The Ghostfaces (4 page)

chapter
four

T
hey sailed on through the dark hours of the night, alternately climbing and sliding down the massive swells, with the wind howling at them like a wild, living creature.

Their lives took on an inevitable sequence—climb up, smash through, swoop down, bury the bow in the sea, then begin the next laborious climb.

It was uncomfortable and unpleasant, but the early venom of the storm had abated a little and now they were confident that, barring the unexpected, the ship would handle the conditions safely.

The wind was still too strong for Hal to risk hoisting the slender, curved yardarms or setting more sail. The tiny storm sail stretched drum-taut against the wind and gave them steerageway in
the plunging seas. But, even though the little ship was pointing northwest, they all knew that their real course was southwest, as the wind and waves drove the ship before them.

It was an unnerving feeling for the crew. They were being driven farther and farther into the vast expanse of the Endless Ocean, a place where none of them had ever sailed before. But, as Lydia had stated, there was little they could do about it, so worrying over the matter would achieve nothing. In fact, it was her calm acceptance of the situation that allowed a lot of them to retain their equanimity. In such situations, panic and fear can become contagious. But this time, it was calmness and stoicism that spread among them.

They were in a routine now. The steering position, exposed to the wind and spray on the upper part of the rear deck, was potentially the most exhausting—with the exception of those times, thankfully infrequent, when they had to bail. Hal, realizing that he couldn't possibly take on the task of steering on his own, organized a roster between himself, Stig, Thorn and Edvin.

Edvin, of course, had trained early on in the
Heron
's first cruise as a relief helmsman. He didn't have the physical strength of Hal, and certainly not Stig or Thorn. But he had a deft touch on the tiller and sense of the ship's rhythm that helped him keep her on course with a minimum of movement of the rudder. He anticipated the ship's movements as the sea swirled around her. And, by anticipating, he needed to expend less effort to correct her.

Lydia watched him, admiration in her eyes. She had moved up close to the steering platform to keep him company, realizing that steering could be a lonely task.

“You're good at this, aren't you?” she said.

Edvin flushed, and smiled at her, pleased that she recognized his skill in handling the ship. “It's easier to keep her going where you want if you don't let her go where
she
wants.”

Lydia thought about that and nodded seriously. “That's a good way of looking at it.” On previous cruises, she'd taken her turn at the helm. Hal believed every crew member should be able to steer a course, no matter what their individual skills might be. He and Stig had been at pains to get her to develop the anticipation that Edvin grasped so easily. The tiller required constant small adjustments as the water flowed around it, she had learned. If you let the wind or the waves push the ship off course, it took twice the effort to get it back on course again.

Of course, knowing it and being able to do it were two completely different matters.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

Edvin nodded eagerly. Steering was thirsty work, in spite of the cold and damp conditions. “What's on offer?” he asked. He grinned and the dried salt on his cracked lips stung.

“There's water. Or water,” Lydia told him.

He made as if he were considering the choice. “Better make it water,” he said finally.

Of course, there was nothing hot to drink, much as they would all have loved to have something. With the deck rearing and plunging the way it was, it would be madness to light a fire on board, even the small gimballed oil burner that Edvin had in his cooking kit.

Lydia dropped into the rowing well and poured him a beaker of cold water from a water skin, leaning over to shield the beaker
from the salt spray that cascaded along the deck with monotonous regularity. She climbed back to the main deck and handed the drink to Edvin. He sipped deeply. It was cold, of course, and very refreshing because of it. But with the second sip, he frowned slightly. There was a distinct salt taste to the water now, courtesy of the spray that had fallen into it. Lydia saw his expression of slight distaste.

“Sorry,” she said, guessing the reason. “Hard to keep that salt water out of everything.”

“Can't be helped,” he replied, draining the beaker quickly to prevent any further contamination.

He studied the sky, taking in the unbroken dark gray of the clouds and the way the wind kept the telltale at the masthead whipping out in a virtually straight line.

“Can't say the weather's improving,” he muttered.

But it was, albeit in increments so gradual that it was hard for them to notice the change.

By the fourth day, the wind had dropped from the howling, unpredictable force of the first two days to a steadier pattern, without the sudden, terrifying and potentially lethal gusts and lunges that had threatened to overwhelm the ship if the crew let their attention wander.

There was still plenty of danger in that wind, and plenty of brute force. But it no longer seemed to be trying to catch them unawares. It was simply there, as a backdrop to their day.

And so they sailed on. Four days. Then five. Then six. And with every hour and every day that passed, they were driven deeper and deeper into the unexplored vastness of the Endless Ocean.

On the sixth day, the sun actually appeared. Hal watched it travel through an arc above them. He had never seen the sun as high as that before. He took several measurements, using his hinged sighting stick. Even without an accurate determination of the time of day, he knew that they had come farther south than he had ever been before.

Maybe farther south than
anyone
had ever been.

He was sitting in the rowing well, slapping his arms back and forth against his body to restore a little warmth to them, when Stig approached him, a worried look on his face.

“What's the problem?” Hal asked.

Stig glanced round, making sure that none of the other crew members was in earshot. “We're running low on water,” he said in a subdued tone.

Hal frowned, not understanding. “How can that be? We're still on the first cask. We've a full second cask to go after that.”

The
Heron
carried their drinking water in two large casks below deck in the watertight center section. Each day, Stig would fill a large water skin and keep it handy on deck for crew members to drink from. As a matter of course, they had refilled both casks before they left Hibernia. One would have been enough to see them home, but Hal preferred to err on the side of caution. You never knew what might happen, after all—as their current situation showed only too well.

“The second cask has sprung a leak. The water's been seeping away.” Stig shook his head angrily. “Don't know how it happened. Maybe all the lurching and banging loosened a stave.”

As first mate, it was Stig's task to attend to such matters as
supplies and equipment. Hal could tell that he blamed himself for the leaking cask.

“How much have we lost?” he asked. That was the vital matter.

Stig considered the question. “We've maybe a third of a cask left,” he said. “And a little less than that in the first cask.”

“First thing to do is stop the leak,” Hal said.

Stig made a dismissive gesture. “I've taken care of that. It was hard to see where the leak was actually coming from, so I transferred the remaining water to the first cask.”

“There's no problem with that, is there?” Hal asked anxiously. If one cask was damaged, it was all too possible that the other might be as well. It wasn't likely, but it was possible. And Hal had been at sea long enough to know that if something was possible, it might well happen—and all too often, it did. But Stig reassured him.

“No. It's sound. I've checked it three times. Point is, two-thirds of a cask would be enough to get us back home in normal conditions.”

He paused meaningfully. Hal got the point. He eyed the gray, racing waves overside.

“But these aren't normal conditions,” he said.

“No indeed,” Stig agreed heavily. “We have no idea where we are, and no idea how long it'll take us to get home.”

“Which makes it hard to figure out how much water we'll need,” Hal finished for him. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Hal came to a decision. “We'll cut the normal daily ration by half,” he said.

Stig looked doubtful, although he was glad the decision wasn't his. “Will that be enough?”

Hal shrugged. “I honestly don't know. We've been blown a long way west and south. And we're continuing to be so. We'll have to see how long these conditions keep up and how long it'll be before we can begin to head northeast again.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “We'll go to half rations for a while and see what develops. Let the others know,” he added. He didn't want them finding out when it came time for their daily water ration to be doled out. Better to let them get their grumbling and complaining over in advance.

Stig pursed his lips. Hal could see he was still chafing over the fact that he had allowed this to happen. He patted his friend's arm.

“Don't beat yourself up over this,” he said. “It wasn't your fault.”

Stig shook his head disgustedly. “I'm your first mate. I should have checked sooner.”

Hal shrugged philosophically. He wasn't going to argue the point too much. Technically, it
was
Stig's job to keep track of details like this, and the fact that he blamed himself was, in a way, a good thing. He would never let a similar situation arise in the future.

If we have a future, a niggling little voice said in Hal's mind. He shook his head to clear it.

“Tell the others,” he repeated, and Stig made his way for'ard to where the rest of the crew were sitting, huddled together for warmth.

Predictably, it was Jesper who was first to complain about the news.

“How did that happen?” he demanded in an injured tone when Stig told them of the leaking cask. The big first mate fixed him with a steely glare.

“How it happened doesn't matter,” he said. “What does matter is that it
has
happened. And we're on half rations until further notice.”

“Maybe it'll rain,” Ingvar suggested. “We should be ready to catch any rainwater if it does.”

Stig gave him an appreciative nod. “Good thinking, Ingvar. Jesper, Stefan, rig one of the spare sails to catch water if we get some rain.”

“Why me?” Jesper wanted to know. Listening, Hal raised his eyes to the storm-wracked heavens.

“Because I said so,” Stig replied.

Jesper sniffed disparagingly. “That's not an answer,” he muttered.

Stig moved a little closer to him. “Well, how about this? Because I'm the first mate and if you don't do as I say, I'll give you a thick ear.”

There was a long silence between them. Finally, Jesper looked away and moved toward the locker where spare sails were stowed.

“Yeah, well, that's kind of an answer,” he admitted sulkily.

chapter
five

O
n the eighth day, the storm finally decided to have mercy on them. The howling wind and driving spray abated. And the
Heron
no longer shipped green water over her bows every time she plunged into the troughs at the back of each wave.

But while the force of the storm dissipated and gave the crew a welcome respite from alternately huddling in the rowing wells and bailing out the water that came on board, there was no change in the relentless southwestward drive of the wind and sea.
Heron
continued to drift downwind. The wind direction was completely foul for the course they would need to take them back toward Hibernia, and eventually Skandia.

Thorn and Hal crouched by the steering platform as Stig kept the ship headed at an angle to the prevailing sea and wind. They
appeared to be traveling northwest but all three of them knew that, while that was their heading, they were still drifting downwind and down sea to the southwest. The wind, while no longer the shrieking, malevolent force that had battered them for eight exhausting days and nights, was still blowing half a gale and seemed determined to prevent them making any progress toward their homeland.

“Do you think there's any chance that it might change?” Hal asked Thorn. The old sea wolf was the most experienced sailor among them. He had seen wind and weather patterns all over their known world.

But the problem was, they were no longer in their known world. The Endless Ocean was an unknown quantity, an enigma to them all. Wolfships had skirted its easternmost edge in times past. But none had ventured as far into the vast, heaving gray mass as they had.

Or at least, if any ship had, it hadn't returned to tell the tale.

Thorn hesitated before answering. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air, peering into the northeast where the wind and waves originated.

“Frankly,” he said at length, “I have no idea. I don't know these waters and I don't know the weather systems here. All I can say is, why should it change? It's been blowing from the northeast for eight days now. I can't see any sign that it might suddenly shift. And we'd need it to veer ninety degrees to do us any good.”

“So for all we know, it could continue like this for another eight days,” Hal said.

Thorn shrugged. “Why stop at eight? It could keep on like this
for weeks. It's obviously a massive weather front that's driving it. Sorry I can't be more encouraging.”

Hal chewed on a frayed fingernail, then glanced at Stig. “How are the crew?” he asked. In a situation like this, as skirl, he had to remain a little aloof from the crew. He couldn't discuss things with them or share his thoughts. If he had to make hard and unpopular decisions, it was best if he maintained his distance. That way, his orders and his decisions wouldn't become a topic for debate and discussion. But Stig was able to stay closer to the crew and act as Hal's eyes and ears among them.

“Well, you know I cut the water ration again yesterday. We're down to two beakers a day.” Hal frowned. He'd known that Stig was going to cut the ration again, but he hadn't known what the result would be. “That's getting pretty meager. How did they take it?”

“They didn't like it,” Stig said. “Who would? But they can see why it's necessary. They're not children, after all. And if they complain to me, it helps get it all off their chests.”

“Cursed if I know why it hasn't rained,” Thorn put in, glaring at the low clouds still whipping overhead, driven by the wind. “Orlog knows there's enough cloud up there for a deluge.”

“Maybe it will,” Hal said. His tone indicated how little chance he gave it of happening. Things never happen when you need them, he thought. But he didn't express the sentiment aloud. Quarter rations of water was a serious step. It was barely enough to sustain the crew. They had plenty of food, of course, but without water, nobody felt like eating too much. And lack of water would affect them far sooner than lack of food.

“Even if the wind did shift,” he said, after a few minutes'
silence, “it'd take us at least another eight days to get back to where we started.”

“More,” Stig pointed out. “We'd be beating into the wind, zigzagging back and forth and having to cover twice the distance we've come.”

“So maybe ten, twelve days,” Hal said.

Stig nodded agreement. “At least. And we'll be out of water in three.”

Thorn was watching his young friend carefully. “You've got something in mind?”

Hal took a deep breath, then committed himself. “I'm thinking we should hoist the mainsail and head west.”

“West?” Thorn said, disbelief all too evident in his voice. “Farther into the Endless Ocean?”

“That's just a name,” Hal said. “And it exists because nobody has ever sailed out into it. But think about it. There must be something out there.”

He gestured vaguely to the western horizon, and the others followed the direction of his pointing arm. Thorn looked skeptical. Stig looked concerned.

“But what if it really is endless?” Stig asked.

Hal shook his head scornfully. “Why should it be? No other ocean goes on forever. There's always land somewhere.”

“But this is the Endless Ocean,” Thorn put in mildly.

Hal shook his head impatiently. “It's just
called
that. Certainly it's big. But mapmakers tend to be poetic. They'd never call it the Big Ocean. The Endless Ocean has a much more dramatic ring to it.”

“It has a decidedly scary ring to it, if you ask me,” Stig said.

Thorn switched his gaze back and forth between the two friends as they spoke. Finally, he said deliberately, “I think Hal is right. We're doing nothing here but bobbing up and down like a cork, constantly being swept farther south and west. We'll soon run out of water and then where will we be?”

“What if the wind changes?” Stig said stubbornly.

Thorn shrugged. “We can always put about and head back toward Hibernia if it does.” He paused. “But we've established that even if the wind does change, we'd run out of water long before we got there.”

“And if we head west, we'll make good speed,” Hal added. “We'll be on our best point of sailing, and the wind is certainly strong enough. We could find land in a day or so, who knows?”

“Nobody. And that's the point,” Stig said.

“Well, we can keep sitting here, going up and down and backward and getting nowhere. Or we can try to do something about it. I'd rather do something than sit and wait to die of thirst.”

He looked around at the gray, sullen sea. It was ironic, he thought, to be talking about dying of thirst when they were surrounded by millions of square kilometers of water.

“I suppose you're right,” Stig said, slowly coming round to Hal's point of view. “But I think that this is one occasion when we should consult the others. It's their lives we're dealing with, after all. They deserve to have a say.”

“I don't like doing that,” Hal said. “It could set a bad precedent.”

“Normally, you'd be right,” Thorn said. “But normally, you'd make a decision like this based on facts and knowledge. This time,
you're acting on instinct. I agree with Stig. For once, the crew should be included in the decision.”

Hal realized that his friends were right. If he headed west, he was taking an enormous risk. He had nothing to back up his belief that there must be land out there, somewhere.

“All right,” he said. “Let's get them together.”

The crew assembled in the stern. Stig kept control of the tiller while Hal put the position to them, and laid out his idea of turning west and hoisting full sail.

He was greeted by shocked looks, as he'd expected. The concept of heading out into the unknown was a radical one. Jesper, naturally, was the first to argue against it.

“You want to sail farther away from home?” he said incredulously. “Farther out into the Endless Ocean?” He shook his head, looking at Hal as if he were mad.

“As I see it,” the skirl explained calmly, “it's our best chance of finding land. We're certainly not going to do it sitting here.”

Now that he'd had time to absorb the idea, Ingvar spoke up. “I admit I was a bit shocked when you just suggested it,” he said. “But, thinking about it, it seems the only logical thing to do.”

“Logical?” Jesper erupted indignantly. “What's logical about sailing farther away from home—into the Endless Ocean? The
Endless
Ocean,” he repeated for emphasis. “That means it goes on and on
forever
.”

“Nobody knows that,” Edvin said quietly. He knew their situation was dire. But, as far as he was concerned, Hal was offering the best possible alternative.

“Nobody knows it doesn't either,” said Jesper. In truth, he
wasn't so skeptical about the idea. But Hal's suggestion had just driven home to him how bad their position really was. It had made him face the very strong possibility that they would all die out here, thousands of kilometers from home.

“Let me see if I've got this right,” Lydia said. They all turned to regard her. In her time with the crew, she had become a trusted and respected member. She had an analytical mind. Her life as a hunter had trained her to weigh possibilities and decisions. Even Jesper wanted to hear what she had to say. Deep down, he trusted Hal to make important decisions. But this was one of the most important they had ever faced, and usually the young skirl could support his ideas with facts and solid reason. This time, he had no facts to back up his idea.

“We've got water for three days?” Lydia said, looking at Stig. He nodded confirmation. “If the wind changed, where would we be in three days? I mean, is there any land to the east that we could reach in three days?”

Since she was addressing him, Stig shook his head. Hal felt it was better to stay out of this conversation. His position was already clear.

“None,” Stig said. “You've seen what's to the east. Hibernia is the closest land and that's maybe ten days away, at least.”

“By which time we'll be out of water,” she said.

Stefan interrupted. “By which time we'll be
dead
from lack of water. It's not as if we've had a lot in the past few days.”

She nodded at him. “Good point.” Then she returned her gaze to Stig. “And if we go west? Is there land there?”

The tall first mate hesitated, then shrugged. “We just don't know.”

“But we do know there's nothing to the east,” she stated and again he agreed.

“That's right.”

She thought about what he had said, then looked at Thorn. “Thorn, what do you think? Does this ocean just go on forever? Or is it possible there's land to the west?”

“Of course it's possible,” he said. “In fact, it's a pretty logical assumption.”

“How's that?” Lydia asked.

“Well, we all know the theory that the world is a huge saucer, supported on the back of a giant tortoise,” he said. It was a popular myth, although he wasn't sure that he believed it. Several of the others obviously did, however. He saw them nodding quiet agreement.

“Then think about this. We know that to the east, there's Hibernia, Araluen and then the huge landmass of the continent leading to Aslava and the Steppes. It makes sense to believe that there must be a similar landmass to the west to counterbalance it. Otherwise, the world would overbalance and tip off the tortoise's back.”

Jesper opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and closed it again, considering what Thorn had just said.

“Well, at last somebody's making sense,” he said finally. He looked at Hal. “Why didn't you say that in the first place?”