Waves driven by the storm threw Sabit into the sky as she clung to wreckage of the shattered ship. In an instant, the wall of water shifted and she plunged down the liquid slope once more. Tossed and battered, Sabit clutched the sealed casket that served as raft. She focused on her breathing, and pitted every ounce of her own resolve against the power and terror pummeling her. Only the strongest crashes of thunder could be heard over the roar of the waves and the screams of the wind.
Driving, stinging rain pelted the spear woman for hours, even after the fury of the storm itself had mellowed. Sabit’s steadfast determination did not weakened. Her hands cramped, but she held on. Her body ached and trembled, but she refused to succumb to the allure of the watery abyss below.
The first rays of sun breaking through thinning clouds showed a welcome coastline in the distance. Summoning strength she had thought long since spent, Sabit forced her weary legs to kick. One stroke after another. Again and again. Each kick was another movement toward life.
The sun had grown low on the horizon by the time a powerful wave flung Sabit onto the beach. She rolled away from the buoyant casket that had served as her refuge through the storm. Sabit crawled up the pebbly beach until she found stones that were dry, untouched by high tide.
Only then, far enough away from the ocean’s heavy tendrils, did Sabit release her resolve enough to sleep.
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Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller