The Northern Drift

He swung his lantern three times, and slowly, a schooner emerged from the fog. The moment it touched the timbers of the dock, he and the boy boarded. As soon as they were safely on, with the gangplank raised, the ship slid away into the darkness as smoothly and silently as it came.

To understand the gravity of this situation, you would have to go back two weeks, to the day he, the captain of the Northern Drift, was put on trial.

It had been the very first voyage of a green young deckhand, a boy eager to boast to his father about his adventures at sea. Unaware of the lethal weight of his own words, the youth excitedly recounted how their captain hadn’t hesitated to plunge straight through a tempest that most seasoned sailors wouldn’t dare even skirt around. The Drift had emerged completely unscathed, leaving the crew to whisper of some otherworldly force protecting the wooden hull from the fury of the wind and rain.

Most of the men were wise enough to keep quiet, knowing their captain could face the gallows for witchcraft. But the young deckhand knew no better; to him, it was simply a thrilling tale to brag about to his friends. His father, however, saw the dark truth beneath the boy’s enthusiastic words and went straight to the village magistrate.

His defense sent a skeptical murmur through the crowded courtroom. Everyone in the village had felt that terrible storm raging outside. Families of sailors had spent the night in terror, praying especially for the Northern Drift, an old two-masted schooner that everyone knew was close to its last legs.

The captain, Ezekiel Hawthorne, was old for sea standards, and had been on the Drift since its first journey. He had started as a low deckhand, working his way up the ranks, and was eventually promoted to first mate. Then, when the former captain saw fit to retire, he took over the ship. He had been captain for twenty years, adding and removing people from the crew as necessary. He had come to trust some more than others, but he didn’t even trust his first mate enough to tell him everything.

Sailors only joined the Drift’s crew if all other ships turned them away, like young would-be deckhands looking for a first job, or if they were personal friends of the captain. It was a ship that not many respected, and most scorned it, sensing something about it that set it apart from other ships. They were unknowingly feeling the aura of its magic every time they boarded or walked past its spot on one of the long village docks.

In the end, the trial was brief. No one dared stand up to defend an accused witch, and Ezekiel was found guilty. Because of his long and high standing in the town, his sentence was exile rather than death—he was to be cast out the following evening with nothing but the clothes on his back, paraded before the shaming eyes of the entire village.

Earlier that day, the moment his boots had touched the rough wood of the pier upon their return, he had felt it. It was a phantom sensation he hadn’t felt since his father died fifteen years earlier—the unmistakable, resonant hum of the Hawthorne family gift. For around three hundred years, the talent of taming storms and surviving the sea’s worst torments had passed directly through generations of the Hawthorne line, following the name back through centuries of seafaring history's firstborn sons. He was vaguely guilty about the fact that the gift would die out after him, seeing as he had never found love in the small village, or on any of his travels across the sea.

Since he had gotten off the ship, he had been plotting to find a way to escape company to find the source of the feeling without the distraction of other people, and this was a perfect time. The trial had been a slight hiccup in his plan, but now, he was able to proceed without trouble. He was delivered to his house, flanked by two guards, who stood watch outside the door.

Once inside, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and focused his energy. This skill still didn't come easily, even after over twenty years of possessing it. He reached deep inside of himself for the switch that turned it on.

As soon as it was flicked on, the water in the air started floating toward him. Waiting until he could feel enough vapor surrounding him, he kept his eyes closed and reached his hands out, shaping the mist. This took several minutes, longer than normal, because he wanted to make fully sure that the guards wouldn't be any the wiser until morning.

Despite the slight delay, he still completed his task in record time. He waved his arms, enchanting what moisture was left over in the air to guide his apparition around the room, then stepped back to admire his work.

He had created a slightly translucent silhouette of himself out of water droplets that wouldn't fool anybody up close, in broad daylight. Two guards, however, looking through a shaded window, in the dark night, nonetheless, would be a very different story.

Ezekiel had been very pleased (though he hid it) to see that the guards would stay outside, on the magistrate's orders. The man's reasoning was that he would secretly plant more guards around his house, so if Hawthorne got cocky in trying to slip away, counting on the fact that there were only two guards, he would be caught, giving the magistrate an excuse to hang him, rather than exile him.

As you can tell, the magistrate didn't particularly care for the captain, a clever man who (until now) had been able to evade all of the magistrate's actions against him. This, as could be predicted, is quite infuriating to a man used to getting his way.

Hawthorne, however, as previously stated, was a very sharp-witted individual, and had anticipated the magistrate's devious plans. He had purposely left a jug of ale he had purchased, but now didn't need for his escape, by the corner of his house where he knew a guard would be. All he had to do was lie in wait by his bedroom window, where he could listen, as the events in the alley played out exactly how he had imagined them to.

First, the guard on the corner saw the jug. He was young and eager to please, but he couldn't some ale, which he usually didn't get at home. He was about to guzzle it down when he remembered his friend, who was posted on the next corner over.

"Thomas! Get over here!" When there was no answer, he called out again, "Stout! Thomas Stout! Come here!" He muttered to himself, "He's probably dozing again," already going over to find his sleeping friend.

Ezekiel had originally planned to make his escape at this point, but then decided to wait. He knew the young guard from the brief time that he was on the Drift, before his father pulled him away to learn his trade. Jack Pascoe was a rebel, what with having very strict parents. He and Thomas were quite close, and shared similar personalities. Judging by the interest in alcohol they shared, they would be back before you could pull a fishing net in.

Sure enough, they were back before Ezekiel could count to fifty. Jack pulled the tankard out, and Thomas snatched it immediately. He downed a third of it in one gulp, leaving Jack protesting.

He grudgingly handed it back, and soon the two-pint of ale that had cost Hawthorne four whole pence was gone. With the ale went the two boys' consciousnesses. They were both snoring in a little more than five minutes. The spoonful of opium poppy tea mixed with the ale was likely a large part in that, something that Ezekiel had added at the last minute to ease his departure.

He waited ten more minutes to make sure they wouldn't wake up. He had calculated the amount of poppy syrup to make the seventeen-year-olds with no tolerance sleep for about three hours, long enough for him to leave, but not so long that they got in trouble for sleeping through their duty. Ezekiel was sometimes blunt, but he wasn't completely heartless, having been a young man of similar personality at one point.

He padded past the two boys, pausing to gaze at them for a moment to make sure they weren't laying on any sharp rocks or anything harmful. After making sure they were safe, he pulled his dark cloak tighter around his shoulders and took one final glance back at the snoring guards. He then continued on down the back alley of the small village, the damp sea breeze rattling the loose window shutters and whistling through the narrow wooden passageways, guiding him toward the source of the familiar but thought long gone tugging in his chest he had felt all evening. This escape would change his life.