Far from any wharf Ossë found the ship, the sailors cursing the great hole in the limp main sheet, Cookie swearing he was down to his last loaf of bread and bottle of peaches, the Captain seeking to establish their location by dangling a crystal pendant over the charts, the mate’s violin strings refusing to match tone with the tuning fork, the monkey clinging to the rope attached to the ship’s boat by its tail.
“I cannot get a lock on our position,” the captain confessed to the steersman as he dropped into his chair. “I fear we sailed under an evil moon. And if our cargo spoils, there will be no money for any, no letters patent. And if the threatening snow falls, it will be very hard on us.”
Ossë knew the storm he would raise would try these men, but offered them their only seed of hope....