‘Looks like a washed up adventurer to me!’ he says in answer to his own question, ‘all wet and out of luck.’ He seems to be talking to someone next to him, although you are certain he is alone. ‘Well, well, well, what have we here, friends?’ asks the old man. His eyes have a feverish bright look that is suggestive of either a mystic or a madman. Confronting you is an old man clad in a dirty loin-cloth. Wary of danger, you lose no time in getting to your feet.
For a while the undertow threatens to drag you down, then suddenly a wave catches you and flings you contemptuously up on to the beach.īattered and bedraggled you lie gasping for breath until you hear someone walking along the shore towards you. Striking out wildly, you try to swim clear of the razor-sharp rocks. There is the snap of timber, the roaring crescendo of the waves – and then silence as you go under. The little boat is spun around, out of control, and goes plunging in towards the coast. A howling wind whips plumes of spindrift across the sea. Steering towards the cliffs, you feel the boat judder against rough waves. Have you been sailing along the coast all this time without realising the mainland was so close? Sure enough, a line of white cliffs lie a league to the north. You leap to your feet and scan the horizon. Then it strikes you – where there’s a seagull, there may be land. After a moment of stunned surprise, you look up and curse the seagull circling directly overhead. According to your reckoning, you should have reached the east coast of Harkuna, the great northern continent, days ago.Ī pasty grey blob splatters on to the map. Every detail is etched into your memory by now. Securing the tiller, you unroll the map and study it again. You never expected to die in an open boat before your adventures even began. As a child you dreamed of nothing else but the magical quests that were in store if you too became an adventurer. You remember his stirring tales of far sea voyages, of kingdoms beyond the western horizon, of sorcerous islands and ruined palaces filled with treasure. Sealed in a scroll case tucked into your jerkin is the parchment map your grandfather gave you on his death-bed.
There is a little water sloshing in the bottom of the barrel by your feet, but not enough to see you through another day. Slowly the chill of night gives way to brazen warmth. The sun appears in a trembling burst of red fire at the rim of the world. It marks the north, and by keeping it to port you know you are still on course. Holding the tiller of your sailing boat, you keep your gaze fixed on the glittering constellation known as the Spider.
The approach of dawn has turned the sky a milky grey-green, like jade.
0 kommentar(er)
