In a world of steamships and Progress, no one who sails due south across the Wild Sea ever returns.
No one knows why.
Dale Mortensen intends to solve the mystery. With the help of an old sailor and a reformed playboy searching for his missing sweetheart, he locates a captain and crew ambitious—not to mention crazy—enough to undertake the journey across the Wild Sea.
The Infinity and her crew sail south, but the truth of what really lies on the other side of the horizon is more amazing—and terrifying—than anything they can imagine.
It’s the adventure of a lifetime—and it may just get Dale and his friends killed.
Find out how this Young Adult steampunk adventure unfolds chapter-by-chapter every Thursday! Click here to start from the beginning. Or if you want to read it at your own pace, buy the ebook for $7.99 from Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Smashwords or Sony, or get it as a trade paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Book Depository.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HORIZON
E. R. PASKEY
EIGHT
DALE WAS ALMOST TOO EXCITED TO SLEEP that night. Only the idea of meeting his new captain on just a few hours of sleep enabled him to calm down enough to drift off. He returned his key to Mrs. Puca after a quick breakfast that morning, his seabag slung over one broad shoulder.
“You be sure to come back here when you get back into Port Ruby,” she told him, a broad smile creasing her face. “Knew you’d find something, Dale.”
As Dale turned to leave, Ophelia caught his eye and offered him a tiny wave. She looked sadder and less sour than usual. He waved in return, though his cheeks turned brick red at the memory of Belly’s words from the night before, and hastily departed.
The sun shining brightly in the sky above was a match for Dale’s mood: cheerful and optimistic. The journey to the docks passed by in a flash; he remembered very little of it afterward. He was only aware of the pounding of his heart as every step took him closer to his destination.
He found the proud lines of the Faerie Queen almost immediately. She had obviously just arrived the day before; he did not recall seeing her among the line of steamships and steam-sails docked along this end of Port Ruby on Saturday.
Clutching his seabag’s strap, Dale wove his way up to the gangplank, where a steady stream of sailors was loading cargo. They spared Dale curious glances, but no one spoke to him. A wiry man of average height stood beside the end of the gangplank resting on the dock, supervising the controlled chaos. Dale guessed he was probably either the first or second mate. Gathering his courage, he approached the man.
“Excuse me, sir. I was told you have a crew opening for a stoker?”
Sharp black eyes looked up at him; the man was over a head shorter. “Aye, that we do. Who’d you hear it from?”
“Belly Skoog.”
“Old Belly sent you, eh?” The man looked Dale up and down. “You look strong enough. Ever sailed before?”
“Not since the tsunami. My father was a sailor,” added Dale as an afterthought.
The man winced at the mention of the tsunami. “No experience with steam-power then?”
“Not hands-on, sir.” Dale hoped that would not be a mark against him. “But I know how steam engines operate and I’m willing to learn the rest.”
“Name?”
“Dale Mortensen.”
It meant nothing to the man. He rubbed his bearded chin, considering Dale. “Captain Tobolski prefers to hire crew in six month stints. If we like you, we’ll keep you longer.”
Dale nodded, hardly daring to breathe. Belly had assured him the Captain would probably take him on, but there was a still a chance…
The man came to a decision. “If Belly sent you, it’s all right by me.” He extended a weather-roughened hand. “Guy Zisk. First mate.”
They shook hands and then Zisk pulled a roll of paper and a fountain pen from his inside vest pocket. “Sign this.”
It was a contract. Dale tried to study it while Zisk flagged one of the cargo loaders and bade him turn around for Dale to use his back as an impromptu hard writing surface, but the first mate gave him little time to do more than skim the contents.
“Come on, man, we haven’t got all day.”
There was nothing for it. Dale signed his name in blocky lettering and handed the contract back to Zisk. He hoped there was not anything in that contract he should have known about.
Zisk rolled the paper up again and tucked it back in his vest pocket. “Excellent.” He motioned to the other man. “Take Mortensen to his new hammock and then show him the boiler room.” To Dale, he said, “You’ll be working there, stoking coal. Food and ten gold coins a week.”
“Thank you, sir.” Excitement bubbled up inside Dale’s chest.
The other sailor, a few years older than Dale, with worn clothing and a deeply suntanned face, beckoned for Dale to follow him up the gangplank. “Ben Ivers,” he said in a mellow tenor.
“Dale Mortensen.”
They shook hands and then Ivers jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “First thing you need to know is to move fast when the Captain or one of the officers gives you an order.” He glanced sideways at Dale. “Second thing to remember is that the Captain don’t tolerate jokes ‘n jibes about the ship’s name on account of his daughter. She died.”
“Right,” said Dale.
Ivers led Dale aboard the Faerie Queen and down below decks. The crew shared cabins on the second deck. Ivers directed Dale to an empty bunk and told him to stow his seabag. “No one’ll touch anything; the last thief we had aboard didn’t fare so well.”
He then led Dale aft to a dark, noisy compartment. The residual scent of burning coal, burning oil, and steam filled the air. “You’ll be working with Carl Danver.” Ivers raised his voice. “Hey, Danver! Another stoker for you!”
A man as tall and broad as Dale himself emerged from the darkness. His skin was a few shades lighter than the coal-dust clinging to his shirt. “New hire?” His voice was so deep it almost sounded like it emerged from the deck beneath their feet.
“Dale Mortensen.” Dale held out a hand.
“He’s never worked with steam,” said Ivers cheerfully. “Reckon you’ll have a blast teaching him.” With a jaunty wave, he trotted back to the top deck to resume lugging cargo.
“Never worked with steam, eh?” Danver heaved a tired sigh. “Where have you been the last few years?”
“On a farm in the mountains,” said Dale wryly. In a few brief sentences, he described what happened to him. He had a sudden sinking feeling he was going to be repeating himself a lot over the next few weeks.
Seeming mildly relieved to hear Dale was not a complete landlubber, Danvers introduced him to the rest of the stokers and trimmers—men responsible for keeping the coal evenly distributed in the bunkers to prevent listing—and set about giving him an overview of how everything worked.
“Coal bunkers are at the aft,” he said, pointing to several doors at the aft of the boiler room. “You’ll start out shoveling coal into these buckets,” he indicated steel buckets suspended from an overhead gantry, “which we’ll push over to the furnace.”
Dale looked at the piles of coal standing ready on the deck beside the furnace, which was banked while they were in port. “And then somebody stokes the fire.”
“You’ll get to that too, eventually.” Danver shrugged.
One of the other stokers, a man named Malloy, laughed. “Filthy job, being a stoker, but it pays well and you’re guaranteed a bath every shift.”
Zisk arrived a little while later to escort Dale to the Captain’s quarters; Tobolski wanted to meet him. Tobolski was Zisk’s height, though he was portlier than his first mate. His dark brown hair was well-shot with silver, as was his neatly trimmed beard. He had what Dale’s aunt would have called ‘old eyes’. They were brown in color, but gave one the impression that the man to whom they belonged had seen much more than anyone of comparable age could boast.
Dale was shoveling coal into buckets when the Faerie Queen left the dock and headed out into open sea. He did not have a chance to actually see the ocean until his shift ended that night. By the end of that first day, he knew two things for certain. One, being a stoker was indeed the filthiest, hottest job he had ever done, and two…he did not want to shovel coal and white-hot ash for the rest of his sailing days.
Dale met half of the ship’s crew at supper that night and met the rest over the course of the next day. They were a motley bunch as far as ages and origins, but they all shared a love of sailing and the Wild Sea.
Their many voyages transporting cargo up the coast of Varangia into Selendria and back passed uneventfully. Dale set out to be the best stoker he could be and fell exhausted into his bunk each night, but he absorbed everything around him, like a human sponge. Whenever he had the chance to set foot in the engine room, he learned the ins and outs of the machinery that propelled the Faerie Queen through the Wild Sea.
After the first month or two, Dale became well-known about the steamship for his quiet disposition—and his ability to keep his mouth shut. It was not long before anyone in need of a listening ear sought him out. Dale did not quite understand how he had managed to end up in that position, but he understood that sometimes a man just needed to get a few things off his chest.
Eventually, he realized he was in the position to begin making inquiries about the Legend of the Wild Sea. Men did not want to discuss it under ordinary circumstances, save for the occasional odd reference, but Dale’s reputation for discretion convinced a few old-timers to loosen their jaws.
What he learned was more of the same. Sailing due south on the Wild Sea was akin to diving over the side of the ship in a storm. No one ever came back. No one arrived from the other side. No one knew why.
That information—or non-information, as Dale began to think of it—only piqued his interest further. There has to be a reason, his mind argued late at night, when he lay in his bunk staring up at the overhead above him. There must be a reason no one can cross.
He had no idea what that reason might be, but he knew there had to be one.
I’m going to find out what it is, he vowed. As soon as I have enough experience. I can’t be the only person who wants to know.
~oOo~
SIX months flew by faster than Dale could have imagined. With them came his twentieth birthday. He made no mention of it to anyone; out here, on the edges of the Wild Sea, it was just another day.
In that time, the Faerie Queen made a number of voyages, sailing all up and down the coast. Dale liked Selendria; the kingdom was a riot of colors and exotic spices and he loved their food. They visited the kingdom of Elpis as well, to the northeast of Varangia. The people were friendly, but Dale found their food too bland after experiencing the rich flavors of Selendrian cuisine.
At the end of his term, Captain Tobolski called him in again to ask if he wanted to renew his contract. Dale had given this quite a bit of thought over the last few weeks. He had no desire to remain a stoker; he wanted to be an engineer. I can’t do that here.
“Regretfully, Captain,” he said politely, “I’m afraid I must decline.”
Tobolski sighed. “Well, if you must go, you must. I’ll have a devil of a time replacing you, Mortensen, just so you know.”
Dale inclined his head. “It’s been an honor to serve under you, sir.”
“Should you ever change your mind, come find me,” directed Tobolski. “I’ll take you back in a heartbeat.”
“Thank you, sir.” Dale did not tell him he was not likely to change his mind. Nodding to the Captain, he took his last wages and departed the steamer.
The rest of the crew was sorry to see him go as well. Dale wished them the best and then strode down the gangplank onto the streets of Port Ruby. Everything he owned, he carried in his seabag.
His first order of business was to visit the bank and deposit his latest wages. He then returned to the Bonny Swan for the evening, to be happily greeted by Mrs. Puca and stared at by Ophelia, who did not look quite as sour as she had six months earlier.
That evening, over supper, he put out a few feelers among the other sailors staying at the pub to see about finding a new berth. One or two men snickered at the Faerie Queen, but one hard look from Dale and the snickers ceased. He understood where Tobolski was coming from; if his little sister had named something before she died, he, too, would have fought to hang onto that name with everything he had.
With six months’ worth of experience in a boiler room under his belt, Dale set about searching for a position as an engineer’s assistant. He found another captain of a tramp steamer taking on crew and signed on for another six months. During this time, he kept an ear out at every port they visited for any mention of someone putting together a venture to sail south on the Wild Sea.
He had learned they happened every few years, though it had been nearly four years since the last venture disappeared, never to be heard from again. It was enough to make a lesser man shake in his boots. Dale, however, had his mind set on solving the mystery, whatever the consequences.
If no one stepped up to spearhead an expedition, Dale decided he would work long enough to buy a ship of his own. That was by no means his preferred outcome—it would take years before he could afford to purchase a seaworthy vessel large enough to survive the journey. But, barring being able to sign on with someone else, it was his best option.
He also began to keep an ear out for sailors likely to join such a venture. He could think of a few—in fact, Belly Skoog’s name topped the list—but he knew he would need more men than that.
Dale was still musing on this when he crossed the threshold of the Bonny Swan that evening. His latest post had docked late; the sun was setting in the sky behind him. A fat bag of gold nestled beside his heart. He would have preferred to deposit it immediately, but the bank was closed. He was confident, however, that no one in their right mind would attempt to waylay him. The last year and a half had made him stronger and leaner; he had not grown any taller, but his shoulders had broadened further.
As usual, Mrs. Puca’s pub was a jolly hive of activity. The woman herself bustled from table to table, with Ophelia alternating between the kitchen and trailing in her mistress’s wake. Ophelia had begun to come into her name; she even smiled and greeted Dale by name. The only person not in at least a tolerable mood was a dark-haired stranger sitting in the back, staring moodily into a glass of wine. An open bottle stood on the weathered table beside him.
When Mrs. Puca caught sight of Dale, she threaded an arm through his in a motherly sort of way. “My, Dale, you get more handsome every time I set eyes on you.” She winked at him. “Have to beat the girls off with sticks when you have shore leave, I’ll wager.”
Dale blushed. “Not quite, Mrs. Puca.”
“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Now, what’ll it be? A room for the night and a hot meal?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A moment later, room key safely deposited in his pocket, Dale sat at a table in the middle of the pub drinking cold ale. During the course of his meal, the moody stranger polished off his bottle of wine and called for another. The lilting cadence of his accent marked him as Selendrian. Briefly, Dale wondered how the man had ended up here, but the arrival of his dessert—a tart cherry pie—drove the thought clean out of his head.
Leaving a coin on the table for Ophelia, Dale climbed the stairs to his room and stretched out on the narrow bed. Months at sea in a swinging hammock had spoiled him; he found he did not much care for normal beds anymore.
Rolling over and punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape, Dale made a mental note to find Belly Skoog. Something told him the man might have some information he could use—or else he would know someone who did.
Find out how this Young Adult steampunk adventure unfolds chapter-by-chapter every Thursday! Or if you want to keep reading right now, buy the ebook for $7.99 from Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Smashwords or Sony, or get it as a trade paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Book Depository.
Copyright © 2013 E. R. Paskey