Stranded by Bracken MacLeod Read Free Book Online

of sharp brilliance.
    Noah wanted to sprint for the cargo deck and lean over the lower gunwales to get a closer look, but the fog swirled in, obscuring them again. He eased himself back, noticing how badly his exposed hands hurt, even with his stretched sweater sleeves between his palms and the metal rail over which he’d been leaning. He flexed his digits, trying to return sensation and circulation. They barely complied, crackling and hurting. He shoved them back in his armpits and felt icy cold seeping though the wool. It was long past time to go in. He had been bewitched and might have gotten frostbit if it weren’t for the fog. The unreality of it snapped him back to reality, stinging his face, telling him this was not his place to be. No matter how lovely and entrancing, he would lose fingers and toes, ears or lips, maybe even die out here if he did something as stupid as linger in the elements without his gear.
    He retreated for the interior, mourning the meager warmth of the coffee he’d lost over the side. He needed that and some more rest before the real heavy lifting began when— if —they reached the drilling platform. He pulled clumsily at the door, fighting his own dulled and slowed body to find the way in.
    Inside, the warmer air hurt and instinct told him to go outdoors again. Noah decided to head to his cabin, hoping a little rest might help clear his head.
    *   *   *
    Picking his bag up off the bunk where he’d thrown it, he dumped his things out on the mattress. The chill outside had cleared his nose and lungs and he smelled how badly everything stank. He could take his clothes to the laundry on the First Deck, but there was nothing to do about his books and other things. He briefly considered cracking his window, but the residual ache in his stiff fingers convinced him not to. Not enough air would move around the cabin to dispel the odor, and he’d rather deal with the smell of old smoke than suffer more of the cold. Shoving his clothes in a net laundry sack, he threw them toward the door. Shoving his other belongings to the side, he flopped on his bunk.
    Stuffing his fingers under his arms to attempt to warm them again, he stared at the ceiling, feeling the motion of the sea. The slower movement was a welcome change from roiling storm waters. He’d had enough of rough seas and dangerous work. But having enough of something didn’t mean he could be done with it. He needed the money this job would net him. With it, he hoped to make a change, get a fresh start, and do something different with his life. He hoped to never go to sea again. His instincts up in this part of the world were bad. Very bad.
    He picked up the book from beside him on the mattress. Noah was on his second attempt reading Yukio Mishima’s The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea . It was a slim novel, and while he sympathized with the titular character’s desire to begin a new life, he wasn’t sure he got what the book was supposed to be about. Or maybe he did. If he’d ever stood in a state of grace with the sea, he’d fallen. He sighed and promised himself he’d give it another shot some other time, and dug the second book he’d brought out of his ruck instead. It was about poisoned beer that made everyone in a college town go crazy and kill each other. He liked that one better. Soon, however, he realized it was hard to keep his attention on anything. His eyes slipped out of focus and he felt heavy. A cat nap, he decided, would help. It was exhaustion from fighting ice and fire. In the back of his mind, he thought it might also be a concussion. Hadn’t he heard that concussed people should try to stay awake? That it was dangerous to fall asleep? He assumed it was a myth. If it was dangerous for him to get some rest, Doc Mickle wouldn’t have let him return to his cabin; he’d be in the hospital with Pereira. Still, the nagging fear in the back