Chapter 1

useless eric

Eric stood at the whiteboard in Mrs. Weston’s math class. He held the marker limply at his side. “Come on, Eric. This is supposed to be a simple math problem. It’s exactly like the problems you did for your homework.”

Eric refrained from telling Mrs. Weston how much trouble he had with his homework. While Eric did not consider himself good at anything, the thing he felt least bad at was math. In fact, in geometry last year, he almost felt like he was finding a niche for himself. Unfortunately, as he moved on to Algebra 2 this year, he fell back into his normal pattern of mediocrity. With geometry, he could see shapes, rearrange them in his mind, and use them to plot out and make sense of them. With other math classes, however, pictures disappeared and endless parades of random numbers and letters replaced them in one big, jumbled mess. As if to prove this point, he stared at the whiteboard hopelessly as Mrs. Weston pressured him.

“Barring a miracle, Eric,” she said, “I’m keeping you up there until you complete this math problem.”

Eric sighed. If he could have calculated his odds of a miracle helping him, he felt confident they would be fairly scarce. Of course, if he could calculate odds, he would hardly need a miracle because he would be good at math anyway. Where was his guardian angel when he needed it?

A knock came at the classroom door, which then opened abruptly. Eric slumped in disappointment upon seeing Vice Principal Olsen standing in the doorway, the furthest thing from a guardian angel he could imagine. Before Mr. Olsen explained his presence, Eric saw someone emerge from behind him as he entered the class. It was a girl.

True, Eric has seen many girls in his lifetime, but he sensed something different about this girl. Physically, she did not stand out much more than any other girl. Plenty of others shared her blonde hair and rosy cheeks. He did notice, however, the way she eased her hair back into a loose bun that shot flares of unruly curled hairs around her head to create of a sort of halo, and the red in her cheeks and lips glowed in a way that compensated for a slightly short stature. Her jeans and light green shirt hardly set her apart in style from anyone else in the room, but the way she walked in them lent her an air of certainty.

While absorbing this girl’s presence, Eric realized that, contrary to normal adolescent instincts, what he felt upon seeing her was not love. He knew what love felt like because he had been in love with Sara Parker—until she laughed at him for holding a baseball bat by the wrong end in gym class. So he knew that this was not love, yet that was all he could do to narrow the field of what it was about this girl that captured his attention so vividly.

A mesmerized Eric observed as the girl trailed Mr. Olsen with uncanny confidence. While gliding into the room, she scanned each student. Her sweep ended with Eric, who still stood lamely in front of the whiteboard. If this girl overcame unremarkable physical qualities with a mystical strength of personality, Eric disappeared into his unremarkable self. His short-cropped, tawny hair lay limply across his head, and his bony joints tried to meld into his bland T-shirt and old jeans. Though his height exceeded most boys his age, he hid it well with hunched shoulders and a downward-angled head, accustomed to staring at the ground.

In spite of Eric’s camouflage, Eric noticed the girl pause as her line of sight slid past his own. For a split second they connected, and she cocked her head curiously. Then, just as quickly as she reacted upon seeing him, she allowed her face to glaze over with apparent disinterest.

“Sorry to interrupt your class, Mrs. Weston,” Mr. Olsen declared, breaking the spell that held Eric captivated, “but I was wondering if I could borrow one of your students.”

Mrs. Weston, clearly on rocky terms with Vice Principal Olsen, curtly responded, “No.”

Mr. Olsen had not expected that reply. “Oh … um, well, I’m going to have to borrow one anyway. You see, we have a new student here, and I wanted to have another student show her around the school.”

“Go ask Mr. Lindley. I’m busy with a lesson. Just because my classroom is right next to the office doesn’t mean that you can drop in here all the time and steal my students at will.” Scattered snickers indicated the students’ pleasure at seeing Mr. Olsen getting an earful.

“I didn’t come to your classroom because it was close to the office.”

“Then what was your reasoning?” Mrs. Weston pushed.

“Um … I, um … just decided to go by alphabetical order.”

“Darren,” Mrs. Weston upped the stakes by addressing Mr. Olsen by his first name, providing the more delinquent boys in the room with new bathroom stall vandalism fodder, “my last name is Weston. The letter ‘W’ is at the end of the alphabet.”

“Yeah, I know. Uh … I’m going backward in the alphabet.”

“What about Mr. Yang, then?”

The vice principal’s mouth stood open for a second before he turned and grabbed Eric. “What about this young man? Certainly you won’t miss him.”

“Eric isn’t going anywhere until he finishes the problem on the board.”

Though he was as desperate as ever, Eric still had no clue what to put for an answer. On the front row, however, he realized that Tina Ortiz must have been as desperate as Eric was to keep him from standing in front of the whiteboard all day. She scribbled something on her notebook and held it up. As incompetent as Eric felt, he at least recognized a lifeline when offered. He quickly copied the answer onto the board.

Mrs. Weston looked at the answer with widening eyes before glancing suspiciously at Tina, who had by now hidden her notebook on her lap. “Excellent work, Eric,” she said deliberately. “That answer seemed to have come out of nowhere. I guess you got a miracle after all.” Eric smiled lamely, and Mrs. Weston concluded, “Fine. Get out of here.”

As the three worked their way back into the hallway, Mr. Olsen gave a last look back at the glaring Mrs. Weston while adjusting his tie nervously. He ushered the two students farther down the hall, then tapped Eric on the shoulder. “Eric, this is Charlotte Reeves. Charlotte, Eric Francis.” The two nodded formally to each other, though each eyed the other curiously while Mr. Olsen continued, “Charlotte just arrived today, so I hope you can give her a good welcome and show her around the school.”

Eric nodded.

“Right,” Mr. Olsen said, handing Eric a note to use as a hall pass. “Then I guess that’s everything. Oh, and Eric, for the bathrooms, girls bathrooms in particular, you’ll just have to show her where they are located. You don’t have to physically go into them.”

Eric rolled his eyes. While he did not have the best opinion of himself, he at least did not think anyone would be idiot enough to have to be reminded of that. After scrutinizing Mr. Olsen’s expression, however, Eric recognized the sincerity of the warning, as if it reflected an awkward past experience from the absent-minded administrator.

As soon as Mr. Olsen left, Eric turned to Charlotte and stared for a moment, trying to decipher why she intrigued him so much. His gaze finally broke when Charlotte piped up, “So, are we going to see the rest of the school, or is this hallway all there is?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eric snapped out of his trance. “Um, follow me.”

Though Eric tried to be a good tour guide, he vaguely sensed that Charlotte cared little about learning the school’s layout. Still, though, he could not deny that she paid close attention to at least something about him. As they strolled past hallways and rooms, she had an uncomfortable habit of looking directly into his eyes when he spoke to her, even if she barely acknowledged anything he said.

This only made Eric more nervous, and by the time they reached the cafeteria, he began rambling on about the legend of the lunchroom being the location of the most catastrophic fire in school history when some troublemaking students played with a lighter close to the cafeteria french fries. The fries were so greasy that they immediately flared up and caught onto their neighbors’ fries until the whole place was up in flames. “So, anyway,” Eric wrapped up the story, “it would have been a huge mess if it weren’t for the meatloaf that day. Apparently the cafeteria’s meatloaf is really good at extinguishing fires, and once they figured that out, they put the fires out with some well-placed meat loafs. Meat loaves? Anyway, um, it turns out that the cooks weren’t too pleased with the whole thing and they—”

“What’s your favorite subject in school, Eric?” Charlotte interrupted him out of the blue.

Off guard, Eric stumbled, “Um … well, I … I don’t really have a favorite subject.” He shrugged. “I’m really not that good at anything.”

Eric could almost swear he saw Charlotte stifle a grin. “Nothing?”

“Not a thing,” he answered definitely.

“I find that a little hard to believe.”

“So does my school counselor. So do my parents. But it’s true.”

“Have you ever seen the ocean, Eric?”

The question seemed to be more random than her last question. Having been born and raised in the same landlocked, rural town of Nibleton, high in the Intermountain West, Eric’s only experience with the ocean came from seeing it on TV or through pictures. “No. Not the ocean, but … um … I’ve been to Badger Lake a couple times … for Boy Scout camp.”

Charlotte nodded as if his answer cleared something up for her. “Ever been in a boat?”

“I’ve been on one of those floating raft things,” he replied.

“I’ll bet you were pretty good on that raft, weren’t you?”

Eric frowned. “Um … I’m not sure I remember.”

“I mean, did you feel at home when you were on it?”

“I had fun playing on it.”

“Well, didn’t you want to go back and play on it some more?” Charlotte pressed.

“Yeah, but one of the Scouts in our troop punctured it … and, well, I’ve never been back to Badger Lake since.”

“Ah, but you never punctured it, did you?” Charlotte pointed out.

Eric nodded his head slowly, still trying to find out where this conversation was headed.

“Well, then, you are good at something, aren’t you?”

Eric stopped walking. “Um, I guess, I … but I don’t see what that … I mean, not puncturing a raft isn’t really a skill. Most anybody can be pretty good at not puncturing a raft.”

“I guess he hasn’t had enough experience near water to get an idea,” Charlotte mumbled to herself, chewing on her lip. Eric wanted to ask her what in the world she was talking about, but then she said out loud, “You know, that still doesn’t mean that you don’t have something you are good at.”

Eric shrugged. “Maybe, but if that’s true, I’ve yet to see any proof.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to trust me then,” Charlotte said, matter-of-factly. When most people said something like that, they were being nice. When Charlotte said it, however, Eric sensed her complete sincerity. It reminded him of that same confidence she exuded when entering Mrs. Weston’s classroom. He could not help but feel that she really did know what she was talking about.

The school bell rang, distracting Eric from his analysis of Charlotte.

“I suppose you have to go to another class now, right?” Charlotte asked.

“Um … yeah.”

“I don’t suppose you could point me back toward the office then, could you?”

The hallway began bursting with students changing classrooms and heading toward lockers. “Um, of course,” Eric replied. “Just turn around, take a left at the end of this hallway, and it’s all the way down and on your left.”

Charlotte nodded. Then she gave Eric a meaningful look before turning around and navigating through the crowded hallway.

Part of Eric felt ready to leave this strange encounter behind and go back to his normal daily routine. Then he realized that he hated his normal daily routine. Something about Charlotte intrigued him, and he had to find out what it was. Finding a boldness not native to him, he yelled, “Wait! Charlotte, wait. Wait a second.”

Charlotte’s blonde hair bobbed, then swiveled back toward Eric. Students jostled past her as if she were a rock parting water in a rushing stream. Eric could not be sure, but he thought she concealed a smile.

“I … uh … I think my next class is canceled. If you’d like, I could finish giving you a tour of the school.”

“Canceled?” Charlotte now smiled openly. “That’s rather odd.” Eric realized how dumb of an excuse it was. Before he could retreat, however, Charlotte continued, “I suppose if your class is canceled, I wouldn’t mind finishing the tour.”

“Well, what I meant is that I think Mr. Olsen wouldn’t mind if I missed my next class if I—”

“Let’s go, Eric,” she interrupted him.

Eric guided Charlotte away from the crowded hallway and outside onto the school grounds. He did not say a word on the way, let alone talk about the school. Once outside, they sat down on a small hill overlooking the field where Mr. Lindley’s PE class would soon be congregating. Charlotte waited patiently.

Unsure of exactly what he wanted to know—besides how Charlotte managed to make him feel so strange—Eric went back to their previous conversation. “How come you think that I’m good at something?”

“Everyone’s good at something.”

“I always figured I was the exception to that.”

“Nope,” Charlotte countered without hesitation.

“How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”

Charlotte sized Eric up, gauging if he was ready for what she had to say. “Because Eric, that’s what I do. I can see people for what their talents are.”

Eric thought this response a little vague. “So you’re like an NBA scout or something? If so, you’re talking to the wrong guy. I’m lucky if I can hit the backboard, let alone put the ball in the hoop.”

“Not just basketball talents, Eric. Any talents. And not just talents either, but I can see what that person was born to do.”

Charlotte was right to size Eric up; he found this difficult to swallow. “Wait a second. You’re telling me that with any given person you could tell me what they are born to do?”

Charlotte nodded.

Eric barely contained his skepticism. At that point Mr. Lindley’s class filed out onto the field, getting ready to play Frisbee. “All right,” Eric said, “let’s try this out then.” He pointed to one of the students lining up on the far side of the field. “What about that guy over there? What is his talent? What was he born to do?”

Charlotte squinted, then shrugged. “It doesn’t work that way, Eric. I have to be able to see the person eye to eye.”

How convenient, Eric thought. He berated himself for almost believing her. Before he could suggest that they head back to the office, someone interrupted him from behind.

“Eric, shouldn’t you be in class right now?”

Eric pivoted, somewhat anxiously, but then smiled as he recognized the speaker. “Al, you scared me. Actually, I’m giving this new student a tour around the school. Here’s my note from Mr. Olsen.”

“New student?” Al looked over at Charlotte.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Al, this is Charlotte Reeves. Charlotte, Al Lorenzo, one of our school custodians.”

Al certainly looked the part of the school custodian. He was carrying around a push broom and had some plastic garbage bags sticking out of his pocket. He wiped his hand on his pants and stuck it out. “Charlotte, pleasure to have you at our school.”

Charlotte shook his hand and smiled.

“Well,” Al said, “you two go ahead and finish your tour.” He then leaned toward Eric and whispered in a way that Charlotte could still hear him. “But do me a favor and don’t take her by the north parking lot until I’m finished up there. Apparently some students didn’t agree with the cafeteria food, and they abandoned the leftovers on the pavement,” he held up the broom, “so I’ve got to go sweep it off the ground and take it back to the cafeteria for tomorrow’s lunch. Cook’s orders.”

Eric and Charlotte both laughed at what they hoped was a joke. After Al left, the two of them stood for a moment in silence. Eric suddenly realized something.

“You looked Al straight in the eyes, didn’t you?” Eric asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Well … ?” he prodded. He expected her to go off of what she had seen from him already, labeling him as someone born to clean or something related to his job as a custodian.

Her easy reply threw Eric off guard. Without thinking twice, Charlotte said that Al Lorenzo was born to be a stage musical star.

Eric’s mouth gaped open, while his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Charlotte followed up, “and I know that I can’t prove it to you, but I promise you that is what Al was born to be. Just because someone is born to be something doesn’t necessarily mean they will end up as that same thing.”

“No,” Eric replied, “you don’t get it. I can’t believe that you would guess such a random thing … and be dead on.”

“Oh, so you’ve seen that he has musical talent?”

“Any time Al comes into our choir class, the teacher asks him to sing for us. You can ask him to sing anything, and it comes out like a pro. He’ll even play the piano and make up brilliant songs on the spot. He is the most amazing singer I’ve heard in my life.” Charlotte nodded and shrugged as if this was hardly news to her. “But how could you possibly know that? He’s never been able to sing professionally since his mom got sick and he’s been taking care of her.”

“Eric, I told you: that’s what I do.”

Eric found himself much more convinced than he was a couple minutes ago. “Then come with me.” Eric guided Charlotte down to the playing field where Mr. Lindley’s class tossed a Frisbee back and forth. They sat on the sidelines and waited until Charlotte could gain eye contact with one of the students.

“What about her?” he asked as soon as one of the students glanced in their direction.

“Tractor mechanic.”

“And her?”

“Canal lock operator.”

“Him?”

“Zinc miner.”

She didn’t hesitate for even one of her responses. Eric listened to her, amazed. Either she was a really good liar, or she really did know what she was talking about.

“Okay, what about that guy right there?”

“Roof thatcher.”

“Roof thatcher? Do you mean a roof patcher?”

“No, thatcher. I’m not talking about shingles, I’m talking about a roof made of thatch.”

Eric was clearly caught off guard by this comment. “Thatch? What are you talking about?”

Charlotte sighed. “Eric, most people aren’t born in the right circumstances for their natural-born talent: like Al—something holds them back. Or with that girl there, she’s probably never seen a real live tractor before, so she’ll never get a chance to realize what her ability is. A huge majority of natural-born abilities are useless in their time period. When I say roof thatcher, I’m saying that he was naturally born to make roofs for the types of houses built in ancient civilizations.”

Eric was fascinated by this explanation. “So that guy over there, if we gave him a house and a bunch of thatch—whatever that is—he’d be able to roof it no problem.”

“Exactly. Even though hardly anybody has thatch-roofed houses these days, he would be able to do one in record time with no training at all. He’d surprise himself even.”

“But with a shingle roof, he’d be just as good as you or me.”

“Not necessarily. Some of the skills for roofing a house with thatch would probably transfer over to roofing with shingles. He’d be a decent shingler, I imagine.”

Eric shook his head in amazement. “Just born at the wrong time, then. Well, is there anyone else here that has been born in the wrong time period for their talent?”

“I’m sure,” Charlotte said as she focused her attention to the students again. “Most people are, actually.” She waited to catch some people’s looks. “She’s an indigo gatherer, you know, for dye. He’s a silkworm breeder. He’s a water buffalo hunter. She’s a—”

“Wait, who is a water buffalo hunter? Him?” Eric pointed to an athletically built young man running across the field with ease.

“Yeah, water buffalo hunter.”

“I think you’re wrong with him. That’s Ryan Thompson.”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “I don’t care who it is. All I’m saying is that he was naturally born to be a water buffalo hunter.”

“No, you don’t understand, Charlotte. Ryan is the quarterback for our high school football team. Not only that, but he’s the best in the state, one of the best the high school has ever had. Colleges all over the nation are trying to recruit him. He has got to be a natural-born football player.”

Charlotte could not be fazed. “Look, Eric, it’s not a democratic process. Ryan was naturally born to be a water buffalo hunter. It’s that simple.” Eric almost interrupted, but Charlotte continued, “You’re still not making the connection. What kind of skills would you need in order to hunt water buffalo?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “I don’t know … be able to imitate the water buffalo mating call?”

“Maybe,” Charlotte replied patiently. “But he would have to also be very agile and athletic in order to get close to a water buffalo or to run away from one if need be. Most importantly—since his natural-born ability is not for this time period—he would need to be able to throw a spear hard and accurately, sometimes from a distance, and sometimes while he or his target is on the run.”

Eric took a second to think this over. “Wait … so you’re saying that his ability to throw the ball so well is not from a natural-born football throwing talent, but from …”

“That’s right. Spear throwing talent.” Eric sat speechless for a moment and Charlotte took advantage of his silence. “I guarantee that if you gave that guy a javelin he could nail a moving target fifty yards away on his first try. He doesn’t know that of course. He simply transferred the relevant talents from his water buffalo hunting skills to something with modern day similarities, such as throwing the football.”

Up until then it had not occurred to Eric that he should not believe what Charlotte said, simply due to her matter-of-fact means of telling him. For a split moment, however, he doubted. Maybe she’s making it all up, he thought. He looked at her curiously as she continued to watch the students playing Frisbee. He found no lie in her eyes. Instead he noted inquisitiveness as she scanned each new face, made contact with their eyes, and learned something new. Then Eric realized something. The look he saw her with now matched the same intriguing one that had captivated him from the moment he saw her.

As he took in this simple yet extraordinary girl’s demeanor, she brightened and turned to Eric. “See that girl there?”

Eric looked at the girl who had just run past them. “Yeah, that’s Jill Oakley.”

“She was born to be a com-generator operator.”

“A com-gener … what’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s some kind of job in the future. The future talents are always fun because it makes you wonder what they could possibly be good for.”

Eric could hardly believe the conversation he was having. “The future … the past … so is anyone actually born in the right time and circumstance as their natural-born ability?”

“Yeah … but not that often. Most of them you’ve actually heard of. William Shakespeare, natural-born playwright. Imhotep—the guy who built the pyramids in Egypt—natural-born architect. Cicero, natural-born orator. Genghis Khan, Hernán Cortés, Alexander the Great, natural-born conquerors. Christopher Columbus, natural-born sea explorer. Pheidippides—that Greek marathon runner guy—natural-born distance runner. Michelangelo, natural-born sculptor …”

“And painter,” Eric added.

“Actually no, but he had such wonderful sculpting skills that many of them transferred over to painting as well.”

Eric let out a breath. “Wow. But how can you know about these guys? Obviously you’ve never got to look them in the eyes before.”

Charlotte nodded. “Good question. I don’t know from firsthand account. But I have met various other people like myself who have handed the information down over the generations.”

“Wait … like yourself. What do you mean?”

Charlotte smiled. “Haven’t you guessed yet, Eric? My natural-born ability allows me to recognize what other people were born to be. We call ourselves natural-born seers.”

Considering all the information Eric just learned, that was relatively easy to believe. “Natural-born seer,” he repeated. “So you’ve met other seers?”

“When you’ve moved as much as my family has, you run into a lot of people with a lot of different natural-born abilities. Once my eyes come across those of another seer, which isn’t often, you can imagine that we immediately connect. The information on past natural-born abilities has passed from one to another throughout time.”

It amazed Eric that this whole new world existed all around him without him knowing about it. “How have I not heard of this before?”

“History has left hints here and there. The Elephanta Caves in India are said to have sculptures of every known trade in the past, present, and future—the work of a seer. As part of the birth ceremony, Aztec priests or priestesses would present babies with tools for different trades, trusting the babies to naturally choose the one most fit for them in the future. The seers I’ve spoken to assume the priest or priestesses deciding what tools to present to the babies were seers.”

“Okay,” Eric conceded, though he maintained a skeptical tone, “but it still seems like most seers don’t advertise.”

Charlotte nodded. “It’s a powerful thing to be able to read other people’s abilities. Powerful and dangerous. Mostly to protect ourselves from being exploited, we keep it quiet. But we still like to use our talent. Lots of seers work in human resource, because they are really good at hiring the right people for the right jobs; others—like you suggested—work as athletic scouts or military recruiters. There are plenty of ways for seers to be relevant without being conspicuous. We may not tell the world about what we see all the time, but that doesn’t mean that we’re not always watching.”

Always watching, Eric repeated in his mind. He suddenly realized something that had evaded him since they began their conversation. When she walked into Mrs. Weston’s room, Eric thought, our eyes met. She looked into my eyes. She knows what I was born to do.

Eric opened his mouth, about to say something, then he clamped it back shut again, as if changing his mind. A million thoughts flashed through his mind at that moment. What if I don’t like what I was born to be? What if I don’t even know what it is when she tells me? Then the most scary thought of all crossed his mind. What if I don’t have a natural-born ability?

Eric tried to remind himself that Charlotte said everyone was born to do something, but she certainly had not mentioned his ability yet. What if he was the first person she met who did not have a natural talent in anything at all? What if she was just being nice by pretending he had one? If anyone could be the exception to this strange rule, it would most certainly be him, he knew.

But he wanted to know—wanted it badly. Eric tried to muster the courage to ask, but his mouth refused to open. He simply could not handle it if he asked and she told him he had no natural-born talents. He tried one last time to force the question out. It rose in his throat, his mouth set itself to speak, and then suddenly Mr. Lindley called over to them.

“Eric, what’s going on? You need to get to class … take your friend with you. I don’t want you getting into trouble on my part.”

The moment passed. Eric succumbed, stood up, took Charlotte back to the office, and sat in his classes for the rest of the school day wondering if Charlotte’s gift could even be real or not. If it was real, Eric wondered if he had missed his one chance at rising above mediocrity.

A

Samuel watched the events around him in horror. Nearly three days had passed since they managed to elude the pirate ship blocking the entrance to Port Raleigh. Their escape in a half-ruined boat constituted a miracle in and of itself. By the time they bore down on the barren island just out of the shipping lane, the pirates backed off, not willing to leave their post for such small prey.

Despite their dire circumstances, the captain made the most of their first day by anchoring at the small island and fixing the leaks the Rosemary sprung earlier. Then the horror began on day two. Since most of their drinking water had been ruined in the storm, the crew had gone to refit the ship with water from the island. Unfortunately, the island held no natural spring, only pools of stagnant rainwater from the storm of two days previous. Thirst overcame caution. They hauled the water aboard.

Samuel now looked around in disbelief. Half of the crew lay overwhelmed by the potent disease contaminating the bad water. They sprawled pathetically before him on the deck of the ship suffering for what would be the last hours of their lives. Although a distressing scene, nothing upset Samuel more than the knowledge that the captain also waned, bedridden in his cabin.

The captain put up a spirited fight against the merciless epidemic, but the final stage of the disease now left the veteran seaman’s fate as only a matter of time. This unnerved Samuel, not only due to the respect he harbored for his captain, but also because he recognized that, as first mate, charge of the ship fell to him next. Samuel had never been an ambitious sailor, and such a turn of events would then bestow upon him with the unenviable position of deciding how to rescue what was left of the crew—if there was any crew left.

Weighing his options took a disturbingly short amount of time. Samuel knew that if they stayed at their anchorage for much longer, the rest of the crew would fall victim to either this unseen foe or die from simple dehydration. He also knew that if he pressed toward Port Raleigh, he would run straight into the awaiting arms of the Willard Pirate Twins … something even less desirable than death by illness.

Samuel paced the deck desperately. Having experienced some narrow escapes on the high seas before, he racked his brain for a solution. No matter how he framed the problem, however, no solution came. Usually, he saw at least some hope for survival—some chance, no matter how small, of living to see another day. He stared over the glassy ocean water, searching for anything to alleviate their condition.

The black ocean water reflected back only deep nothingness.