North of Silence

“North of Silence”

By Timothy Webber

The water was talking to him again.

Not loud. Just that slow, rhythmic sound, waves licking at wood, brushing against his shoulders, whispering things he didn’t quite understand. At first, he thought it might be someone breathing beside him. But no one was there.

He floated alone.

His body ached in places he couldn’t name. Legs numb. Hands useless. The life vest hugged his chest, soaked through and heavy, holding him up but offering little comfort. It smelled of salt and oil and something older, something like rusted iron or the inside of a dying ship.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out here.

The sky was a dull, endless sheet of grey, without sun, without shape. A thick fog clung low to the water, swallowing the horizon. No birds. No sound except the sea itself.

His eyes stung. He blinked against the wet air. For a moment, he thought about letting go. Just relaxing his body, slipping beneath the surface. Would it be so different?

But then, something stirred in him. A thread of memory. A tug at the corner of his mind.

There had been a ship.

Yes.

The Cassandra.

British freighter. Sluggish and unarmed, hauling crates of ammunition and canned meat and spare boots to Halifax. She wasn’t pretty, but she’d done her job, sailing under gray skies and rough waves with a quiet stubbornness. The men onboard joked she was too ugly to sink.

Tom had been one of those men. Engine crew. Twenty-six. Too thin, always cold. He’d left behind a rented room in Portsmouth and a girl who worked in a munitions factory.

Her name was Alice.

She had red hair and a temper. Said she’d wait for him, but not forever. He remembered the way she looked the day he left, eyes dry, jaw set. Brave. He loved her for that.

He hadn’t written in a week. Had planned to when they reached port.

The torpedo came before that.

He remembered standing topside for air. Jenkins was beside him, muttering about his busted lighter. There was a clear sky, calm water. Then, nothing.

A boom so deep it felt like the ship’s bones were cracking. Metal twisted. Steam hissed. Screams.

Tom barely had time to see the fire before the rail smacked into his ribs and sent him flying. The sea hit him like a wall, then swallowed him whole.

And now, this.

He didn’t remember putting on the vest. Maybe someone shoved it on him. Maybe it was dumb luck.

He let his eyes close again, just for a moment. Not to sleep, he couldn’t afford that, but to rest. To think.

That’s when he saw it.

Off to the right, half lost in the mist, a shape. Faint. Unmoving.

He blinked, sat up straighter. Every muscle in his back screamed.

It was a boat. Small. Wooden. A lifeboat.

His breath caught.

For a long second, he wasn’t sure it was real. The fog made everything uncertain. But it didn’t disappear. It bobbed gently on the water, fifty yards out, maybe less.

He kicked. Weakly at first. Then again, stronger.

His legs dragged behind him, half-useless. His arms pushed through the cold with slow, sloppy strokes. The sea resisted. The life vest rode up under his chin. But the boat was getting closer.

He thought of Alice.

Of her laugh, that sharp, surprised laugh when he told her he couldn’t dance. Of how she used to hum while slicing bread. Of the smell of her neck, soap and tobacco and something sweet beneath it.

He kept going.

His hands finally touched wood. The lifeboat’s side was slick with spray. A rope dangled over the edge.

He grabbed it. Pulled.

Slipped.

His shoulder hit the hull with a crack.

Again.

His arms trembled. He cursed under his breath, though it came out as more of a groan.

Third time, he hooked an elbow over the edge. Got his knee up. Then, with a noise that wasn’t quite a yell, he threw himself over.

He landed hard, face-first, on the wooden slats. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just lay there, gasping, the cold wrapped around him like a second skin.

Eventually, he rolled onto his side.

The boat was empty.

No one. No oars. No rations. Just a single emergency blanket folded beneath a bench, stiff with frost.

He pulled it over his shoulders anyway.

His teeth chattered. His fingers had gone white. He flexed them slowly, one by one, reminding himself they still existed.

The sea was quiet now. A few icebergs drifted nearby, jagged and slow-moving. The fog had thickened, hiding everything beyond a few dozen yards.

He sat upright, back against the side of the boat. Stared into the grey.

He thought of Jenkins. Of the harmonica always in his pocket. Of Holloway, who swore he’d open a bakery after the war, even though he couldn’t cook. Of the cook himself, bless him, who never once managed to make porridge that didn’t taste like seawater.

Were they gone?

He didn’t know. Maybe someone else had made it to another lifeboat. Maybe not.

Maybe this was it.

Then, sound.

A horn.

Deep. Low. Distant.

He sat up straighter, heart suddenly thudding.

Again, the horn. Closer.

Then, light.

A thin beam, white and cutting, moving slowly across the mist. A searchlight.

He stood, legs shaking, and waved the blanket like a flag.

“Here!” he shouted. “Over here!”

The light swept past.

“Please! I’m here!”

He screamed until his voice cracked. Waved until his arms gave out.

The beam passed once more, farther away this time. Then the horn again, fainter.

And then, silence.

He waited.

The light didn’t come back.

He sat down, slowly. The blanket pooled in his lap. The sea rocked the boat gently. His body trembled. He wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or something else.

Had they seen him? Would they return?

Maybe. Maybe not.

He tilted his head back, looked at the blank sky above.

His lips moved, but no words came.

He thought of Alice, and warmth, and bread, and home.

And then he closed his eyes.

And waited.