Krafft's Anomaly Notes

Chapter 410 Icy Sailing Ships and the Blessing Festival
"Hey, boss, go down and rest for a bit, I'm here."

A drunken voice approached from behind. The alcohol made the speaker's steps distorted and his tongue swollen. In the night wind of the icy sea, he was like a clumsy bear with too much fat, who might slide off the thin ice on the deck at any moment.

“You? Just don’t fall in for a winter swim.” William licked his dry, cold lips, pulled his hand from his coat that was touching the flask, and refused the second mate’s suggestion to change shifts. “This isn’t the Iceberg; it’s not easy to pull people aboard.”

Every inch of his mouth was urging him to unscrew the cap and moisten his throat with the wine.

But this is strong liquor meant to keep you warm, and the consequence of indulging in it is skipping half a day or even a whole day, missing the best stargazing opportunity of the coming week.

For the seventeenth time tonight, he looked up at the sky in the direction the compass was pointing.

Thin clouds have lingered for several days and nights, like frosted glass or a dancer's veil, constantly disturbing the view and obscuring a tiny yet crucial point in the sky.

That star in the far north, the axis of the sky, seemed to be teasingly peeking out from behind some wisp of cloud, making one believe that it would reveal itself in the next moment.

But even as my arm ached from holding the goniometer and my eyes became dry and itchy, the faint, indistinct light never actually appeared.

A few days ago, they loaded the last batch of goods almost on the tip of a blizzard and set off for their return journey.

The cold currents and cloud walls sweeping across the entire ice field were halted by the mountains, stopping at the edge of the land, but their influence extends far beyond that.

As temperatures dropped and the sea fog thickened night after night, the Iceberg could no longer be seen clearly at night. The two ships could only determine their positions by the fire pits hanging at their bows and sterns and communicate by horns.

Based on past experience, this means they will soon face a period of bad weather, making it impossible to know their southward voyage from the stars.

Logically speaking, it shouldn't be considered a big deal. Even at the fastest speed, it would take at least half a month to sail south. As long as the direction is correct, the weather will clear up sooner or later, and there will be time to make calculations then.

Experienced sailors understand this principle, so they are not nervous, and a few newcomers also feel at ease after understanding the situation.

The atmosphere of the Feast of Blessings had been brewing for some time on this sampan, far removed from the faith of the Father. Even before setting sail, the festive tunes had been heard, interspersed among the boat songs.

Every now and then you can see rough wreaths woven from old knots instead of branches, hanging on portholes and masts, decorated with dried orange slices.

Today, the atmosphere finally reached a climax. Far from home on the high seas, the sailors joyfully celebrated the arrival of the festival, lighting bonfires in small iron basins behind the windshields, sitting around to share their private stash of fine wine, and roasting the fish and bread they had caught.

Even the strictest captain has no right to prevent the crew from enjoying this moment of joy. Except for a small number of unlucky individuals selected by lottery, almost everyone received a half-day off.

The rough food and intermittent singing can make people temporarily forget that they are still at sea, and in a slightly tipsy state, they can regain the sense of security of land.

By the time this meager warmth reached the top floor of the ship's deck by the cold wind, almost nothing remained.

Only one person is still stubbornly struggling against the clouds.

On the eighteenth time, he turned his back to the firelight, stretched his neck out from under the thick, fur-lined collar, pressed it against the quadrant's observation line, and aimed at the most familiar spot in the north.

Unsurprisingly, God did not favor the merchants who were still calculating profits on Christmas Day.

As if in a deliberate act of teasing, the thicker part of the clouds shifted slightly, and the tiny movement once again plunged that glimmer of light into darkness.

After waiting a while, Liangyi appeared faintly when he turned his face away to avoid a gust of wind. It was still in the same place, still tiny, still just a breath away, but it never truly appeared again.

"Hiccup... What's wrong with you?" The second mate scratched his full stomach in confusion. He could tell what the captain was waiting for, but the question was why he had to dwell on such a trivial matter on a festive night.

They weren't sailing along the coast; the vast ocean had no reefs, no currents, just water. They only needed to know they were heading south; their exact location was unimportant at this point.

"Nothing, I just wanted to take a look." William put away the quadrant and tucked it back into the velvet bag.

In fact, he didn't know what was going on either. Rationally speaking, the fleet was in the part of the voyage that required the least worry.

Perhaps it was the caution brought about by the large volume of cargo, or some kind of intuition unique to veteran captains, but a nameless anxiety lingered in his mind, causing him to subconsciously make this kind of action that only a novice would do.

"I just want to know how far we are from the ice field."

"At least a hundred leagues, right? This sail is really sturdy, it's as fast as a small boat." The second mate's professionalism was not affected by his drunkenness, and he gave a rough estimate after a little calculation.

By measuring the speed at regular intervals each day and multiplying it by the travel time, it's not difficult to get a similar answer—provided the journey is in a straight line.

This was not enough for the captain; he needed a more reliable reference point to ensure he was far from land, especially the snow-covered plains.

Admittedly, it is a source of wealth, but the instinctive aversion to it cannot be faked.

"Have we checked all our goods?" William interpreted this as another manifestation of his worsening psychological problems, and tried to distract himself with other trivial matters.

"We've counted them. There are 245 bundles of furs, all stored in the upper moisture-proof compartment here. About ten rolls that got wet are being dried by the fire, and the rest are wrapped in oilcloth. No mold spots have been found yet."

"There are a total of 86 barrels of minerals. They haven't been sorted yet. They've been arranged in the bottom warehouse by weight. Most of them are iron sand and blue copper blocks. The quality is acceptable."

Speaking of the goods, the second mate sobered up a bit. "As for the goods given by those 'new friends,' it seems there's silver in them. It looks even better than the best mines in the south. We've already had people guarding it."

"We're going to make a fortune this time."

"Yes, if you hadn't refused to disembark, you would have stayed in the port of comfort for at least a week, right?"

"Okay, this trip back will last you at least a week, you can stay for half a month if you're capable." Thinking about the profit from the goods, even the most anxious person will show a genuine smile.

This is a miracle of turning lead into gold; ordinary wheat and common tools were exchanged for real money.

The laughter lasted only a few seconds; the joy, like moisture exposed to the cold wind, quickly cooled and froze. "By the way, what about the rest?"

"Those by-product minerals we haven't seen before? We've separated less than half a barrel's worth here, and there are some fragments on the Iceberg. I don't know if they'll fetch a good price. I hope the first mate hasn't mixed them up."

“It’s alright…lower the sails a bit, blow the horn to let the rear know we’re speeding up.” William wiped the snow off his beard. Rather than worrying unnecessarily, he preferred to get rid of his anxiety with action. “Faster, leave the bad weather behind.”

"Raise the sails by another two-tenths, lads, let's go home!" the second mate shouted, blowing the horn in long and short bursts to send the same command to the ships behind.

The fog smoothed out the edges of the sound, and the metallic echo was no longer bright; it was dragged down and suppressed.

The time spent waiting for a reply seemed to be stretched out.

A few breaths, or perhaps half a minute later, came a dull, muffled, and moist response:

Intermittent and hazy, the distant distance broke it into several segments, and the tail of the sound was swallowed up by the waves crashing against the hull of the ship.

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