There was a shadow emerging on the horizon – just a hint of the thing, like a specter haunting the edge of the sky. Most wouldn't have noticed it, perhaps mistaking it for a low rain bearing cloud or a waft of smoke. But Noori knew better.
Most people — even more experienced seafarers who had been sailing three times as long as Noori had been alive — weren't as keen-eyed as she was when it came to catching the first signs of a ship on the horizon. Noori always knew. It was as though she felt an approach like a tremor in her bones; a tugging that drew her long glass to what was usually still only a suggestion of a ship's silhouette creeping across the water.
"We have a mark," she announced with a grin, her eye still pressed to the lens. "Are you ready, Toddrick?"
"Aye aye!" her best friend and first mate called in reply. Seated in the stern, he gripped the tiller with chapped and steady hands.
Mystic Sal, Noori's small but formidable cutter, sliced through the choppy morning ocean like a dream. They were coasting in open water, and here the sea played no games. Beneath the hull the western sea churned, dark and deep and murky. Soon the sun would break over the horizon and burn off the low ceiling of gloom that smothered the mouth of the harbor. If the previous evening's red sunset was any indication, the city of Fernweh had a stunning sky waiting for it on the other side of the morning's clouds. But for now there was only this: the dark sea, the heavy cover from above, Mystic Sal, and a shadow.
"Eyes to starboard," Toddrick shouted over the slosh of sea spray leaping off the bow and the bellow of cold wind that slapped their faces raw. "We're not alone."
Noori glanced to the right and saw it – a small schooner creeping in from a wall of gray to the north. She recognized the sails in an instant.
Lady Bethel was sailed by an unruly crew of local coastal shippers, known for being perpetually broke and dangerously bored. For these hobblers, piloting was a way to make some extra money between jobs – the often perilous open water-racing that came with the job was a happy bonus as far as they were concerned. Captained by a man named Cort, Lady Bethel's crew sailed their employer's schooner with all the sophistication of school boys on a stolen dinghy. This wasn't the first time they had tailed Mystic Sal in hopes of beating her to a fare.
"I suppose the boys are looking for a race." Noori laughed loudly, knowing it would be heard across the water on Bethel's deck. "Let's show them how it's done!"
Noori tightened the jib sheet with a mighty heave as Toddrick pointed the tiller. Mystic Sal picked up speed the way a stallion charges across an open expanse, breathtaking and powerful. She tacked starboard at a sharp angle over the water's surface. By now the shadow on the horizon had taken shape; a massive galleon seeking berth in the port of Fernweh. If she squinted, Noori could see a flag of white and red snapping in the wind; they were calling for a pilot.
Out here the waters were deeper and more alive than in the relative calm of the sheltered harbor. Waves rose higher, pitching the Mystic Sal up and down. But Noori and Toddrick were old hands at this, and they steadied their vessel with skill. Cutting through the water, they navigated cleanly through the restless waves and closed the distance with ease.
The hiss and slosh of Lady Bethel's progress registered in Noori's ear. They were giving them a good run, but Noori wasn't concerned. She thrilled at the chase, she loved the challenge.
"We're nearly there," Noori called to Toddrick. Her normally buoyant hair was matted down with the slick of salt water, her cheeks glowing with the effort and the excitement of the race. "Shall we put them out of their misery?"
Toddrick grinned up at her, delighted. "It would be the courteous thing to do."
They craned Sal to port, whooping as the deck dipped low. Noori took a deep breath, reveling in the sharp scent of briny air that filled her lungs and fanned the ever smoldering ember in her heart. How, she wondered at times like this, could anyone feel alive anywhere else but out at sea?
Their cutter sailed clear across Lady Bethel's path, not so close that they risked colliding but close enough that any decent sailor would err on the side of caution.
Cort and crew may not have been smart, but at least they knew when to cut their losses.
"Go on and gloat," Noori heard Cort bark as Mystic Sal sailed by. "Easy to win fares with daddy's schedules in your pockets."
Noori smiled and rolled her eyes. She was long used to the bitterness of other pilots – the ones who assumed the only reason she could ever be first to greet approaching ships was by virtue of her father's role as harbor master and not her own skill.
"Good morning to you too!" she called back with a jovial wave of her hand.
Turning her back on the crew's grumbling and tasteless gestures, Noori darted aft and raised the flag that signaled they were there to help. Together, she and Toddrick tucked the cutter in close, and within moments a ladder of rope and board was cast down to them.
Noori turned to Toddrick — his eyes were sparkling and his smile broad — an expression that looked as triumphant as she felt.
"I'll see you back on the docks?"
He nodded. "See you there, Owusua."
Noori pulled herself onto the ladder, suspended above the crashing waters below, and began her climb. Halfway to the deck, she paused for a moment and looked back over her shoulder. The stern of Lady Bethel slipped back into the mist, no doubt returning to a less volatile anchorage to await another fare. On the other side of the eerie gray void was the harbor with its wharfs and dry land. It was now Noori's job to get this ship, her crew, and her cargo there safely.
A beaming man with a red face and a neatly trimmed beard met Noori at deck level. He extended a hand to help her aboard, and she accepted with a bright smile of her own.
"I believe you're in need of a pilot?" she asked, standing straight to look taller than she was. Already she could see the curious faces of the crew taking her in and sizing her up. She didn't hold their disbelief against them – pilots were rarely as young as she was.
If her age was a problem, it didn't seem to concern the man who had helped her aboard. He grinned hard at her, deep crow's feet wrinkles pinching at the corners of his eyes.
"Captain Cunningham," he said, introducing himself. "You must be the notorious Noori Owusua I've heard tale of?"
"Only good things, I hope."
He guffawed. "I assure you, your reputation is sterling. I was hoping you'd be the one to sail us in."
And so, after a brief negotiation of fare, Noori did exactly that. Around her the galleon's crew busied themselves with the tasks of coming to port while she focused on getting them there. It was a lifetime in these waters that made her an excellent pilot. She had quite literally been born at sea – arriving two weeks early to the great surprise of her father and mother, who were out enjoying what they believed would be one of their last good sails before parenthood. This, Noori believed, was the reason she knew the harbor's waters better than she knew herself. She had topography tattooed on her brain. Her veins mapped the currents.
By the time the ship rounded the final outcropping of land and forest that sheltered the harbor from the open ocean, the sun had lifted its head and chased away the fog. Noori smiled without thinking as the city of Fernweh came into view. She liked this view of her home best – the skyline as viewed from the water. In some ways, it was the only view of the city she recognized.
A sailor raised a flag indicating that the ship was seeking a berth. Noori raised a long glass to her eyes and searched the docks for a response. When it came, another flag raised this time by her father's crew, Noori turned to Captain Cunningham and handed his glass back to him.
"They've got a mooring clear for you, sir," she said. "Welcome to Fernweh."
*
With the galleon docked and the gangplank lowered, Noori left Cunningham in the capable hands of her father's shore crew and made straight for his office. Elated by the morning's success, she took off in a run. She loved the sound of her boots hammering against the weather worn docks as she dipped and wove around assorted sailors and shore workers, coils of thick rope, and stacks of crates waiting for their next destination.
The harbour master's office sat like a sentinel at the very end of one of these busy docks. The structure had been built by her great-great-grandfather, and was as sturdy as any building on land. Or perhaps Noori was just biased of the building that had always been a second home to her. Mystic Sal bobbed at the dockside; Toddrick was probably inside waiting for her if he hadn't already been put to work by her father. A collection of seafarers loitered around the notice boards, reviewing the notices and nautical charts posted outside the open door. Noori gave them a friendly wave as she hurried inside.
"Took you long enough!"
Noori blinked, her eyes slow to adjust to the dimness of being indoors after hours outside. Toddrick leaned back against her father's cluttered desk and gave her a lazy smile. Standing beside him was Minty, a local herbalist who stopped by the office once a week to deliver tea to Noori's father and Fernweh's beloved harbor master, Dak Owusua. As Minty turned to greet her, Noori spied her father seated behind his desk curiously inspecting a small potted plant that sat in front of him.
"Good morning, Noori!" Minty chirped brightly. She tucked a lock of her long flaxen hair behind her ear and flicked the ends of it from the ever-present mink stole she wore around her shoulders. When they had first met, Noori thought Minty was a bit too young to be wearing something so matronly, but she eventually came to realize that the fur only complimented the herbalist's pretty round cheeks and the graceful way she carried herself. Standing there in her soggy boots and messy hair, Noori felt like a bit of a slob by comparison.
"Good morning to you too, Minty." Noori fluffed her coils with a self-conscious hand. "Is it tea time already?"
Minty beamed, her hands clutched in front of her with barely contained excitement. "Actually, I came to bring you and your father a gift."
At this, Dak lifted the plant up for her to see. "A tea plant of Minty's own creation."
"Oh!" Noori exclaimed, coming to the desk for a closer look. Though she didn't know much about plants, the one growing in the brightly painted pot—likely handmade by Minty herself—was one of the strangest she'd ever seen. The stock was dark and woody, with curling offshoots and leafy clusters sprouting here and there. A single tightly closed bulb crowned the top.
"It's still a few weeks from blooming," Minty hurried to explain, catching the puzzled expression on Noori's face. "But once it does, you'll be able to harvest petals from the flower."
"How does one create their own plant?" Noori asked.
Again, Minty's face lit up. "It's a special hybrid I've been working on for some time now. I've been cross-pollination different plants to make one that's flavorful and ever-bearing but still easy to care for. It hardly requires any sunlight at all!"
Noori glanced back at Toddrick who replied with the smallest of shrugs. He didn't understand Minty's excitement any more than Noori did. Still, she turned on her winningest smile. "That's incredible, Minty. Thank you for thinking of us."
"Go on and tell Noori your news," Dak said, giving the herbalist a reassuring nod.
Minty let out an excited squeak. She opened her mouth to share, but all that came from her lips was a quiet gasp. Her vibrant green eyes grew round with alarm; she was staring at the doorway. Noori twisted to see what was wrong.
Standing in the threshold was Mr. Charles Ladwick – a retired sailor and old friend of the Owusua family. His hands trembled and his lower lip quivered. Tears leaked down his face from red and swollen eyes.
"Mr. Ladwick." Dak stood so fast his chair toppled back behind him, falling to the floor with a clatter. "What happened?"
The man looked haunted. He turned his eyes to each of them in turn as his mouth worked without sound.
Noori rushed forward. She took his trembling hands in hers. "Mr. Ladwick, please. Tell us what's wrong. How can we help?"
"It's my Miranda. My wife, Mrs. Ladwick..." he croaked at last. "She's dead."