hope at the end of a gangplank

The air was thick, trapped between four walls of stone. Forms huddled inside the dwelling. The sun beat down on the thatch roof, offering no relief from the oppressive heat already inside. The air was foul, clogging the throats of the two larger forms and the smaller one in the corner. Fever burned through them, leaving ravaged remains in its wake. The largest form coughed, hacked, stretched, the body seeking to be rid of the fog clouding the mind. The other forms did not move. [[Sunrise]], [[sunset]].

<img src="creek.jpg" width="480" height="308"> (text-colour:white)+(background:(gradient: 0, 0,#ffffff,1,#000000,1,#ffffff))[Stillness all around. The world seemed to be (text-style: "fade-in-out")[holding its breath]. Slowly, the sound of the chickens outside reaches the ear. When one listens more intently, the (text-style: "fade-in-out")[river] nearby becomes audible. The forms get up and shed their bedclothes. They run down to the river, whooping and hollering. The water is cold on their too-hot faces. Jolts of adrenaline with each submersion, lungs stretching to take in clean air with each resurfacing. They hold hands, pruney fingers numb but clutching. Tiny silver fish nibble at toes that stay still too long. They dance in the water, blood rushing. Rushing [[clarity ->Prologue]].]

"Are you alright?" a voice asked quietly. Brought out of his revelry, Thorsten exhaled. "Fine, [[Mags]]. I'm fine," he replied to the stocky woman. They stood quietly on the prow of the ship for a few moments, looking out past the harbor to the open water. Gulls had discovered a school of fish and were making the most of their hunt before larger predators noticed. It almost reminded him of the hawks that snatched trout from the river outside his homestead. Almost. More steadily, Thorsten asked, "How are the repairs coming?" Mags shrugged, "She's in [[rough]] shape. Took on a lot of water toward the end. Harbormaster said his carpenterns know what they're doing, though." "Let's hope they do," Thorsten sighed. "If they don't, I vote we break the new oarsmen in with some good ol' fashioned pillaging before we skip town," Mags grinned. Snorting, Thorsten replied, "You're incorrigible." "Raised by pirates, remember?" Mags smiled.

Eastward trade expansion. New skirmishes over territory and rights and exclusivity. Lucrative mineral deposits. In these far reaches of the world, unincorporated into larger republics, pirates dominated the waterways. Even the best-charted courses could turn bloody if a ship wasn't careful. They'd made a mistake, left the crossing too close to the end of summer. They'd been lucky to be quick enough to make it without losing more men than they already had. Limping into an [[unknown port->tiny town]] was always risky, but the gaping hole in the starboard hull had forced their hand. After docking, Thorsten had pulled [[Mags]] into his cabin and locked the door. "I get it, you're angry," Mags began, "I already said I was sorry-" "Enough," Thorsten said quietly, cutting her off. Heavy silence. Then, "Please remember whose ship you're on next time. One loss is already a loss too many." Mags turned flinty. "Remember who got you here, Thorsten. You might be captain, but you would do well to remember which one of us keeps this crew together every time you fall apart."

The //Odomaria// was still listing a week later. Her crew was rarely ashore for this long. Restless energy makes for a cranky captain. The ship was also attracting local attention. The [[tiny town]] on the tip of the Archipelago was rarely a port of call for vessels as large as this. The spectacle of it all set Thorsten's nerves on [[edge]]. "You should take a break, captain. We should //all// take a break."

She found him, half dead. Dragged him shivering from the river. Put him back together. Brought him into her open water world. It was alien. It was terrifying. [[It was exactly what he needed.]] She should have been captain instead of him, he knew. Her status as a member of the fairer sex kept her back - The West Mirhh Trading Company had rules. But he fought to bring her on as his right hand, and there she stayed. Ever present. She helped keep the nightmares away.

Carved into the steep cliff face, the town of Ohlm eeked an existance out of their salt mines. Scrappy and self-made were the residents of Ohlm. What should have been a bleak existance was made lively and [[colorful->edge]] by a stubborn refusal to give in to the harsh environment.

The equinox festival was approaching, bringing the end of summer. The crew remained landlocked. From the harbor, the view of the town nestled into the cliffs above became ever more colorful as buildings were decorated with abandon. The sun still shone hotly, but the wind was turning cooler. //[[Run away]]//, it whispered, //while you still can.// Thorsten resolved to set sail as soon as the festival was over. Running or flying?

Equinox. Tight streets packed full of people. Bright pendants draped across awnings and doorways. Braziers burning on every corner. The smell of smoke and meat cooking thick in the air. Mouth watering, beer flowing, loud music. Dancing, silk hair(text-style: "fade-in-out") [[scarves]] flowing. Bells on boots jingle maniacally. In an alleyway, (text-style: "fade-in-out")[eyes] glow out of a small, grubby face. "You little thief!" It's too crowded to give chase. Not much in the coin purse to begin with, anyway. A hazy pounding head the next [[morning]].

"Morning, captain," Mags says with a grin when Thorsten finally emerges abovedecks, "You missed our departure." Thorsten shields his eyes against the harsh sunlight and grumbles unintelligably. "Yes, don't worry. Everything went smoothly and the harbormaster says we're welcome guests anytime. So clearly a half-drunk mess of sailors disrupting their esteemed festival didn't tarnish our reputation." Another grumble. "That, I do not know. Kellan would, though - HEY KELLAN!" Mags shouts across the deck. A short, stocky man with a wiry handlebar mustache looks up at Mags's call. Upon seeing Thorsten, he chortles and ambles over. "Here, captain. Breakfast." A bowl of porridge is proferred. "There's apples in the galley. I can head below and get one for you," Kellan the cook offers. "No need," Thorsten finds his voice. Mags narrows her eyes, "You need to eat." "Fine," Thorsten sighs, "But I'm [[going]] myself."

Thorsten descends into the belly of the ship. It feels good to have a ship rocking beneath his feet again. He trails fingers along the wall as he walks. The worn wood is warm to the touch. In the galley, crates stack against the walls. Most are still nailed firmly shut, but Thorsten sees one that has already been opened. Lifting the lid reveals [[red]] apples. He hums, out of tune. He brings an apple to his lips to take a bite. A large wave jolts the ship. Crates shift slightly. The open crate tumbles and apples spill everywhere. Swearing a storm to rival the one brewing abovedecks, Thorsten bends to collect the apples. Cramped quarters force him to his hands and knees. Red glints from behind a stack of barrels. Thorsten reaches for the apple. But his fingers don't find firm fruit. They find [[fabric]]. His heart nearly stops.

<img src="forest.jpg" width="480" height="308"> (text-colour:white)+(background:(gradient: 0, 0,#ffffff,1,#000000,1,#ffffff))[Autumn leaves carpeted the floor of the forest clearing. The little girl was hooded against the chill, scampering to escape the grasp of the wiry woman chasing her. Ringing laughter echoed through the empty woods. [[What bounty->fabric]].]

Two pairs of eyes meet. One pair light, one pair dark. One pair big, one pair small. Thorsten is a large man. The grubby girl he hauls from behind the barrels is frighteningly small. He stares at her. She stares right back. She has on a red dress made of homespun, threadbare fabric. Her shoes are worn thin, and the right sole seems moments away from abandoning ship. And her eyes - he can't believe her eyes. This girl is the age my own would be if - If If toocoldtoocoldtoocoldcoldcoldCOLD "Why are you crying?" "Thorsten who the hell is that?" Mags bursts through the door. "[[No one]]. A [[thief]]."

<img src="child.jpg" width="480" height="308"> (text-colour:white)+(background:(gradient: 0, 0,#ffffff,1,#000000,1,#ffffff))[A veritable corona of riotous curls framing a small, dimpled face. She looks just like her mother. So still, too still. toostilltoostilltoostilltoostilltoostilltoostilltoostilltoostilltoostill toocoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldCOLD [["Why are you you crying?"->thief]]]

The path of least resistance. It hurts less to avoid remembering. What was, what wasn't, what could have been. It's the kinder choice. A child bearing witness to the harsh reality of life on the high seas is immoral. Mags reminds them. It's one less liability to worry about. They're traders, not an orphanage. Leave her at the next port of call. Be done with the whole ordeal. Live in the present, abandon the past.

Mags says she hasn't seen him this happy in, well, ever, she supposes. A broad man with a tiny shadow. He buys her new shoes at the next port. She's decent in the kitchen, but better at knot-tying and fishing, as it turns out. Kellan sings her praises. "Where should we go next, little gull?" Thorsten asks the girl perched on his shoulder. No more nightmares. The ship surfs over the water, skimming across white caps, chasing the sun.

<img src="flowers.jpg" width="480" height="308"> (text-colour:white)+(background:(gradient: 0, 0,#ffffff,1,#000000,1,#ffffff))[(text-style: "fade-in-out")[Foggy] but familiar. He'd brought home a skein of wool that matched the color of the wildflowers by the vegetable patch. In (text-style: "fade-in-out")[snatches] of peace in between weeding and seeding and tilling and watering, the woman had set to (text-style: "fade-in-out")[knitting]. The (text-style: "fade-in-out")[girl] had been giddy, wrapping the length around and around her neck. It swallowed her. She preened. If he could just [[remember->morning]] what it (text-style: "fade-in-out") [felt] like- At least she wasn't [[drowning->He hardened]] this time.]

Learning to sail came naturally to Thorsten. Predicting weather patterns was second-nature to the former farmer, as were the seemingly endless repairs that ships seemed to accrue. Charting courses was more difficult for one who had yet to see the world. But he learned. [[He hardened]]. The only thing that mattered was the next day, the next destination. Life on the water was surprisingly familiar. The rhythm of water is the same, no matter where you go. He climbed the ranks until Mags no longer called him by his first same in front of the rest of the crew. Alone, she still spoke freely though. "You wouldn't be here without me," she joked. There was no higher place left to [[reach->hope]].

<img src="water.jpg" width="480" height="308"> (text-colour:white)+(background:(gradient: 0, 0,#ffffff,1,#000000,1,#ffffff))[Inky, icy, blackness. He was (text-style: "fade-in-out")[drowning]. She was drowning, too. He could feel cold water (text-style: "fade-in-out")[seeping] into his nose, down his throat, settling in his (text-style: "fade-in-out")[lungs]. He dove deeper, reaching for the tiny hand outstretched for his. She was (text-style: "fade-in-out")[sinking] faster than he was. How? She was so light. Like a kitten, fragile. The (text-style: "fade-in-out")[crush] of the current pulled her deeper and deeper. He could feel himself thrashing, could hear himself (text-style: "fade-in-out")[screaming]. Was it [[real->Sunrise]]? Or a [[dream->hope]]?]

Head thick, thoughts slow. But awake. Blinking is exhausting. Throat dry. Burns. Where...there. "Baby..." comes out barely a croak. She's not moving. Neither of them are moving. stiff. An all-consuming burning. Hot, cold, waves of pin-pricks. It's too much, toomuchtoomuchtoomuchtoomuch. The river. Go to the river. Fumbling with the door, stumbling down the path to the edge of the water. Light is bright, it burns and blinds. Plunging, down....down. Cold...cold. Relief. Maybe he'll stay here forever. His lungs almost aren't burning anymore. Maybe they'll be there when he [[surfaces]] again.

"Let me keep the girl, captain," Kellan pleads, "She's been useful." "You knew about this?" Mags rounds on the cook. "I found her this morning, she helped with breakfast," he stammers, "I was going to tell you, I swear it." "This is no place for a child," Mags spits, "You've seen what happens here. It's too soon her to see death. Or worse." Kellan is silent. Then, "We have the extra rations on board. I overstocked. Give her a trial." "Thorsten?" Thorsten is silent. To [[walk the plank]] and move on, or [[not to walk the plank]] and face the fear? That is the question.