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THE STORM becomes our prison.
It berates us, throws us about, keeps us stranded in its wild, blackened waters. We fight it all through the endless night, but there is no ceasefire. No rest. It torments us with glimpses of the sunlight through a break in the clouds or a stall in the wind but never lets us escape its wicked grasp. Rhince had been right — the squall is like no other I've seen.
The wind howls through the planks like an angry, shrieking scream. When a wave crashes onto the deck and rushes around my legs, it feels like chains dragging me off into the sea. The mass of clouds above us roil and heave as if breathing in a great gust of air to batter at the mast or coughing out a deafening bolt of lightning. And the rain is like ice-tipped daggers burrowing into my skin. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the storm to be alive. A horrible living beast fighting to see us sunk at the bottom of the sea. And a few times, I begin to think it might actually succeed.
Every creak and awful groan coming from the ship makes me think we're going to capsize. It makes my breaks restless. I toss and worry in my hammock, trying to sleep, jumping at every crack of thunder. And the work rotations are no less terrifying. When the waves seem to crest above the crow's nest, or the Treader crashes fifty feet down into a trough, I can't help thinking how all that water might certainly devour us. How it yawns so large and black overhead, like the hungry maw of a snake.
We're utterly powerless against the strength of it. The sea rears its head at us to show what it's capable of and prove how helpless we are in its shadow. Three men are required at the tiller to fight the wind and stay on course. And the bilge pump needs constant work if we're to keep from foundering. A line of men passes buckets from the bilge to the maindeck at all hours, trying to keep up with all the water we're taking on. It's all we can do to stay afloat. And it wears at us until we can barely keep on our feet. Every torturous day.
And with no sun, it's impossible to tell how long we've been captive in the squall. It must be at least two weeks now, despite feeling like an eternity. Two whole weeks upon this hellish waterscape and I'm beginning to think I may never be warm again. The combined rain and the spray off the waves seep past my raincoat in minutes, the wash across the deck soaking through my boots. I can't remember the last time I felt truly dry.
But there's nothing else to do but to keep at it. I keep working, running across the deck to secure loose lines and lash more supports to the mast. While Drinian and Rynelf and Caprius fight for control of the tiller, Tavros scrambles to keep the deck in order, giving us our tasks and keeping track of the rotation shifts. It's madness, but at least Edmund is beside me today, uncoiling a new rope from the emergency stores on deck.
"Is that enough?" He shouts as I gather it in my arms, scanning for tears or shredding.
