On the calmest day of the year the harbour shines mirror smooth. The air lies warm and heavy over the village port of Frangelli. Maven sways high in the rigging of the Susan-May checking and rechecking that next time his twisting sail would properly unfurl. The sea breeze ruffles his jet black curls. The sharp salty smell of the sea invigorates him and he climbs higher. His nut brown skin, the lines around his eyes from squinting too long into the sun, make him appear older than his true age. But the way he scrambles up lithely among the ropes belies that.
The Susan-May hasn’t been his for long and he is still learning her ways. The failure of her twisting sail to unfurl in the last storm was almost catastrophic. Not long ago he would have told this tale with bravado, now he is engaged and returning to harbor has never been more important. Yasmeen is his world, his obsession and the love of his life. His grandmother says he is infatuated, but if he is, he is happy about it.
Maven tugs a final thread tight on the sail attachment. His eyes run searchingly over the mechanism. Today is a fete day and everyone else is preparing for the celebration. Maven wants to join them, but only when he is completely sure his ship is safe. He is taking a certain pride in delaying his pleasure. He feels as if he has truly crossed the boundary into manhood.
He flicks the little silver cogs of the winding gear one last time with his fingers. They spin and hum sweetly. No problems. All it had been was a bit of dirt. His father was right. It was imperative to dismantle and polish the gears every time he came into port. It’s a tedious and time consuming job, but he won’t skip it again.
He has one more trip planned before his wedding to Yasmeen. One more voyage to catch the autumn Durfish migration and then every trip after that he will be coming home to his wife. Maven lifts his face to the suns and smiles into the clear sky. He can hardly believe he will soon be a married man, and the youngest village elder Frangelli has had in living memory. His parents, eager to retire, are as excited as he. The whole village has agreed to put aside some of the season’s gifts of food from Milton Hold to celebrate the day.
Maven looks down fondly on his home. Frangelli might be a small fishing village, but it’s a prosperous one. His family home is large; a group of low buildings surrounding a sunny courtyard where he and his sisters played as children. His sisters now all had homes of their own and his parents plan to move to a small cottage. Soon the house will belong to him and Yasmeen. Then, they too would raise their family there. This was the way of things. Maven could not have been happier.
A sudden ripple across the bay jolts him. Without thinking he locks his wrists and feet into the nearest rigging straps. The boat tips again. Not letting go, he twists to survey the horizon. Across the bay he sees the unthinkable, a series of incoming ripples, stacking up one after another on what had been an utterly flat sea.
There is no wind. No sign of any clouds.
Under the warmth of the golden sun, Maven’s heart turns to ice.
It can’t be.
There’s been no warning. No messenger with maps from the Hold. Everyone is in the village. Everyone.
Maven shouts. He screams a warning to his village. His voice carries through the still air. A door opens in the house closest to the harbour. He can see Yasmeen. She is wiping her floury hands on her apron, her distant face raised to him in question.
‘Get to high ground,’ yells Maven. Frantically he begins to untangle himself from the safety straps. ‘Get up! Get up! Shift is coming! Shift!’
In response to his cry the villagers stops mid task. There is a moment of stillness, but only a moment. A silent understanding sweeps through the village. Shift, Maven had cried Shift.
Impossible, but such a warning is too dangerous to ignore. As one, the villagers abandon their work, tossing aside baskets and tools. Everyone runs. Parents scoop up children. Others propel the elderly outdoors. Children catch their pets if they could. Everyone races towards high ground. The whole village flees. All except Yasmeen.
Across the harbour the ripples become waves. In less than a hundred heartbeats the water has grown monstrous, with rank after rank of foam topped crests as high as houses.
If she runs now, maybe she had a chance. Maven screams again to her to run. But Yasmeen only stood there watching him trying to free himself. She will not leave without him.
