The Wreckers
Ken Hoover
No one else in the crew wanted to lead a donkey along the cliff’s edge at night, so Agwe Delmas volunteered. Only by the light of the waning moon and the lantern hanging around the donkey’s neck could he see the silver path, slick with sea spray. Occasionally, the donkey tried to break free, but Agwe had wrapped the lead around his meaty hand several times so he could drag the poor creature along. At nearly forty years—old for a seaman—he was a stout, thick-limbed man, hardened by a childhood in the shipyard and decades on the seas. But if the donkey went over the edge, they would both plummet to their deaths.
Two asses bound together, he thought.
Agwe reached his spot and stopped to inhale the salty mist. Dew had collected on his broad shoulders and dreadlocks. The night air was cold, so he huddled in his longcoat, which still bore the hole in the breast pocket where he’d rammed a cutlass into the previous owner.
Dragontooth Cove was named for malicious spires of rock that lay beneath the surface, protruding only at low tide. For a long while, he stared at the dark sea and listened to the waves hissing in and out of the cove like a sleeping dragon.
One of his fellow crewmen whistled somewhere below. Another echoed the call from high on the cliff. Agwe saw the lights of the incoming ship, then whistled back. Ship approaching, they all said. The crew was scattered on high rocks and in caves, their lanterns bobbing in the dark. To those at sea, the lights would signal safe harbor.
They all went silent as the ship drew into the cove.
He heard the deep thunder and lightning-crack of splintering wood as the ship’s hull caromed off the first rocky fang, then another, and then its hull smashed into a shelf of rock, the mast jarring loose with a deafening squeal. From inside the vessel came the sounds of agony and death—men hurled about, thrown overboard, and crushed by shifting cargo. Sails flashed in the darkness. The mast twirled and jabbed like a rapier.
Between the force of the sea and the strength of the cliff, the ship was quickly unmade.
At sunrise, when the tide was low enough, the wreckers descended upon the ship’s carcass like crabs. Agwe’s fellow crewmen celebrated. If their sources were correct, this was a Corcovian galleon, heavy-laden with gold and silver. While that was plenty to cheer over, Agwe was a shipbuilder’s son and knew what it took to transform lumber into seaworthy vessels. He’d come home well after dark, his fingers bleeding from hammering nails, cutting wood, and hefting planks, and then he and his father would wake early and do it all over again. To take part in a ship’s destruction was a heavy anchor on his soul.
Tattered canvas sails draped the rocks like black shrouds, and it was beneath one of these that he found the bloated, gray corpse. The dead man wore black livery, covered in constellations of sand.
The color of pirates and priests, he thought.
He took the cutlass from the belt, searched the pockets and pouches, and removed the boots. Then he saw a silver chain looped around the corpse’s neck. Attached to it was a silver medallion—an engraved kraken with ruby eyes. Only the Avants of the Sea Goddess wore them. To seafolk, priests were sacred. Even pirates let them be. To kill one was a heinous crime. To destroy their ship was unheard of.
He backed away from the corpse into the sunlight.
“Ill luck to touch a seaman’s corpse,” said Tom Hatchet. “They are gifts for Amadah now.”
“’Tis worse than that,” he said, nudging the corpse with his boot. “One of her Avants.”
“Here, too, looks like,” said Klip, pointing to a black shape on the rocks. She was a fierce woman, yet her eyes were fearful.
Tom shook his head, eyes wild with panic. “No, no, no. The Usher of Souls’ll come and lock us in the Sea Goddess’s cages for all eternity. I won’t be no lobster.” With that, he scuttled up the rocks toward town.
A cold breeze howled through the cove, and Agwe fought the urge to run with Tom.
Agwe was a wrecker out of necessity. He owed La Roche, a vicious moneylender, who had threatened his wife and daughter if Agwe failed to pay his outstanding debt. He couldn’t blame Marisha for throwing him out, yet nothing was more precious to him than his daughter. He thought of Raeni’s sweet smile and her big eyes, so full of goodness, and it made him sick to his stomach to know he’d put her at risk. He had to make this right.
He eyed the silver chain and the medallion. The ruby eyes were a small fortune on their own, while the rest could be melted down. It was a good find. Enough to pay off La Roche and free his family of danger. He took the medallion off the priest’s body and hung it around his neck. It was an act of defiance and blasphemy that made a few of the crew gasp. But once they saw no harm came to him, they returned to scavenging, though he noticed they didn’t go near the corpses. Some superstitions couldn’t be shaken.
The cove was an amphitheater of sorts, with great shelves of rocks naturally carved into the cliff base. The breeze howled and whistled through the caves and along the tiers. Mist curled around the spires jutting from the shallow water.
Sunlight gleamed on a gold coin. As he stooped to pluck it from the dark rock, cold water flooded his ankles and washed the coin away.
“Tide’s rushin’ in!” shouted Klip, her voice shrill.
“Goddess have mercy,” he heard someone else say.
The tide wasn’t due for hours. Agwe didn’t believe in the Sea Goddess anymore, but he believed in the tide. And he saw it now, swelling in the cove, rising impossibly fast. The wreck was already half-drowned.
It can’t be, he thought as water sloshed around his waist.
As the crew scurried to safety, he saw one of the men slip beneath the water, and then a second and a third. The rush of the waves and the shocking cold of the sea held him fast, and he went under.
Most seamen didn’t know how to swim, but his father had taught him how to fish, cast nets, and gather clams; how to read the weather and navigate by the sun and stars; how to select, cut, and shape wood; and how to swim. And he wanted now, more than anything, to do those things for his sweet daughter. All of the things he should’ve done, but hadn’t. Teach her how to bait a hook, where to find the best flowers and seashells. Teach her to fight, to read. How to hammer nails into wood, and how to float in water. He wanted to watch her grow from a child to a young woman.
A strong undercurrent hauled him out to sea, and he tumbled beneath the surface, not knowing which direction was up. Beneath the churning water, he saw the shadows of his crewmen and the ruins of the shipwreck suspended all around.
And then he felt a presence behind him, silent as the grave.
His father had preached to him about the Sea Goddess his whole life. She granted safe passage to ships, offered blessings for a successful haul, or made ships vanish. He’d never truly believed in Her, but now Her presence loomed undeniable, ancient and powerful, as immense as roiling storm clouds. Innumerable black tentacles writhed in the darkness. Her vastness overwhelmed him, and he felt Her great whirlpool eyes looking right at him, churning and raging in his mind. The water held him in a crushing grip.
He’d never felt so insignificant.
He recalled the last line of a prayer said before a ship set sail, and he chanted it in his mind. She is the wondrous deep. She is the wondrous deep. The medallion’s eyes flared to life, glowing in the dark water like embers.
His lungs were burning, nearly drained of air. The grip on him coiled tighter, hauling him down, down, into the darkness. He hit the sandy seafloor in an explosion of silt. The water dropped like curtains all around him and drained away. Salt burned his nose and throat, and he coughed it out.
He lay in a large grotto. Light shimmered on the walls as if reflected off pools of water, giving Agwe the sensation of being underwater though he was somehow breathing cool air. From everywhere came the constant rushing sound of a whirlpool.
In the center of the space stood a large pool of black water, round as an eye. Crude benches made of porous volcanic rock surrounded it. At one end of the grotto stood a pulpit shaped like the bow of a ship. Just above the bowsprit and forepeak, the sea-green figurehead of a kraken looked down upon him with furious red eyes.
He approached the pool nervously, peering at his own reflection. The water remained still, but he heard the crash of waves in his ears. He sat heavily on one of the rock benches, feeling the cold dampness through his trousers.
“How’s the wind, shipmate?” called a voice.
So loud was the sea that Agwe scarcely heard the polite greeting, and then the sound ebbed, leaving only the pulse of blood in his ears, like the rhythmic rowing of oars. Across the pool stood a short woman in a black longcoat, black trousers tucked into black boots, a tricorn hat, and a cutlass on her wide hips. A silver kraken medallion hung around her neck.
“Who might you be?” he asked.
“You know who I am.” Her eyes were the color of a glacier sea. Her hair was tinged green.
“Are you the Usher?” he asked.
“Aye.” She bowed her head just enough to allow water to trickle from her tricorn. “Like the Goddess, I am too vast for you to comprehend, so I took this simple, familiar form so we might talk. I’ve an eye for lost souls. May I join you?”
“Heave ahead, but I’ve only the one rock.” He scooted to the edge of the bench to make room. “Is that what I am—a lost soul?”
“You have forsaken the currents of your life. You went adrift, and now you are marooned.”
“Sent to the bottom, more like.”
“The course ebbs and flows, curves and wends, and all we have to do is follow the currents, stay the course.”
He stared murderously at the black pool. “The currents brought me here to this little rock. With you.”
“Nay. You were a shipbuilder’s son, from a long line of shipbuilders. A sacred art.”
He nearly choked. He’d buried that secret long ago. “How can you know that?”
She stared hard at him with her glacier eyes. “I see into the deep waters of a person’s soul. I see the currents of then, now, and what should be.”
He believed her. He should’ve been amazed, yet he felt only contempt. “Bah. Keep your Goddess. She led me to ruin.”
“You have a daughter who loves you. Is that not enough?”
He didn’t answer, his mind whirling. His family had been put in danger because of him. He was a wretch and a scupperlout.
“You were meant for greater things, Agwe Delmas. Even at a young age, your keen eye spied gaps in the planks and faults in the wood. You kept tight seams. You were good with hammer and nail. I see much love in those days.”
“I never measured up,” Agwe muttered.
“There can be no mistakes,” she said, “or a ship will sink.”
“Aye. Perfection or failure. Those were his words.”
“A father must expect greatness or his son will never achieve it. You were meant to follow in his wake and become a great shipbuilder.”
“I was never good enough.”
“He was a hard man, aye. But your child, his granddaughter, would have softened him as his life ebbed. You would have seen that old love again.”
“That ship sailed,” he spat. “I couldn’t live up to his expectations.” But as he said it, he knew it was a lie. He was a better shipbuilder and family man than I’d ever be.
“A ship can change course,” said the Usher. “A wife can love her husband again. A son can love his father. A man can become a shipbuilder.”
Agwe snorted. “Are you trying to inspire me to change course?”
“Nay,” she said.
From the pool of still water, Agwe heard the terrible churning of a whirlpool. “What then?”
“One of Amadah’s ships was lured to her doom in a cove not far from here. Twenty-four of Her souls were lost. She has already reclaimed every scrap and splinter, whilst I collected the souls of your crewmates. And now I have come for you, Agwe Delmas.”
There was a finality to her words, and he knew he was as helpless now as he’d been against the sea. He wouldn’t see his wife and daughter again. He wouldn’t see his father again. He was drowning, and he needed a plank to hang on to. He wanted to be a better man for Raeni and Marisha, even though they didn’t need him. Their lives were on course, and he was little more than a barnacle.
But he could be better.
He could become a shipbuilder. Follow in his father’s footsteps.
In a flash, he built that life in his mind, fitting pieces together. He saw himself as a dedicated husband, father, and shipbuilder. His heart pounded with excitement. “I can change my course,” he said brightly.
But the Usher shook her head sorrowfully. “Nay. ’Tis too late for that. Amadah is wrathful. She takes back what is Hers.”
He thought of the ship crashing into the dragon’s teeth of the cove. Smashed. Ground to pieces. Unmade.
Agwe bowed his head in defeat and sorrow. “What will you do with me, then?”
“I offer a choice. Step into this pool and go to Her cages. Or board Her ship and serve Her for all eternity. Prisoner or servant? What will it be?”
“And if I choose neither?”
“Then I will keelhaul you and sentence you to the cages for all eternity.”
With cold certainty, he knew there was no way out. No violence, no bargaining, no deceit. He saw himself standing on the ledge of the round, black pool and stepping off. Down he would go, down and down some more until he was at the bottom of the sea, trapped in cages of whalebone. That was the fate he deserved.
He swallowed hard, tears welling. There was so much water in a person, and it all belonged to the Goddess. He knew that now. He’d never cried before, not until Raeni came along. She’d opened his heart, and he’d slammed it shut and thrown it away. He’d been a chickenhearted fool, a craven coward.
“Will I ever see my family again?” he asked, words choked. “My daughter?”
She regarded him coolly, eyes unblinking. “Choose.”
The currents of his life flowed through his mind, racing like a whirlpool.
When he was young, he’d thrown his hammer into the sea because his father had wanted him to work past supper. Years later, he’d left home in the same sort of childish temper. His father had watched him leave from the belly of a skeleton ship, a hammer in one hand and a lantern in the other.
For work, he’d spitefully avoided shipbuilding. One of his first jobs was as a whaler. The gruesome work hardened his soul so much that he pushed a vile shipmate overboard without remorse, to let the seawolves and sharks sort him out. That was the first man he’d killed, but not the last. As a pirate, he’d killed many men. He’d brawled at any slight, and sometimes just to feel something, anything. When he’d grown tired of being at sea, he’d sought the shore instead.
And that’s when he’d met Marisha at the fish market. She’d been a beacon of light in those dark days, and he’d been content to be a fisherman just so he could come home to her every night.
When Raeni was birthed, she’d been a squalling, flailing creature. Despite all of the terrible things he’d seen and done, nothing had prepared him for holding her for the first time. Marisha had forced the baby upon him, and her head had fit in the palm of his meaty hand like an egg. She was a treasure more precious than gold or silver, and it had frightened him so much that he’d found as many odd jobs as he could just to avoid holding her. As she’d grown, she’d become even more mysterious. She’d always wanted to sit in his lap or offer him her mushy food or clutch his fingers in her soft little fist.
And now he wouldn’t see her again.
He deserved the cages.
But perhaps he could mend some of his wrongs if he chose to serve the Sea Goddess. Perhaps he might see Raeni again someday.
He lifted his chin and looked the Usher in the eyes. “I will serve.” And with that, he felt a watery ripple escape from him. A promise, an oath.
“You have until the day’s end to put your affairs in order. At the witching hour, return to the sea and board my black ship. Fail to do so, and I will drag you to the cages.”
Agwe gasped. He could see his family one last time. He’d never been so grateful. He wanted to sweep up the Usher in his arms and dance a jig, but her stern face sobered him quickly.
“Have you any advice for a lost soul?” he asked.
“Take a deep breath,” said the Usher.
Great waterfalls poured from the ceiling of the grotto and thundered around him. He had time for a quick gulp of air, and then he was fighting against the swells of the ocean again. He kicked hard to the shimmering surface. When he broke through, he gulped fresh air, spitting and coughing out the salt-burn of the water. Dragontooth Cove was a short swim away.
He swam hard, and when he finally crashed onto one of the rock tiers, he lay helpless as a beached whale, gasping, his lungs pushed to their limits. It was nearly dusk, he realized. He had little time left.
When he sat up, he felt a weight around his neck. The silver kraken medallion still hung there, heavy as a noose. Only then did he realize the wrecked ship had vanished, as if none of it had happened.
Gifts to the Goddess, he thought.
By the time Agwe made it back to the village, the streets were dark and wet. He waded through cold air so thick he saw motes in the patches of lantern light. He pulled up his collar and huddled in his longcoat, thankful for the long dreadlocks that warmed his scalp. A few flinty-eyed sailors lurked in the doorways and windows, but otherwise the streets were empty. Normally, after his work was done, he’d visit one of several pubs to drink with the townsfolk, living a better life through their tales. But now he wanted nothing more than to see his family.
Tonight, they were his safe harbor.
Ever since Marisha had kicked him out, he’d been sleeping on a cot in a storage shed behind the Hornpipe Tavern. There, he retrieved his small coin purse he’d hidden in a flour sack and hoped it would be enough for La Roche.
If not, he would roll the bones one last time.
Agwe smelled salt when he was ushered into La Roche’s lair. The notorious moneylender was a barrel-chested man with a pock-marked face and a bulbous nose turned red from too much drink. He was not a man to owe, for he liked to use deadbeats as examples by mummifying them in salt barrels then hanging them on posts around his territory.
Surrounded by those barrels, La Roche looked up from his desk with an expression of utter astonishment. “By my deathless soul,” he said, “what have we here?”
“Fine stuff for the gallows,” said Agwe. He tossed his pouch of coin onto the nearest barrel. It looked smaller than he’d hoped.
“You weary me,” said La Roche with a disappointed frown. “That meager sum scarcely covers the tax.”
“It’s all I’ve got,” said Agwe.
La Roche picked up a crowbar from his desk, hefted it onto his shoulder, and strolled over to where Agwe stood. He wore a pristine white longcoat and white trousers tucked into long, black boots. With a deft movement of his free hand, he swiped the pouch, then looked Agwe up and down with rheumy eyes.
“Tell me, have you ever seen what salt does to a man’s flesh?” asked La Roche, his breath stinking of whiskey.
Agwe became aware of the other men in the salt house. Somehow, without his noticing, they had gathered around. He sensed them more than saw them. Like seawolves in dark water, he thought.
“Can’t say as I have,” he said.
La Roche pried off the lid of a barrel and flung it aside. He shoved a hand inside and hauled something up. White salt poured over the edge and onto the floor. In his fist, La Roche held a knot of wispy hair, and below that a head. The eyes were coated with crystals, the open mouth stuffed with even more. The leathery skin beneath was pale and dry as bone.
La Roche shoved the head back down, and one of his men nailed the lid shut. Each hammer blow made Agwe blink.
“Don’t let this be your coffin,” said La Roche. “You have until the morrow to pay what you owe, or it is death by salt for you—and your family.”
Agwe did his best to stand straight, though his knees wanted to buckle. “We settle this now,” he said.
“Why do I trouble myself with you?” La Roche sighed. “I should dry you to the bones and nail you to a post.”
“Because I have this,” said Agwe, pulling the medallion from beneath his shirt. “This covers the debt, the tax, and more besides.”
La Roche squinted at the medallion, inspecting, assaying. “Now what have we here? Hmm. It appears a good enough forgery.”
“’Tis the real thing, I swear it.”
La Roche settled back on his heels and gripped his coat’s lapels. “If that be true, I will consider your debt paid.”
“In full,” said Agwe quickly.
“Aye. In full.”
La Roche reached for the medallion, but Agwe stepped out of reach, clutching it to his chest.
She is the wondrous deep, he thought.
When the medallion’s red eyes flared in the dark room, La Roche’s own eyes widened with amazement. “Well, bless my black heart. Why were you keeping this all to yourself?”
No lie came to Agwe, so he spoke the truth. “I paid a severe price for it.”
La Roche held out his hand, and Agwe slapped the medallion into his open palm. Agwe hoped the Goddess would forgive him this small sacrilege.
As the moneylender hefted the medallion, all menace washed away from his face, replaced by hospitality and charm. “A pleasure, Agwe Delmas. If the need should arise again, you can find me here amid my treasure hoard.” He spread his arms wide as if to embrace the barrels all around him.
When Agwe finally tromped up the back steps of the cottage, he saw his wife and daughter framed in the window, sitting in their cramped kitchen. He couldn’t see what they were doing, but they always made things out of wildflowers and seashells from the beach. How Marisha had such energy after a hard day at the fish market was beyond him. He watched them for a long time, soaking in their smiles. He desperately wanted to throw open the door and embrace them both, but he knew his intrusion would collide with their happiness. For putting Raeni in danger, Marisha had thrown him out. She would not welcome him back so easily.
He opened the door anyway.
Marisha glared at him, but he ignored her wrath and focused on his daughter. Raeni brightened. She was always so much bigger than he thought she should be. With a playful growl, he gave her a hug, lifted her out of the chair, and kissed her neck. Her dark hair smelled of lavender. She giggled with delight.
Wood shavings littered the tabletop, surrounding two small pieces of driftwood and two pocketknives.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“We’re whistling,” said Raeni.
“Whittling,” said Marisha.
“I’m making a sea turtle,” said Raeni. “Ma’s making an albatross, but it looks more like a fish.”
She made a disgusted face that reminded him of Marisha, and Agwe laughed hard, too hard, his eyes welling with tears.
This was all he wanted. It didn’t have to be more than this.
He set Raeni back in her chair. Marisha gave him a warning look, as powerful as a lighthouse. She was still shockingly beautiful, with piercing sea-green eyes and braided hair decorated with seashell beads. Her face was unreadable, a mystery; he always loved that about her.
“Why are you here?” she asked. With the knifepoint, she maneuvered him out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, five steps away. He didn’t fear much, but he did fear her anger.
He tried to remember what he wanted to say and couldn’t. “I wanted to give you more. You deserve more.”
“We agreed it was best to keep distance between us.”
He knew the night was about to swirl out of control and crash. But he wouldn’t fight with her. Not tonight. He needed calmer waters.
“I settled with La Roche,” he said quickly. “The danger has passed.”
He knelt beside his little smuggler’s hold and removed a small sack of coin. It was his final cache, the one he’d saved as a last resort. He held it up to her.
She frowned at his offering. “Keep your coin and go about.”
He rose, his joints creaking like a ship at sea. “I’ve come to say goodbye, my love.”
Her eyes flickered across his face, poking and prodding, and finally settling on suspicion. “What have you done?”
He looked at the floorboards, noticing the loose seams he should’ve fixed for her. “I’ve done terrible things. Unforgivable things. But here’s the truth of it, my love. I’m listed in service of the Sea Goddess Herself.”
Her expression softened, first confused, then disbelieving. “You? An Avant?”
“Upon my life, I speak true.”
“Why? How?”
“There was no other way.” He shoved the coins at her. “Take this. Please.”
“You still think money is the problem or the answer. We don’t need you for that.”
“I ruined us,” he said. “I know that now. So take the coin. Leave this terrible place for a better life. Don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself and Raeni.”
“And where would we go?”
“Go wherever you’ve dreamed of. This will buy you passage to Corcova. Or Baralon.”
“We could go to those places,” she said, “but you won’t be there.”
The sorrow in her words broke his heart. He said, “I will be wherever the sea takes me.”
“She can have you.” She slapped at his shoulder, but he caught her hand and held it. She didn’t wriggle it away.
“You loved me once,” he said.
“I love you still, you damned fool,” she said, entwining her fingers in his.
“That makes me happier than I deserve.”
He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed her knuckles, then he pulled her into his arms. She hugged him fiercely. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted her forgiveness until he had a small piece of it.
After a few wonderful moments, she caressed his rough cheek, then kissed him. Her lips were warm and soft, and he wanted to stay there forever.
She gently pushed away from him and rested her forehead against his chest. “You’re going to miss me on those cold, lonely nights at sea.”
“I already do.”
“When do you leave?”
“I am yours until the witching hour, my love.”
“Then, at the very least,” she said, smiling up at him, smiling at last, “you could make us a cup of tea before you go.”
He laughed at that. She’d never been docile. He found the tea where it always was. He poured two cups, and they all sat together. Raeni focused on her whittling. He was amazed at her skill with the knife. Marisha had taught her well. She had grown so much without him. He soaked in every movement, every feature, every change of expression. It was all he could do. It would have to be enough.
All too soon, there would be a black ship in the harbor, waiting just for him.
About the Author
Ken Hoover lives in New Mexico with his family. He is the author of Midnight Agency, a post-apocalyptic supernatural western, and his short fiction has appeared in James Gunn’s Ad Astra Magazine, Bourbon Penn, and other places. In addition to being a semi-finalist in the Writers of the Future contest, he is an alumnus of NMSU and Superstars Writing Seminars. You can find him on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.