But anyone who tries and fails becomes part of the crew of the cursed storm ship.
19
The Oyster
The ship lurched and spun, stumbling through the storm. Tor knelt on the deck, trying to keep Cloudcaster from capsizing. A wave knocked the hull so hard he went flying to the side, landing on his back. His hair was matted to his face, and he could barely see, wind pummeling water straight into his eyes.
The wood groaned, and ropes flew through the air, wrapping around his wrists to keep him steady.
Vesper opened the hatch from below and poked her head out. “We’ve gone off course!” she yelled. “We need to go east!”
He nodded, turning the ship slightly, and closed his eyes a moment before a wave came crashing over the siren and onto the deck. It might have swept Tor away, but the ropes held firm.
He was trapped between two equally raging storms—the rain that poured violently from dark clouds circling above him like an endless pack of wolves and the sea that seemed determined to reach the heavens.
Melda and Engle had protested when Tor asked them to stay below, but finally did as he asked. Tor didn’t mind being alone. He preferred the rain pounding against his head to the thoughts that raged inside it.
Another wave hit the helm, and it showered him in a glacial spray. He couldn’t see anything now, the rain blinding him completely, so he sank to the deck and rode the ship like a horse as it galloped across the seas, trying his best to keep it steady with the ropes around his wrists.
“Nearly there!” a voice said through the downpour, and Tor slumped over in relief. He felt the waves get smaller and smaller beneath him, as they navigated out of the open water and closer to the coast.
The rain thinned, and he stood once more.
Just ahead sat a town with a harbor that only fit one ship.
He made port, then went below.
“Tor, you’re pale as bone!” Melda said, her rage from yesterday all but forgotten. He stumbled past her to his room, where he changed into fresh clothing and tried his best to get warm. Still, even though he wore many layers, and Melda shoved tea at him the moment he left his cabin, his chest felt hollow as honeycomb.
“Are you sure you want to go now?” she asked him, a worried expression on her face. He must have looked terrible.
“We’re so close.” Tor said, his own weak voice surprising him. “The Calavera captain and his allies could get here at any moment. We can’t wait.”
Melda nodded, not looking convinced, but not saying anything more. Engle joined them, and he smiled, though it did not reach his eyes.
“Whatever happens, it was an adventure,” he said, outstretching his hand, lifeline up.
“To adventure,” Melda said, her voice thick. Tears gathered in her eyes like storm clouds. She pressed her lifeline to his.
“To adventure,” Tor finished, holding his palm to both of theirs.
And then they climbed up the stairs toward whatever awaited them above.
* * *
The town looked abandoned. It was just a cluster of stone houses and empty streets—yet Tor swore he saw someone rush to close their shutters.
He stepped onto a creaking dock that threatened to collapse at any moment. Vesper was behind him, holding the compass, which had gone deathly still.
She took a step off the ship, and Tor watched the needle whip to the side. He followed where it pointed, and froze. Something at his core yawned and stretched, slowly awakening.
There was an isle a mile away from the docks, connected to the town by a narrow land bridge, ocean raging on either side. He felt connected to it, tethered by an invisible piece of thread. And something on the other side tugged him forward.
“It’s a tidal island,” Melda said. “Just like in the book. The land bridge is only visible during low tide.” It was made up of a single, looming mountain, with a tower at its very top.
“We better start walking then,” Engle said.
The land bridge, crafted from sand and crushed-up shell that crunched beneath their boots, was so narrow only two of them fit across. The sea lapped at its either side, splashing them with spray. Rain pummeled them in painful streaks, the wind roaring in Tor’s ears, angry like the ocean, which was a terrifying, deep blue—impossible to see through. When they were halfway across, Tor looked around. He was far out into the sea. Tor felt like he was walking on water—just like he had once done with the Night Witch—rather than on a narrow sand bridge through it.
“Do you see a way up?” Melda asked Engle, nodding toward the mountain ahead. It was larger than Tor thought, the tower atop dwarfed by its size.
Engle nodded. “There’s a path, an ancient staircase that doesn’t look very sturdy.”
Gray-tinged, angry clouds had trailed them, taking turns cracking open. A flash of lightning illuminated the tower, and Tor saw a long window at its very top.
He wondered if the pearl was in that room.
“Can you see into the tower?” Tor asked. Sightseers’ eyes were much more sensitive than others’, since they worked so much harder. It would require Engle to use his see-through vision, something he could only do occasionally, when the weather was right.
A roar of thunder shook the ground underfoot. Tor swallowed. The weather definitely did not seem right.
“No. I can’t.”
The sea sloshed even more furiously now, the ocean beginning to encroach on the land bridge, though it was still low tide. Tor walked faster, body already aching from steering the ship through the storm. He looked at his friends, heads down against the wind, shoulders hunched, pushing forward nonetheless, and he became resolute as marble.
Whatever happened didn’t matter. If his friends survived, that would be enough. That would always be enough. He chanted the words on a loop in his head until they reached the base of the mountain.
A tiny ring of sand circled the
