Riven Isles

34 | Ships Don't Fly

Within the time it takes for my air-dried eyes to blink, we plummet over the edge of a waterfall that looks miles and miles long from our dizzying height. All I can see is sky and grey and death, and death, and death. My lungs burn with fire and my stomach wrenches as my lifeline pulls taught.

I'm flying, my clothing whipping ferociously in the wind. Everyone is in the air, tumbling, tumbling with the ship, hauled by ropes that look so small and frail against the vast expanse of sea spray and nothingness.

I regret pursuing this trip. I regret trusting the captain, the madman. I regret—"AUGH!"

My cheekbone throbs and I raise my pounding head from the deck. All the ropes are slack again. All the men are grounded. I stare, all around, uncomprehending.

The sails are all tilted slightly upwards, filled like parachutes. All is quiet and still and peaceful, just for a moment, as we glide through the grey, steady on.

"Walter," Captain Avery croaks from behind me.

Turning, my breath catches. He looks pained, his knees bent weakly inwards.

"You must... will the sails to catch the wind. Will the ship to glide." His fingers tremble on the wheel. "I'll pass out, Walter. Please, focus."

I don't understand. I don't know what to do, I don't know what he is doing, I don't even know if I am alive. I take a deep, shaky inhale, and cast my eyes to the sails. I think very hard, projecting my desperation upon them, pleading for them to stay full of the air. I beg Laod, Astiza, and Daim, and every god I can think up for some kind of miracle.

The sails flaps and the ship drops a meter, then catches again. The captain has fallen over the helm.

Feeling my heart squeeze and fear carve up my spine like a knife, I snap all my focus into the sails and will, will away. I feel foolish, but some painful and sudden twinge in my heart tells me something real is happening.

"That's it," the captain whispers, "that's it."

I screw up my face and don't answer. A muscle of some kind compresses in my chest, like a great weight, and I can't fathom it, but it isn't the time to. I just keep willing, in the fear that if I stop, for even a second, Orpheus and all aboard may be pummeled to flotsam far below.

"I'm going to rest now," Captain Avery murmurs.

I peek to see him slide from the helm and wearily pull his crutch from its holster. He limps two steps and collapses against the stern rail, slumping on the deck. Dorian holds the wheel in place, not tall enough to even see over it.

"We're okay, Hank," squeaks the fox. "We've made it home."

It's okay for me to look around, I realize. Like with breathing, I can do other things while my will remains firm. Very hesitantly, and very carefully, I tread to the side of the ship and peer over. I glance back at the sails, and we are fine, and I will and will for things to remain that way. Stay full, now, you sails. I grit my teeth, my eyes flicking from the billowed sheets above to the thick mist and clouds below. And you stay focused, Walter. Leslie climbs up the stairs to the stern deck and takes the helm from the fox.

Dorian scurries to sit with the captain, tenderly holding his hand.

The sea mist is thinning as the ship gradually descends through. Far in the distance, I can see flecks of green peeking through the cloud cover. I start to see turquoise glittering many feet below us. Then, three islands, each small and covered with green bush and mixtures of black and golden sand. Seabirds ride on air currents, the wet air slicking their backs with damp. In the lagoon, small, wooden boats bob. A larger brig floats further from the shore. All the vessels are empty.