{"id":717,"date":"2026-08-14T10:08:15","date_gmt":"2026-08-14T10:08:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/insidemayasmind.com\/?p=717"},"modified":"2026-08-09T19:41:13","modified_gmt":"2026-08-09T19:41:13","slug":"the-fate-of-the-hapet-chapter-7-eight-tolls-for-eight-dead-men","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/insidemayasmind.com\/?p=717","title":{"rendered":"The Fate of The H\u00e5pet – Chapter 7, Eight Tolls for Eight Dead Men"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

I tapped the glass of my compass frantically, but it was useless. The brass needle swung wildly, first clockwise before snapping back into a counterclockwise whirl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Squinting up at the sky, I was desperate for the slightest glimpse of the watery sun, anything to give us an indication of our heading. But there was nothing, just the white, impenetrable shroud of fog pressing down on us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then, drifting through the still air, a faint clang reached my ears. The distant, muted sound of a ship\u2019s bell. Once, twice\u2026 eight times its heavy, muffled chime drifted across the lifeless water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEight tolls for eight dead men,\u201d Thomas said grimly, stepping onto the quarterdeck. His crippled leg dragging behind him while his cane thumped in time with the bell. \u201cThe ghosts are calling, Captain.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be ridiculous, Phillips!\u201d I snapped, though my voice carried less conviction than I wanted. \u201cIt\u2019s just that English wreck shifting in the ice. What news of the boy? I assume that\u2019s why you\u2019re here\u2014to tell me something of importance, not spread superstitious rumours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIndeed, Captain.\u201d His eyes drifted warily out to the blanket of fog before returning to mine. \u201cThe frostbite has got him bad. I\u2019m going to have to take off his feet and one hand. But he\u2019ll live.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHas he told you what happened out there? Anything of the crew?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s said nothing, Captain,\u201d Thomas replied, the breath misting in front of his face. \u201cAll he\u2019s told me is that his name is Samuel, and his brother was Edward. But whenever I ask about the ship or crew, he just stares at the deck and repeats the same thing, \u2018help my brother\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet your saws ready then and take some of the brandy from the stores. He\u2019ll need it. He\u2019s been through hell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thomas nodded sharply before walking away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBest drop anchor, Captain,\u201d Jens\u2019 voice rasped suddenly from behind me. \u201cCan\u2019t sail in this. Can\u2019t see a thing. But it gives us a chance to fetch that whale oil.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The thick fog closed in tightly around us, wrapping us in its icy tendrils as I turned to see my first mate climbing onto the quarterdeck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe oil is gone!\u201d I said, my voice cracking like a jib in the wind. \u201cYou said it yourself. Staying out here is suicide, and I won\u2019t risk any more lives. The current is pulling the pack ice south. If we drop anchor here, by this time tomorrow we\u2019ll be locked in. We\u2019ll let her drift south with the floes. As soon as the fog clears, we\u2019ll set course for home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jens didn\u2019t blink; his eyes locked onto mine with a freezing glare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nils shifted his feet, his gaze darting between the two of us, his lips pressed into a thin, white line. He didn\u2019t need to speak. I knew what was on his mind, and it was the same fear that nagged at the back of my own head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust keep the watch tight,\u201d I barked at him before turning on my heel and striding towards the main deck and the midship companionway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The East Spitsbergen Current would sweep us south into clear waters, away from the ice. But from our last known position, that put the sheer cliffs and treacherous rocks of Bear Island, only sixty miles south, directly in our path. At our current rate, it would take two days to reach; by then the fog would have cleared, or we would have passed whatever anomaly was interfering with the compasses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sharp crack of a pistol from the crow\u2019s nest shattered the silence and caught my attention. Instinctively, I began a slow count in my head. One, two\u2026 ten before the echo rolled back over the ship.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIce at one mile,\u201d came the call from atop the mast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A safe distance. For now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

****<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The low muttering that had filled the midship fell silent as my boot stepped down from the last rung of the ladder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The pungent, sweet smell of tobacco smoke filled the cramped space of the steerage deck. It was a blue haze that drifted from the clay pipes of the five men sitting around the large, roughly hewn table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Larson twins looked up at me while Thomas tapped out the blackened contents of his pipe onto the tabletop. The other two, their faces shadowed by low pulled caps, kept their gazes fixed on the steaming tin mugs before them, their silence hung heavily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s the boy, Thomas?\u201d I said, peeling off my ice-crusted mittens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJonah.\u201d The word was a low, barely audible growl drifting from Erik Larson\u2019s direction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you have something to say, Erik?\u201d I turned squarely to face the dark-haired man, my hands gripping the rugged edge of the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Erik met my gaze with impunity. He didn\u2019t flinch. He didn\u2019t even blink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA Jonah,\u201d he repeated, his voice forceful this time. \u201cEveryone\u2019s saying it, Captain. If eight dead crewmen aren\u2019t warning enough, you go and bring a Jonah aboard. He cursed his own godforsaken ship, and now he\u2019s brought that curse here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My hands clenched the table tightly, my knuckles turning white, splinters digging into my palms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s a little more than a boy!\u201d my voice cracking like musket fire. \u201cWould you have me leave him to suffer the same fate as his brother?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s a child, Erik,\u201d Thomas said softly. \u201cA child whose hands and toes I\u2019ll be sawing off come dawn. I\u2019ll not have you lay another finger on him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve seen what\u2019s happening, Thomas.\u201d Erik retorted sharply, turning on the old naval man with fists clenched. \u201cHow else would you explain everything?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor the love of God!\u201d I bellowed, slamming my hands down. \u201cHave you never seen fog before? It will clear! The compasses will right themselves. They\u2019ve just lost their bearings; it can happen this far north. Iron deposits in the ice, most likely or a magnetic anomaly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not just the fog or the compasses though, is it?\u201d Johan spoke up beside his brother with a trembling voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My eyes naturally snapped back to Thomas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s going on, Thomas? What has happened?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old cook slumped, his weight shifting, causing his chair to creak. He didn\u2019t meet my gaze. Instead, he reached towards his mug of coffee, sliding it across the rough table and towards me with a grating scrape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Taking the mug, the heat tingling my numb hands, I raised it to my lips. The bitter scent of the coffee filled my nostrils, but there was something else too, something that I couldn\u2019t quite place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The moment the black liquid hit my tongue, my throat tightened, gagging. It was thick and cloying, coating my mouth with a revolting, violently bitter film. The briny seawater stung my gums and throat so fiercely that I spat the foul concoction across the deck planks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is this?\u201d I screamed, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe drew the water from a fresh cask, one we brought from Troms\u00f8,\u201d Thomas replied. \u201cThey\u2019re all the same. Every barrel, it\u2019s all bilge.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not just the water, Captain,\u201d Johan said, tipping the contents of a canvas bag onto the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

More than a dozen hardtack biscuits scattered over the scratched surface with a soggy thwack. Biscuits that had been four times baked, biscuits that should be as hard as stone and able to survive for years aboard ship without spoiling. But these biscuits weren\u2019t their usual light brown colour. Each one a rotting, crumbling mass, covered in a grotesque, velvety black mould. Dark, viscous grease oozed from their edges, leaving glistening, oily stains on the scarred wood of the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEvery sack is the same, Captain.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My gut twisted, bile rising in my throat as I stared at the oily rot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA leak?\u201d My voice stammered, my mind scrabbling for an explanation. \u201cThe sea must have breached the bread room.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd the water barrels too? That\u2019s impossible.\u201d Erik\u2019s sharp tone cut through the heavy air. \u201cThe timbers are bone dry. Everything was fine just this morning. Seawater hasn\u2019t done this, Captain. This is the work of something else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I tapped the glass of my compass frantically, but it was useless. The brass needle swung wildly, first clockwise before<\/p>\n

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