the clouds, like a huge rock had just
broken through them.
His ship had
sunk. The storm had split it in two, dashed it against the rocks as
if it were nothing more than a flimsy branch of drift wood.
Now, at the
edge of reason and the precipice of total fatigue, he was holding
onto a broken section of mast. Either he or it would sink first,
but the conclusion would remain the same. Pembrake was about to
drown.
Briefly, for
some strange, heady moment, his mind had opened up and he had felt
like it was stretching across the ether like wet fabric tightly
pulled over a rack. There had been some other presence, some kind
of force there, and it had been comforting. But just as quickly as
it had come, it had disappeared. And with it his hope had
dwindled.
The edge of
death, they say, is a strange place.
But now
Pembrake could only look above, mesmerised by what he saw. Surely
there was no reason left in him, no faculty to analyse and
categorise that which he witnessed. But still, the break in the
circling clouds above him was definitely the most wondrous thing he
had ever seen.
During a storm
so violent and chaotic that it had snapped one of the sturdiest
vessels ever made, how could there be such a calm and perfect break
in the clouds?
Perhaps it was
god, Pembrake thought hazily, beckoning towards heaven, showing a
path clear and true to whatever lay beyond.
The moonlight
lit up the rim of the clouds, giving them a bright grey glow set
against the dark turgid cloudbank beyond, adding to their mystical
lure.
How strange,
Pembrake's eyes could not blink, even from the assault of wind and
saltwater. All he could think of was how very strange it was.
He could feel
the waves beat against him with unrelenting anger, feel his frigid
fingers lose their grip.
He shouldn't
be able to see the moon during a storm. There shouldn't be a break
in the clouds.
There was no
vice left in his body. All that fixed him to the slowly-sinking
mast was his unconscious desperation, but that was slipping.
The clouds
above were strangely serene, strangely comforting.
Pembrake
Hunter let go.
~~~
Abby had flown
against the storm, pushed herself until her frigid body was so bent
it felt like the stiffness would saw through her limbs. Charlie had
tucked himself against her stomach and she had no fear that he
would fall. He was a witch's cat, and although this was the worst
flight they had ever taken, she had every confidence in his ability
to remain firmly attached, claws and all, to her racing broom.
And all she
had to do was fly.
As she'd left
Mrs Hunters, as she'd stared with desperation at the storm, she'd
heard the shouts from below. A ship had sunk, Guards were shouting,
on the Knife Rocks up the coast.
For a moment,
for a terrible moment, Abby had considered turning back. She peered
at the street a level below her and saw a stream of Guards and
sailors running along, obviously headed for the coast to rescue any
survivors they could find.
These were
strong, determined men. Terrible, but strong. What could she do?
She was only a little witch. But with that treacherous thought, the
weight of Mrs Hunter's bracelet – that Abby had pocketed, unsure of
what else to do with it – had doubled. So Abby had kicked off with
her broom and rose into the storm above, finally determined to save
Pembrake Hunter.
She could see
the Tower and Death, see the cards before her as if they were
etched into the very clouds.
There was no
turning back now.
She'd followed
the Guards and sailors as they'd run down the street, from as high
as she could before her head descended into the billowing base of
the clouds. Then she'd left them, shot forward, seeing yet another
stream of people running across the wet cobbles, heading towards
something with desperate shouts and quick feet.
Finally she'd
had no choice but to veer off. The closer she got to the cliff at
Knife Rocks, the further down she had to fly to avoid the momentous
pressure and energy of storm front.
broken through them.
His ship had
sunk. The storm had split it in two, dashed it against the rocks as
if it were nothing more than a flimsy branch of drift wood.
Now, at the
edge of reason and the precipice of total fatigue, he was holding
onto a broken section of mast. Either he or it would sink first,
but the conclusion would remain the same. Pembrake was about to
drown.
Briefly, for
some strange, heady moment, his mind had opened up and he had felt
like it was stretching across the ether like wet fabric tightly
pulled over a rack. There had been some other presence, some kind
of force there, and it had been comforting. But just as quickly as
it had come, it had disappeared. And with it his hope had
dwindled.
The edge of
death, they say, is a strange place.
But now
Pembrake could only look above, mesmerised by what he saw. Surely
there was no reason left in him, no faculty to analyse and
categorise that which he witnessed. But still, the break in the
circling clouds above him was definitely the most wondrous thing he
had ever seen.
During a storm
so violent and chaotic that it had snapped one of the sturdiest
vessels ever made, how could there be such a calm and perfect break
in the clouds?
Perhaps it was
god, Pembrake thought hazily, beckoning towards heaven, showing a
path clear and true to whatever lay beyond.
The moonlight
lit up the rim of the clouds, giving them a bright grey glow set
against the dark turgid cloudbank beyond, adding to their mystical
lure.
How strange,
Pembrake's eyes could not blink, even from the assault of wind and
saltwater. All he could think of was how very strange it was.
He could feel
the waves beat against him with unrelenting anger, feel his frigid
fingers lose their grip.
He shouldn't
be able to see the moon during a storm. There shouldn't be a break
in the clouds.
There was no
vice left in his body. All that fixed him to the slowly-sinking
mast was his unconscious desperation, but that was slipping.
The clouds
above were strangely serene, strangely comforting.
Pembrake
Hunter let go.
~~~
Abby had flown
against the storm, pushed herself until her frigid body was so bent
it felt like the stiffness would saw through her limbs. Charlie had
tucked himself against her stomach and she had no fear that he
would fall. He was a witch's cat, and although this was the worst
flight they had ever taken, she had every confidence in his ability
to remain firmly attached, claws and all, to her racing broom.
And all she
had to do was fly.
As she'd left
Mrs Hunters, as she'd stared with desperation at the storm, she'd
heard the shouts from below. A ship had sunk, Guards were shouting,
on the Knife Rocks up the coast.
For a moment,
for a terrible moment, Abby had considered turning back. She peered
at the street a level below her and saw a stream of Guards and
sailors running along, obviously headed for the coast to rescue any
survivors they could find.
These were
strong, determined men. Terrible, but strong. What could she do?
She was only a little witch. But with that treacherous thought, the
weight of Mrs Hunter's bracelet – that Abby had pocketed, unsure of
what else to do with it – had doubled. So Abby had kicked off with
her broom and rose into the storm above, finally determined to save
Pembrake Hunter.
She could see
the Tower and Death, see the cards before her as if they were
etched into the very clouds.
There was no
turning back now.
She'd followed
the Guards and sailors as they'd run down the street, from as high
as she could before her head descended into the billowing base of
the clouds. Then she'd left them, shot forward, seeing yet another
stream of people running across the wet cobbles, heading towards
something with desperate shouts and quick feet.
Finally she'd
had no choice but to veer off. The closer she got to the cliff at
Knife Rocks, the further down she had to fly to avoid the momentous
pressure and energy of storm front.
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