“You should go,” she says, disengaging.
I rise to my feet, and though the floor sways beneath me, I feel steadier than I have in a while. “Stay here. I won’t risk you getting washed overboard.”
She nods. “Be safe, Elisa.”
I open the doors to a dark deluge. Water pours from the frame, soaking the entrance. Hector is there already, as if standing watch, and he helps me fight the wind to pull the doors closed.
My thanks are whipped away as we lurch and slide across the deck. Captain Felix mans the wheel himself. “I need a bearing, Majesty,” he shouts.
I grab the rail and close my eyes. Wind sends rain stinging into my face, and it’s a moment before I can focus enough to feel the tug, but it’s there, steady and sure. I point toward starboard. “That way.”
What I don’t tell him is that the Godstone has gone ice cold.
Felix gives the order and swings the wheel while others adjust the sails, and slowly, gradually, we fight through wind and waves toward a new heading.
During the next hour, the waves grow higher. The deck tips precariously as we climb and plunge. My hands become stiff with cold, and my grip on the rail slips. I slide to the deck and wrap a leg around the rail instead. Hector takes it as a cue to tie me down. He wraps the rope once around my waist and ties off with a quick but sturdy knot.
Then he pulls a long dagger from one of his vambraces and plunges it into the planking beside my knee. “If something happens to me,” he yells, “you may need to cut yourself free.”
I nod, praying, Please don’t let anything happen to Hector.
Lightning streaks the sky ahead, illuminating the strangest cloud I’ve ever seen. It’s a long, crooked finger poking at the ocean’s writhing surface, sending spray in all directions.
I tug on Hector’s pants and point. But there is only darkness, and he looks at me, confused. “Wait for the lightning. Watch!”
The next time lightning cracks the sky, the finger cloud is even closer, close enough for me to understand its Godlike power, how even the mighty sea tossing us about like driftwood is helpless against it.
“Tornado!” Hector yells, and others take up the cry, but their syllables are washed away by driving wind and stinging rain.
The ship rolls, so hard and fast that Hector falls hard to the deck. He slips across the planking, toward the edge.
“Hector!” I reach for him, but the rope at my waist holds me fast.
He grapples against the planking, finds purchase with his fingertips, but the Aracely continues to tip. Water pours by him, and I know he can’t hold on for long.
“Felix, help!” I scream, but thunder booms all around us, and he does not hear. He fights with the wheel, straining to turn the ship into the wave before we capsize.
I grab for the knife at my knee. It takes both hands to pry it from the deck. I start to saw at the rope around my waist, but then I get a better idea.
“Hector!” I wave the knife to make sure I have his attention, then pantomime what I plan to do. He nods once, his face veined with strain.
I aim carefully, then let the knife slide toward him. He hangs by one hand as he reaches out to catch it, flips it around, slams the blade hard into the deck.
I breathe easier, knowing he’ll last longer holding to a knife grip. Hopefully long enough to crest this wave.
All available deckhands are at the opposite side of the boat, clinging to the rail, trying to use the weight of their bodies to keep the Aracely from going over. Felix continues to battle with the wheel, gesturing wildly to adjust the sails.
I look toward the masts and see the problem: the mizzen sail has not turned like the others. Something must have broken; it’s dragging us, keeping us from steering into the wave. Two figures hang like spiders from the rigging, sawing at the ropes to cut the sail free.
Hector has begun a stomach crawl toward me, using the dagger to pull himself up, which means that for the split second it takes to reposition the dagger, he must hang by the fingertips of one hand. I shout at him to stop, but a blast of seawater fills my mouth and chokes me.
Something claps, like a drumbeat, and the mizzen sail drops for a split second before being snatched away by the wind. Only one man remains in the tattered rigging near the mast. Where is the other?
Realization dawns. Oh, God. He’s gone.
But now the ship turns, with agonizing slowness. The prow rises. Water gushes over my face, up my nostrils. I’m hacking and gasping for air as the bowsprit pierces the wave’s crest.
And then we’re falling, falling into the trough. I feel Hector’s arms wrap around me as we level off at last.
Thank you, God. Thank you. Hector leans against my shoulder in exhaustion, and his chest lurches against me as he coughs water from his lungs. He clings to me, taking strength instead of giving it for once.