Chapter 3
Algar suspected that even when not soaked through to the skin, the man normally looked quite rat-like.
“I am so grateful to you, wonderful and kind man!”, he croaked as he was gently lowered to the deck.
“Don’t be too generous with your praise, had things been different out here I would not have risked my crew to save you. These seven men are my responsibility, and I would do anything to keep them safe on these seas”.
“Yes, yes, I understand, and that speaks even more to your good heart, sir Captain!”
“Call me Skipper or Skip. Now, get yourself dry and a strong drink. You look like you need a couple”.
Harley narrowed his eyes at the man dripping before him, and then briefly raised his eyebrows at his friend Algar as he helped him to his feet. They were both feeling the same unease about this gentleman it seemed.
The wind changed. Almost imperceptible at first, but Algar always paid more attention than most.
Not a shift. Not a breeze. A sudden, unnatural drop, as if the sky had inhaled and held its breath.
Algar recognised this feeling. His shoulders hunched an unconscious shrug as he prepared himself for the worst.
This was the kind of quiet that only came before extreme violence.
At that moment, the sky turned purple-black, swallowing the last of the sun.
"Harley," Algar called, his voice low, urgent. "Something’s wrong."
Harley barely looked up from the rigging, squinting through the thickening gloom. "Bit of cloud, Skip, will soon pass—"
Then the ocean lurched.
Not a wave. Not even a swell. The boat was lifted—hauled upward as if by an unseen hand—before plunging back down so fast Algar's stomach stayed in the air.
Wood groaned. Nets snapped. Barrels skitted and rolled across the deck like dice on a roulette table.
The first real blast came with a howling roar, tearing through the rigging, sending ropes snapping like whips. While the deck tilted,Algar felt a fresh shift before he saw the danger.
A heavy arc of wood and steel—the boom—tore free from its bindings.
"Harley—!"
Algar lunged before thinking, hauling himself across the deck. He caught his first mate by the back of his coat and yanked just as the boom swung through the space where his skull had been a second before.
They hit the deck hard, bodies slamming against wet wood. Then, a crack—a deafening, shuddering impact as the boom crashed into the railing, splintering it to kindling.
Now the sea was rising like a cliff-face before them. Waves the size of hills surged against them, the boat climbing, climbing—hanging at the peak of some monstrous swell before gravity took hold and sent them plummeting back down.
Someone was shouting. Maybe everyone was. But Algar barely heard it over the hammering of his own pulse.
Harley wheezed beside him, rolling onto his back. Algar huffed out something between a laugh and a curse, his hands still gripping his friend’s coat.
"Any time," Algar grunted. "I owed you from last time you saved me."
Harley groaned. "Call it even, then."
A voice cut through the storm. Sharp. Clear.
"You said you’d do anything to save your crew ..."
Algar turned. The rescued man stood at the edge of the deck, eerily stable despite the chaos, his soaked clothes clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes—too sharp, too knowing—were fixated on Algar.
"Did you really mean that?"
Algar didn’t think. Couldn’t. The storm was getting worse, the ship barely holding together, his men at the mercy of the sea.
"Of course," he snapped, automatic, desperate. "I would do anything to save this crew. Anyone would!"
The man smiled.
And the sea went still.
“My - our - master will be so happy”.
A flash—then nothing but a curling wisp of dark mist where the man had stood.
That was intense! Well done!