Young Writers Society

The fisher boat neared the coastal village with great effort. Struck by strong winds and high tides, the vessel put up as much resistance as a wooden log in a rapid current.

Sailing today was a death wish.

At the bow, a lone fisherman struggled to steer his boat in the monstrous waters. Far and wide, he couldn’t detect any signs of a second boat that was as foolish. Cautiously, he spared another glance at his passengers.

The group of five travelers was at the stern—one was a woman. Seated in the only stool, she moved her lips, as if in prayer. Two men stood guard on either side, each with an oversized umbrella in hand to shield her from the maelstroms of rain. Theothers patrolled the ship. All five passengers wore a gray cowl with a long hood that concealed most of their face. Occasionally, hushed words were exchanged between the men.

None of them had offered their name, and it became clear early on, that except the exchange of a fee for his logistical services, there was no incentive for further communication.

The only time they had responded was when the weather had changed. What first began as a soft hiss soon had turned into ferocious winds. The sky opened and water poured down at them in waves. He urged to turn back and take the longer, yet far securer mountain trail; they would not hear of it. Now, regardless of forwards or backwards, the dangers were the same.

“About another hour until we’re on land”, he shouted over the hurricane-like wind.That’s if we’re not sunk beforehand.

The fisherman dropped his reef sail and rechecked his course.

A few more years, he thought, and perhaps he could hire a few sailors to go on the expeditions on his behalf. He just needed to work a little harder and take on a few more private requests such as this; the sum agreed upon would go a long way to meeting his goal.

In spite of the high reward, he found himself accepting the task for a different purpose. Embedded into the wool hoods of his passengers was an emblem sown in fine silver thread. It displayed five swirls of air arranged in a pentagon. He knew the stories behind the symbol well. It was a popular folklore in his village: the story of the aeromancers.

His mind wheeled back to his childhood, to nights when the clash of thunder was more frightening than anything that might lurk beneath his bed, waiting for darkness.

His grandfather’s story always began the same. He had heard them countless times before and could recite them by heart.

“A long time ago, on a night like this”, his grandfather’s deep voice murmured, “a wicked sorcerer called upon a serpent to attack our village. The serpent was as dark as night and had razor sharp teeth. It swam across the lake to still its insatiable hunger. Only a group of monks protected the villagers and stood against the beast.”

A torrent of wind tore through the window. His grandfather rose to close it.

“These were fearless men whose talents were weaved with the power of the wind. We call them…”

“Aeromancers”, the boy said, knowing this to be his cue.

Outside, the wind howled in harmony as his grandfather continued.

“The battle was ferocious and lasted seven days and seven nights.”

His grandfather raised his arms and his shadows reincarnated the battle by the boy’s bedside. Every time the serpent snapped with its cruel fang, the boy shrank a little deeper under the haven of his blanket.

“Many were slain, even devoured by the creature. But in their final stand, the Grandmaster, chief of the aeromancers, landed a devastating blow that pushed the creature back to the depth of the sea.”

The story ended as the last lightning bolt pierced the sky. Silence followed that soothed the boy into peaceful slumber.

A shattering of glass forced the fisherman’s attention back to the trial ahead. Three of the four oil lamps now lie in a heap of crushed glass on the wooden deck. The last swayed in the wind, driving their shadows to engage in some freakish dance.

They’re just myth—he thought, stealing another glance at them—stories for children’s imagination. If they really were like the beings in the story, they would stop this damn storm before we’re all thrown overboard!

Through the downpour, he peered at a structure in the darkness. Beyond the twinkling candle lights of his village, the Grand Temple, the sanctuary of the monks, loomed in the distant mountain side.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s a glint of truth in the old fable.

As the boat finally docked a good hour later, the fisherman let out a sigh of relief. He staggered across a shaky wooden plank to the dock. One by one, his passengers exited the battered vessel.

Stepping towards him, a man presented him a handful of gold coins. His eyes glued to the glimmers; it was far more than what was promised. But as he reached for his payment, the stranger withdrew his hand and edged in close. He was the tallest of them—a giant no less than eight feet—and the fisherman wouldn’t have been surprised if there were stories about him.

“You will tell no one of our encounter. Is that understood?” His deep voice held the rumble of thunder.

Meekly, the fisherman nodded and accepted his payment.

The woman was last to exit. As she stepped onto the edge of the boat, a strong gust thrust back her hood, revealing her face in the silver moonlight.

He breathed at the sight of her.

She looked to be in her thirties. Velvet blond hair fell over her shoulders, and enclosed a delicate face. Her porcelain white skin seemed to radiate in the dimness.

The fisherman had never seen royalty in his life, though if he had to guess, all the noblewomen in the world would carry her face.

Her knees wobbled as she stepped on to the wooden plank. Her hands strained to keep balance while lifting the front of her robe.

Rushing forward, he offered his hand—only to be shoved aside. His cry of protest was short-lived as another, shorter, man came within inches of his face, the fierceness in his eyes vivid in the darkness.

“You do not touch the lady,” the man threatened.

Anger flustered in him as he felt his hands ball into fists. “I was only offering her my help.” It was one thing to direct him under his service, another to ridicule him for an act of chivalry which her companions clearly lacked.

“You… do not… touch her,” the man repeated, unmoving.

Glancing past him, he saw the woman make her way past the shaky platform with the giant gripping her firmly under her arm.

Locking eyes with his opponent one last time, he then picked up the dock line and returned to his boat. The series of profanity that pricked his tongue waned as he secured his boat to a wooden pole.

As he peered over at the group, he found the woman watching him. Her green eyes flickered and she gave him a nod and a weak smile before disappearing with the others in the evening mist.

His anger finally settled as he lowered the final sail.

As he departed the shipyard, he found himself still thinking of her.

Who was she?

A private guest of the Grandmaster?

Or maybe a secret mistress?

Whatever their purpose, he thought walking away from the docks with a bulge in his pocket, clearly it couldn’t wait until morning.