Майкл Салливан - Deep Magic. Fourth Collection

The shutters slapped again and again. Capricho rushed through the doorway, stood upon the gallery. An aura of green swept away from the ship.

How sure would you be if the wound no longer burned?

Capricho recalled his days with Diedre. Her memory flowed within him. But now, the gnawing pain had fled, no longer choking his heart. A wound healed so well, he could not find the scar.

The green wisp swirled to the mouth of the cove.

Capricho thumped his chest with his fist as he tracked the sphere of light. “I had forgotten how good it feels to be alive!”

It hovered at the entrance, pulsing softly on the surface of the water.

“Silganna.” He recalled the power of her kiss. How long had he been with Silganna? Just long enough to taste her sweet spirit. As it had been with Diedre.

The light began to sink.

He thought of his men, he thought of his ship, he thought of his country, he thought of his king. Could he abandon them at such an hour? Silganna had said at least one Howler would track them all the way to Spain, creating certain disaster. But who said that had to be the only outcome? That history had not yet been written. With Silganna, could he discover some way to turn the tides?

And then he thought of Diedre.

I lost love before. Do I lose it again?

The light waned.

Your sails are luffing, man! Choose now!

The emerald flash, sinking into darkness.

“No!” he cried.

Capricho jumped over the banister and plunged into the unknown depths, casting his waves across the glistening sea.

Gilded in morning sunlight, Salvador swung from the ratlines and landed firmly on the fighting deck—a circular platform halfway up the mainmast. The high platform rocked as the anchored ship was buffeted by stiff winds. Salvador widened his stance and looked out over the cove, heart heavy. The ceremony with the men was over, but he had another to perform in private.

Facing the wind, Salvador’s voice was low. “Farewell, cousin. You were like a brother to me.”

The wind blew erratically this day; Salvador waited for it to shift. They were tied to it somehow, of that he was now certain. It galled him to admit it, but old Sanchez had been right about the Wind Howlers and their marker. When the stern swiveled like a compass needle from the emerald green of the shallows toward the cobalt blue of the depths, Salvador shuddered. He could sense the spirits out there somewhere, searching for the tethers to their ship.

But if he was powerless to set the ship free, he could at least free something else. He spit and cursed the Howlers. Then he unfurled a red silk scarf, one he had found in Capricho's trunk. It undulated in the stiff breeze. He let its softness slide through his rough grasp, then watched it sail like a fluttering parrot out over the ocean.

Salvador fought tears. “May you find peace in the arms of your beloved, Capricho. Vaya con Dios. ”

The scarf touched the water. Vanished. The air around Salvador twanged like a snapped stay on a mast. The wind died instantly. Calm settled, not just over the cove and the ship, but over Salvador himself. The feeling of death and trepidation? No more. In its place . . . absolute peace.

In his heart of hearts, Salvador knew their luck had just changed.

He raised his beaming face to the powder-blue sky, cheered, and crossed himself with vigor. "Gracias, Lord! Gracias, Capricho!"

Then he looked to the northeast. Toward another that had touched his heart. He whispered, “Angela, mi rosa . How I wish you were here with me now.”

A voice shouted from below. It was the pilot, Juan Carlos, his words rising on the air like a squawking gull. “Salvador! Which way do we head? I need to chart our course!”

Salvador sighed at the interruption. So this is what it’s like to be captain. Gripping a shroud, he leaned out from the fighting deck and scowled. “Did you not get my orders? We set sail for Havana!”

Juan Carlos thrust his fist in the air. “Havana and home!” The crew that bustled about the deck echoed his words like a battle cry.

Salvador’s courage soared in the strength of the crew’s enthusiasm. Home. They were heading home.

As the pilot moved to leave, Salvador called him back. “Juan Carlos?” Salvador stabbed a finger toward him. “You keep her in the blue. There are hungry shoals and reefs out there, with teeth as sharp as daggers. See to it they don’t feed on our hull.”

Juan Carlos stared up at him; the men fell silent. There was a long, uncertain pause. Then, glittering white flashed upon his face in a broad smile. “Sí, mi capitán.”

The sailors tilted their heads, weighing the sound of the title against the man so addressed. Grizzled Sanchez drained a dipper of water, looked at the men, nodded. With their own nods of approval, they murmured, "Capitán."

A warm glow of pride flushed Salvador as the sailors returned to their duties. With a last look to the northeast, he swung into the ratlines and climbed down to the deck and his men.

There’d be time for mourning later, and for healing, in his Angela’s arms.

Wulf Moon is an Olympic Peninsula writer. He believes in born storytellers. You must also serve seven cats—every successful writer knows that—but allow only ONE in your office.

Moon wrote his first science fiction story when he was fifteen. It won the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and became his first professional sale at Science World. Since then, his work has appeared in Third Flatiron anthologies, Star Trek: Strange New Worlds II, Future Science Fiction Digest, and Writers of the Future, Vol. 35.

Moon has won many national and international writing awards. Most recently, his story "War Dog" won Critters Annual Readers’ Poll, where it was awarded Best Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Story of 2018. Moon also won the international Writers of the Future Contest with his story "Super-Duper Moongirl and the Amazing Moon Dawdler."

Moon has created numerous podcast episodes for Gallery of Curiosities and Third Flatiron. He is podcast director for Future Science Fiction Digest.

Donald Maass of the Donald Maass Literary Agency has represented Moon on one novel and is awaiting his current work in progress.

Website:driftweave.com

Facebook:wulf.moon.94

Amazon Author Page:wulfmoon

9,000 Words

SURI WONDERED IF it would hurt to lose a limb.

If her arm were torn off, the pain would, no doubt, be excruciating, but the ash tree with the missing branch was quiet—no screaming, not so much as a whimper. The tree, which clutched the cliff near the top of the waterfall, remained quiet, and Suri, who sat on a huge rock in the middle of the stream, was impressed. Large and dignified, the old ash, who went by the name of Esche, wasn’t the sort to blubber. His elderberry cousins, who grew in the highlands, might moan or whine, and a willow—well, a willow would sob continuously for a month, but not Esche. In general, ashes weren’t the sort to complain. They were a noble, tough breed of wood. Even so, Esche was more steadfast than most. During the previous spring, Suri had witnessed a woodpecker stabbing at Esche’s bark for an entire day—and the tree hadn’t so much as flinched. Now he was exhibiting the same sort of stoic perseverance.