* * *
Three days after Burl and the crew of the Strike came across a ghost ship adrift on the Dread Sea, men and women of the crew began disappearing. No one saw anything. Burl questioned everyone himself, as did the second mate, Gaff. Those on watch neither saw nor heard anything. Nor were there any discernible signs of violence; no blood, no marks of forcible abduction. Over the course of the day or night people simply went missing. Sometimes it even happened during their time on duty. Burl had no explanation for it; the crew members seemed to have merely up and jumped over the side to sink without a call or a struggle.
It happened sometimes. Over the course of his decades at sea Burl had known of a few cases where seamen had taken their own lives. Their disappearances had been similar to these: no struggle, no blood, no yelling. One time, when a young mate, Burl had been watching over the deck, glanced away, and looked back to find one less crewman at work. The man had simply thrown himself quietly over the side and allowed himself to sink to Mael’s own boneyard below.
Over the course of three decades it had happened two or three times. Not more than twice that in mere days. So he was not surprised when he found a contingent of crew members confronting him one foggy morning.
Gaff, the second mate, led the knot of men as First Mate Whellen was still abed, apparently unable to awaken from whatever it was that ailed him. Burl crossed his arms and waited for Gaff to say his piece. He was not too concerned; the crew had every right to be fearful. It had hold of him as well. Perhaps more so, as he wasn’t sure they understood that they were far past turning back. He no longer had any clear idea of their direction, and hadn’t for some time.
The second mate finally clawed a hand down his wiry beard and cleared his throat. ‘Me ’n’ the crew,’ he began, his voice hoarse, ‘we say you can’t deny it no longer, captain. These disappearances ’n’ such. They’re the work of the curse.’
Burl made a show of his annoyance. ‘What curse, man? What? I know of no such thing. It’s just this place. The fogs and cold – it has an unhealthy effect on some.’
The man hunched and ran his hands over the thighs of his frayed canvas trousers, but his mouth was set in a stubborn line. ‘There’re stories. Old songs. The Dread Sea …’
‘Tall tales. Made up fireside imaginings. Nothing more.’ Burl raised his gaze to take in everyone. ‘Have any of you ever actually seen anything?’
None of the assembled crew would meet his eyes. None but Gaff, who scowled anew. ‘It’s been weeks, captain. The sea isn’t this large. We should’ve reached the north shore long ago. The curse has us, I tell you. Soon there’ll be none of us left and the Strike will be like that ghost ship we come across. Act now before it’s too late, captain.’
‘Act? How so? What is it I’m to do?’
The second mate’s gaze slid past Burl to the stern, to the door to the cabin where Whellen lay abed. The realization of what his second mate intended came to Burl and he felt real anger clench his throat – that, and disgust. So, we have finally come to this. Funny how all must band together to throw just one off the ship. ‘That’s enough of such talk, Gaff,’ he growled, fury rasping in his voice. ‘Are we superstitious fools to sink so low? You think you can pin such things on any one person – all in some craven effort to save your own hide? No. We’re not of Korel, where I hear they practised such things against the Stormriders – not that it did them any good. No more such talk. We’ll be through this soon. Things will look up. Think of the gold ahead – we may be the only ones to actually make it, hey?’
Many of the crew, those who had been with Burl the longest, now looked shamed by his words. Gaff saw this and clenched his lips against saying more, though his hardened expression made it clear he was only temporarily silenced. Burl waved the crew back to work and pulled open the door to the cabin.
Within, he went to where Whellen lay sleeping, or under some sort of spell. The man looked deathly pale and Burl pulled another blanket over him. What ails you, man? he wondered. If they only knew. If he only had a ship’s mage; but such men or women were few in the Southern Confederacy. For now he would wait. Things had to change. And Gaff – he would hear from him again. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in not running the man through the moment he understood just how far he would go in his mania. Yet if Gaff dared not move against him because he could not count on the crew’s support, then so too was he constrained. If he wanted to remain captain he couldn’t go round running crew members through over a few heated words.
He sat down heavily. It was cold in the cabin, and the aura of frigid air seemed to be wafting from his stricken first mate. Burl set his elbows on his captain’s table and held his head in his hands. By the Thousand-faced god, you’d better not be some damned curse-carrier, Whellen. Because if you are … Ach!
He slumped back into his chair. Never mind. The one who carries any curse is always the last to know, yes? It wouldn’t be a damned curse otherwise, would it? This last thought chilled him and he pulled his gaze from Whellen.
So it could just as easily be me, couldn’t it?