David Wood
Ark
On that day all the springs of the great deep burst forth, and the floodgates of the heavens were opened. And rain fell on the earth forty days and forty nights.
Prologue
The sea was angry. Waves battered the wooden sailing ship, pitching it to and fro and threatening to upend it with each wall of water that broke across its bow. Rising high on every swell and crashing down into every trough, the ship creaked and groaned as it struggled on its Sisyphean journey toward the land that, according to the charts, lay somewhere close by.
“I swear we haven’t moved in an hour.” Godfrey shouted above the howl of the wind and the rush of the waves. He stood, arm twisted into the rigging to hold him in place, and watched the horizon for any sight of land. It had to be there.
“Oh, we’ve moved plenty. Up and down, side to side.” Despite his lighthearted words, Hugo’s face was a mask of grim determination. “The gods of the sea are toying with us.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Godfrey said. “Not even in jest.” He looked up at the sky as if he expected God Almighty to smite them. Given the current state of things, it would make for a fitting end.
“Do you think He’s angry?” Hugo’s eyes flitted skyward before returning to the sea. “Because of what we did?”
“What did we do?” Godfrey knew exactly what Hugo meant, and his comrade’s words echoed his own deep-seated fears, but he was not ready to concede. “We recovered holy relics from the clutches of the Saracens, and we are taking them somewhere far beyond their reach. We are doing His work.” That was the best rationalization he could summon at the moment. He wasn’t sure he believed it, though.
Icy droplets of rain smacked him in the face, each like a chastisement from above. Salt spray burned his eyes and parched his lips. The taste reminded him of the story of Lot’s wife.
Don’t look back. Don’t think of home.
“I don’t know,” Godfrey said. “Sometimes I think we should have pitched the whole cargo into the sea. Then no one could ever lay hands on it.”
“The Lord has a plan,” Hugo said with more confidence than he felt. “Someday these things might be needed to serve His purpose. Until then, we will stand guard.”
“Maybe it’s the stones.” Godfrey looked down as if he could see into the hold. “You know what they are.”
“I know what the old man claimed them to be, but scripture tells a different story. I know which story I choose to believe.”
The ship suddenly pitched, sweeping both men off of their feet. They held fast to the rigging as the craft once again came perilously close to capsizing. When it righted itself, neither man bothered to stand.
“We won’t survive many more of those.” He glanced up at the main mast. “The wind has picked up and it’s beginning to play hell with the rigging. We should tell the captain to furl the sails before the mast breaks.”
Hugo couldn’t hide his surprise. “How does a knight know so much about sailing?”
Godfrey managed a smile. “When I was a youth, I ran away from home. I worked on a fishing boat for a year. I drank in the filthy seaside taverns, enjoyed the company of some of the filthiest whores you’d ever want to know. That was the best time I ever had.”
“Are you winding me up? You’re a man of God.”
“I am now, but I wasn’t back then. As a matter of fact, if we make it through this, I just might…” Whatever Godfrey might or mightn’t have done was lost, along with Godfrey, in the wave that broke over the gunwales and swept him out to sea.
“Godfrey!” Hugo struggled to stand on the slippery, shifting deck. In a flash of lightning he caught a glimpse of Godfrey’s white tabard amongst the waves. In the next flash, he was gone.
Another wave swamped the deck, bringing Hugo down hard on his knees. The impact sent dull pain lancing through his legs and up his spine.
“Lord Almighty, send us a miracle,” he prayed.
The only answer was a sharp cracking sound from behind him. He turned but already knew what he would see. The mast was breaking. The ship was done for.
“The relics must be saved,” he said to no one in particular.
He clambered down into the hold and retrieved the one box about which he cared the most. Inside lay the mysterious stones. He had his doubts about the story surrounding them, but they clearly held tremendous power — power that could only come from God. They must be saved.
Tucking the box under his arm, he made his way back out onto the deck, which now swarmed with activity. Sailors were fighting to cut the rigging free before the mast gave way completely. Hugo suspected it was far too late.
As if the sea could hear his thoughts, the largest wave yet crashed into the side of the ship. Hugo fell face-first, his precious box spilling its contents down the sloping deck and into the water. He managed to snatch one of the stones, but everything else was lost.
In a flash of lightning, he caught one last glimpse of the horizon before the ship finally capsized. What he saw there remained etched in his vision.
Land!
A shock ran through him as he slid off the deck and plunged into the icy depths. Cold blackness enveloped him as he felt the strong current sweep him away.
He was a poor swimmer, but he managed to kick off his boots to free himself of their weight. Paddling for all he was worth, being careful not to drop the stone, he finally broke the surface. He had time only to suck in a single gasp of air before he went under again.
Only the thought of saving the precious stone kept him going. It became, in his mind, a holy commission from the Lord Himself. Save this last remaining relic — the only bit of their cargo that remained. He continued to swim, keeping his head above water just enough to stay alive.
As he felt his strength wane, something struck him a glancing blow on the crown of his head. A plank! Probably a bit of the broken remains of his ship. He grabbed it with both arms and held on for dear life.
The current swept him along, and he let it carry him. No point in sapping what remained of his energy fighting against it, particularly when he didn’t know in which direction the land lay.
He watched, searching the horizon for another glimpse of the shoreline he’d spotted just before the ship went down. Finally, he saw it. It was a small island, so agonizingly close he felt he could reach out and touch it, but it wasn’t truly as near as all that. He kept his eyes locked on the spot, savoring the glimpses each lightning flash revealed.
Too soon, the current bore him past the island and into dark, open water. As he watched its receding outline, he wondered if he would ever see land again.
Hours later, or perhaps it was days, he awoke to a burning sensation on the back of his neck.
Am I in hell?
He opened his eyes and rejoiced to see white sand all around him. He had made it to land. And then another thought struck him — the stone! Did he still have it?
His left hand was balled in a fist, clamped down so tightly that he was forced to use his other hand to pry his fingers open. There it was. He had saved it. Perhaps the Lord smiled on him after all.
“Thanks be to God.” He rolled over onto his back and breathed deeply of the morning air. He didn’t know where he was, but he was alive. That was what mattered the most. He closed his eyes. He could easily fall asleep, but knew he ought to move off the beach and find water, food, and shelter. A shadow passed across his face and he snapped his eyes open.
Three reddish-brown faces stared down at him.
Perhaps he was in Hell after all.