The New Ship

The great ship rested in a cradle of scaffolding, almost crushing it. The smell of new wood, of pitch and rope, overpowered the scent of salt from the ocean.

From the platform where he stood with the rest of the royal family, Prince Tindomul shivered in the shadow of the huge vessel. Designed and built by his father, Ciryatan the Shipbuilder, twelfth king of Númenor, the new ship was his father's own design, having consumed more treasure than any other built by this seafaring nation. Tindomul would captain it, an honor for one so young, and a grave responsibility.

Seagulls wheeled overhead, their mewing call at the same time mournful and festive. Tindomul looked up. A bundle of sweet herbs had been tied under the bowsprit, purple sage and rosemary mixed with wildflowers, an offering to Ossë. It would be the only sacrifice the sea god received today. Given the importance of the vessel and the dangers it would face, Tindomul had urged his father to make a human sacrifice, but Tar-Ciryatan had refused. The political climate was tense right now and a human sacrifice would generate too many letters from concerned citizens. No one wanted that.

A launch is a great day in the life of a ship. Tar-Ciryatan had chosen an auspicious day, the Spring Equinox, when the days were as long as the nights. It symbolized Equality. If this mission went as planned, Númenorians would become equal to the Elves. But the mission must remain secret for just a little longer.

Most of the city had come out to watch the launch, if only for the free food. White canvas tents leaned against the workshop buildings and all around the shipyard. Smoke rising from them carried the aroma of roasting meat and spices. Long lines snaked from the tables, and also from the tables where casks of chilled wine were being poured. The sun beat down. Dogs darted around people's legs, and the sea breeze carried snatches of music, a popular drinking song.

Father raised his arm, and the crowd fell silent. The drumming rose in pitch, followed by a deep peal from a gong. A battering ram swung loose and struck away a post, its slender girth the only support holding back the downward-leaning ship.

The vessel hung in the air for a long moment, then began to tip forward until the keel fell between two greased timbers leading to the waterline. It rushed forward with breathtaking speed. The hull smacked the water, disappearing below the surface and raising a huge surge on either side. The vessel wallowed bow and stern, then settled upright, bobbing on the swell. A great cheer rose from the crowd.

Father stiffened. Every shipwright finds a launch suspenseful. The vessel might float or it might sink to the bottom, a few feet below the surface. Five minutes became ten. The ship continued to ride high in the water. Father began to relax.

Tindomul admired the vessel. Long and narrow, its deck was only a few feet above the water. The rudder, mounted to port, was controlled by a long tiller. The sails of its two masts could be handled by a crew of ten, easily. It was smaller than a cargo ship, but Tindomul knew it had taken far more labor and treasure to build.

Father addressed the crowd. "People of Númenor, sailors and merchants and fishermen. I present to you the fastest and most advanced ship ever built by our island nation. This ship will let us do something we've never been able to manage before, make the three-day run to the Mainland in less than a day."

That was a lie. Not about the ship's performance, but about its mission.

From his vantage point on the platform, Tindomul watched a small group at the back of the shipyard, standing apart from the crowd. They weren't cheering, and their tepid applause died out after one or two claps.

The Faithful. They were easy to recognize because they still wore Elvish-style clothing. Everything about them was hopelessly old-fashioned. When Númenorian nationalism swept the Island, most people abandoned the long, sinuous robes in favor of traditional Númenorian clothing, short tunics in bright colors, decorated with metallic trim. The Faithful hadn't adapt the new fashion any more than they'd adapted modern ways of thinking, sticking with the old style of clothing and the old, subordinate relationship with the Elves.

Tindomul wondered why the Faithful were attending the launch at all. They were hostile toward the Crown, but there weren't many of them and they mostly kept to themselves. Oh well, never attribute to malice that which is completely explained by free food.

The crowd began to disperse. Tindomul came down from the stand, trailing in the wake of the rest of the family. On the way out of the shipyard, he passed a group of the Faithful, their woodland-colored robes embroidered in patterns of leaves. Someone hissed, "Black Númenorian!" Tindomul whirled around with his hands clenched in fists, but was met by a wall of expressionless faces.