The Fyrwitgeorn
Seven Weeks into the Voyage Part 1
Seven weeks. Seven weeks on board what was once considered to be a grand galleon of a ship. Seven weeks with an understaffed crew. Seven weeks aboard a ship we all knew didn’t have much more life in her. Not when she had first been commissioned over two decades ago and needed repairs beyond what we could do ourselves. Of course, none of us said any of this out loud. Not one of the seventy-five crew members would ever even dream of voicing these kinds of thoughts aloud. But, we all knew. We all had the same look in our eyes when she creaked with a waves’ force. We all got the same look when she made a snapping sound. A look of worry, dread, almost. A prayer, raised up to the clouds, quickly followed it.
No one dared whisper their worries aloud when the sea had a mind of its own. Not when some days you were blessed with sun-kissed winds, a soft feminine caress on your cheek. Not when it could change up on you without warning. Not when that gentle womanly touch that all men savored could switch to a witch’s shriek, a rage filled cackle. A murderess summoning you to her sunless abyss. No one dared tempt her to turn favor against us by uttering one foul word about the sea nor the ship. Especially when we’d only had calm, benevolent seas these last seven weeks. For all we knew and furthermore, said aloud, the ship was a godsend, a miracle we should all be grateful for.
To a sailor, your ship was your life. She held you safe in her belly, where all life began. Perhaps that’s why we refer to ships as feminine. All life begins with a woman, afterall. A woman carries you in her womb, a sea of liquid life; a ship carries her sons through an ancient primordial sea full of sentient life.
You did not question the temptress of the chasm beneath the ship. Instead you praised her. You thanked her every morning you woke, each day you had wind in your sails, each day you felt the salty spray of the sea on your skin. And on each night she gently rocked you, her soothing rhythm lulling you to sleep, you said a prayer to her. Asking her to keep you safe. To bless you once more, to wake and feel the sun on your face and wind in your hair.
There were only two types of sailors in the world. Those that honored the sea and all she controlled. And those that treated being out at sea as just a job. As though the legends and myths were just that; stories. Stories that were told to us as children to deter us from going into the water. Stories told to frighten us. Those that didn’t honor her. The ones that spoke with a young, wild defiance. Those that had not been allowed on board for this voyage. They’d not even been allowed to see us off. Good men, respectable, even. Men that had even been my friends for years. Men I wished had been on board.
Captain Thornecroft was not a man to be trifled with. He had been sailing longer than I had. I had been on his crew for the last eleven years. He had been the first mate when I first set foot on the Fyrwitgeorn and had taught me most of what I know. Seven years ago he made me his first mate when he took over as Captain. I was honored and hadn’t looked back since.
In all the years I’d been on board, we had never been on a voyage like this. Never before had I seen the wary look in the Captain’s eyes. Not when we had encountered terrifying weather, not when we had lost our bearing and had feared we would perish from starvation, not when we had been boarded by pirates five years ago.
The look in his eyes had been there since the day we left our home port. Ever since the prominent occultist had set his polished leather boot on the deck of the Fyrwitgeorn. The moment I saw the bespectacled man on the main deck as I was overseeing cargo being sorted, I knew this voyage was going to be different. The winds immediately shifted, grew cold, as the clouds rolled in and blocked out the sun entirely.
I was sure the Captain felt it too. Noticed the weather shift as he boarded. His eyes had narrowed on the peculiar man. Our benefactor for this voyage. Then the Captain turned and looked out towards the sea. As if it would tell him something, warn him if need be.
I knew the wind shifting that quickly was a bad omen. I knew, even without the Captain saying it, that this was why he had cleaved our crew in half. He would not tolerate bad omens even from his own crew.
Seventy-five of us remained or seventy-six if you counted the occultist as well. Bad omen to have a man like that on board a ship. Bad omens, indeed.
That had been seven weeks ago though. We had all ignored it, ignored the occultist altogether. Left him to his frenetic scribblings, leather-bound journals and random leaflets. We had ignored him, too busy with the bustling of a new voyage. We’d all been well rested and eager to be back out on the water.
Out at sea. The sea that called to every bone in our bodies. Seven weeks ago with a skeleton crew in comparison to what we usually went out with. Just to appease the siren who ruled the watery depths beneath us. Whose song was one only we knew. Whose song was the rhythm that coursed through our veins.
A song that was made for us, her devout sons.
The sailors that worshipped her before all others.
Seven weeks later and the excitement had diminished. The sense of adventure had worn off entirely. In its place, a heavy blanket of fatigue had settled over us. All except for the occultist. William Beauforte. He still kept to himself, he didn’t mingle with the sailors. He kept in regular contact with the Captain though, he didn’t seem to mind that I was around to hear most of their conversations. I kept quiet and kept my thoughts to myself. Made myself seem too preoccupied to care about what Beauforte was saying to Captain Thornecroft.
The sailors kept busy with work even through the fatigue. Some of us handled it better than the others. Those of us that had been sailing for as long as I had known there were moments like this on almost every cruise we had been on. Moments where others had to step up and take on extra work duties. We knew that being idle would only make it all worse. Everyone had double the workload. Everyone had extra work assignments that they usually didn’t have. The men were feeling the frustration of a long and difficult voyage with seemingly no end in sight.
Our fresh produce had run out or been salvaged by some pickling liquid or dried out with salt or fed to the livestock we had on board kept in the back of the cargo hold. Chickens, pigs and a few sheep. I missed the freshness. My God, how I wished for something fresh. A sweet crisp apple would do wonders for morale. My stomach rumbled and I stifled down my hunger. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t hungry. “Least not for any of Smythe’s shite.” I whispered, chuckling quietly to myself.
Failing to notice that Captain Thornecroft had appeared next to me as I had been lost in thought. Reminiscing about apples. Remembering myself, my role, “Captain.” I said with a subtle nod of my head in greeting. I hoped he hadn’t heard what I had said about Smythe’s cooking. After eleven years of sailing with him I knew he didn’t mind me being informal with him but some habits were hard to abandon.
He looked over at me and for the first time in weeks his eyes seemed less haunted, amused even. He leaned in closer to me and whispered, “Smythe’s cooking is shite. I look forward to Cooke’s cooking again.” I balked at him, surprised at his candor. At the surprise on my face he said, “Come now, Finn, we both know that Smythe is a piss poor replacement for Cooke. Not even I can ignore such… horrid food, if you could even call it that. Cooke would be livid with Smythe.” He chuckled as did I, imagining Cooke looking on in horror as Smythe put a pot of pickled vegetables in some murky liquid on a table and called it “dinner”.
I missed the man who had been a godsend when he’d been hired five years ago, he changed every voyage for the better. He never skimped on flavour either. “Surely, Captain, we could have left Smythe on shore and brought Cooke with us, right?” He sighed and rubbed a calloused hand over his jaw, then smoothed his beard before saying, “Conrad, Finn, how many times have I told you that you need not be so formal when it is just the two of us? Seven years as my first mate you’d think you’d be capable of calling me Conrad by now.”
Bowing my head, “Sorry Cap-, I mean Conrad, habits are hard for me to break.” He nodded. I knew he understood. He answered my original question, “You keep all of this between us, Finnegan, only us.” His tone was icy, grave, oddly serious. I made eye contact with him as I nodded in agreement. It was obvious something had been amiss since we had set sail.
He had my complete and undivided attention. “I could not, no… would not, risk having any of our sailors who scoff at the legends on board. Not for this. Not with what we’re out here doing.” I interrupted him, “What are we doing this far out here? With HALF our crew? And what is with that man, Beauforte? No one feels comfortable, Conrad.” I knew I had been whispering but it felt like I had been yelling. My frustration of not having the full story finally coming to the surface. “Apologies Captain, I know I shouldn’t question your orders. I know I should trust you.”
The Captain looked out at the water, past the sails flapping with the wind, then that gaze turned and settled on the crew. I realized they had been singing a shanty. One about home and the touch of a woman. Conrad and I had sung that very same shanty my first day on board. My first day as a sailor. Eleven years ago. When Conrad had held my position as first mate to the Captain. I wondered if he remembered that day. He remained silent. The song picked up and the boys rang out louder, feeding off one another’s joy of a simple moment.
He must have been waiting for the volume to increase as the boys reached the chorus. He spoke quickly, intently while he kept his facial expression content, despite his words. “Listen closely, Finn. Do not show any concern or fear, keep calm the entire time and do not interrupt me.” I knew my eyes widened at his words, felt my heart beat faster. “William Beauforte is funding this entire expedition. He paid to have us crew for him for five full years, Finn! Five years! All we are supposed to do is take him where the Spaniards found that island, Guam. Says he has some research to do there, that’s all. But as the days have passed us by… something seems strange. Beauforte is a puzzle and I cannot figure him out. Each day we’ve gotten closer to Guam he seems more and more anxious. Muttering to himself. Frantically taking notes in his cabin. The man is strange, Finn. I do not trust him.”
Keeping my voice calm and low, “Captain.. We have only been sailing for less than two months. We still have five months before we reach those shores.” My mind was reeling. This was too far with a smaller crew. This was going to be impossible.
The song started to fade and I wanted to bellow at them to keep singing. “I know, Finn. Trust me. I’m watching him. If he looks like he’s going to start trouble we will lock him up until we get to Guam, I swear it. I cleaved the crew in half because of what Beauforte studies. I didn’t want to risk it, Finn. I only wanted the good sailors, better than good, ones that believe in honoring the sea as we do.” I had guessed it. He had been paranoid about the occultist. “When he met me to hire us he told me how much he would offer first, I was stunned. He brought out a contract and made me sign it before he told me anything else. He looked meek enough that I didn’t expect anything too intense… Then he told me what he is studying. Looking for, more so.” What sinister thing could be on the shores of Guam?
The boys just below us on the deck began shifting the sails to catch more of the wind as one of the deck hands who’d been sailing as long as me now, began to sing. A low, somber ballad. The others joined in and soon the entire deck was filled with deep, rich tones of a man telling his wife why he left her for the sea and never came back.
“What is he looking for?” I whispered. Captain’s voice was grave, “He’s looking into unusual accounts from sailors since they found the island.” That’s what has him scared? His voice was so quiet I could barely hear him when he let out a breath and said, “Sailors that say they saw something in the water. Sailors that now refuse to set foot on board a ship ever again. Sailors who will never feel the spray of the sea on their skin again. Sailors who will never answer the call again.”
His eyes were dull, full of grief. His expression was grim. I found myself saying, “Well then, we’ll just have to keep our eyes on him. If need be we can lock him up in the brig if he becomes a threat. I’ve got your back, Conrad.” He turned to me, some light returning to his eyes and gave me a grateful nod. He turned back to the water, staring dead ahead at the horizon, as if he was waiting to see something.
A moment passed and he said softly, “Don’t tell the crew, I don’t want them to panic.” I nodded, “Aye, Captain.” I turned to walk back to my quarters and looked back at him. Stoic, ready to weather the storm.