" he exclaimed, giving us no information whatsoever. "No, no,
NO
!" he screamed, his voice escalating into hysterics. He looked back at us, seeming surprised that we were all standing in front of him. And then, almost as if he'd remembered that he had to get something vitally important from one of the cabins, he let go of the stairs, fumbled through the gangway, jumped into his quarters, and slammed the door behind him, sealing himself in.

"Huh," grunted Mikkel, and then contorted his body to look up through the hatch. We all joined him, still scrabbling with each other's unpredictable sways. A bluish green aura was lighting the top of the mainmast, and when we all saw it, everyone let out either a gasp of alarm, or of awe - nothing in between. It seemed that, somehow, this light had translated into an omen of certain death to Niels.

But I knew better. "It's St. Elmo's Fire," I called out. "I've read about it before. Sailors used to think that..."

"Will it kill us?" asked Knut, sharply, bringing the attention of the crew back to the lower deck.

"No. It's caused by the..."

"Then enough!" he screamed. "Who gives a shit what it's caused by? What are we going to do with the ship!"

He was right; this wasn't the time to give out scientific tidbits. And now that I think of it, maybe the reason I spoke so quickly afterwards was only a reaction to my feeling a little stupid at having tried, an attempt to regain some credibility. "Well, it would probably be best to have some kind of sail raised, no? We can feel that it's..."

"Then let's
go
!" Knut hollered in frustration, and started climbing out of the hatch as fast as he could. This was all, of course, too impetuous, too rash. We hadn't discussed the pros or cons of anything; in fact, we hadn't even discussed
how
we were going to do it, or who, or with what sail, what rigging, or if anyone had even seen that there was enough rigging left; we were only filled with the urgency to do something. (Though isn't this always the case - the more deliberate and careful a situation requires us to be, the more reckless and impulsive we become?) And accordingly, we all followed him, myself included - everyone filing up the stairs thoughtlessly, caught up in the insistence of the wind and the voices, of the pelting rain.

But none of us made it very far. There was a rumbling sound that wasn't thunder, and the ship quavered, jarring to port. A wave had broken over the deck again, and every one of us was positioned right below the open hatch. Myself, along with a few others, stopped to listen to the noise get louder, and then, very suddenly, it was much louder. I braced myself, closed my eyes. I even remember there being the tiniest moment of stillness, just before the water hit us. And then everything was white, and I was struck with the dull weight of falling bodies, pushing me down the narrow stairs to the floor where the water continued to wash us through the gangway. We passed Niels' door, gasping for air and holding our blind hands out to try and dampen the impact of whatever we might hit while rushing through the ship's interior. When I finally slowed enough, I shot my face above the surface, spitting salty foam out into the air, and shook my head to clear my eyes. I was furious. What complete idiots we were to have left the hatch open!

I looked through the gangway, and for some reason, was expecting the water to magically drain away. It didn't. Instead, it swished through the corridor, curling off the wood paneling, sloshing from side to side. The lantern hanging from the ceiling was still lit, and flickered long shadows of the crew everywhere, as they struggled to get to their feet, leaning on the walls, their hands squeaking against the surface, hair hanging in their faces. They looked exhausted, but not deterred. And as soon as they were standing, they all started making their way to the stairs again, their movements mechanical, instinctive, worried only about getting the task of raising a sail done.

I watched them climbing the stairs again, and for the first time I began to think about the reality of what we were proposing to do. In truth, I wasn't thinking of the danger to the boat's structural integrity, only of the crew's safety. If another wave broke over the ship while we were on deck, which seemed rather likely, there was no telling how many people we would lose. "Wait! What about the storm
anchor
? Maybe a sail isn't... uh..." I shouted through the gangway. And some of them might even have heard me, but no one stopped. They had a job to do, and were determined to do it. Aimil was the last person that I saw climb through the hatch, and I sat there alone for a moment after he'd disappeared, watching the lightning, which seemed to be climaxing, flashing against the stairs, against the dots of rain that were falling through the open square. The thunder had become indistinguishable from the sound of the waves; they had dissolved into each other, into one low, deafening rumble.

I got to my feet, sloshed through the gangway, and climbed the stairs into the cold air. Then I slammed and sealed the safety of the hull behind me, and turned to see what we were doing, only to find that I wasn't the only one who was unsure. There was complete and utter chaos. Everyone seemed to have a separate and urgent assignment, but not one of them looked as if they knew what that was. They were scattering and collecting like a group of confused animals fleeing from predators that were closing in on every side, flashes of light freezing them in still frames of confusion, of panic.

There appeared to be several captains. Mikkel was screaming something at the top of his lungs that couldn't be heard. He had a torn cable in one hand - the rigging from the foremast - and the other hand was holding tight to the foremast itself. As far as I could tell, he might have been trying to figure out a way to raise a sail with what little rigging was left. Onni was standing beside him, stunned, uselessly clutching the remnants of the storm sail with one hand as well, as it flapped soaking wet in the wind. There was also a small group scattering and collecting around the mainmast: Knut, Solmund and the sorry blood-smeared face of Aimil, his shirt already having formed a bib of red.

My plan was obvious: it was to get everyone to abandon the previous plan - as fast as possible. None of us should have been there in the first place, least of all to raise a sail. I screamed at them, and then screamed again. Nothing. No one heard a thing. I would have to get their attention physically. So I started making my way toward them along the rails, hand over hand, the swaying of the boat so severe that the gunwales were teetering ever closer to the surface of the water. I waited for a tiny lull in the waves before rushing from the rail to the mainmast, and grabbed onto it with the rest of them. I hollered something that wasn't a word and pointed at the closed hatch that we'd all come from. This, to me, meant that they should seek shelter below deck immediately, but to them, probably only meant the appearance of yet another captain. In answer to my pointing arm, they all gawked up at the height of the mainmast, which might have still been glowing - I didn't look. Instead, I swore into the wind, and it pushed air down my throat as if it didn't want to hear it.

I needed to get to Mikkel; because I knew that if I could get
him
to run to the lower deck, everyone else would follow without thinking twice. I left the mainmast, rushed to some rigging, waited for a moment, and then scurried to the foremast. I touched Mikkel on the shoulder and opened my mouth to yell, but no words had the chance to come out.

In one single instant, the ship's bow plunged into the ocean, and a massive wave curled in on us. All of us who were standing there - Onni, Mikkel, and myself - were easily knocked free of the mast and fell onto the deck, sliding away, eyes fighting to stay open, arms swinging wildly. The water clung to my body, dragging me past rigging and equipment, until I smashed into the rail, where I was pinned against the metal as the water sieved around my body, and drained off the deck.