The snow was not a sudden curtain sweeping open, but scattered, tiny pellets of sleet against a chaotic backdrop, mingled with mist, scattered and lifted by the wind, whirling through the air.
There were no clear paths, only a rough gray-white expanse, like turbulent currents in a reef-strewn zone, churning and rolling.
It was unlike the quiet, steady snow on land, carrying only a sense of irritation.
An anxiety that could not be calmed rose with the wind and snow. When he looked toward the bow, the boiling restlessness in his mind nearly drowned out the sound of the wind by his ears.
Their last visual connection with the ship ahead—that brazier—grew even blurrier.
There was no longer any transition between near and far, only abrupt presence or utter blankness.
A phantom-like spot of light lingered in his vision, brightening and dimming, wavering and drifting, repeatedly swallowed and spat out by wind and snow, liable to vanish completely at any moment.
Oliver stared fixedly at that glimmer, forcing his eyes wide in the cold wind, nearly forgetting what he was supposed to do. Every time it briefly disappeared, his chest tightened, until it struggled into view again.
Things did not unfold as he wished. Its periods of disappearance grew longer, while its appearances became briefer and dimmer.
Finally, it was wiped from his sight completely. From beginning to end, it had failed to convey the true distance between the two ships.
A short, muffled slapping sound came from above, like an enormous palm hammering a damp drumskin.
He looked up. The sail was no longer fully billowed, but repeatedly pulled taut and released by the disordered wind.
The heavy canvas first swelled to its limit, then was slapped flat and beaten down by the turbulent currents, flung hard against the