The smuggling ship was not a large vessel, but it was a fast one. During the five years that Renado had worked on board with his Uncle Vanci, they had outrun at least a dozen ships in pursuit. But, with strong winds and dark horizons to the south, the Dispatch sped across the Grey Sea.
“That’s no simple rainstorm,” Vanci said, for the third time. They were about halfway through the voyage, with another week to the coast. It was always difficult to match their trajectory to the stars perfectly. Sailors regularly emerged in other cities or regions than their targeted destination, so it could take two weeks to reach Sheld if they were unlucky.
Renado turned away from the dark clouds in the distance. “I don’t want to have to harbour at Lo Mallago for the duration of a hurricane…” The winds were chilled, and his uncle and he rested on a bench on the deck with cloaks wrapped about themselves.
“At least we’d be welcome there,” Vanci said, with a smirk.
“It’s Father’s pet project,” Renado said. “I’d rather drown than spend my time with his livestock.”
Vanci shook his head and looked back into the ocean. Sometimes he read a book, but today he did not. He just watched the skies. Renado helped Omma repair some lengths of rope by tying them together and feeding them through metal rigging pieces. Vanci kept extras of everything in his cargo hold; though it sometimes cost them space, it had also saved their ship countless times. Omma had pale skin for a man from Sheld, and many of the ship’s crew teased him with questions of his parentage. But, he was a sturdy man and the strongest aboard. He had proved himself again and again, in his loyalty. Ren remembered the time they had run aground a rock in Copper Bay; though Omma had the scars on his feet and shoulder to show for it, he had pushed the whole Dispatch, against the current, off the rock before swimming back aboard.
That evening, Renado and the others had a quick dinner of fish and salted bread. The winds had picked up enough that they kept only a skeleton crew on the top deck all afternoon, while the rest took shelter in their bunks or the cargo hold. It was as dark as night already.
The storm got worse, pelting the ship with huge drops of rain. Zashee and Bran filled buckets of water from parts of the deck that didn’t already have drains. The masts groaned, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the skies.
Vanci spotted it first: an island on the horizon. “Land!” he shouted. “We’ll find shelter there!”
“Is it Dusk?” asked Asar.
Vanci didn’t answer, simply twisted the steering wheel, with Renado’s help, and tied it in place.
Asar was insistent. “Is it the Isle of Dusk?”
“I don’t know,” Vanci replied, his voice strained and full of the same fear that Asar had expressed.
The dark spot on the grey horizon drifted closer, over the next few hours, as the island drifted closer. Its rocky contour became clear. Somewhere, up a long slope, Renado could see trees being lashed by the gale, but there was no sign of light or structure up there. The Isle was large enough that from no side, could the middle be seen.
If it was the Isle of Dusk, they were as likely to be never seen again as they were to be aided. Dozens of ships had sailed too close to the mystical place and had not returned. But Vanci had made a good judgement, in Renado’s eyes. Behind them, in the violent darkness, there was no chance of survival.
They found no coves or lagoons to hide within, but they moored the Dispatch on the north side of the island as close to a sheltering boulder as they dared, and waited out the storm.