Sage Tenbrook had no intention of dying on a merchant ship
The Sun Strider glided across the still water, its magnificent sails hung slack against the masts, useless without wind to push it forward. The Sun Strider was a clipper belonging to a merchant company, its fastest vessel. Under good winds it could reach the coast of East Balam in under four days. But it had been a week since they should have reached the Balam coast, and there was still nothing but ocean.
The heat was bearing down, many sailors retreated below deck or collapsed into hammocks wherever shade could be found. Sage stood alone at the bow, with a mug of citrus water in hand and an endless ocean for a view. He was just an ordinary cook but he had brought extra food onboard despite the rebuttals of the first mate. Sage never trusted captains to plan for disaster
"The rations will only last four more days… Even if I stretch it out." He mumbled to himself as he sipped on his water. In a worst case scenario, he would have to keep the men drunk to satiate their hunger and even then, he could only add two more days.
"Is the heat not bothering you?" Wayland asked. Wayland was just a fifteen year old boy who worked as a cargo boy. Given the original timeline of the trip, he was the only cargo boy. "I am just out here for a drink, Wayland. Not for a sunbath." Sage said, ruffling his hair.
From his pockets, Sage took out a hardtack. A hard, tasteless biscuit with the sole purpose to make a man full. However, Sage's hardtacks were made with grains and wheat, giving it a better taste than the usual tacks other ship cooks made.
"This is from my share. Don't tell the others."
The boy didn't refuse it, eating the biscuit. He was hungry after all.
"What do you think is happening? We should have reached East Balam by now. It's weird," he said.
Sage agreed it was weird but he had a vague idea why. He was fairly educated in the concept of mysticism. There were people who drank potions or prayed to deities to gain supernatural abilities, and such people were called Beyonders.
Beyonders have different levels to them, called Sequences, ranging from 9 to 1, the lower the number the more dangerous they are. They walk the path to divinity or pathways of the divine.
As he recalled this information, he also remembered that beyonders sometimes seek certain items or leave certain items behind. Such items are dangerous and can trigger strange phenomena, even causing ships to lose their way.
"Something's wrong with this trip," Sage said. "It is our bad luck. Go back and rest, we don't have water to spare." As Wayland retreated below deck, Sage made his way to the quarterdeck.
He had to speak with the captain directly.
As he thought, Captain Harlow was seated behind his desk, his head in his hands. "Do you not have manners?" The first mate, Jacques, barked but Sage stared him down. Jacques was 1.7 meters tall with a scrawny build but Sage was 1.83 meters tall with a broader frame. "Not now, Jacques. What do you need, chef?" the captain spoke. Sage stared at him, Captain Harlow looked ten years older than when they left port.
Before leaving Bayam, they had picked up a rotting wooden chest. A chest so filthy, no one could hold it without barfing their guts out. In the end, the crew had to wrap it in cloth and dump all the herbs and smelling salts they had to make it tolerable. Funny enough, Sage was one of the few aware of the chest because they got the herbs and salts from him and he had shown higher tolerance to the nausea. One of the perks of being a cook at sea is handling filth beyond imagination.
"We need to throw the chest overboard." Sage said.
Captain Harlow frowned, but Jacques spoke first again. "Do you think you have the right to make a decision because our captain has been nice to you? Since when does the cook command the deck? Get back to your galley before I throw you overboard myself."
Sage kept his cool, discipline being one of his strongest talents. He ignored the barking Jacques and stared at the captain for an answer. "The crew is falling sick and we are lost for reasons we are unaware of. The navigator cannot see the stars and the tools fail. We have made many runs before, Captain. Never had we faced a situation like this" he said.
"I cannot dump the chest. The company wants the chest at all costs." the Captain said
He knew the captain was bound by rules but he did not wish to die. Not for these people, not on this ship. Sage already made his decision before meeting the captain.
"I will take the blame. I'm throwing the chest."
As he reached the door to exit, Jacques suddenly lunged forward, tackling Sage. They slammed into the railing and crashed onto a coil of ropes. "You will throw nothing!" Jacques roared as he tried to get on top of him but Sage threw him off. Sage stood up, his arms bleeding from numerous tiny cuts from the roughness of the ropes. He brushed the dust off his clothes, staring Jacques down. He did not want to fight the first mate, even though victory was definitely his.
As Jacques pulled out a knife, Sage took his stance. Palms open, feet apart, left hand before right. They sized each other up, feeling the breeze against their skin.
A breeze?
Both understood the importance of the wind, making a temporary truce. As Jacques rushed up to inform the captain, Sage rushed down to wake the crew. The breeze turned into a gust, the seamen got to work, unfurling the extra sails of the Sun Strider, the heat soon to disappear as waters dropped from the greying skies.
Sage frowned at the sudden change of weather. He remembered his father used to say the sea never stayed quiet without reason. So if it has been calm for a week, how big would the storm be? The men laughed and smiled, gleaming with joy that the wind favouring them once more. The first mate burst onto deck, face pale.
"Sails on the horizon!" He swallowed.
"Black sails."