Hellen

Three weeks had passed since my youngest brother passed, and yet everyone still sobbed at the mention of his name or the thought of his forever mischievous grin. Every evening, we recalled ridiculous stories that he would always tell us that he came up with. Charles, who usually locked himself away in the library reading Shakespeare—he especially enjoyed the tragedies—or in the town square trying to recruit people to perform plays—usually Shakespeare tragedies. Most people avoided joining, with us being the Page family and all those things.

Sarah was scrubbing away at our cabin when the ship hit a violent wave. We all lurched toward the wall because it was at least thirty feet tall. 

“HURRICANE!!!” I heard one man call from the ship’s crew. I didn’t dare leave the cabin to see what was going on, for we’d made it five weeks without being discovered. I didn’t want to ruin it now. I knew that some sort of storm was occurring. I didn’t want to risk every bit of life I had by going onto the deck, getting discovered, or getting thrown into the sea by the strong winds. I knew that it could be hours before we reached the calm spot of the storm and found a chance to pause and take a breath for a moment. 

“Stay where you are!” I called out to Charles, who was trying to stand. “It’ll only be more difficult to make it through the storm if we struggle. We can’t unbalance the ship by running wild.” 

“Well, thanks for ruining my plan with your logical explanations,” Charles responded. 

“Hellen’s right!” Philip said. “I’ve no clue how she found the time to research that information, but it’s true. According to every book I’ve read about the sea, you can’t move until a hurricane settles. We have to wait out the storm until it reaches the eye. Then, we can prepare for the second half.” 

“There’s more?!” 

“Yes, Charles,” Sarah informed him. “There’s more. The eye is the calmest part of the storm. It’s like the part in a play between acts one and two, when all is quiet, then continues the journey toward the climax.” 

“How am I the only person here who knows nothing about hurricanes?” 

“You’re the only one here who spends all his time talking about or reading scripts for Shakespeare plays.” 

“Oi! It’s not my fault that Hamlet ends so sadly!” 

“Well, you’re the only boy I’ve ever met who gets so emotional over a fictional performance from the sixteenth century,” I teased. 

He glared at me before asking, “So, what do we do during the storm?” 

“As I said before, we wait until we reach the eye of the storm, then we act.” 

“Like in a play?”

“No. We act by performing actions that we need to keep the ship balanced and prevent it from sinking.”

“You’re saying we could drown?!” 

“Yes! Do you see the urgency to obey, now?” 

“I guess so, but are you sure we can’t do anything?” 

“Actually,” I came up with. “I have something for you to do.” He turned toward me, grinning from ear to ear. “Be quiet.” 

His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “You’re joking, right?” 

“You could twiddle your thumbs,” I offered.  

“I’ll pass.” 

The boat lurched upward again as it hit another wave. A large, heavy-looking crate slid across the room, crashing into another. Both crates slid directly toward Philip, who was lying against the side of the ship. When they found a point that stopped their movement, Philip said one simple phrase: 

“Well, help me!”