Before Winter: Chapter 29

Twenty-Nine: A Meeting in a Storm

The full force of the storm hit the ship just before the sun went down. Seas that had been serene a few hours before, under a breathless sky, were now whipped into a frenzy by the rushing wind, and the wooden craft rolled back and forth crazily. Timothy, sitting on the bunk in his cabin, was jerked from one side to the other. In the darkness, he heard his pen, which he had forgotten to tuck back into his belt, drop off the little writing table and roll away into a corner.

Bracing himself against the wall, he could hear the timbers of the ship creaking and groaning under the pressure. The first gust of wind passed almost as soon as it had come, and there was a momentary lull. On deck, sailors’ feet pounded back and forth, and confused shouts filtered down into the hold. All the cargo had been lashed down already, in preparation for the storm, and the sails had been tied up tight. Timothy felt the vessel shift in answer to the helmsman, who swung her around a little to point her bow into the wind.

Another blast shook the craft, and a patter of falling rain added to the commotion. For Timothy down below decks, the constant roar of the wind and the erratic motion of the ship tossing in the waves blended into an unending nightmare. He could see nothing, and the noise was amplified by the timbers surrounding him. Though he knew that the ship was riding her anchor, it felt as if they were running before the storm so that he expected every moment the shock of the hull striking against the rocky coastline of Greece.

At last he could endure it no more. Without a clear idea of what he was doing, he staggered to his feet, intent on a need to see what was happening. A wave slapped against the side of the ship, and he was thrown against the table. Clutching at the edges, he hung on with both hands as the craft listed far over. The bolts that held the table to the floor kept it steady, and its sturdy wood supported his weight. Slowly, the ship righted itself, and Timothy took the opportunity to throw himself at the door, fumbling for the latch. As the vessel rolled back to the other side, Timothy slid into the passage leading to the hatch.

When his hands grasped the top rung of the ladder leading to the deck, he paused for a moment before lifting the hatch, breathing heavily. He did not realize that he was resting his weight on his bad leg until it sent a reproachful twinge of pain through his body. It had not been giving him much trouble lately, but now he quickly shifted to his other leg.

Reaching up above his head, he slid back the bolt that held the hatch closed, and pushed it back until it thudded against the deck. Rain poured down on his shoulders, beating against the top of his head. Blinking, he looked up into the sky. The remaining daylight was faint, and dark grey clouds roiled above the ship, stretching as far as he could see. As he gazed, a bolt of lightning split the sky, starkly illuminating his surroundings. He was blinded for a moment, and held on to the ladder helplessly as the answering clap of thunder burst on his ears. In the flash of light, he caught a glimpse of figures, clinging to the ropes and railings of the ship, but none of the sailors took any notice of him.

He got his arms onto the slippery wood of the deck, and clambered up. On all fours, he spread out his hands to keep his balance as the ship continued to pitch. A wave slammed against the boat, filling the air with spray. Timothy scrambled to his feet, and glanced around for the captain, or the mate. With his legs spread wide, he could barely stay upright, and he staggered forward, grabbing at a rope that dangled from the mast to keep from falling back down.

Wiping his sopping wet hair out of his eyes, he squinted through the rain towards the bow. The captain was nowhere to be seen, but he thought he could make out the form of the mate, standing by the helm.

“Here, leave go of that rope, will you?” The bellowing in his ear accompanied an indignant sailor, shaking his shoulder. As Timothy turned, the man peered into his face. “And what are you doing up here, anyway? No place for a passenger, this isn’t.”

“I want to speak to the captain.” Timothy shouted above the roar of the wind. He released the rope, since the sailor continued to tug on his arm.

Whether the man heard him, Timothy could not tell. He only yelled, “Get below, you fool!” before turning back to his business.

Back bent as he struggled against the wind, Timothy inched his way to the bow, grabbing at every spar as he came to it, and pulling himself along. Cold salt water swirled around his ankles, as wave after wave burst over the side of the ship and rushed along the deck before receding to make way for the next.

The water streaming down his face nearly blinded him, and no matter how much he blinked, he could not clear his vision. A dark shape loomed directly in front of him, but before he could react, he slammed right into a sailor.

The man was broad and burly, just as soaked as Timothy himself was. Leaning back, Timothy was about to gasp out an apology when he saw the man’s face. At the same moment, a huge arm reached out and seized Timothy’s tunic, holding him in place. He stared up into the glaring countenance of Alexander.