Wind howled. Rain thrashed the deck, slapping James’s face. He clung to one of the balloon lines, the wet hemp rope dug into his hands. Darkness surrounded the Mystery. A flash of lightning. The thunder was drowned out by the wind, but James felt it in his chest.

  The surface of the balloon fluttered against the sustained strength of the wind. The rain a tearing sound as it hammered the surface of the inflatable.

  James closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel the ship. The deck shuddered underneath him. He loosened his knees, feeling himself riding the ship. It always took him back to being a kid, skating on the Thames in the depths of winter. Gliding over the ice. Momentum carrying him further out on the river. The unique undulations, the rough and smooth surface of the ice. The hull of the airship riding through the ever changing texture of the winds was just like his ice skates.

  The Mystery rocked to the right, snapping James’s eyes open. A flash of lightning, revealing the storm ravaged deck before him.

  The sails snapped and kicked as the storm buffeted them. James heard creaking and snapping through the howl of wind. He clambered his way to the gunrail. The wind threatening to lift him off his feet and cast him into the horror of the storm.

  He leaned over the gunrail, rain lashing his face. Loose hair, slick with water, slapped his cheeks and eyes. Wood crackled and whined. A flurry of lightning illuminated the sail. In a staccato series of images, his watched as the spar bent and cracked.

  “Bring in the sails!” he yelled through the storm. His voice was lost to the cacophony of sound. Hand over hand, he pulled himself along the gunrail towards a winch. The cold handle was saturated with water. James wrestled with it. The mechanism refused to move. The sail was under an enormous strain.

  Another flash of lightning. He continued his titanic battle. There was no way to bring in the sail using the winch.

  James fought his way across the deck towards an airman, cowering against a rail. “Get me an axe!” he yelled.

  “Sir?”

  “Get me a damned axe!” He pulled the airman towards him by the scruff of his shirt. “If we don’t cut the sails loose, we’re going to lose the masts. This storm will tear us apart!”

  The airman nodded and scrambled to his feet and almost lost his footing as a strong gust lashed across the ship.

  The airman retrieved two axes and handed one to James. They worked their way towards the port sail. Another gust howled, knocking them off their feet and sending them sliding across the wooden deck.

  James was punched into the gunrail. A piece of wood hammered into his stomach and knocked the wind out of him. He gulped, taking in a mouthful of rain soaked air. It hit his lungs and he coughed. The water burning his throat.

  The airman was quicker to his feet and got to work hacking at the lines. A moving figure seen in moments of time as lightning illuminated him.

  A fork of lightning snaked into being mere feet away in the air. James felt the heat of it a moment before it struck the steel head of the axe the airman wielded. An extraordinary explosion of sound hit James. The airman collapsed against the gunrail before his body slid over, disappearing from sight.

  James climbed to his feet, still gulping for air. The spar continued to whine and snap, moments away from shearing itself away from the airship. The axe smashed into the hemp. In the dim light of distant lightning, he saw the rope fraying. Deeper. Deeper. Blow after blow.

  One moment the rope was there. The next it was gone.

  James moved to the next line. He raised his axe.

  A powerful gust of wind slammed into the Mystery. A flare of lightning. He could only watch as the sail spar snapped and slammed into the hull. A tangle of sail, ropes, and splintered wood.

  The airship rocked to starboard. The remaining sail pulled the Mystery to one side.

  Above, the balloon crackled under the strain. The lines thrummed. “We’re losing her,” he said under his breath. “Have to–”

  A snap like a tree being felled. The Mystery rocked uncontrollably. The hull swayed beneath the balloon. James held onto the gun rail for dear life. The ship seesawed in all directions. He felt dizzy, the entire airship spinning like a top. A play thing of the gods.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The storm has us now, he realised. He prayed under his breath. “--lead us not into temptation.”

  Through the darkness he watched how the boiler’s flames barely licked upwards. How much more of this can we take?

  The airship rocked and bucked. James’s stomach lurched towards the deck. His ears popped. We’re climbing, he realised.

  The intensity of the storm and its size had his brain whirring. Any other storm we should have passed through by now. Unless– “No,” he breathed. “It can’t be.”

  A legend told amongst airmen. Of a beast that lurked above the seas of the Atlantic. A roiling, dark storm of immense scale. An unending terror of which escape was anything but certain. The doom of airships. The most epic of nightmares.

  James slid along the deck and crashed into the bellows platform. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed a midshipman. “Get the men below!”

  “But sir–”

  “This storm– It’s not normal. It is a hurricane!” He pulled the airmen close. “There’s no escape, understand? There is nothing we can do up here but keep the boiler going.”

  James saw the fear written on his face, as though he had said the Devil himself was on their heels. That worry turned to resolve. “I will stay, sir. Get below. I will send the men. But I’ll keep the fire going.”

  “Mr Harris–” James tried.

  “Get below, sir!” Harris roared through the storm.

  James nodded, releasing the midshipman’s shirt. The deck rocked backwards and James half fell and half ran back to the stairs below deck. The deck bucked, sending him crashing down the stairs. He landed on the hard floor, water sloshing around him.

  Winded, he crawled on all fours into the belly of the airship, water sloshing and splashing his face.

  Members of the crew held onto what they could. Men vomited. Oil lamps swung with the swaying of the airship, casting chaotic shadows through the dim guts of the craft.

  James moved from handhold to handhold, making his precarious way to the Captain’s cabin at the rear of the whip. Lightning flashed through the portholes. The wind whistled and howled through unseen gaps in the hull.

  He crashed into the door of the cabin. His rain soaked hand grabbed the latch and opened the oak door. James struggled inside and slammed the door shut.

  Lighting flashed through the large lattice work of the window. The Captain was a silhouette huddled over his desk. Dark curls of hair swung from his hung head.

  “Captain…” said James. “This storm…” He struggled to breathe through the effort of his ordeal to reach the cabin. “It’s–”

  “I know,” said Dunstable, in a low tone. The sound of defeat. “God has abandoned us.” He lifted a bottle of rum from his lap and placed it on the right of the map.

  James made his way to the Captain, his hands grabbing at the wooden beams of the ceiling. He reached the desk and grabbed its edge. The airship rocked and bucked. A lamp swung, revealing a map spread across the desk. The Africas to the right, the Atlantic Ocean to its centre and a blank space to the left. A single label written in large type.

  THE UNKNOWNS

  James’s heart raced.

  “I have damned us,” said Dunstable. “Already we are in Hell. You hear it, don’t you? The howls of the demons. The fury. The damnation.”

  “What I hear,” said James. “Is a storm.”

  Dunstable looked up at him, his eyes dark behind the curls of hair. “Not just any storm. The beast of the Atlantic, Jim.” He stabbed a finger at the blank space beyond the Atlantic. “And it's carrying us to the edge of the world. Beyond lies nothing.”

  “We don’t know that,” said James, barely hiding his own fear.

  “Nothing!” Dunstable yelled. “Nothing comes back,” he whispered. He sniffed, tears now visible in his eyes. “I could taste my freedom. Days… I was just days away.”

  “Then we will have to be the first to return,” said James. The airship rocked violently. The hull creaked and groaned, as though to prove him wrong.

  “You know better than I,” Dunstable said darkly. “The winds deny it. They banish any foolish enough to venture for the Unknowns.” He sat back in his chair. “We are damned men.”

  “I refuse to believe it,” said James.

  Dunstable laughed. “The ignorance of youth.” An insulting smile. “I envy you. My mind… it knows too much. I have seen too much to believe as you. Take some advice for an old man, Jim. Pray. And prepare to meet God. That is all we can do now.”

  “Captain…”

  “Leave me.” Dunstable reached for the bottle of rum. “I have no orders for you, if that’s what you’re looking for. You’ll find no solace here.” He took a swig. “I have nothing to offer you.”

  James hesitated. Despair clung to his heart, a dark hand reaching through his ribs.

  “Leave. Me.”

  He let out a sigh and backed away from the desk, eyeing the storm. Lightning lashed the darkness, revealing the roiling tempest of the hurricane. The horrendous guts of the beast.

  James left the cabin, closing the door slowly behind him. He sighed, resting his head on the oak. The airship swayed and shuddered. The Unknowns… he allowed his fear to be expressed in the private of his mind.

  A deep voice spoke from the bowls of the airship. Slow. Certain. James clambered forward, following the sound of the voice. It led him to the next set of stairs, to the bunks.

  “The beast’s hunger is insatiable, they says.” It was the gravelled voice of Old Stokes. A man even older than the Captain. It was said he had been born on an airship and that he had never known a life on land. “A vile creature from the depths of Hell itself. Vast. Powerful. A damned soul born from the loins of the Devil himself. It’s drawing us into its belly even now. Sucking us in. Swallowing this airship. I hope you said goodbye to your sweethearts, your loved ones, your children. The next time you see them… will be in the afterlife. When we meet our maker, the almighty.”

  James backed away from the steps. The voice of Old Stokes faded against the sound of the wind stabbing its way into the hull.

  The Mystery threatened to buckle under the strain of the storm, swingling like a pendulum from the balloon. Perhaps they’re right. Maybe this is a storm from Hell.

  In case they were correct, he found himself a private corner and prayed.

  Hours passed and the storm did not abate. It raged with an insatiable fury he had never witnessed before. A battle waged in his mind. On one side the will to endure, to stay awake in case he was needed on deck. On the other, the most deep fatigue of his life.

  Sleep took him, and he dreamed of the beast. A mouth full of demonic teeth. A throat of storm and thunder. And a deep growl of thunder and spite.