There was a silence blowing across the ocean. A heavy breath of wind that flattened the waves and sucked the air from the sails. Harrow looked nervously up at his uncle who was cursing softly as he worked to gather in the reams of limp canvas.
“Is she coming?” Harrow peered over the side of the boat, watching the ripples die in the unnatural stillness of the water. His uncle grunted in reply and the boy reached out to trail his fingers in the murky blue. The surface looked almost oily, but the ocean felt the same as ever. He frowned and wiped his hand on his leather vest. “Do you think she’ll help?”
His uncle paused, leaning under the horizontal mast of the foresail and gave his nephew an appraising look. “You think I would come out here if not? That I would cast the traven on the waters to call her up from the depths?” He snorted. “I have no deathwish, stupid chia.”