The Prophecy Machine

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Master Finn filled his lungs with the clean salt air, with the heady ocean breeze. The Madeline Rose raced atop a gentle swell, then plunged once more into the briny deep.

“Great Socks and Shoes,” Finn said aloud, dizzy with the sweet intoxication of the sea, “Why, a man could bottle this wondrous stuff and sell it in every foul alley, every dank and smoky town. There's a fortune to be had in pure, uncontaminated air!”

“What's that now, lad? Were you speakin' to me, Master Finn?”

Finn looked up to find Captain Magreet in his path, boots spread wide, poised upon the deck with perfect ease. The ship might roll, the ship might sway, might turn upon its back for a while. Nothing, Finn was sure, would trouble good Captain Magreet.

“Just muttering, sir,” Finn said, “taking in the air. And a lovely fine day it is, too.”

“Might be, might not,” the captain said. “Might be heading for a squall.”

Finn raised a brow at that. “A-squall, sir? We're headed for a squall?”

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