A Ghost of a Desire

This little novel was an attempt to write an old-style fantasy story, like in the days when nearly every sci-fi and fantasy book you could get was under 50,000 words. This is just under 50,000 and is being published here for it's Sweet 16th Birthday. Enjoy it if you dare!

A Ghost of a Desire

By James Wilson

©1994

Chapter 1 - Land Ho!

Armand laughed as the sea hurled a gust of spray into his face. He clung precariously to the bowsprit, while the heavy seas around threw up watery hands to pull him into a smothering embrace. Armand wiped briny water from his face with a dripping sleeve, then gasped as he saw the huge wave approaching off the bow. He leapt suddenly from the bowsprit and managed to get one hand and most of his arm over the railing, where a couple of sailors hastily dragged him up and over. The three men lay upon the forecastle for a few moments, laughing and gasping and dripping, when the younger of the two sailors shouted out:

"Ware! The mother of all waves comes!"

The three young men scrambled aft, stumbling along the reeling deck like drunken men, until they reached the ladder to the quarterdeck.

"Get below!" cried Armand to his companions as he clambered up the ladder to the quarterdeck, then braced himself behind the railing as the ship rode up the front of the massive wave. The delicious sense of weightlessness as they crested the wave and began the descent was intoxicating, and Armand found himself disappointed when on its opposite side he could see only the house-sized swells that had been common through the storm thus far.

As they plowed through a few smallish waves Armand sprang to the next ladder and joined the captain by the tiller.

"That was very exciting, Captain," he cried as the older man grinned and shook his head. He was straining at the tiller with the steersman as they fought to keep their nose directly into the wind. He had little breath for words, but he allowed himself a quick sentence.

"The Jenny can take more'an that, my lord," he shouted, "she's a bonny bark, an I do say so meself."

"Can I spell one of you?" asked Armand, "I've done this before, you know."

The captain shook his head. Armand didn't argue; he knew that the few moments it might take to change places could be disastrous. In most storms they'd just tie the tiller and hope for luck, but the wind had changed so often during the last few hours that they didn't dare leave the tiller. Armand could see the strain and fatigue in their eyes and the quivering of their arms.

"I'll get another hand up here to help should you falter," he called as he slid down the ladder and slipped into the wardroom.

There were several men there, mostly looking rather ill, but Armand soon found who he was looking for.

"Percy, follow me," he said to a big, burly man with a scowl permanently attached to his face.

"Yes, master," said the man brusquely, getting to his feet and following Armand back out onto the deck.

They arrived on the poop just in time to see the steersman falter and slide down to the deck, though his grip on the tiller did not loosen. The captain maintained his hold and kept the straining tiller firm. After a few seconds, however, the tiller began to slowly move away from him.

Percy didn't need to be told what to do. He leapt forward, took the tiller and wrenched it back to its necessary position. Armand pried the captain loose and took the other side, bracing his feet against Percy's.