Holm rested on a rock, looking over the roaring surf below to the setting sun. Clouds were racing over the sky, the spay of the surf and the drizzle not at all improving his mood. He hesitated, for more than two hours he sat there. The stars were bright between the clouds. Then he jumped.

* * *

He awoke, drenched on a nearby beach. The surf reached occasionally his feet.

Someone slapped him: "Get up!"

He mumbled incoherently. Nevertheless, he tried to lift his head. To no avail. At least he opened his eye, with changed little in the pitch black overcast night sky.

"Get up. You were damned lucky I was around."

It was a woman's voice. That motivated him to try again, and indeed he could barely sit. A coughing fit almost brought him down again.

"The bag", he mumbled.

"Yes, yes, is here. Is there tinder?"

"Yes, I could -cough- do fire -cough- magic."

"No, you must rest." The voice was much softer now. He heard her rummaging through his bag. "Where is the flintstone?"

"A drop - of the small - bottle," was all he could say, falling back from the effort, coughing.

A bottle was pressed to his lips. "Drink!"

It was just a sip, but what a sip. It burned stronger than fire, pepper or brandy. Immediately he was wide awake, even the cough had stopped in shock. "Water!" He frantically searched for his bag. Instead, he was handed his water bottle and emptied it in one sip.

"What's that?" he coarse croaked.

"Secret recipe. Feeling better?"

He took a deep breath. "Yes, thank you. Who are you?" She was still just a dark silhouette against the sky.

"I'm Shantu. A fine fisherman you are swimming at ebb tide! Another suicide attempt?"

He nodded, caught. "Shantu." He tasted the name. "You saved me three times already. Why?"

But Shantu remained silent.

"I went to Kalun. I got a stipend to study. But the black death came and all fled. I went back home, too. Just two months later my father died. Sven, the fisherman. We found him the next morning at the beach lying among the remains of his boat. Why you did not rescue him then?"

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

She still did not say a word.

"So I left. I wanted to go to Cartagena, hire on a ship, get away from this part of the world. Yesterday, I got the news. The black death had reached Cartagena."

"No, that's fake news," She broke the silence. "Tomorrow you go there. Now sleep!"

No sooner had she said this than he felt the pain return and with it the leaden fatigue.

The awakening seemed to be imminent, but it was almost noon. He sat up: no one was there anymore. But the burned-out remains of a fire could be seen next to him. He shrugged. It had happened three times already. The first time when he was only ten and far, far out in a sailboat. She might be his guardian angel, and she was trying so hard. Only that he neither believed in the great one nor had ever been in the temples of revenants. So why should a guardian angel care for him?

Fake news, hmm. Well, he will find out. He was hungry but otherwise fine and set out to reach Cartagena.

* * *

He reached Cartagena before nightfall. While the largest town around, only a few people lived here, with more inns and warehouses than residential buildings. Maybe sixty dwellings altogether. The house and warehouse were made from yellow sandstone, cut from the cliffs around. Most things were in transit, either moving along the three roads or via the port. Northbound was the coastal road, where he came from. To the east were the grass plains and the southern road went through a mountain ridge.

When he reached the port, the fading twilight was too low to decern the ships. He had to pay for an inn, his last coins. Well, he wanted to hire anyway.

The sleep was dreamless and deep, In the morning he lay suddenly awake in the bed, the early morning just dawning. He ate the cheap complimentary breakfast and went to the harbour.

Despite the early hour, there were many people around. Well, the high tide had almost passed and the current will make the outbound passage easier.

On ship caught his attention. It was a two-master, small, a top sail schooner. No one was on board, no one moved there. Then a boy came up, jumped into the water and swam the hundred strokes to the beach.

"Good morning, what is your ship called?"

The boy looked up surprised. "It is the Spirt of Gliti."

"It looks nice. Do you hire?"

The boy looked sad. "No money, no crew. My father was killed in a fight in the port. Pit was injured and left. Only me."

Misery met each other. "I am Holm. I would work for passage."

"I am Marik. Well, you are a grown-up. Come."

He went straight to the harbour master, dripping wet from his swim. And before he could really grab it, his was the new guardian of Marik, which came with the ownership of the Spirit of Gliti. The harbour master was a kind man, he organised them even a small cargo of wool to Kesseret. With the money from the cargo they hired another orphan, Krikri. He was nearly sixteen and with green hair and greenish skin even. Natural green, from the nomads on the other side of the grassy plains. He promised them his story when they were underway.

They spent most of the money on provisions and rented a dingy to row the cargo to the ship.

Marik rowed it back and swam through the lagoon again. Before noon, they were ready. Wrong tide though, but the wind was blowing to the sea.

Marik showed them how the set the square sails. He had no experience, the fisher boats all had just two sails, the main gaff sail and a staysail. Since the current was at a minimum at ebb tide, it was enough to get them out in the open sea. Instead of hoisting more sails, they used their time to cook lunch.

Now it was to Kirkri to share his story.