Moon Mask

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The stench of death engulfed the ominous black hulk of the slave ship. The L’aile Raptor lolled on the swell, her rigging creaking in the breeze. The sky above was as clear as a crystal, shimmering in the heat. Yet, despite the brilliance of the sunlight, the deck of the slave ship seemed swathed in perpetual shadow.

Second Lieutenant Percival Lowe, of His Majesty’s Ship Swallow, had read merrily rhyming poems that dared to describe the darkest labyrinths of the devil’s realm. Those words paled in comparison to the hellish pall that enveloped the slave ship.

The deck was deserted, the sails half-mast. It was strewn with debris, dirty. Not a soul was in sight. Even the gulls kept their distance, circling some distance away as though they too felt the menace this ship exuded.

He had heard tales of these ghost ships; ships that were found drifting at sea, their hulls intact, their rigging fine, their galley’s full, yet all of the crew gone. His mind played through numerous fanciful scenarios, picturing sea monsters slithering up the deck, great tentacles dragging every last soul to a watery grave.

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