WILDER WAVES - Ireland 1588
The gale screamed in the rigging, a demon of unknown mythology. It battered and shoved the hull of the Santa Catalina, then lifted her up to the crest of a wave. The ship crashed through the rollers, flinging the sailors about like chaff. With raw fingers grasping at the soggy rigging, they struggled to rise again on the shuddering decks, knowing this night was their last. A sickening crack ripped through the darkness. Inyo wiped the rain from his face and ducked as tentacles of shredded ropes whipped past him.
Why, Inyo wondered, had the sea, his first love, become a savage beast today? He thought of the massive fleet when it left his hometown, Coruña, under summer skies two months ago. The magnificent Armada. Invincible, so it was said. Oh, the sight of hundreds of billowing sails and thousands of soldiers, sailors, and officers, all standing tall and straight as arrows. Muscles flexed under the gleam of their armor, determination and pride welling up in their faces. They were promised an easy campaign and certain victory. Among the many ships, all laden with cannons, ready to invade England in only a matter of days, was the Santa Catalina.
But today, she was a shadow, a skeleton of her former self, and she was alone at the edge of the world, amid the howl of the winds and the fury of the waves. Land had been spotted to the east that morning, Ireland, the crew had guessed, shocked at how far off course they were. They panicked when fog and rain veiled the faint coast again. They had to get to safety, away from the dangers of the coast, but how could they in this gale?
With his stomach growling and nightmares fogging up his mind, Inyo had tied into the safety line and labored alongside his gaunt shipmates, the pitiful remnants of Spain’s navy. Despite the roaring dissonance all around him, despite the violent and unpredictable motion of the ship, despite the icy rain clinging to his disheveled black hair, his eyes closed several times and he found himself slipping into the edge of unconsciousness. Hazy images of his home pulsed in his head. The port of Coruña on a sunny day, the timbers of his uncle’s trading vessel, tinged with the scent of dry pitch, his mother’s smile as she handed him a loaf of fresh-baked bread.
Inyo’s grasp on time had nearly dissolved, but then someone’s wail nearby snapped his attention back into the present and his eyes shot open. The waves reared higher and higher in the stiffening gusts. Inyo cast a dejected glance at the furled sails and frail masts, useless limbs, trembling in fear. While the dismal afternoon surrendered to twilight, the ship continued her feverish and helpless tarantella in the gloom.
Ocean thundered in anger and swept over the crumbling decks. The hollow face of Martínez, the sailing captain, sinking to his knees next to Inyo, spoke of hopelessness and defeat as the Catalina jolted and creaked. Martínez was balled up now, weeping. There was nothing he or anyone else could do. The ship and her crew were entirely at the mercy of the elements. Inyo, shivering in the rain, shielded his eyes from the needle-sharp spray. An involuntary sob escaped through his clenched teeth.
The shrieking around him intensified, slashed into his thoughts, and tore apart all sense of time. His grip on the ropes tightened as the Catalina shot up to the summit of another monstrous roller, tilting as she fell into the trough. One after another, the sailors were plucked off their feet again, fell hard, and cowered where they landed. Certain death was awaiting them all; surely it was only a matter of time. Inyo squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to escape the dread that raked over him.
Fears flashed in his mind, scenes of lightning-lit cliffs, of hulls cracking open, of bodies flung into the waves. While timbers screeched under his feet, another spar fractured in the darkness above his head. He whipped forward, landing on a rail, the impact jarring his breath, sending a sharp pain through his ribs. The sudden weight of wet canvas slapped his back.
A final, booming wave barreled into the ship’s hull, forcing her to surrender. The churning ocean devoured the decks, engulfed Inyo, squeezed a voiceless scream from his burning throat, swallowed him whole, pulled him under, heedless of his twisting and jerking. Panic had seized him so forcefully that he couldn’t edge a single thought past its rage, its frigid mass. He was only half-aware of his fingers fumbling with the rope tied around his waist. In the rush to unravel the knot, a golden ring slipped off his numb hand unnoticed. Its glimmer spiraled and vanished into the murky deep.
Kicking and kicking and kicking his legs against the surge, Inyo broke through the waves with a choking gasp, his arms flailing. He was desperate to free himself from the chaotic tangle of rigging all around him. With a cruel promise of reaching the heavens, the ocean lifted him high like a cork, then snatched away all his hopes and pulled him under.
—
That night, waves of unimaginable height crashed into the rocky headlands of Ireland’s west coast, where farmers and fishermen cowered under thatched roofs.
In the village of Barna, a mile from where the Catalina sank into her watery grave, forlorn flames quivered in the fireplace of a cottage. Rain drummed on the door in a relentless staccato. Window shutters rattled in belligerent protest under the clawing of the wind. “Haven’t had a storm like this in a long time,” Brian Morris mumbled as he lifted his lantern to inspect the roof. Stubborn and strong, like the land's inhabitants, the hand-hewn timbers of his farmhouse soared above his head, holding out against the elements. “I reckon we’ll be alright,” he added with an encouraging nod as he made his way past his daughter.
Hunching under a blanket, the girl frowned at the dimming fire, lips pressed together into a hard line. The glow of embers reflected in her pale face, in the furl and frizzle of her rebellious hair. It was impossible to sleep that night. The unusual summer storms and high winds of the previous weeks now culminated in a sinister crescendo. Never before had Finley heard nature in such fury. Drawing a ragged breath, she reached for a poker and thrust it into the hissing flames, unleashing a scattering of sparks. She added a log to the grate and wrapped the wool blanket tightly around her shoulders again while the storm outside raged on.
What was this gnawing unease? It rose in her chest, like the anemic smoke from wet kindling, writhing snakes that insistently wafted into the edges of her thoughts, unmistakably like five years ago, during that awful week when she found out about Falkyn and his drowning.
