Chapter 1: Seashells
“Mommy, mommy, look what I’ve found!” he would yell, breathless from his run.
The things he brought home were unremarkable, the humdrum detritus of the shoreline. Yet she would place them on the shelf to dry anyway. “Oh my, they are so pretty! Where did you find them?”
“To the beach, to the beach!” the boy would scream before breaking into a full, breakneck gallop towards the surf. Those were the days of no responsibilities, of constant smiles and unimpeded amazement, of pure, childish glee.
***
“I will watch you grow from the afterlife,” the woman whispered, her face slick with sweat. She touched the boy’s cheek, a smile on her lips despite the pain that wracked her body. “I know, I know,” the boy sobbed. For years after, every time he looked at the dried seashells she had kept, the tears would return.
***
“You smell nicer than Bran,” she smiled. “You kissed Bran?!” he gasped. They kissed. The memory, like so many others, would fade with time. It was not a particularly good kiss, but it lingered, a singular point of light in a time when little else mattered.
***
His father came home with an arrow shaft protruding from his leg; his older brother did not come home at all. “A cyst has formed, but you will live,” the village healer assured the old man. The boy was crying. “Don’t cry, boy,” his father comforted him, his voice raspy. “Just remember that war is the most foolish thing a man can do. But sometimes, it cannot be avoided.”
***
“If you hold it to your ear, you can hear the sea,” he grinned, handing the dried seashell to his sister. She smirked and pushed it away playfully. “We can hear the sea right now because we are at the sea, you idiot!” The waves crashed against the shore in perfect punctuation. “Oh, right,” the boy chuckled. “When are you going to marry?” his sister asked, a new seriousness in her tone. “I don’t know. Someday.” He paused. “Or maybe never.” His sister rubbed her belly, a nascent swell beneath her palm. She was pregnant by a boy from the next village, the one across the forest.
***
“Merchant fleet,” an older man announced, spitting onto the sand. “Oh?” the boy raised an eyebrow. “The merchant fleet,” the man explained, “is what keeps you from military service on land and puts you into military service on the seas.” “I don’t know,” the boy said, weighing the options that had never before seemed like options. “You can always die a toothless peasant in your own fishing village, I suppose,” the old man grinned, showing a distinct lack of his own.
***
His sister sighed, the sound nearly lost in the sea breeze. “I think my husband is visiting some woman from beyond the marsh…” she began. The young man wasn't listening. He was handling a dried seashell, examining its perfect, spiraling form. “Does he still have all his teeth?” he asked absently. “What? What does that matter?” she scoffed. “It doesn’t, I guess.” He held the seashell to his ear. He looked out at a ship on the horizon, so distant that only its masts were visible, the great curve of the world hiding its hull. He did not know this, of course. To him, the ship’s slow appearance from nowhere was a form of magic. And the life at sea, set against the quiet desperation of his village, seemed the most enticing magic of all.
A new arrival
Moderator: Gamemasters
Re: A new arrival
"Scrub, scrub, scrub the deck, it's all we ever do…" The young man grumbled. It wasn't entirely true. They also loaded and unloaded cargo, climbed the shrouds to set the sails, gambled below deck, and drank when the overseers weren't looking. "I hope we get to commandeer a ship at some point!" a mate chuckled. "I'm not so sure," the young man replied. It sounded dangerous, potentially life-threatening. "Maybe," another mate coughed, "we can find treasure on some long-lost island!" He coughed again. He had scurvy, but didn’t know it yet.
***
"We return this young man to the sea," the captain intoned. A body in a linen sack was thrown overboard. A small flute played a gentle tune. The sun was shining, and the sea was calm. At the end of the day, Ranulf, the boy with scurvy, had died thousands of nautical miles from home. "You owe me 20 coppers, you prick," an old man hissed at the young man during the burial. The young man and his friends chuckled. "Don't worry, old man, I'll win them back tonight."
***
"MUSTER YOUR STRENGTH, MEN!" the captain bellowed, just as a cannonball struck the deck beside him, sending a storm of wooden splinters into his chest. After a few seconds of shock, the chief officer took command and led the charge. Alden killed his first man that day, a little by accident. He got lucky, and the other guy must have been tired already.
***
Scrub, scrub, scrub. The scratch on the deck made a familiar sound. "It even makes the same damn sound!" he shouted. "Yeah, that's why we call it that," someone else shook his head. And then, they kept scrubbing the deck.
***
The storm was horrible. The sound of breaking wood and the screams of men overboard, crying for help that would never come, were unbearable. But then, the most soul-wrenching sound of all occurred: the mast breaking. He swam for his life, inhaling impossible amounts of saltwater. The waves crashed against his head like an unstoppable force, determined to kill him. The sea didn't want him. "Land, land," he thought. His foot brushed against a boulder, tearing his boot. There had to be a beach nearby. He woke up with a mouth full of sand, surrounded by debris. A man with a long beard and the telltale signs of alcohol on his face was gathering flotsam on the beach. He grinned a toothless grin. "Welcome to Galmair!" he said, and scurried off. The young man pushed himself up on his hands, his fingers digging into the coarse sand. He lifted one hand and looked at the contents.
Sand. And so many seashells. He laughed.
***
"We return this young man to the sea," the captain intoned. A body in a linen sack was thrown overboard. A small flute played a gentle tune. The sun was shining, and the sea was calm. At the end of the day, Ranulf, the boy with scurvy, had died thousands of nautical miles from home. "You owe me 20 coppers, you prick," an old man hissed at the young man during the burial. The young man and his friends chuckled. "Don't worry, old man, I'll win them back tonight."
***
"MUSTER YOUR STRENGTH, MEN!" the captain bellowed, just as a cannonball struck the deck beside him, sending a storm of wooden splinters into his chest. After a few seconds of shock, the chief officer took command and led the charge. Alden killed his first man that day, a little by accident. He got lucky, and the other guy must have been tired already.
***
Scrub, scrub, scrub. The scratch on the deck made a familiar sound. "It even makes the same damn sound!" he shouted. "Yeah, that's why we call it that," someone else shook his head. And then, they kept scrubbing the deck.
***
The storm was horrible. The sound of breaking wood and the screams of men overboard, crying for help that would never come, were unbearable. But then, the most soul-wrenching sound of all occurred: the mast breaking. He swam for his life, inhaling impossible amounts of saltwater. The waves crashed against his head like an unstoppable force, determined to kill him. The sea didn't want him. "Land, land," he thought. His foot brushed against a boulder, tearing his boot. There had to be a beach nearby. He woke up with a mouth full of sand, surrounded by debris. A man with a long beard and the telltale signs of alcohol on his face was gathering flotsam on the beach. He grinned a toothless grin. "Welcome to Galmair!" he said, and scurried off. The young man pushed himself up on his hands, his fingers digging into the coarse sand. He lifted one hand and looked at the contents.
Sand. And so many seashells. He laughed.