“You’re tired of that, right?” said Brann, watching Owin swab the deck.

“I am,” Owin admitted.

Brann and Joe, the first mate and one of the deckhands respectively, watched intently as Owin did his daily chores. They were the first ones to wake him up each day, and two of the men who treated him the best.

I can’t believe it’s already been three weeks, Owin thought. His anger at the daily chore had subsided a bit. Now it was just part of the routine. Plus, he was allowed to deal with the fishing too, which was kind of fun. Standing by the pulleys with Joe, Marc, and Ardt, they and Owin would lift the baskets out of the water and plop them back into the sea after dropping the anchor. Bait inside, cone-trap set, they would wench the pulley and drag it across the seafloor, swiping up all manner of food.

The first time, they pulled up dozens of large, gray-scaled fish and brown crabs. Over the period of moving, however, it took longer and longer for the basket to hit anything, and yielded less game.

But he only helped them heave it over the side and brought the fish into the kitchens. His real duty was still just swabbing the deck.

Until today.

He had just finished his routine when he saw Jarra and Captain Caspia speaking by the helm. He dumped the bucket water over the side and set it down beside the door, climbing up the steps to listen.

“A storm’s coming, Captain,” Jarra said.

Caspia was quiet at first. “How bad?”

Jarra looked down. “Bad.”

A storm? Owin thought. There’s not a cloud in the sky…

But mages had knowledge common folk didn’t. They could alter the earth below their feet, move water, conjure fire, shift the position of objects and change their form. The Gods had deemed them worthy to know the world’s secrets, and as such, they should be trusted.

Gadha take me, Owin thought. A bad storm on the horizon…

Caspia took a breath. “Can you stop it?”

“Maybe. But I’m going to need help.”

The captain put her hands on her hips, looking out to sea. Owin couldn’t see her face from here, but could only guess she had a scowl. “I’ll tell them to ready the sails.”

Before Owin could back down the steps, Caspia turned around, gazing upon him. “You heard all of that, then?” she asked.

Lie and she’ll whip you. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. You’ll know above all else why you need to stay inside, and your little pup too. First sign of dark weather, and I want your arse in the cabin. Got it?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said again.

She passed him and Cloud, not saying another word. The men on deck continued their duties, the sky a rich clear blue, the sea’s waves lapping against the hull like heartbeats. Cloud sniffed his boot, waddling around the rail to relieve himself. Shaking his head, Owin put his hands into the paper gloves he kept in his pockets, lifted the dog’s waste, and flung it over the side. He dropped his gloves in the empty bucket to wash off later.

Jarra, looking out at the blue yonder, was silent. Owin approached him.

“Master mage,” he said as he bowed his head, showing respect. “Good day.”

“And good day, young one,” Jarra managed, nor turning around to acknowledge him. This frustrated Owin, as did the ever-fresh memory of this man snatching his discovery away. But he did give me Cloud back… Owin remembered. It would probably be easier to just suck it up and show respect. “I had a question, master mage,” Owin prompted.

“You can call me Jarra, lad,” he said. “Neither I nor the guardians of Kunalla would be offended.”

“R-right,” said Owin. “Jarra—how do you know there’s a storm about?”

Letting the boy’s question soak in, Jarra licked his finger and stuck it in the air. He turned around. The small white half-ring and small blue triangle on his amulet were glowing, making a tiny clicking sound. “The air is sour, lad,” he said. “The Gods are letting me know so we can prepare.”

Wind and rain, Owin thought, looking upon the tiny glyphs. “How will ye fight it?”

Jarra gave him a smile. “Carefully.”

He laughed at that, patting Owin’s shoulder as he strode past him to the cabins. But Owin had one more thing to say—something that had been bugging him for more than a month now. Something he hadn’t yet worked up the courage to ask the mage.

“Ma—Jarra,” he said.

Jarra stopped, pointed hat catching a bit of oncoming wind. “Yes?”

“What makes ye think the message in the bottle isn’t from our world?”

Still not turning around to face the boy, Jarra took a breath. “The gods led me to it, of course.”

And he left it at that.

...

“I want ten men on each side of the main mast!” Caspia said, wind setting in. The ship creaked, the sails tossed around, whipping about. Rain was coming down in spatters, waves knocking the hull. Owin and Cloud, soaked to the bone, stood on deck and watched as the crew readied the ship for the storm.

Jarra, standing behind Caspia upon the basket pulley ledge, clapped his hands together. The wind howling, sky a darkening gray, sea around roiling and boiling with biting cold; Caspia shouted above the waves, above the hard watery pellets; “Ten men! Now!”

The crew did as she asked. Ten men appeared on each side, grabbing the ropes and yanking the sails downstream of the storm. The shrouds jangled. The mizzen twisted. Jarra put out his hand while Caspia pointed at Owin, the cook, and Cloud, shouting, “Get in the cabins you bastards!”

The cook and Cloud went bounding inside, Owin following suit as a wave went flying over the edge of the sky and knocked five men to their bottoms. He slammed the door.

“Right madness,” said Benni. “Right bloody flying madness.”

The men that had been ordered to stay in the cabins looked at one another with faces of worry. Some swore the worst of a sailor’s swears, slamming their fists against tables in rage. Cloud barked, shaking in fear of the rocking ship.

“It’s alright, Cloud,” Owin said, lifting him into his arms. “It’s alright, boy.”

He pet his dog and ran his fingers through his wool, trying his best to calm him. Not knowing what to do, Owin sat down at his designated table and waited for the storm to pass.

But it didn’t.

Ten minutes soon became twenty. Thirty. An hour. Still, the wind was gnawing and frozen, the rain and waves hurling against the boat as if tossed by the Gods themselves. Owin had no idea if the vessel was still traveling forward, nor how well the accompanying fleet was doing in the storm. He sat at his delegated table, unable to do much of anything.

The lanterns rocked in their sconces. The wind, howling against the wooded walls, whistled a tune of death. Cloud hopped into Owin’s lap as Owin watched the door with fear in his heart.

“We have to do something,” he said to no one. The cook and other crewmates were too busy with one another to hear him.

“Nah, you don’t,” said a voice despite that.

Owin knew who it was. He turned around and faced Narlan head-on, watching the man sit in the corner. He had a mug of mead this time, sipping it down. With each time the ship rocked, he adjusted the angle of his mug to keep too much from spilling.

“Why say that?” Owin asked him.

Narlan sipped again. The ship rocked—outside, they could hear shouting and the oncoming spray of torrential waters. The ship took another wave, Owin having to put down his foot to keep from flying out of his chair. Narlan cocked his head and pointed to the space around him. “All that, there. You hear it. You feel it, boy. You want to go out in that?”

“The ship could capsize,” Owin reasoned. “They may need more hands.”

Narlan chuckled at him, a bit of mead spraying from his teeth. “If the ship goes down, the ship goes down. Not much an extra hand can do.”

Was he right? Owin was still just a kid… was it worth it?

Of course it’s worth it, Owin told himself. Another day is another chance to see the horizon.

“Ye right piss me off, ye do,” Owin said to Narlan. Narlan pursed a smile in surprise, eyes going wide. He looked like he was having a hard time suppressing a bout of laughter. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Owin. “Ye do.”

Narlan’s eyes squeezed shut, losing it with guffaws that were swallowed promptly by the cries of the ship. “That so?” he said, biting his lower lip. Owin seethed, plopped Cloud on the floor, and kicked over his chair in Narlan’s direction. The man drew back his legs.

“I’ll show ye just what another pair of hands can do, you git!”

Narlan spat. “Git! He called me a git!”

The man dropped his beverage, mead spilling into a caramel-brown puddle, mug rolling into the far end of the hallway with another rock of the ship. Paying the man no heed, Owin took Cloud to Benni and said, “Watch him, would you?”

“What are you doing, lad?”

Owin turned and walked away. “Just don’t let him out of the cabins!”

He pushed the door open and let it slam.

The storm was beyond wild—it had a mind of its own. Ten men on each side of the ship heaved, turning the sails in a way so Jarra could fight the weather… but he was only so successful. The sky, a burnt gray, bled and wailed with fury. Pellets of rain both cold and sharp sprayed everything in sight, singeing through Owin’s flesh like embers. The deck had flooded, spilling seawater over the rails with each rock as it near lipped astern. The boat tipped right, the crew pulled left, and Owin had to brace himself against the doorframe to keep steady.

“KEEP PULLING, MEN!” Caspia shouted from the helm. Owin couldn’t see her, but her commands carried through the storm as if sprayed through a tunnel, louder than the Gods themselves.

Jarra, hands outstretched, shrieked. Owin could faintly see his magic at work. The blue and white runes on his pendant were glowing, two little beams of light in the billowing squall. Water and wind propelled from his palms in the shape of funnel clouds, carrying through the rain and forming a massive bubble around the ship—but it looked like the man was struggling to direct his power as rain still got through. He would angle the shield over the masts, but then force it down to keep the waves from flooding the deck further—the tango enveloped him, a feud with nature that Owin, even in this short span of time, believed may not be successful.

“Boy!” One of the men on the left shouted—Bud. “Get your arse back in the cabin!”

“Get back!” said Happy Ken, “Get back!”

Jarra didn’t acknowledge Owin at all—he kept fighting the weather to no avail. Struggling to stay on his feet as the vessel tipped and rocked, Owin made his way toward Bud, saying, “Let me help! Let me grab some of the rope!”

Bud screamed, muscles peeling with how tightly he gripped the rope. “No! Stand back!”

The ship bobbled, left-right leftrightleft, bouncing atop an oncoming wave. Owin slipped and fell, sliding to the other side of the ship as blackened storm-water went cascading over the rails.

“HEAVE! STAY!” Caspia shrieked.

An oncoming wave gave Owin a mouthful of freezing seawater. It sprayed through his nostrils, peeling back his eyelids. It was so sudden and forceful—he vomited it back up. It happened again. His face was so cold it felt like a mask. He vomited a second time, going dizzy.

The ship righted itself and tipped again.

Owin flung back, hanging onto something. He didn’t even know what, just something. He could taste winter despite the summer—he could taste salt and brine—he could taste blood and bile. And yet, his tongue was swollen with the cold. He could taste nothing.

But he was gaining his senses. Someone was shouting.

Someone below him.

He shook his head, wet hair whipping back over his face. The ship had tipped to the right, and he was mere feet from the roiling waves. But someone else was closer. Someone else was touching them.

Happy Ken.

The man’s shirt had been peeled off in the storm. Eyes wide with terror, he clung to the railing, submerged as another wave pulled back and smacked the ship with all its might. He went under.

“Ken!”

Owin didn’t know who had said it, but the ship was tipping back. A pair of white-knuckled hands gripped the railing. “He-! Hel-! HELP ME!”

Owin let go and fell to his rear, sliding over the flooded deck. His foot smashed against a rail support beam, cracking it. “Take my hand!” he shouted over the storm.

Happy Ken reached out. Owin grabbed the man’s hand, a share larger and stronger than his, and tried to pull—but he was too heavy. Ken’s grip, like that of an iron glove, squeezed Owin’s strength away. He felt his palm folding.

Still, Owin held on. He tried with all his might to heave the man back over the side, but was unable to.

The ship was rocking again. This time, it was tilting left…

No… No…

Owin struggled and slipped—he leaned over the side, both he and Ken about to fall into the sea.

Until he suddenly felt light.

Like that, he started to float. Still holding Ken, he floated over the rails, up into the sky. At first, he didn’t know what was happening, but then he turned and looked at Jarra. The man had one hand out to his side with the funnel and shield, and the other was angled at Owin and Ken in the air.

“Uh… Ugh…” mumbled Ken. He passed out in the air, Owin grabbing his wrist to keep him suspended.

Owin looked back at Caspia. Her face was hard to see in the rain, but it was a scowl all the same. “GET BACK INSIDE, KID!” she yelled.

Jarra put them down right beside the door. Owin stood, shaking and freezing, and pulled the door open. From there, he dragged Ken inside.

...

The storm had passed.

While the sky was still painted with clouds, the wind was calm, the sea a bit bitter, but otherwise benevolent. Much of the crew was huddled in the cabins, with a few select men, Caspia and Jarra, outside to stabilize the craft and reposition the masts. Few words were spoken. Cloud rolled around under Owin’s bed, playing with the boy’s dangling legs. Owin reached down and scratched the pup’s head. He felt groggy and dazed.

Just then, the door opened with a crash.

Every man within the cabins stood straight and tall. Even Owin, who avoided Cloud’s paws as he heaved himself off the bed and held his arms at his sides.

“The ship’s sailing fine, crew,” Caspia said. She moved through the bunks. “It’s taken care of.”

The men cheered and moved to leave. “Wait,” said Caspia, and they halted. She leered down at Owin, face crossed with a light snarl. “I believe I remember tellin’ you to stay put, kid. You disobeyed me.”

Owin couldn’t say anything to deny that. She was completely right.

“But if you hadn’t left the cabins,” she continued, “Ken would’ve right sunk, now wouldn’t he? He’d be in the black with the whales and the fish, bones to rot in dark waters.” She looked at Ken, who hung his head in shame.

She squeezed her eyes, laughing wildly, slapping Owin’s back. It near knocked the wind out of him. “Damn kid,” she finished, some of the crew laughing along with her. “Get out of my sight. Come suppertime, feel free to sit wherever.” Before she left, she looked back at him. “But you still gotta swab the deck.”

...

Owin dug into his lobster, peeling white flesh from the claws with his teeth, hot juices soaking into his mouth.

“And boom!” said Brann. Jev, Hugh and Thoma looked at him with awe, eyes wide. The rest of the crew, huddled around the tables beside Owin’s, watched with apprehension as the man finished his story.

“This kid, this wee lad here,” Brann said, squeezing Owin’s shoulder, “he wouldn’t let Happy Ken go overboard! He flew right off the side too, hanging onto the rail to keep a crewman aboard!”

The crew roared, half cheering, half drunk laughing. The boat swayed. Tables tipped and jugs of mead fell to the ground, most men too overcome with joy and drunken stupor to notice or care. Owin, sipping his own mug of cutting-sharp mead, laughed; this time, he and the crew laughed together.

Cloud was never bothered by noise. He had found a place to curl up and sleep beside the door, unbothered by the volume and clatter. Captain Caspia tapped her mug against Brann’s in cheers, and many men did the same all around. They drank them down, some men keeling over. The stronger crewmates, like Rodney and the captain herself, chugged it like water.

Jarra was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t often contribute to the festivities of supper and mead. Owin wondered if that had to do with how mages in the order were supposed to act. Do the Gods allow mages to drink and be merry?

Another face was absent.

Narlan.

Owin looked back at his older table, near the hall where Narlan lurked. From this side of the room, he could hardly see into it at all. If the man was there, he wouldn’t know.

“Aye, but that’s reckless, boy,” one of the crewmates, Jev, said after the story was told again. “Could’ve fallen right into the sea yourself—down into the depths of Gadha’s cold watery hell.”

Mick leaned over the table and belched, bits of lobster flying onto his plate. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he face-planted into the scraps of his supper. Rodney and Brann, Bud and Jev, all laughed at the man as he snored away.

Owin laughed too.

Eventually he finished off his rolls of bread and stood, collecting Cloud for their rest. He nearly made it to his room only to see Jarra limping out of the bunks.

“Sir Mage?”

“Just Jarra, lad,” he said. He sounded sick.

“Are ye alright?” Owin asked. He hadn’t yet paid the man gratitude for saving his life, and wanted to before he went to bed that night. Cloud’s head lolled back and forth, the pup trying and failing to stay awake.

Jarra was quiet in his response, almost straining to suck in a breath. “The use of the God’s magic causes me great stress. I’m exhausted.”

Mages expend energy when casting magic?

Owin hadn’t considered that before, and he didn’t know how it made any sense. They may move their arms, or walk around a bit, but was that the same as running and jumping, or lifting something heavy? He couldn’t help but wonder…

“Get some rest,” Jarra said to him, walking past. “You and your pup.”

“Yes, sir,” Owin said.

And rest he did.