My Dear Fiona

Chapter 33 - Sailing in Winter

We left Kirkwall hours before dawn, under the glacial rays of a crescent moon, barely a sliver, whose glow was often veiled by passing clouds. Denise insisted on coming with me, although I knew the journey would be long and challenging in winter, and wished she could stay in Kirkwall so I wouldn't have to worry about her.

"Worry about yourself, Ethel. What makes you think you can handle yourself better than me?"

I chose to not respond, partly to avoid an argument, and partly because I was still not fully awake, and even though the hot coffee I was drinking helped, my mouth was still numb from the cold.

If you were never in the middle of the ocean at night, it's dark, even with the moon and the stars. The surface of the water turns to ink under the black sky. There are no familiar sights and no sound other than that of the waves lapping softly against the hull of the boat.

The departure was timed so we'd be crossing the channel at slack tide; the sea was flat like a mirror and the air was perfectly still, something that must have felt like a curse to you, Fiona.

I see the knotted rope you tied around your waist, the one you're absentmindedly touching with your fingers, seeking into the winds whether it was time to undo any of the knots just yet.

You saw Jorunn cast a spell on the rope before the journey, softly chanting as she worked on each knot, holding them in her hands to fill them with magic, calling out runes and ancient secrets to strengthen their power to control the winds.

She looks at you intently and you untie one of the knots, and the surface of the water quickens. You can feel its drag on the boat fasten under the inky sky. The clouds moved in, covering up the moon, and although you can't feel it, you can see the wind in the distance herding the clouds along like sheep.

The ship's sails billow as if suddenly full of spirit, only to quickly fall limp, like clothing hung up to dry. You reach for the rope again, but Jorunn stays your hand. You have to learn patience, young apprentice, patience, assurance, and control.

As the far-off winds come to you from the east, the ship lurches ahead, creating a commotion. The men hustle to alter the rigs and their breath is more noticeable in the dark of the frigid night than their faces, which are coated with kohl and antimony and adorned with tattoos.

The boat starts moving fast across the still water, heading towards the dark outline of the island in the distance, illuminated by the purplish-gray light of dawn.

"Look!" Denise shook me out of my reverie, pointing towards the horizon.

A thin dusting of light highlighted the boundary between water and sky, slowly growing wider before our eyes.

"We made good time," a member of the crew announced, proud. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The sky went from dark gray to a softer lavender hue, which was oddly chillier than the inky black we had been navigating through. It made Denise shiver.

"Someone walked upon your grave," I thought, but said nothing out loud. The mere thought of a distant time in the future when my sister would no longer be the embodiment of life itself seemed impossible and absurd.

"It's getting colder, eh?" she mumbled, displeased. "You'd think the sunrise would do the exact opposite."

"It's the thermal mass," I started to explain, but my sister's attention had already veered off.

Nothing compares to the feeling of being in the North Atlantic during winter in the darkest hours of the night, a feeling of being trapped and alone in the tiny bubble of safety that is your boat.