Do Your Utmost: Chapter 12

Twelve: Harbor

“Timothy?”

Someone was pounding on his head. No, they were pounding on the door. Or was it just the inside of his head pounding against his skull? He groaned, hoping that whoever was making the noise would go away. The last week and a half was a blur in his memory. Rough seas had kept him more or less seasick the whole time, and he had only a vague idea of sleeping, waking, trying to eat, and utter misery.

Misery…wait. The constant pitching of the ship was no longer twisting his stomach into knots. He realized with relief that he was not miserable. Yes, he appeared to have a headache. Wincing, he sat up in bed. The throbbing intensified for a few moments, then subsided back to a dull pain.

Now that he was awake, his brain was beginning to clear. Had someone been calling him? Listening, he could hear nothing but the creaking of the ship and the waves lapping against the sides.

“Hello?” his throat was parched, and the word came out as almost a croak. Grabbing the pitcher that stood by his bed, Timothy swallowed the last bit of brackish water left at the bottom.

The door opened a crack, and Mark’s worried face peered around the edge.

“We are just outside the harbor. The captain is waiting for high tide.” He came into the room. “Last night the sea calmed down, so I hoped you would be feeling better.”

“I have never been this seasick before.” Timothy brushed a hand over his face. “Not even on the first voyage I took with Paul to Philippi. And I was very sick on that trip.” He grimaced at the memory.

“Alexander and I were both sick too for the last few days,” Mark nodded. “The sailors themselves admitted that the Aegean was more choppy than usual for this time of year.”  

“Is there anything to eat?” The hollowness in his stomach reminded him how little food he had eaten recently.

“I brought you a biscuit.” Mark held out a rather lumpy piece of bread. “There’s salted meat of some sort too, but…”

Timothy chuckled at the dubious expression on Mark’s face. “I think I will just have the biscuit, thank you.”

Munching on the stale biscuit, Timothy considered. Alexander was not really that bad, compared to several days of seasickness. He just had to think about him as changed. A different person. Right? That was good theology.

A small, nagging voice in the back of his head asked, “What if he isn’t?” but he ignored it, firmly.

The ship was moving again, sailing into the harbor. They would be in Troas in a few hours, ready to disembark. He would go on deck to enjoy the sunshine and the fresh breeze, and if he saw Alexander—he would be pleasant.

With great care, he stood up, making sure that his head did not move fast enough to send stabs of pain through his body. He opened the door and stepped out into the passage, swallowing the last crumb of his breakfast as he did so.

As he emerged from below deck, the sunlight sprang at him, intensified by the reflection from the water. He narrowed his eyes, trying to adjust to the brightness. Standing up on the deck, he shaded his face with his hand. Mark was waving to him from the bow of the ship, and he began to pick his way toward him, stepping over ropes, and around the barrels and crates that lined the sides of the ship.

When Mark was close enough that he was not just a black silhouette, Timothy saw Alexander standing next to him.

“Peace to you, Mark, Alexander.” The words of greeting felt awkward, but it was a start.