A Sailor's Gift

 

I carried the Oakhaven Fishing Charm wrapped in sailcloth, the way the druids insist—knots facing east, wood never touching iron. By the time I reached Rocky Step Bay, the wind had salted my lips and the Eastern beaches of Tavash stretched out like a scatter of old bones. Waves clambered up the stone steps that gave the bay its name, each one slipping back with a sigh, as if the sea itself were tired.

That’s where I found him.

He stood ankle-deep in the surf, a figure cut from rope and weather: beard like tangled kelp, coat patched so many times it had become its own map. His eyes were sharp, though—unnaturally so—and they followed me before I ever spoke.

“You’ve got something for me,” he said, voice rough as a split hull.

I handed him the charm. Oakhaven oak, etched with the spiral of safe returns and bound with green twine darkened by age. He turned it over in his palm, nodded once, and then—without ceremony—asked if I cared to join him for a quick fishing trip.

I should’ve said no. Hagglestone was a long road, and the bay was already restless. But curiosity has always been my leak, and before I knew it, I was stepping into his narrow boat as it cut free from the stones.

We didn’t fish long before the line went taut.

The old sailor grinned then, a fierce, hungry thing. “Not fish,” he said. “Serpent.”

The water exploded.

What rose beneath us was vast and coiling, scales like wet armor catching the sun in cruel flashes. The line sang, the mast creaked, and suddenly we were flying across the open waters of Nebadon Bay, dragged by something ancient and furious. The boat skipped over waves, spray stinging my eyes, while the sailor laughed like a man who had been waiting years for this moment.

The serpent dove, surfaced, twisted—each movement threatening to split us open. I clutched the charm where it now hung from the mast, whispering every half-remembered blessing I knew. Once, a coil surged so close I saw my reflection in its eye and knew, with a cold certainty, that without that small circle of oak, we would already be dead.

Then, with a final wrench, the line snapped.

The sea swallowed the serpent whole, leaving only foam and silence.

I felt my stomach sink. I was sure he’d turn on me then, curse the charm, curse me for false promises and bad luck. But the sailor only exhaled, long and slow, and laid a steadying hand on the mast.

“She had me,” he said softly. “This time for sure. But she didn’t take me.”

He touched the charm with something like reverence. “That’s enough.”

We drifted back to Rocky Step Bay without another word. When we reached the stones, he thanked me—truly thanked me—and pressed his forehead briefly to mine, an old mariner’s gesture I didn’t know the meaning of, but felt all the same.

Then I left him there, watching the water, and turned inland toward Hagglestone.

Behind me, the sea kept its secrets.