Out of the Wreckage
There are times when a bright line can be drawn between that time of “before” and the time of “after”. “Before”--a time of freedom to visit with friends and family, to follow the pursuits of one's own will—that time was over. It had been in the middle of Avivah, as the last slushy bits of winter snows were fading away when the end of that time came. The last memory of “before” was a brutal blow to the back of the head.
An uncertain amount of time had passed before awakening in a dismal, stinking room smelling of unwashed bodies, vomit and excrement. Chained to the beam of a bunk, stripped to undergarments, barely able to half-sit in the small range of motion allowed by the bonds. Gradually, the motion and noise became recognizable—the room was the hold of a ship, five tiers of wooden bunks stacking those within like so much cordwood.
Seasickness was common, both from the tossing of the ship and the lingering effects of the blow to the head. Gradually, though, it became clear that there were quite a few prisoners, perhaps as many as forty folk from the Thousand Islands were bound here. From above, there were the shouts suggesting that this ship was being rowed. Thin gruel was served up, enough to keep soul tethered to body, but not to keep much strength up. A very homely—perhaps even ugly—man came to deliver the gruel on a regular basis. Sometimes he would seem almost friendly, perhaps bordering on too much so, and other times he would beat one of the captives with a leather strap, seemingly for no reason other than his own enjoyment of the resulting cries. Perhaps worst of all was the knowledge that all of one's family, friends and dreams were being left further behind with every moment, snippets of what the man bringing gruel being enough to tell that they were bound for the slave markets of Karakul, where the best hope for “after” was a kind master who might be willing to allow a slave to keep a few coins to someday buy freedom.
Mockingly, the keys to the shackles that bound each hung from a hook by the ladder to the hatch for the deck, perhaps only a matter of five feet from the nearest of captives. For all the use it was, it might as well have been as many miles away.
It had been a few days since awakening in the hold when the ship was hit by a squall. After a half a day of tossing and rolling, the squall turned into a full-fledged storm, and the motion of the ship became even worse, making a fear that there would not be an “after” other than drowning somewhere in the waters of the Thousand Islands, or perhaps even the open stretch of sea between the westernmost Island and Karakul. The ugly sailor, Matuk, opened the hatch and a cold spray struck those closest to the open hatch as the wind howled. One by one, he forced some of the folk above-decks, cursing all the while as he lashed those who moved too slowly for him.
Another day of the storm had passed, and Matuk took more of the folk and forced them above-decks, while his heavily accented Karakulian curses seemed tinged with a hint of worry. Above, through the open hatch, there were the sounds of shouts and whips keeping rowers in line, along with the howling of the wind and the spray of water washing into the hold.
At least another day of storm had passed since then. Matuk had not returned, nor had anyone seen the other pirates who had been occasionally glimpsed. None of those forced above-decks had returned, and there had been no gruel at all for at least a day. The shouting and sound of cracking whips now faded away to an eerie quiet.
The ship continued rolling, and there was an enormous crash, a grating, grinding noise, and the horrible shuddering of the ship as it ran aground. From above, there was the sound of snapping spars, and a great crash which could only have been the mast coming down. Nine captives remaining chained to the bunks were thrown toward the bow, bruising against the shackles which did not allow for so much movement as, for a moment, they tried to move forward even as the ship was coming to an all-too-sudden stop.
The bow of the galley shattered at the impact, and then was torn away entirely. An unfortunate woman too near the splintering wood screamed as she was impaled, a scream that died away as the port side of the galley laid open against a boulder, and a ferocious blast of numbingly-cold air and rain came into the hold.
Now, but for the howling of the wind and the pounding of surf, it was quiet. Through the open bow could be seen a small section of rain-pounded rocky beach, littered with shattered wood. Once there had been four bunks end to end in this hold, but now the most forward of those had been torn away in the crash.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:14, Fri 22 Mar 2019.
