17
By the next day, the rain had become a downpour and their wet bodies clung to the sides of the boat like drenched remnants of stew to the sides of a bowl. It was not a pleasant feeling, to say nothing of the motion, which victimized even Erlandr's stomach. They ate and drank little. Yet for all their misery, the heart of the storm seemed as distant as before. To Erlandr, it meant they were standing in place, a bobbing, useless piece of scrap upon the sea.
The only positive development belonged to Kaspar, who'd devised a device to catch the rainwater for drinking later. In this weather, water went down, and stayed down, easier than ale.
They took turns huddling under the cloth that covered their supplies, some of which were soaked beyond usefulness, and always Erlandr was envious of Kaspar and Agata, who had each other to huddle with, because when it came his turn, he was alone, and in the relative dryness his imagination hissed into his ear, playing the cruellest tricks on him.
Day ceased to disturb night.
The air around them became so wet it was inseparable from the raging water below.
But when Erlandr, rain pouring off his upper lip, draining into his eyes, suggested to Dvalinn that they turn back, if only for a day, if only until the storm weakened, Dvalinn laughed and shook his head—water shooting out in streaks from the ends of his hair. "Ahead, Erlandr. Always ahead. You pass a storm by going through it."
When Erlandr and the others cowered against the sides of the boat, attempting to escape the growing maelstrom around them, Dvalinn would stand and, holding himself vertical by grabbing the boat's mast, roar into the wind whatever the wind was roaring at him, and let it pummel his face until his beard was flat and his hair wild...
"This is madness!" Erlandr yelled to Kaspar when he could no longer tell one day from the last or how long they had been at sea, six days or sixteen. The storm had drifted closer, and the bolts of lightning pierced the sky above them, but what good was that when they still hadn't sighted land, and were as likely to sail off the edge of the world, which Erlandr pictured as a kind of terrible waterfall, as they were ever to set foot upon dry earth again.
Despite being a few paces apart, they barely heard each another. Kaspar screamed back, "A hideous paralysis, a monstrous vulnerability. Madness, yes! Incredible, isn't it? Like love! To be with your beloved and together, arms around your bodies, be ripped apart by these winds, it would be absolutely divine!"
Erlandr awoke to a roll of thunder. Had he been dreaming?
Kaspar and Agata were hugging each other.
Drudge was a giant ball, arms holding knees, head tucked somewhere between both.
Dvalinn lay prone on the deck. Only his eyes peeked over the edge of the boat, concentrating on—
"I see it!"
Kaspar stirred.
Erlandr crawled forward, closer to where Dvalinn was.
Above, the storm blew through the tattered remains of their sail, which had been torn to shreds. How long ago, Erlandr couldn't guess. Time was an illusion.
"Land," Dvalinn said, louder. "Land ahead!"
Erlandr didn't see it.
Drudge uncurled himself, spread his legs to almost the entire width of the boat and looked, too, from a higher vantage point.
The sky crashed.
The sea rolled and the boat with it.
"It's the truth. It exists. The new land," Drudge yelled, losing his balance and falling, and not caring, but bouncing right back up to look again.
That's when Erlandr saw:
All around them was blackness and grey, but if he squinted and stared long enough, the grey acquired depth and the blackness receded, until parts of the grey were the plumes of rain and the shape of land and the wind was gusting, and the boat was no longer on the surface of the water but flying and everything was blackness until—
The grey—
Rocks.