Here is the picture:
Deryn looked at the sky bleakly. He shut his eyes and bit
his lip, thinking. The sharp taste of his blood jerked him back to awareness.
It was all over. They had lost. A wave pitched over the edge of the Defiant and he shivered with the cold.
The rain pounded into his clothes, soaking them.
“Get to work
pumping in the cabin, man!” screamed the wild-eyed mate.
“It’s no use,” said Deryn, quietly. “She’s forsaken us.”
These words had no impression on the mate, though. His
scarred face only filled with a deep, cold anger, and he took out his pistol.
“Get to work, I said!”
Deryn brushed his greasy hair back and walked slowly to
the hatch. It was open, and from the top, he could see the men screaming
frantically and dumping buckets of water through the portholes. He climbed down
the rotting rope ladder. The water was thigh-deep.
Bucket upon bucket he bailed, until suddenly, a queer
thing happened. Deryn looked up, and a light shone through the hatchway. He
heard a voice.
“Don’t give up, Deryn. You can only see the present, but
there is a future waiting behind the bleak day. There is light.”
Deryn knew what he had to do. The war with the storm might
be over, it might be lost, but he had to keep fighting. He would fight the sea
storm to the death, for death was the only option. But still, he would fight
it.
* * *
In a tall, stone turret, a woman, robed in a crimson
gown, gazed at a jar on a shelf. On the shelf, there was motley group of star
charts, maps, and old, old books, dusty and crumbling. But in the jar, she
gazed at a ship, battered and tossed by the winds, but no bigger than a toy.
And as she gazed, the tears filled her eyes.
Walking slowly, she climbed down many flights of stairs
to a green, foggy lawn. She made her way to where the water lapped against the
shore, and she stepped into a small wooden boat. As she stood in the boat, she
whispered a few words, and the boat began to move slowly, creeping into the
mist.
* * *
The fight still raged. The water was waist-deep. Outside
the hull of the ship, the wind battered and bruised the poor Defiant, whipping the waves around her.
It was cruel.
Deryn wiped the sweat from his dripping forehead. Then he
looked up. So did all the rest of the crew. There were shouts coming from the
quarterdeck. These were not shouts of fear, but of hope. Deryn climbed onto the
deck, where, sailing from the east, he saw the only thing that could have given
his tired, bedraggled face hope.
“The White Lady of Keiran!”
Her golden hair trailed in the wind behind her as the
crimson robed woman floated into view. And with her golden hair came a golden
light. For with the lady of purity came the only thing that could save them-
the light.
In that moment, Deryn knew that the war with this
hideous, battering sea was not done
for. And neither was he. They would fight, and they would triumph.
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