Shand: Expedition I

It was early afternoon on the twenty-first day of his journey when Shand rowed through floating wreckage. The sea breeze was cooler than usual, moving fast and attacking with a stinging mist. Shand's fair skin did not agree with such conditions. His face was chapped and sore, his knuckles cracked and red. He tasted a hint of blood as he sniffed and breathed through a raw throat. His exhales were insulated beneath the pelts, heating his neck and chest.

Shand was a strong young man—more capable than most grown men. He stood slightly shorter than average, but he was dense and just as wide as a big man. He had a light green iris in his undamaged eye with an unusual amount of yellow highlights. His nose and cheeks were sprinkled with light freckles that complemented a thin auburn beard too new to even start the braid his tribesmen wore.

He adjusted the skins that wrapped his head to watch the beach with his good eye. The rocky shores and steep cliffs to which he was accustomed had disappeared two days ago, giving way to grey sand beaches gently sloping into dense, green forest.

Before long, he spotted cargo—crates and containers of all sorts. Some floated just off shore, being pulled and pushed by the surf. Others were partially sunken in the sand just beyond the tide. Wreckage was everywhere, but he saw no bodies, alive or dead.

For the remainder of the morning, he kept the boat just offshore, watching the beach and tree line. Shand did not need additional supplies, and he knew Uncle Royce would have his throat for even considering going ashore.

But Royce was not there, and Shand had never been much of a spectator.

After lightly beaching his rig, Shand grabbed his small axe and jumped down to the sand. It had been over a week since his last stop, and his land legs were unsure at best. He moved slowly while inspecting the mess, expecting to see something gruesome protruding from the sand or peeking out from under the piles of broken boards.

Shand wondered how large the vessel must have been. The boards were wider and longer than anything he had seen.

It must have been as big as a whale.

It must have taken ten rowers to move the monster.

He remembered the first time he'd heard of a spine and board boat. It had been the biggest news ever to hit his village. He remembered how excited his father was after seeing what he called a "plank boat" at sea, and the story of his father chasing the strange boat and its two backward-facing paddlers into a storm, only to lose them in the waves and nearly drown. He remembered the friendly competition among his village's fisherman to recreate the design and leave their primitive tree-hollowed boats in the past. It seemed to be the topic of every conversation: whose boat was looking the best, were oars really better than paddles, and if the boats would even work at all. The fishermen would work late into the night, visiting one another's worksites to discuss new ideas and poke fun at each other's mistakes. This infused an energy into his tribe like never before. He remembered how everyone seemed brighter, taller. People spoke to each other in a friendlier way and seemed more willing to help one another. A sense of community was formed that had not been there before.

The crates were unopened, and Shand saw no tracks, so he relaxed a little and began popping open the boxes with his axe. Mostly, he saw what he expected—ceramic jugs and vases packed in straw, holding grain and water. His only unique find was a crate packed with jugs full of a clear, potent type of alcohol he had never smelled before.

I should not have stopped, he thought. A silly mistake I cannot take back.

On his hurried return to the boat, Shand realized he had left one crate unopened. He tried to ignore the voice in his head, persuading him in its raspy whisper to go back for the crate's unknown contents. "You can't just leave the last one... There is only one more... You know you're going back. Might as well make it now, and quick." Shand slowed to a stop "You're right," he grumbled.