MicroHorror

“Cyriac, my worldly friend, have you ever seen a storm like this?”

“Truly, Antonio,” shouted Cyriac through the maelstrom, “Poseidon throws frowning waves set to sink our good vessel with all the might of his godly arm. We must allay his displeasure.”

“What think you? Have you hope?” Antonio spoke with desperation, his arms tight around a solid wooden beam, his thoughts with his beautiful wife and young child ailing in their cabin below.

“You are quick to abandon your Christian certainty! Where are your prayers?” asked Cyriac. Antonio shook his head, his face pale under the flickering light of the salon’s sickly-swinging oil lamp.

“My prayers are for my family. My hopes are for a resolution to this terror.”

“Then pray also to Halimeda.”

“The boat’s figurehead?”

“Your prayers give her power. She alone can commune with Poseidon.”

The ship lurched and there was a horrifying crash: Cyriac’s precious maps had been hurled across the salon and he scrambled to gather them before they were harmed. A child’s wail came from below and Antonio dropped to his knees, his head bowed as he willed his prayers towards the wooden figure without who spliced the storm with her proud bosom.

A second crash came with a terrible groaning of timbers. The lamp smashed to the floor and the salon went dark.

“To me, Cyriac, for the love of all that is holy! Forget your maps and come to me, praying is all we can do now!” Antonio felt tears spring to his eyes but the strong arm of his friend clutched at his and together they prayed, clinging to each other, as the storm raged.

Plunging deep into the heart of the waves, Halimeda heard the men’s prayers and smiled a splintered smile. These Christians had turned their backs on the Old Religion; even those who flirted with paganism couldn’t know that it was deeper than the intellect, deeper than their books and learning, deeper than the modern art it inspired. They understood the form with their luscious Carraran marble but they didn’t understand its vicious, viscous beating heart.

Halimeda’s heart was of the Old Religion: passionate, unforgiving and wildly, stormily jealous. She listened to the pleas of the storm-tossed men with amusement, then turned to the Sea God himself.

“Lord Poseidon, hear me. I beg the life of the souls aboard my vessel. You care not for innocence or evil alike so I ask not for you to judge their worthiness: all I can offer is my entreaty.”

Poseidon heard her voice over the roar of his tempest and laughed at her supplication. “Very well, my dear nymph, I will answer your prayer. But you know what I will ask in return, and it is for you to bear the burden of choice.”

Halimeda smiled her splintered smile.

“My Lord, I ask for nothing less.”

The masthead hung from its twisted ropes; the mainsail was rent with the force of its fracture. Three of the men had been lost overboard. The remaining crew moved about the boat in slow motion, making a start on the extensive damage.

“We are alive,” whispered Cyriac.

“My friend, I must thank you for the comfort of your presence in those fearful hours.”

“Antonio, my gratitude to you is more than equal.”

Antonio pressed his hand to his friend’s shoulder and descended to the cabin to check on the health of his wife and child. Moments later a cry split the new peace.

“She’s gone! Where has she gone? Eleanor!”

The call was taken up by all on board but of Eleanor there was no sign.

“Could be that she sought fresher air to ease her suffering in the night,” the boatswain said. “Those waves would have taken her before she knew it.”

Halimeda heard his words and laughed her dusty laugh. The sacrifice had pleased Poseidon. It may be a myth that a woman on board brought bad luck, but one of such beauty was a different matter altogether.

• Copyright: © 2009 Jennifer Stakes