Peace, be still.

CREEEAAKK.

The ship’s hull was aged, strong, and rugged. Dark woods clamped tightly together sealed off the constant grasping of the black waters and secured many hanging bunks beneath the salty deck. The captain’s quarters rested firmly on the stern, dragging splintered oak and dreams of a smooth rudder in the water beneath. A rudder that stayed fast, and brought the sailors back to joyous, angry, and mournful people.

As for officer Charles, however, the sea was everything. The islands were a wasteland where dreams crashed upon the harsh rocks of reality and refused to be moved. Where ice and superiority was carried on the winds of love, and where the waves of hope and good life, simply rose and fell.

The first mate, Charles’ best friend, seemed exceptionally quiet in the bunk below. The whole crew must have felt the change in weather, for there was no snoring, or turning over in sleep, or song or whisper in the ship’s lonesome hull. The careful moaning of the wind seemed, when loudest, at a loss for emotion.

Charles opened his eyes. The cots were empty, the guns strewn about on the floorboards, just as they had been when they left. The choice had been made. Regardless of what the others would say, he and the captain had agreed.

The picture was losing strength, but still carried the sound of creaking oars, and the touch of salt-filled tears on Charles’ face as the portrait of Lily-Anne smiled simply at him. The lifeboats could carry many, but with the loss of one ship and a few crewmen, at least one man had to stay behind.

Sailless, crewless, mapless, the ship was abandoned. Captain Jones had given permission to Charles to use anything and everything to his own desire, but to Charles the cabin above was, and would always be, for the captain. Three barrels of salted herring, four casks of clean water, one cot. This was enough.

Many tearful days of longing had passed Charles by. Every day he opened his eyes, climbed the crows nest, and searched for land. At first, a necessity, an escape from the fear of nothingness down below, but now Charles climbed it patiently, knowing that whatever happened would be for the best. The God he had heard about was now becoming real to him.

He stood, the crisp wind in his face, the sun slowly thrusting forth, piercing the humid breath of the morning. His dark, wavy hair fluttered as a flag, and the ship was rocked by the water alone.

Many good men spoke of peace. They mentioned a calming one could only know in the storms. They had spent lifetimes trying to harness it, or use it for gain, or to push themselves out as bold and courageous.

But peace is sometimes only known for itself in itself. Charles leaned back. There was nothing frightening about this place, this situation. He lifted his water stained book to the sunlight and began to sing in the open. He sang of the future, he sang of his hopes, he sang short, raspy melodies with no rhymes among them. But the words, the words lifted darkness over the horizon and burned it in the sun. They drove arrows through the water and opened up a way to home. They reflected the light of the voice of God, and returned to Charles, peace.

This was peace. This was life. If the sea itself threw mountains of snow and water on him, his heart would never change. If the sun ceased to rise and lie down, if every splinter of wood turned to ash and the sea rise up to meet him, Charles had decided his own fate. He knew beyond farce or fairytale that he was chosen, and that he would answer the call bestowed upon him, regardless of the means to obtain it. If his future had perished in the depths of the sea like the captain’s map, eternity would soon be upon him, and he would be caught into glory like the son of a royal dove. If his dreams had been turned to splinters like the rudder of a great ship, Charles knew he could only be guided by providence, and that if so, he was in good hands. If he grew old, and never saw another human being, he would be content.

He leaned over and closed his eyes. “To know the Man who sees my sin and loves me, is sufficient for all my trials and hardship in this short and vanishing life. For what is life, without peace? And what is peace, without hope? And how can we have hope, but through love?”