Grace After the Shipwreck
A Short Story by Hannah Garrison
Dear Reader,
As I promised in my last newsletter, I am sharing a new short story. This story was a gift to me to be able to write, and I hope in some way you can also see it as a gift to you. This is only a small token of my appreciation for your support, time, and attention. I hope, wherever you are and however you spend it, your Easter/Resurrection Sunday is full of joy and celebration.
My grateful acknowledgements and a few author notes are included at the end of this piece.
Enjoy,
Hannah
Grace After the Shipwreck
A Short Story by Hannah Garrison
Dedication
For Quentin and his pirate ship.
“Almost. There.”
Grace huffed and puffed. With each breath she threw more and more of her strength behind the boulder in her path. Yet it resisted her, its slick, mossy surface proving difficult to grasp. Her hands, fingers, arms, shoulders—anything she put against it—seemed to slide off with little progress. Still, Grace tried to maneuver her hips so she could get a better angle. She would figure this out.
So focused was she on her task of moving the boulder that she didn’t even notice Jesus’s laughter behind her. Grace only did notice when her grip slipped and the inertia of the push caused her to fall forward, landing awkwardly on her shoulder.
She rubbed her shoulder where it smarted. “You’re not going to help?”
He squatted next to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “You seemed to have ideas on how it should be done. I didn’t want to get in your way.”
He was barely able to conceal the smile on his face, eyes dancing merrily. Grace felt her face go hot, and sank her head in her hand to hide it. But then between the loops of her arms, she saw his face illuminated in lantern light. His eyes were soft, smile kind and sure. In the beam of its confidence Grace caught sight of her own small and silly pride. She snorted at herself and sat up, wiping her hands on khaki pants.
“Well, how would you do it then?” she asked. Grace took the hand he offered and stood up. Perhaps her idea had not been the best, and she was curious what Jesus would suggest. This was his idea after all.
Jesus put down the pack he carried and started to riffle through it. When he had told her they were going on this little adventure, she thought they might need to pack a raincoat and a sack lunch. They were going to check out a cave, see what treasures it might hide. However, Jesus came equipped, not for pleasant sightseeing, but an archaeological dig. As he shifted around the gear, Grace caught sight of tent pegs, cramp-ons, lengths of cord, a compass, brushes, a sieve, even a cast-iron pot (how it all fit, Grace couldn’t guess). At last, he stood up and held aloft his tool of choice.
“Is that a garden trowel?” Grace said. “That’s not going to be big enough to move the boulder. You’ve gotta have some dynamite or at least a shovel in that Mary Poppins bag.”
Jesus only smiled and took the trowel to the boulder. “You had better stand back against the wall. Mind your toes.”
Grace raised her eyebrows, but did as he asked. She shuffled back to a side wall. Jesus and the boulder were to her right; the passage they came through was to her left.
Once satisfied that she was indeed out of harm’s way, Jesus knelt beside the boulder. Grace could not quite make out what he was doing, but from her vantage point it looked a bit like he was digging from the base of the boulder.
Crack!
From just beyond Jesus’s shoulder, something small and round rocketed out from under the boulder and pelted into the wall opposite Grace. Then, as if he were an admiral commissioning a new seaman, Jesus saluted and stepped aside. For a breath or two, the boulder wobbled joyfully before rolling off its perch to pass Jesus and Grace and begin some new mission.
Grace watched it go, her disbelief escaping in a short gasp. She wondered why it had not occurred to her to look for obstructions at its base or to take advantage of the slope of the cave floor. But the boulder was gone. In its absence it left the opening into the next chamber of the caverns.
Excitement flooded Grace. She rushed to the opening with a lantern held aloft to help her peer through the velvet black beyond. Disappointment followed. She could see nothing through the darkness.
“Cover your ears,” Jesus said, coming from behind.
Grace turned to look. Like a wizard with a staff or a king with a scepter, he raised a signal flare up towards the chamber’s ceiling and pulled the flare chain.
The ball of light rocketed high into the black air, casting light over dark waters, steep walls, and—at the apex of its arc—a stalactite-riddled ceiling. As the flare began its descent, its fall slowed by a small parachute, Jesus launched two more flares in slightly different directions. Both continued to illuminate more and more water and the outer edges of what was proving to be an immense cavern.
Then, as the third and final flare reached the edge of its journey, Grace saw it.
“What was that?” she asked, pointing off into the distance. Her feet were almost dancing to see the thing glint in the light. “It was just out of reach of that last flare. Did you see it? It looked like it might be a structure of some kind.”
Jesus was already buckling himself back into his pack, fedora hat firmly affixed on his head. (Earlier, before they had even set foot in the cave, Grace had suggested there might be better headwear suited for spelunking. However, Jesus had insisted the fedora was necessary in these situations.)
The ground under Grace’s feet rumbled, and from somewhere above she heard a strange sound, a deep dry scrape like a rock moving across a desert floor. Grace’s throat tightened at the thought that perhaps the boulder they had just moved was needed for structural support. Had they just destabilized the cave? Or, perhaps it was not so dire. Maybe the sound was just the boulder finally completing its mission.
She looked to Jesus, but he was already on the other side of the opening, gesturing toward an old canoe beached on the rocky shore.
“Let’s go take a look,” he said, offering her a hand.
It was a ship. That’s what the flare’s light could only hint at. A big one, too. The remnants of three masts poked up toward the ceiling like the broken ribs of a long-dead sea beast. Webs of netting and rigging hung from the sides, reminding Grace of old bandages.
The wooden hull sat silently amidst the black waters. There were no lights from the ship or any indication of life. As Grace let her eyes sweep over it, a strange sad feeling seeped between her own ribs as she realized she was looking at something wholly dead. This was a ghost ship.
As the minutes of paddling ticked by, it occurred to Grace how far they were from the shore. Her palms grew sweaty and her throat dry. How deep were the waters? What might happen if the canoe were to capsize? Even as she fidgeted in her seat and felt the boat rock with each movement, a fresh pang of anxiety washed over her.
This was a mistake. They should turn around.
Even as the thought came into her mind, she heard rumbling again, coming from the shore they left behind. Somewhere in the black behind them, a few rocks splashed into the water. Would the cavern collapse soon? Grace shivered.
“You must be brave, Grace.”
She turned back. Jesus sat at the rear of the canoe, his paddle slipping in and out of the water so quietly it almost seemed like he was a part of the boat itself or the water they were crossing. He was smiling at her.
“You read my mind,” she said.
“I don’t need to,” Jesus said. “Be brave, sweet Grace.” He nodded forward.
Grace turned back to face the oncoming shipwreck. She let out a long, slow breath and dug her paddle into the water, splashing her arm.
“I can’t see how anything would be worth salvaging,” Grace said to herself.
Then, a small, quiet thought came to her mind: Could this be…?
As soon as the thought showed itself, she immediately looked away from it and didn’t dare to say it out loud. Her face burned and she tried to direct her attention to her paddle. Grace watched it cutting into the water, listening to the splash. But, even though she pretended she didn’t notice it, the thought lurked in the back of her mind.
Grace had stopped paddling. They were now only feet from a rope ladder and Jesus just needed to steer them close for a safe berth. The hull was right there, within reach.
But Grace was looking around at the netting and broken wood. The smell, musty and ripe like a neglected fish tank, did not draw her in. Looking up, she had further cause to question their decision upon seeing a large, loose beam dangling from the ropes right above their heads.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said. She gingerly poked the ship’s siding and felt rotten wood fibers give under her finger. She inhaled and caught the scent of the sea, far too briny to belong to this underground lake. Out of its shadow, the memory surfaced to wrestle with Grace’s mind.
Could this be…
“We need to turn back,” she said, far louder than she intended. “If I step on that ship I’ll break something.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Jesus said. He was rifling through his bag again. Inside, Grace saw ropes, harnesses, and carabiners. “There are worse things than breaking, though. Here, these will fit you.”
He tossed her a yellow helmet and PFD. Grace felt her hands shake as she pulled her arms through the armholes. Her fingers did not seem to want to fasten the buckle. Two other hands did it for her.
She pointed up at the beam for emphasis, not daring to look again. “This is a death trap.”
He checked her fastenings and synched up the PFD around her waist and shoulders. It constricted her chest like a python. “What did I tell you earlier?”
“You said ‘be brave.’ But I don’t feel brave.”
Grace watched Jesus give her safety gear one last once-over. But the response she waited for—some acknowledgement of the danger or his agreement that it wasn’t a good idea to be there—did not come. After knocking his knuckles on her hard hat, he smiled and went to the rope ladder.
“Follow me,” he said.
Grace let out a moan. She looked around for anything or anyone that would give her an excuse to turn back, but there was nothing. It was just her and Jesus, and he was leading her on to this death trap of a ship.
She grabbed the rope ladder. Even before she started to move her weight, Grace’s legs felt like jello. Her arms felt like jello. Her stomach felt like jello, and it was rolling and roiling with each heave of the lake’s waves. She held the rope tight, though, and put one foot in front of the other.
While she was sure any minute the ladder would break and she would find herself lying in a watery coffin, her fears proved unfounded. Grace made it to the top, and Jesus gave her a hand to get over the ship’s railing.
“So, what are we looking for exactly?” Grace said. She clamped both hands on the railing in case the deck gave way beneath her.
Jesus picked his way carefully over several holey and loose deck boards. He stopped when he came to one of the broken masts. He put an ear against the trunk and rapped his knuckles against it. After a moment he nodded, as if approving of what the wood whispered back.
“I told you,” he said, eyes closed. “We’re looking for lost treasure.”
Grace surveyed the scene of the deck, entirely unconvinced this wreckage could have anything of value. It wasn’t just a wreck of a ship; it was a dump. Over the ruined deck were empty and broken bottles, dirty rags, and—strangely—sheets and sheets of loose, soggy pieces of paper.
Grace picked one up, noticing writing on both sides. It was difficult to read, but after a minute she could make out sentences related to navigating a difficult water passage. She picked up another and saw several diagrams of human anatomy and a description of how to set a broken bone. She let her eyes fall to the other sheets across the deck.
“There are a lot of pages from books. Why?”
When Jesus didn’t answer, she looked over and saw him using the span of his hand to measure the height of the ship railing. It was then she noticed his fedora was gone, replaced with a hard hat. He held a carpenter’s pencil tightly between his teeth. Was that a stack of fresh lumber just past him? Where had that come from?
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Before answering, Jesus made a notation on what looked like a large set of plans that Grace had not noticed before. Then he smiled and looked up.
“Yes, I think you’re right. There must be a library on board. Why not follow the pages and see where they lead?”
Grace frowned, and looked back around her. The pages, while scattered over most of the deck, lay most thickly in an area near the door to the quarters beneath the upper deck, right under a piece of broken mast.
She looked back and gestured with her head toward the door.
Jesus nodded, then turned back to his plans. “Go on. I won’t be far if you need me.”
A very loud voice in Grace’s head told her not to move. With every step, she was taking her life into her hands. But another voice, softer yet somehow clearer, told her she would be ok. So, she followed the trail.
Grace didn’t have a good reason for it, but as she gingerly found her way across the deck, she kept the fingers of one hand firmly wrapped around one of the front buckles of her PFD. She supposed it felt safer, like she was somehow ensuring it stayed fastened. Having only one hand to steady herself did make things awkward, especially when she crawled under the broken mast to get to the door of the captain’s quarters. But she made do.
She followed the trail of soggy pages with no small amount of trepidation, like she was seeking a large spider that had just vanished beneath her pillow. With a trembling hand, she switched on the headlamp attached to her helmet. Like the rest of the ship, the quarters, which she realized belonged to the captain, were in chaos: a riot of splintered wood, broken glass, and filth. Grace could remember hearing stories where the captain’s rooms were the location of treasure hoards, chests of gold, and immense feasts. But if this room held any gold or precious stones, they were unrecognizable. The smell was worse here, too.
Covering her nose, Grace turned her head, letting the lamp help her find the trail again. Sure enough, she found the familiar path, leading to a far corner. She followed it.
Grace’s mind strayed back to the mess of the room. This ship was not small, nor was this captain’s chamber. It had not always been like this, had it? There was a tragedy here. But the thought started to push back to the front of her mind.
Could this be…
No. She did not want to think about that. She would not.
The paper trail ended at the base of what looked like an old trunk turned onto one end with shelves, though most had collapsed at its base. The contents of the shelves sat in a heap, spines twisted, pages agape, like a pod of beached whales rotting in the sand.
Grace couldn’t help herself. She picked up one book and used a gloved hand to wipe the dirt from the cover. She grabbed another and shook a slug loose, only losing a few pages in the process. As Grace picked up the third, this one in a crumbling black leather cover, she stopped to read its title. It read Captain’s Logbook. She turned and looked at her small pile of “cleaned” books. She inhaled and smelled their scent: briny. Just like at the rope ladder.
Could this be…
The thought she did not want to think made its move. It shoved its way past all her defenses, all her excuses, all her fears.
She could hear water rushing.
“These,” she whispered, moving her fingers over the logbook’s cover.
She could hear the wind.
“These were mine. This…”
This was my ship.
Grace dropped the book back into the pile. Her pulse leaped and she rubbed her hands on her trousers to wipe the muck off. She looked over her shoulder, and around, as if searching for a witness to her crime. She needed a way out. Grace had to leave.
In a dark corner, she spotted a small hatchway. Grace scrambled over and attempted to pry it open. Though the wood was swollen and resisted her at first, she managed to finally wrench the hatch free. She shone her headlamp into the depths below. All she could make out was a steep step ladder and dripping puddles of water.
Grace cast one last look over her shoulder towards the door to the chamber. Then she took a breath and descended down into the ship’s hold.
Grace realized this plan of escape was bad as soon as she got to the last rung of the ladder. The ship’s curved bottom was covered in several inches of tepid, standing water. If she had thought it was dark above in the captain’s chamber, it was nothing compared to the total darkness around her. It was a dark so thick that it muffled the sound of dripping water.
As Grace put her foot down, she recoiled as the water filled her hiking boot. She had a moment’s thought that Jesus would certainly have rubber boots in his bag… But, no. Grace could not go ask him. She would not.
Grace sucked in a breath and lowered her other foot, then proceeded to hunt around for any sign of exit. In the water floated bits of wood and small empty barrels. At one point, something foot-sized, hairy, and very much dead floated past her leg. Grace had to cover her mouth to stifle the scream. She grabbed a short plank of wood and pushed the dead rat further away.
Grace returned to her hunt for any kind of exit: another ladder, a hatch, even a porthole. She would take anything. But as she waded through the watery coffin of the ship’s bottom, Grace only saw more things in the water: things broken, things torn, things left to rot alone.
She reached the stern and, finding still no signs of exit, Grace sat down. Water flooded up to her waist, cold. Grace hugged herself against her legs, resting her forehead on her knee caps.
“What am I doing here?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Jesus said.
Grace started and looked up, then winced back against the flare of lantern light. She shielded her eyes.
Jesus stood in front of her, dressed in waders and carrying a large bucket of black goop in one hand and a stiff-bristled brush in the other.
“So. What are you doing here, Grace?”
Grace got to her feet, but didn’t look at him. She didn’t know what to say.
Jesus didn’t seem in a hurry for her to respond, though. He knelt in the water and began to smear big gobs of the hot pitch over a few planks. It smelled, too, but not as bad as the fetid water. The scent was clean, like pine and salt.
Grace watched him work. Then, she waded over to him.
“Can I help?” she offered, holding out a hand.
Without pausing, Jesus passed the brush to her. Grace dipped it into the bucket. The pitch clung to it, little hands of goop resisting her efforts to pull it out. But she managed to give it a bit more muscle. With a tug, Grace freed the brush and slapped it against the side of the boat. Pitch splattered everywhere except where she wanted it to go. Grace threw the brush back into the bucket and knuckled her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Everyone starts somewhere,” Jesus said. He picked up the brush and began to spread the splattered pitch over the planks and into their gaps. He worked with finesse and care, like it was gold lacquer he was spreading between cracked pieces of pottery.
“No, I mean…” Grace swallowed, working to keep her voice level. “I’m sorry about this ship. I’m sorry for everything. It’s my fault, isn’t it? I did this.”
A memory washed past her focus, but she did not fight against it. Instead, she let herself be carried forward toward the briny sea, the rushing water, the wind. She was younger then, long-haired and round-faced. She stood on the deck, hair pulled in the wind, salt-burned cheeks, and a smile that radiated in the red sunrise. But she did not know how to read the sky or the clouds and was surprised when the storm hit. She did not know when to drop anchor or furl the sails. The ship’s wheel careened wildly on its own, with no hands to hold it. The wind grew fierce and frightening. The first mast fell, and Grace, alone on deck, was grabbed by a wave and pulled into the sea.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Older Grace, the Grace sitting in the belly of the ship, looked up. Jesus was looking down at her.
She wasn’t sure what she expected to find in his face. No, that’s not true. She was sure what she was expecting to find: disappointment, anger, judgement. That’s what she deserved. What happened to this ship was her fault. All this wreckage, this waste, was on her.
But looking at Jesus’s face, she didn’t see those things. She didn’t really recognize what she saw. She knew what disappointment looked like, but it wasn’t there. This thought struck Grace so much she almost missed what Jesus said next.
“Grace, everyone starts somewhere,” he said again. “Now, help me with this.”
Jesus gave her a hand up and led her to another steep stair. Grace had missed this one earlier, wandering in the dark with only her headlamp. But Jesus’s light was much brighter than hers.
As Grace stepped up onto the deck, she was confused for a moment, not recognizing the cleaned and whole railing, new masts, and repaired rigging. The sails, which had been torn and hanging like rags, were now rolled tightly and ready for use. There were no signs of debris or damage anywhere.
Grace followed Jesus aft, eyes wide. “Did you do all of this?”
Jesus winked back at her. “I’m a man of many talents.”
They stopped at a large wheel with two handles jutting out from its sides. Grace was surprised she recognized it.
“A pump?”
Jesus nodded, and gestured for her to pick a handle. She did, and he did, and together they worked the wheel. Grace could not hear the water leaving the hold; only the soft whine of the wheel turning on its axis gave any hint of their progress. As they pulled and pushed the wheel, Grace watched Jesus and a thought she had earlier resurfaced.
“Why aren’t you mad at me?” she said, a little softer than she intended. She cleared her throat and continued. “You should be mad at me. I’m mad at me.”
“I can tell,” Jesus said. He grimaced as he pushed down hard on the wheel. “Perhaps it’s time you moved passed that.”
This startled Grace.
“What if I don’t want to?” She paused her speech a moment to catch her breath. “What if I’d rather stay mad?”
“I think there are better ways for you to spend your time than punishing yourself. I forgave you a long time ago.”
Another memory came to Grace’s mind.
She had been swimming—no, drowning. Dark waters filled her ears, tried to fill her lungs. Stormy foam churned her like this wheel. She looked through the deep to try to get her bearings—to find the surface. But everything was upside down and every time she swam towards the light, it was the darkness that she swam toward instead. Water pushed into her nose and she coughed. It came into her mouth, her throat. All was growing dim. This was when two scarred hands grabbed her shirt, her shoulders, her arms. They pulled her through the chaotic waters until her head, bawling and wet like a newborn’s, broke the surface and felt air.
He had saved her from the storm. He had forgiven her. And he had brought her back here, to the very ship she had wrecked.
“Why would you do that?” she said.
Now, Jesus smiled. He looked up and around the ship, head bobbing with each push of the wheel. It was like he knew a funny joke in another language and was trying to figure out how to translate it for her. Finally, he paused his work on the wheel and looked at her.
“What is your name?” he asked.
Grace opened her mouth. And then she closed it.
There was a long moment where neither of them said anything, and the only noise was the whiney turning of the pump wheel and the swaying of the rigging in an unfelt breeze. Somewhere far off some rocks rumbled and fell into water. Beneath their feet the ship moved gently with the roll of the waves below. Grace heard a gull calling from somewhere in the darkness. She was struck by how strange it was to hear a bird in a cave.
Jesus stopped working the wheel again. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the ship, a pleased smile on his face.
“We’ve found a treasure indeed. What do you think about taking her out?”
Grace baulked, but Jesus only smiled and walked over to put a hand around her shoulder.
“You want to pilot this ship out of this cave and onto the open ocean?” Grace said.
“No,” Jesus said. “I want you to pilot this ship out of this cave and onto the open ocean… captain.”
As he said this last word, he held out a black bicorne hat with feathered plume. Grace raised a hand to take it, but hesitated. Then, she let her hand fall.
Grace looked at him, unsure of what words to use to explain herself. What could she say when she hardly knew what she was feeling? All she did know was that looking at the black hat felt like she was looking back into the black clouds of the storm. She could not bring herself to take it.
Jesus nodded, as if all those thoughts and feelings inside her were inside him as well. She braced herself for his anger, his disappointment. But the expected reaction never surfaced. Instead, he stepped toward the railing and motioned for her to follow him.
Leaning over the side, his eyes searched the darkness before coming back to her.
“What are you afraid of?”
Grace looked down, picking at the railing. All she could think of was that storm. She could hear the breaking waves and wood, smell the brine and ozone. The darkness, like a gaping maw, bore down on her and she knew of no way to stop it. She, who was supposed to be the ship’s master and commander, had been as impotent as the unused anchor. It was a nightmare to which Grace had no desire to return.
“What if I mess it up?” she said. “What if—after all this work you’ve done—I take this ship and do it all over again?”
Though Grace kept her face down and mouth shut, she could not dam up the tears that had begun to leak from her eyes. She tried to hide behind her sleeve as she wiped her eyes and snotty nose. Grace wished she was back in the ship’s dark hold. But she did not push off the hand that found her shoulder, nor did she shun its pressure as it guided her to turn back. The hand moved under her chin and directed her face to look up.
Grace could not understand why Jesus was smiling, but he was. He was also crying, and this disturbed her. But then he reached down into his bag and pulled out a handkerchief, which he offered Grace. And then he pulled out a thermos and a teacup and a little stool. He sat her down, poured her tea, and took her hand in his.
Grace sat on the stool, blew her nose, wiped her eyes. She took a sip of the tea (peppermint with a bit of honey). She waited for Jesus to say something, but he only held her hand while he knelt by her side. So, Grace let herself cry a bit more and that felt alright. As she cried, it was like something that had been in her for so long was finally being let out, finally getting air. She couldn’t put words to why. She was not sure whether she was crying for sadness’s sake or relief’s. Perhaps it was both, and perhaps it was neither. But on the deck of the ship, with Jesus holding her hand, Grace finally let the storm inside out. And she found that it was not as dark as she remembered.
When Grace’s eyes began to dry she took a deep breath and looked around. The ship was clean and smelled like fresh pine sawdust. Though she didn’t trust her memory, it seemed a bit sturdier than she remembered. In fact, there were a few new embellishments: beautifully lathed railing around the upper deck, a new gold-filigree figurehead, an embroidered flag in Tyrian purple. Grace looked down at the handkerchief in her hand and the teacup on her knee.
“Perhaps you have something in your bag that can teach me how to sail a ship.”
Jesus shrugged then gave her a sly smile and a nudge. He leaned forward to pull open his bag just a bit, and Grace caught sight of a hefty trove of books, rolled charts, and atlases.
“I have helped a few captains before,” he said very casually.
Grace nodded. Then something caught her eye in the distance of the cavern. There, some light source sparkled. Was it the opening to the cavern? Or was it a different opening, an opening that led out onto the ocean and into the sun and sky? She felt a strong breeze cross her face, and her nose caught the sharp scent of fresh air. Perhaps it was time to set sail afterall.
Just as the thought was thought, she heard the rumbling again. It came from across the waters from where they had entered the cave. The sound was deep, but with each second it grew higher and more urgent like thunder.
A symphony of splashing rocks echoed around the cavern. The waters around the ship fell against its sides with greater intensity. The deck rocked under Grace.
She got to her feet, but her hand stayed in Jesus’s. Grace looked back at him. But seeing his face, the glint of excitement in his eyes, she found the gripping fingers of fear slide away from her heart. All that was inside her was a small but thrilled joy.
Grace’s heart leaped like a calf. Like a forest of cedars breaking, a sound cut through the air. Ahead yet high above, where the sky waited, the ceiling of the cavern tore in two from top to bottom. Grace almost fell back as gleaming lightning poured into the cavern. But—no. It was not lightning, but the rays of the sun breaking through. A mighty, rushing wind pushed Grace backward and filled the ship’s sails.
Grace ducked her head into her elbow to shield her eyes from the light. She heard a rhythmic roaring and wondered if more rocks were falling. But as she listened, she realized it was not rocks nor the sound of the lake, but of the not-so-distant ocean waves crashing through the new cavern opening.
“You won’t leave me, will you?” she cried. Her hand clung to Jesus’s. She felt the ship beneath her groan and heave as it pulled to be free from the rocks.
Jesus shook his head, his smile brightening.
“No,” he said. He did not shout, but she could hear him clearly over the noise. “I’ll stay as long as you let me.”
“Good,” she said, bracing herself for what was to come.
The waters rose, the winds pulled, and with one last shudder the ship broke free, rocking onto the lake waters. No more was the water black, but instead blue and gray and shimmering in the sunlight. They sailed forward, propelled by a wind stronger and firmer than any Grace had known.
Just before they passed through the new opening, where the edge of the cavern met the edge of the sea, Grace caught sight of a large, round, and familiar-looking boulder sitting at the water’s edge. She eyed Jesus, and he gestured with his head. Together, they saluted it before turning to take the ship’s wheel.
The End
Acknowledgements
This story was a gift to me first, and so I give thanks to God for all that this has been for me and may be for you. All glory, honor, and praise to Him who created all things and partners with creators in bringing beauty into the world.
I want to give special tribute to my beta readers, who all gave me invaluable feedback to make this story better. To Laura Hood, Nick Clarke, Gail-Agnes Musikavanhu, Paul Holden, Cyntya Uriegas, Kelsey Wassil, and David I offer my sincerest thanks. It means so much to me that you would agree to labor with me in mkaing this story better.
Finally, I would be totally remiss if I did not say “thank you” to my husband, David. Without your continued and lavish support, neither this story nor my newsletter would be possible. “Thank you” just seems too small to express my gratitude. Let’s just say I owe you a beer😉. Love you.
Author’s Notes
First, let me give a little context to what I think is the elephant in the room, namely the portrayal of Jesus in this story. While it may be apparent to many (most?) of you, I think it prudent to just state that this is a work of fiction written by silly ol’ me. The character of Jesus in this story is a character. However, the character’s personality is in large part drawn from my personal experience of faith and readings of the four gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John). I would encourage you to read those same gospels if this story has whet your appetite.
This was a small part of the story, but sailors really could be avid readers (at least around the 1800s in America). This was probably because of the long stints at sea and captains occassionally needing reference manuals for navigation. There were even societies that formed to donate books (and Bibles) to sailors. If you’re curious to learn more, these two articles on portable ship’s libraries and what they might have looked like were very helpful to me:
On books on board ships: https://southstreetseaportmuseum.org/sailors-and-their-books/
On portable libraries for lighthouses and ships, and what one might look like: https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/the-most-precious-cargo-for-lighthouses-across-america-was-a-traveling-library
loved reading this! really beautiful depiction of the feelings of peace, comfort, and support we can receive from the Lord!!
This is really good Hannah. It has a bit of familiarity of several allegorical Christian pieces I've read, and yet it's not overly familar with any; it's very much it's own thing. Well done.