The Captain's Pipe

The first raindrop hesitated on Captain Jonan Dust’s beard. It was so astonished by its own landing that it forgot to trickle any further into the tangled whiskers. More drops followed, lingering as they traced the creases in the captain’s scowling face, deepening the lines of worry. His sharp eyes all but glowed from the sunburnt, weathered skin.

Dust stood on the bridge, studying the bank of storm-clouds piling up ahead of the ship. He was no longer convinced that stealing this vessel today had been a sensible idea.

One last pull on the pipe, then he tucked it carefully into his waistcoat pocket beside two mismatched buttons and a scrap of paper, before it could get completely soaked.

A crack of thunder boomed overhead.

“Starboard thirty degrees!” he bellowed, drowning out even the sky’s protest.

The helmsman strained against the wheel at once.

“The other starboard!” Dust roared again. At last the ship began turning the correct way. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. His own fault, really. He’d needed a crew quickly and cheaply, no fuss. Yet ever since they’d set off—nothing but fuss.

“Captain!” shouted Bodal, the first mate. “It’s raining!”

“What a piercing observation.” Dust was beginning to doubt the man had ever stepped foot in a boat, though he claimed to have sailed the seas of Kaldar for decades. The tales he’d told in the tavern…

“Get everything movable below deck. Lash down the rest. It won’t be just rain in a moment.”

“What about Olivar, sir?” asked one of the sailors—so far the most competent one.

“Captain,” Dust corrected.

“Captain!”

“What?”

“Olivar…”

Dust leaned out from the bridge and glanced aft. Olivar—who had also signed on as a sailor—stood at the stern. He’d been clinging to the rail ever since they’d left harbour, knuckles white, face slightly green… though his stomach had long since emptied itself. Dust had mistrusted him from the handshake alone: far too clean hands, and a grip so feeble it had made his stomach turn. But that much was certain: he was an idi— weirdo—he’d worked for free.

“Tie him there,” Dust said at last. “Make sure he doesn’t fall overboard.” Wouldn’t be a great loss, but at least he doesn’t eat. And his boots might be worth something.

Then the downpour hit—suddenly, violently, as if a bucket had been upended over their heads. Several buckets, really. The wind rose, so the rain lashed their faces and necks rather than falling from above.

There was no room for shouting now; the roar swallowed every word.

The ship bucked on the rising swells. Dust snatched up a coil of rope and pushed towards the stern. At one step the wind hurled him forward, at the next he had to cling to a spar not to be thrown backwards.

The ship groaned beneath them, planks creaking and joints shrieking as if the whole hull might splinter at any moment. But Dust knew this vessel could endure far worse storms. The crew… well, that was another matter.

With practiced hands he wrapped the rope around Olivar and fastened him to the rail. The boy’s feet didn’t always touch the deck—gusts lifted him clear—but he still clung on.

“Stay here!” Dust yelled into his ear, though the bindings made movement impossible anyway.

Step by step he fought his way back to the bridge and shouted down the speaking funnel:

“What’s happening with the engine?”

“Shut it down! It’s coughing a bit!” came the faint reply.

Dust’s face darkened further.

“I don’t care if it’s praying—start it again. I need at least half power. Now!”

The last thing they needed was to trust the storm and drift helplessly.

The hull trembled under his feet. The engine spluttered, then settled into a low hum. Dust couldn’t hear it—but he knew it.

He glanced down. The helmsman still held steady—unfortunately so did the storm. No faint light in any direction. Still, if they kept their heading, they would break free eventually.

Then the rain shifted. For a few heartbeats it fell straight down. The wind died. And then—just as suddenly—the rain, too, ceased. The sky was torn open in every direction; above them the cloud seemed lighter—not black but a dirty grey.

The eye of the storm? He’d heard of it, but never believed in such tales. Sailors’ legends, nothing more. And he’d never been foolish enough to charge into a storm’s heart of his own will.

The waves smoothed out, the sea stretched flat as if someone had pulled it taut. A few bubbles surfaced to port. And more bubbles. Then a barrel. Broken planks.

We’re taking on water! flashed through his mind. Dust shouted down:

“Engine room! Are we flooding?”

“No, Captain. All fine. Running at half power.”

“Ease it down but don’t—do not—shut it off.”

“Yes, Captain.”

More fragments drifted up. On one of them, a few painted letters remained: A L M.

Not our ship! He drew out his pipe—cold long ago, only the stem between his teeth.

Though the other vessel had probably gone under, there might still be survivors. No one is left behind at sea. The risk was high: a wanted fugitive in a stolen ship, and the rest of the crew running from who-knew-what. The wreck could even be the BALMoral, full of soldiers.

But life is dull without risk. And the sea had its own rules. Rules that left no room for such considerations.

“Roger! Twenty degrees to port!” Dust called, pointing towards the trail of drifting debris.

The calm tempted the crew out. They leaned on the rail, peering at the rippling water among the wreckage.

Bodal spotted them first.

“Man in the water!” he shouted, pointing ahead.

“Don’t shout—I’m right beside you,” Dust growled. “Off you go then. Launch a boat!”

He stepped back onto the bridge. “Engine room, stop! Drop anchor!”

As the boat touched water, the heavens split open again. Dust glared upwards.

“Why are you doing this to me?” He hurried down, tossing another rope towards the boat.

“Grab it, Bodal! Got them?”

The deluge blurred the world to shifting shapes below. The rain swallowed all sound—even the men beside him. For a heartbeat the rope went taut—then he realised the ship was rising. A massive swell heaved it upward, flinging the little boat high above deck level.

They all leapt aside as it crashed onto the planks. Splinters flew with the rain. The boat shattered into a thousand pieces.

But the passengers somehow survived.

Dust clung to a pillar so the wind wouldn’t sweep him away, blinking at the figure struggling upright among the remains.

Woman. A woman on my deck! We’re done for.

“Back below! Off the deck!” he barked at the crew, sweeping his arms wide to drive them down the companionway.

A sharp crack tore through the storm’s fury. Dust froze; pain shot up his spine as if his own back had snapped. But it was only the ship’s—the stolen ship’s—keel giving way. A deep howl followed, monstrous and mournful, though it was only the vessel crying out in agony.

“That’s it, lads.”

He ducked into a doorway, coaxing one last breath of life from his pipe.

“Olivia!” a voice reached him. He looked out. Olivar fought his way forward. The ropes were gone, and something fierce burned in his eyes—something unsettling that made Dust’s stomach clench.

The ship lurched bow-first. Olivar slipped and slid towards the forecastle. Something lashed from his hand—long, whip-like. Dust shook his head, wiping the rain from his eyes.

The woman also slid, skidding towards the rails. But the whip caught her, winding round her waist.

Olivar braced both legs and pulled—with those same weak hands—until the ship’s bow rose again, chaos overturning everything. Dust was hurled against the doorframe. He grabbed for his pipe. It skittered across the bridge; he scrambled after it, clutching at whatever he could as the deck lurched beneath him. A lone old boot snagged his hand—he flung it aside—and at last his fingers closed around the pipe’s stem.

He pulled himself upright and looked back. The stern was gone. Simply… not there. Left behind somewhere. Everything groaned and screamed.

The ship tilted—this time sideways. Dust clutched the rail, dangling in mid-air, trying to secure his pipe as the water loomed closer.

No. He wasn’t giving up. After all this rain, he certainly didn’t need a bath.

But the sea hadn’t given up either. The next wave tore him from the ship.

He didn’t even notice losing his grip. Water slammed over his head; after the thunderous roar came a deafening, smothering silence.

Darkness.

Bubbles drifted past his body, offering no sense of direction. Which way was the surface? If there was a surface.

Even if there was. No rope, no plank, not even a barrel. Like any true old sea-dog, he had never learnt to swim. That was what ships were for.

And a captain without a ship… well, he was worth even less than a ship without a captain.

Something coiled round his waist. Something alive. Dust grabbed at it to tear it off. Not an animal. More like a plant—roots or vines twisted together.

A pull. His lungs burning. He hoped he’d drown before some seaweed devoured him. The thought annoyed him profoundly. Something thudded in his head, insistent, as if trying to break in.

Then his head burst through the surface. He coughed, spluttered, gasped, clutching at anything he could.

Hands seized him and hauled him into a boat. He reached his waist—no weed, nothing. Had he imagined it? No. He hadn’t drunk that much. Not even last night.

“Captain,” Bodal’s voice finally reached him. “The ship. She’s sunk.”

“You don’t say.”

The whole crew was in the second lifeboat—even the stoker. His jaw tightened. The women too. He didn’t ask how they’d managed it. Blind luck, that was all.

The rain still fell, but the waves were smoothing out.

Dust straightened. A boat was still a command. And he was still the captain. Kneeling in the bow, he crawled forward.

“Oars. That way,” he ordered, pointing without hesitation.

“Captain,” came the stoker’s voice. Dust turned. “We’ve no oars.”

“Brilliant. Any other good news?”

“We’re alive, sir.”

He sighed, nearly corrected the sailor—Captain—but let it pass. Not enough time left to teach him. Patting his pockets for his pipe, he found nothing.

Irritation flared—until he noticed something else: the boat was moving. Not drifting—travelling, in the direction he’d indicated.

He scanned the crew. No oars anywhere.

But Olivar’s hand hung over the side. The other held the younger woman’s. Dust lifted an eyebrow; the gesture smoothed half his weathered face, making him look oddly younger.

Olivia. Yes—the name Olivar had shouted. So the boy knew the girl.

That whip-like thing coiling round Olivia—and that something had coiled round him as well.

Not imagination then. Or was it?

The weak-handed Olivar, whose hand now wasn’t even visible beneath the water—and the boat was moving.

“Don’t dip your hand in the sea—you’ll have something biting it off.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Olivar smiled but did not withdraw his hand.

The captain’s other eyebrow crept up to join the first, smoothing his whole face above his wild beard. Only now did he notice just how calm the boy looked—and not remotely green.

“You’re aware that disobeying orders is one step from mutiny, and I ought to drag you under the ship?”

“Yes, Captain. But I am following your order.”

“Right, that’s enough. Start talking. Who in blazes are you? Because you’re certainly no sailor. And who are these women?”

“I didn’t ask you either, Captain.”

“That’s true. But as captain, I need to know what’s happening on my ship… my boat.”

“I’d never been a sailor before. Always wanted to try. Thank you, Captain.”

“My kindness will lay me in my grave one day.”

“The young lady, Olivia, is my fiancée,” Olivar said softly. “She doesn’t know it yet. But I followed the ship because… without her, I am not whole.”

“And I… I feel the same,” Olivia whispered. “Whatever he is, whatever I am—we’re only complete together.” She clung to his hand as if afraid someone might tear him away. “I was kidnapped.”

“Who by?” Dust asked, though the moment he said it, he realised he didn’t much care. Anyone foolish enough to transport a woman by sea had already received their punishment.

“My father,” Olivia said—so faintly that the rain stopped, just to let her be heard.

Dust scratched his beard. A pipe would have been marvellous right now. Why would anyone abduct his own daughter? Best not ask. Curiosity killed.

He turned instead to the brightening horizon. The sea had smoothed itself; it, too, had had a long day. The clouds parted, their thinning tatters waving farewell to one another as they drifted apart.

Behind the boat, in the west, streaks of gold and violet painted the sky. Ahead, the dark, solid outline of land emerged. The boat headed straight for it.

Dust asked no more questions. Even what he suspected made his head ache—and without his pipe, he wasn’t prepared to face whatever he had seen. Or thought he’d seen. Sailors sometimes saw things… but everybody laughed at them. He didn’t want to be one of them. No thinking. No asking. No telling.

Just ahead. He was only thinking about the next step. Once they reached shore, he would find a new harbour, a new ship, and certainly a new crew.

But first—a new pipe.

Though he knew it wouldn’t be quite like the old one.