The Faith and Salt

He did not look like a typical man of the cloth. His dark blond curls hung loosely around his face, sweeping across his sharp cheekbones.

Beneath the shadow of his brow, a pair of pale blue eyes stared out, looking exhausted but clear.

David suddenly smiled, revealing a boyish charm.

What a life. He told himself.

High above, the East India Company flag snapped violently in the damp wind.

"I reckon there’s something in the fog," a sailor muttered nearby, squinting into the gloom.

"You always reckon there’s something in the fog," another scoffed, not bothering to look up from his knotting.

Several men glanced toward the fog, then quickly away again.

David ran his thumb over the lock of the shotgun. The metal was freezing.

He tightened his grip to keep it from slipping.

Whatever lurked within the fog could wait; he had a far more pressing crisis to resolve:

"Any water left?" he asked, voice raw.

"None for ye," a sailor nearby spat.

"You said this morning the rations would last."

"That was between me and the first mate, ye nosy bastard." The sailor jerked his chin toward the churning sea. "Desperate? Drink that."

David gave a bitter laugh. "Much obliged."

He tried to pierce the horizon with his gaze, but the fog held.

Whatever was hiding within the mist seemed to be moving, shifting the weight of the swells and causing the sea to break in an unnatural pattern.

The sailors lining the bulwarks clearly noticed the anomaly as well.

They leaned out, stretching their arms to point at the strange disturbance in the waves.

"Bloody hell," one of them cursed under his breath.

"Shut your trap," another snapped. "We're nearly at Canton, it’s almost there.”

Canton... David repeated the name in his mind.

Drawing his charts from a stained oilskin pouch, David unrolled them across his knees, flattening the stiff paper with his palms, fingers tracing the faded red course lines.

The old sailor, the one who had just suggested he drink from the ocean, leaned over his shoulder to peer at the map.

"Is this the grand China ye’ve been dreaming of, then? "

"I thought you had been to these waters before."

"Nae, never this far north."

He paused, looking the young man up and down.

"What’s ye name, anyway?"

"I am Reverend David Llewellyn, from the Diocese of London."

"Archie," the old man grunted in return. "From Auchtermuchty."

Somewhere beneath the swell, the water broke again.

Closer this time, though neither man remarked on it.

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"Ye must be in debt, no doubt."

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ye came out here willingly, right?”

"Oh..." He cleared his throat, tightening his grip on his brass-locked shotgun. "Of course. I volunteered to come."

All of a sudden, the ship ground to a halt.

The old sailor’s wrinkled face tightened. Without a word, he turned on his heel and hurried back to his post.

"What is going on?" David asked.

No one replied. The deck had already erupted into chaos, with men running up and down the companionways, shouting muffled commands.

Somewhere faraway, something roared with a voice that was not quite human.

The shadow materialized into a low, broad-beamed Chinese war junk, cutting through the leftovers of the mist.

A ship. Only a ship.

He let out a laugh.

Unlike the tall, sharp-ribbed British merchantman, this vessel was squat and flat-nosed.

At its dull bow, two massive, painted eyes stared blankly over the water, designed to ward off sea monsters but now fixed dead upon the English ship.

Along its low-slung wooden bulwarks, David could see the black iron noses of several small cannons, primitive and fixed to heavy wooden blocks on the deck.

A strange, flare-shaped gear mounted at the stern seemed to be the source of the roaring.

A dozen imperial sailors lined the rails, standing shoulder to shoulder with a disciplined posture.

They wore no proper uniforms, only loose blue jackets with white circular patches.

Their long hair was gathered cleanly into high, tight buns at the crown of their heads.

They held themselves with an unnerving stillness, coldly watching the drifting English vessel.

Someone on the Chinese vessel shouted a string of sharp, commanding words across the water.

Receiving no response from the English ship, the voices on the junk grew distinctly more hostile.

The two vessels drifted into a dangerously tight standoff, the black muzzles of the iron cannons pointing directly at the English quarterdeck.

"Who can speak their language?" the captain roared.

"The parson!" a sailor yelled from the rigging.

“What…Me? Actually, I don't—”

“This is no bloody time to be modest, parson!” The old Scottish sailor, Archie, had scrambled back to his side, gripping David’s elbow.

“No, no, you misunderstand,” David Llewellyn pleaded, “I really don’t speak Chinese!”

“Well, ye'll just ha'e to pretend ye do, then”

“Wait, what?” Panic seized him. “No, no, no—”

With a powerful shove, the old sailor propelled him toward the front of the ship. “Captain! The parson!”

"Splendid!" The captain turned, sweat dripping. “Now, translate. Tell them we sail under the protection of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, as well as their own Prince... Prince...”

The captain hastily fumbled through a leather portfolio, squinting at a sheet of official parchment, before clearing his throat loudly. "...Prince Hui of the First Rank! Yes, their own high royalty. Translate it, parson!"

He had never learned a single word of Chinese; truth be told, he wasn't even fluent in Latin.

David swallowed hard. To hell with it.

“Translate it! What on earth are you doing?”

He drew himself up and began to chant in a loud voice:

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum—"

Across the narrow gap of water, the Chinese imperial naval soldiers looked equally confused.

"Hey," the captain called out. "What was that?"

"I told them exactly what you asked for," David said.

"Then what did they say?"

"They said nothing." David shrugged. "You heard them, didn't you?"

Finally, the patience of the imperial soldiers ran out.

At a sharp command, rows of long, iron-tipped boarding gaffs were thrust over the bulwarks, and the Chinese crew prepared for a forced boarding.

"Tell them to stand down, you idiot!" the captain screamed.

"Et in saecula saeculorum!" David bellowed because he had run out of Latin and hope in equal measure.

First Mate on the deck yelled up, "He's a bloody fraud! That was just the Lord's Prayer in Latin!"

The British captain frowned in utter disgust, shoved the useless parson aside, and drew his Sabre.

"You lying little shit," he snarled.

"You forced me..." David said to himself.

"Clear for action!" he roared down the deck. "No one sets foot on this ship! Repel boarders!"

There was no longer any need for translation; the language of cold steel was universal.

The air grew thick with the lethal friction of weapons being drawn and the heavy clatter of grapeshot being rammed down cannon barrels.

Old Archie remained unconcerned. "I bet ye five shillings these Chinese junks will crack like kindling after our first broadside."

Just as he clutched the musket tightly against his chest, the smug confidence glowing through the British crew vanished in a heartbeat.

As the sea wind shifted, the dense fog began to unravel, peeling back rapidly across the water.

The words died in the throat of every Englishman on deck.

Men froze in mid-motion; a young sailor even stood paralyzed with a cannonball in his hand.

Archie, who had been so entirely sure of their victory just a second prior, was now terrified into a monument of stone.

"Oh, Christ," the old Scotsman whispered, the color draining entirely from his face.

David watched the sudden terror in the old man's eyes. “What is it? What’s happening now?”

"Oh... my good parson," Archie choked out. "I think we'll meet our Maker today."

"What? You just said—but I saw it was merely one small junk! What do you mean..."

David pulled himself up, gripping the damp shrouds to look past the war junk.

The sea beyond the wooden ship was covered in a thick, pulsating layer of black grease.

A red eye shone beneath.

His knees buckled.

What on earth was this creature...

"We will all die here today," he realized.