The Oracle Of Oslo
When the main mast fell, Thomas had been in his quarters. The ink from his quil had barely touched the parchment – getting only as far as “My dearest Clara” before the relentless swells upended his cabin. The loud snap of the main mast’s wood sounded like one of the canons being fired. Waves nearly six meters high bombarded the ship's wooden hull like a boxer delivering blow after blow.
The water in his cabin was nearly waist-high. Thomas waded across the tiny room, scrambling to stuff his leather sack with whatever trinkets and valuables he could salvage. He shoved his compass, charts, books, and a stack of letters tied in twine into the bag before slowly climbing the stairs to the deck.
The ferocious wind nearly sent him overboard as he stepped out onto the deck. Thomas could see scurrying figures desperately tying and untying ropes, while others floated facedown and lifeless about the deck. The only sound that could be heard other than the onslaught of rain and howl from the wind was from that of the Captain, who stood at the helm furiously calling out to what was left of his crew.
“ON YOUR FEET! SECURE THAT LINE DAMMIT, NOW!”
But Thomas could see what the Captain could not – the crew was no longer taking orders from the captain. The sea was now in command with its promise of a watery grave being the only sound heard.
“DAMN YE COWARDLY SONS OF BITCHES! ON YER FEET YOU SCURVY DOGS–”
Before the captain could hurl another order, a mooring line snapped free, striking his neck with such velocity that his head was taken clean off. Through the rain and wind, Thomas watched as the headless figure still gripped the helm.
The sight along with the crashing waves sent him to his knees, vomiting violently as the ship's hull began to crack. A group of men quarreled over the one remaining tug boat that hung over the side of the ship. Thomas crawled on his hands and knees toward the group which now had blades and pistols drawn. Thomas steadied himself to his feet and was met with a fierce blow from the butt end of a pistol, knocking him out cold.
He awoke to the methodic sound of splashing.
The loud cacophony of the seas had been replaced by an eerie silence only broken by the rowboat’s wooden oar scrapping through the icy waters below. The cold almost made the searing pain in Thomas’s head seem manageable. Through blurry eyes, Thomas saw a wide-eyed figure at the end of the boat. The man’s eyes were wide open, his skin blueish-white with icicles cascading from his eyes and nostrils. Thomas reached out to feel the frozen man’s skin.
“Been dead about a day or so,” a voice called from the front of the ship. Thomas spun around to find the man who had knocked him out rowing through the ice. His hair was wispy and gray and scars had covered the majority of his face.
“Told the bastard not to swim. I’ve seen it before. The cold reaches yer bones.”
“Wh-what happened?”
“Lost The Arielle in that storm. Been out two days nearly with that bump I gave ya.”
Thomas felt his head and the bloodied hair that had frozen to his skin.
“Why? Why did you–”
“Saw the charts and books in your sack. Yer no sailor are you?”
Thomas winced as he sat up.
“Navigator.”
“Exactly. Need you to take us to where we be goin’.”
“And where is that?”
“Oslo.”
“Oslo? That’s the Kingdom of Norway.”
“Aye. “
Thomas shook his head and reached for his charts.
“We can’t just row to Oslo!”
“Why not?”
Thomas shivered as he unfurled his maps, pointing a finger to show the man.
“Here, see? This is where we were two days ago. I have not the faintest sense where or how far we drifted from that storm.” Thomas sighed, desperately trying to solve the puzzle in his head. He looked at the sun in the sky and quickly formulated a plan.
“We need to turn around. We were only 3 days out from Middlesbrough. If we head West we’ll surely run into a frigate or vessel.”
The man scoffed and continued to row.
“We’re two days out from Oslo.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
The grizzled man pointed to a massive Iceberg on the horizon.
“You see that? That floating block of ice has been there before your father’s father was even a seed in his mother’s womb. I’ve heard tell of it. When you see the green streak across the night sky and a castle of ice, you’re headed in the right direction.”
“You’ve heard tell of it? That’s what you’re basing our strategy on?”
“Aye.”
“Well, that’s bloody brilliant. So why save a navigator if you don’t believe in navigation?”
The man smiled. “A literate man makes fine company,” he cackled through rotted teeth. “Plus, I’ll need a man with a sharp mind once we find her.”
“Her?”
The old privateer picked up the oar and began rowing again.
“The Oracle.”
“Who in God’s name is the Oracle?”
“Norse legend. You see, ancient Vikings would sail these seas - roughest in the world I dare say - with ships half the size of The Arielle. No cannons or quarters, just lines of men rowing these waters as we do now. Yet no frigate or armada or enemy could vanquish them. For they had a protector who granted them undying strength, the ability to conquer and bathe in untold riches. That be The Oracle of Oslo.”
Thomas had heard just about enough.
“You risk my life over a fable? We sit stranded, no food nor water marching swiftly to death’s door and you believe now is the time for Vikings and fairy tales? I think not!”
The old sailor smirked, delighted by Thomas’s doubt. He drew his pistol and held it casually in his hand.
“Listen here boy. The good lord didn’t bless me with a sharp mind, only the callus hide of a worker and the brute strength of an ox. I’ve sailed across the seven seas and seen things that would make your bones rattle. I’ve seen monsters from the deep prey upon scores of men. Legions of the dead feasting upon the souls of the living, spirits from beyond infecting the minds of poor sailors until their madness festers like an open wound. And do ye know what frightens a man like me more than anything else? That men like you – the smart ones – still don’t believe in legends and fairy tales.”
Thomas lunged for the oar but was stopped by a familiar pistol pointed at his face. The man held the gun in one hand and Thomas’s twine-wrapped letters in the other, dangling them over the water.
“Nothing stupid boy. That is if ye want to see that beloved Clara of yours again.”
“Those are private! Give them here.”
The old man flashed his rotted teeth as he cocked the pistol back. Thomas slowly retreated towards the rear of the rowboat, where the frosted corpse’s blue eyes offered little comfort.
“Now as for our little food problem,” the old man spoke as he unsheathed his knife. “I believe our frozen friend might be able to help.”