Chapter 1: Shipwrecked

It was the shrill cries of seagulls and crows that awakened him. His first awareness was the fluttering shadows against the bright sky, from their fleet forms as they winged about him. He felt the cold hard gravel beneath him as it sloped towards the sea where waves crashed into the rocky shore nearby. He attempted to shift himself to look over the enormous log that lay beside him, and quickly became aware of a new sensation—pain, “Aaahh!” he groaned, the sound harsh and strained from the dryness of his parched and swollen throat. The coughing fit that followed startled the nearest birds causing them to scatter. He must have swallowed gallons of seawater during the night as he...

Gods the ship! The terrifying tempest that drove them into the pitch-black night! How could he have survived? Recalling the horror, he was suddenly gripped by crippling panic as he recalled the tragedy. He survived? He was alive! Who else? He rolled to his side and pushed himself up so he could peer over the seaward log. What he saw caused his heart to lurch and he struggled to find his breath. He blinked painfully against the sharp glare of the mid-morning sun as it assaulted his swollen eyes. The ocean reflected its brightness making it difficult for his vision to adjust. Then he began to make out the aftermath of the storm’s fury.

Wreckage.

As far as the eye could see. From his left to his right, the shore was littered with debris and flotsam, much of it recognizable as remnants of the Starling, the three-masted vessel that bore him with its crew across the ocean to the New World. A body rested half buried in the rocky shore nearby, causing him to cry out and lurch to his feet. A crushing pain assaulted his senses and his vision darkened unexpectedly. He felt himself falling forward, then nothing. His awareness left him as he toppled over the giant driftwood and landed face-first among the rocks and gravel.

Judging from the subtle change in the sun’s position, along the Eastern horizon—he doubted he was out for very long. He groaned again as he became aware of additional pain from the cuts and bruises recently added to his face. “Best not attempt that again mate,” he muttered to himself as he struggled to his hands and knees, shaking his head wearily. Gods, what didn’t hurt? He tried to assess the damage as wave after wave of agony wracked his conscience. Dizziness and nausea gripped him as he tried once again to rise. Defeated, he let his body collapse once more, attempting to control his fall by rolling to his back so that he lay angled head down towards the nearby surf.

“Oh, bugger me!” He groaned. By subconsciously positioning his head below his trunk and legs, he maintained sufficient blood flow to his brain, allowing him to stay alert and absorb the enormity of his situation. Waves of pain pounded through his skull like a smith’s hammer. Every gasping breath caused sheer agony to rip through his ribs and chest. A throbbing heat in his left knee competed with the sharp painful spasms that stabbed his backside from his hip to his shoulder. When he tried to blink the irritating scratchy grit from his eyes, he realized his left orb was swollen shut. In the span of a few heartbeats, he determined that his left side was worse off than his right. “Well, ain’t this just fuckin grand!” he cursed with a painful croak. “Marky lad, you really landed in the shit this time.”

Closing his other eye, he took a moment to try and expand his understanding by listening to his surroundings. He ignored the constant hissing of the surf and cries of the ever-present gulls. Straining to glean any clues to his situation—voices, moans, any sign of activity other than surf or scavenger. He could hear nothing. Another wave of panic swept over him, and he heaved over toward his right side until prone. Looking up he found himself less than a dozen feet from the body he saw earlier. He shouted at the man weakly and made to lift his torso. He was barely able to pull his left arm forward, so he started with his right, slowly crawling his battered body through the sharp rocks and broken shells. The slope of the beach aided his progress and after an eternity of agonizing progress, he was able to reach the crewman and grab his shoulder. Shaking the body and shouting again he tried to get a response. It was futile. The man was well and truly dead. What was left of his head was so badly damaged that recognition was impossible. Gripped once again by nausea, Marcus shoved himself away from the corpse as the smell of putrefaction assaulted him. As he rolled painfully onto his left side, he began heaving violently. His throat burned as he spewed the contents of his stomach upon the rocks next to him. Burning bile mixed with the harsh seawater left him breathless and shivering. He was overwhelmed by despair as the reality of his situation overcame him. He began shaking as he wept. He trembled emotionally and tried to come to terms with it all. Just moments earlier he woke up in agony, lying on an unknown shore—wedged between two enormous pieces of driftwood. The last recollection before that was ... the storm.

The noise was incredible—the darkness complete, save when stripped away by the blinding spears of lightning that blotted out the inky blackness and blinded one’s vision. Between the ripping and howling wind and the crashing thunder, the ears were deaf to the cries of the crew. The ship floundered helplessly in the grip of the tempest, a storm so violent that no soul aboard the Starling considered survival—rather prayed for a quick and painless death.

Marcus Alexander Tanner stood on trembling legs, clinging precariously to the port stays supporting the aft mast. Known as a bright and courageous man of keen intellect, he found himself seized by the terror of his impending doom, unable to even consider his plight as he clung desperately to the dying vessel. In the darkness, he could only perceive the violent motion as the ship was wrenched about, lifted suddenly, and spun to and fro like a child’s toy in the grip of a mad god. As she heeled sharply, he felt himself being pulled down until he hung beneath the mast with the dark sea beneath him—only to be wrenched suddenly back up and higher as the vessel righted and submitted itself to the next crashing breaker. As he felt himself supported momentarily by the deck beneath his feet, he looked about him peering into the utter blackness.

Another blinding flash as a persistent blast of lightning crashed across the sky. It provoked a continuous chain effect that illuminated his surroundings as if it were suddenly day. Glancing aft he spotted the helm with no soul in control. Pol the first mate held that position just seconds before. He found no one on the deck as far as he could see. Aloft a man hung from the rigging by his feet, swinging violently about. The foremast was gone. Amidships awash with seawater that flowed and swirled about his feet. They were taking on water fast. It took him only seconds to glance about and as the light began to fade, he closed his eyes and lifted his face to the torrential rain. Another flash, further away prompted him to glance further out to sea. His heart froze when he saw the size of the waves marching towards them. Each was as high as a castle wall, each determined to crush and destroy them utterly. But with the distant flash of lightning, he saw something so terrible he felt all warmth leave his body. An enormous wave, far greater, so much taller that he had to strain his neck to see its combing peak. It was a mountain. A monster created by the gods themselves, consuming the very ocean itself as it sped towards them. It was terror. It was death.

The sun had risen higher, and the tide had encroached further up the shore as Marcus stopped to rest his haggard body. With the aid of a stout branch, its surface stripped bare and scoured clean by sand and sea, he was able to gingerly make his way along the shore—searching ... praying. With resignation and despair, he found no survivors. The few bodies he did discover were but a small tithe of the crew and colonists aboard. 38 souls total, and he alone to live and bear the agony of his loss. As he stood wearily glancing back at the hulk of the ship’s carcass, he became aware of more immediate concerns. His thirst was terrible, and he felt feverish. Nightfall would be upon him soon and his ultimate survival depended on his next course of action. He had to find water, food, and shelter. He had to clean and bind his wounds and search for anything that could help him.

Odd pieces of flotsam collected along the shore that he had passed. Amongst the debris he saw an occasional item of interest, that he moved further up the shore, out of the tide’s reach. Lengths of wood, piles of rope (so much rope and cordage from the ship’s rigging), a few small casks, and several barrels and boxes. He also scavenged a large piece of sailcloth. He knew he would have to reach the doomed vessel’s hull if he had any hope of finding any valuable tools and equipment. Part of a hatch with a bent hinge was set aside as he considered making a fire later. Now he only needed a piece of hard basalt or flint to strike a spark with. He sat upon a nearby log for a moment and studied the shore again. There was a layer of seaweed and detritus that lined the shore along its full length. Certain that this delineated the high tide mark, he set all his findings several feet beyond it. Studying the sun’s position and the advancing sea edge, he guessed that the tide would peak in a few more hours. It would ebb for many more before darkness fell, so he anticipated being able to venture further out to search for more items later.

Until then he clambered back to his feet and continued his way north along the coast slowly until he reached the last few items from the ship. Placing them a safe distance from the tide, he climbed slowly up the steeper part of the beach and then navigated his way awkwardly through the giant pieces of driftwood. A cliff rose before him, rising 100 feet at its highest point just before the hulk of the dead ship. It gradually tapered off towards him and disappeared around a bend as the northern shore turned inward towards the west. It was too far to explore in his current state, so he slowly ventured back down to his starting position. He had wandered several hundred yards from where he awoke. He studied the giant trees that rose from atop the sheer precipice to stand hundreds of feet even higher. He had never seen evergreens so big. He marveled at dozens of smaller trees that grew straight out from the rocky surface and then curved upwards along the cliff face.

He caught his breath when he spied a nearby patch of shore that glistened with moisture. He limped, skipped, and clambered his way as fast as possible until he discovered the flow of water along the rocks toward the ocean. It had to be fresh water! He glanced to where it flowed down the face of the cliff in small rivulets. It was not much but he was heartened as he scrubbed his hands and rinsed them free of the mud and grime from his scavenging. He stood beneath a small outcropping of rock that directed a small stream to fall a span away from the moist cliff face and let the water drip into his wide-open mouth. “Oh! Blessings of the Gods!” he croaked as the delicious moisture soothed his cracked tongue and parched throat. He felt immediate relief and strength from the replenishing liquid. He closed his eyes and let the tiny stream fall onto his head. He delicately rubbed his eyes and face and continued scrubbing his hair and beard. The relief was immediate, and he felt energized and renewed as he stepped back and shook out his mane.