Two days out. The weary, gloved hand belonging to Orryn Buckgrove marks a tally on the mainmast, his knife in bad need of sharpening. He sighs, straightens up and steps back, yawning and stretching in the glow of the rich bronze afternoon light that bathes the deck of the Zaira – itself a speck of gold threading its way through the last ragged outcrops of the Shards.

The long, dark shadows of this time throw each mark on the mast into strong relief, almost transforming it back into the rough-barked tree from which it was hewn. Every day, for six months, Orryn has done this, his own little ritual to mark the passing of time – and now, so close to home, the marks are made earlier and earlier in the day. Today he didn’t even wait for sunset.

He smiles slightly as he admires his handiwork. It was clever of him, he thinks, to begin higher on the mast and work his way downwards. Now, as he takes in the many little lines, the higher ones cleaner and deeper, the lower ones mere scrapes into the wood, he has a sense of the scale of this voyage, and how far away it all seems; that day six months ago when the yellow sycamore leaves were falling.

He is twenty-six tomorrow. It’ll be strange, he thinks, to celebrate that so close to home and yet not at home. Stranger, too, to feel so different. Things seem clearer now; less muddled.

Giving the mast a friendly pat, he wanders over to the railing, facing the setting sun, and watches as the penultimate sky-rock, the Table, begins to cast its long straight shadow over the bow of the Zaira. This had been the farthest he’d ever ventured until this voyage – doing the Table run in a little racing ship that Jim had bought, in high summer. The faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth widens as he recalls that day, some years ago now. Lining up at the starting post set on the Nose – the first of the Shards – the wild scramble to dock at the haphazard mooring posts set into the thin “legs” of the Table; the wild climb up to the top; and then the sprint to where the finish line was at the very end of the wide Table plateau.

They had come fourth out of twenty. Not bad for a couple of teenagers with only a few months’ racing experience.

Orryn remembers the expression on his parents’ faces when the barges had returned, so hopefully looking at the winners’ barge to see who was being towed behind, and then the familiar fallen smiles upon seeing Jim’s boat behind the next barge. They had almost been proud.

This time, though, there is no race. Nothing to win – but they have still succeeded. The thought gives him some peace.

“Thinking about the Table run?”

Orryn doesn’t even turn as the familiar voice, clear as a bell, rings through his reverie. He nods, and Jim joins him in leaning on the railing as the giant slab of rock creeps on by.

“That was a hard one, that first time.” Jim muses, and then chuckles slightly, as if remembering something. “Still, I bet nobody else has done the climb ropeless.”

Orryn shakes his head. “To this day, I don’t know how we got away with that.”

“Well, that was back before they decided to put spotters on the climb.” Jim sighs. “Shame you didn’t do it again. You were the best climber by fathoms.”

A shadow flits across Orryn’s face and he shrugs. “Didn’t make us win though, did it?”

“Oh, stop it,” Jim says, playfully admonishing. “Winning isn’t everything.”

“Tell that to my parents.”

Jim’s expression softens. “They know, I’m sure.” And he places a companionable hand on Orryn’s shoulder.

A comfortable silence envelops them, framed by the flapping of canvas above and the gentle creaking of planks against their feet. The sky gradually becomes dipped in rose and violet, giving way to the darker blues of dusk, and the last few yards of the Table inch away from the Zaira as on she sails, into the night.

On the Captain’s table, the familiar map lies, its worn edges and mug-marks contrasting with the newly inked section that is tacked onto its upper right corner. The owner of the table, the cabin and the map – but not the carefully measured fresh red lines; those belong to Jim – leans back in his chair, his green coat carefully hung on a hook behind him, and sighs. Almost home.

His sigh is one of satisfaction, relief, and weariness. This voyage, he thinks, might well be his last. He didn’t account for how much it would take out of him, and now he can envision himself relaxing, a well-earned bottle in his hand, at the foot of the great sycamore, which would now be putting forth new leaves. A nice, peaceful retirement, now that this journey is nearly over.

We did it.

The thought still takes time to fully find purchase in his tired mind. It doesn’t quite feel real yet, the actual success of this foolish endeavour. They’ve done it. The Shards are charted.

He leans forward with a slight groan, joints creaking like his ship, and studies the tracery of lines that adorn the map. Many, many hours of careful measurement, of painstaking double-checking and triple-checking, have gone into the course that now lies behind them, marked through the dark black ink of the hundreds of newly discovered floating rocks that make up the bulk of the Shards.

Fainter, in pencil markings, are the names. He chuckles to himself as he reads them – some are as yet nameless, but fifty or so bear the individual stamp of every single crew member. He is glad he can give them all something to leave as a legacy – a Shard with a name of their choice. Some went for sentimentality; there was “Kitt’s Hat”, that had been Gloster’s – never one to be poetic, but certainly the heart was there – and then there had been Eleanor’s suggestion.

He remembers the conversation well. They had just negotiated one of the trickiest and tightest parts of the Shards, Jim unfailing in his role as Navigator, as he had been this entire voyage – and they had thrown lines for the evening onto the nearest Shard, a large, craggy one with a particularly pointed top. The crew had been in a triumphant mood, one of the few barrels of ale had been cracked open, and they had been drawing lots to see who would get to name this one.

Eleanor, not usually one to enter into such proceedings, had been the lucky one that night, and the general cheer, and possibly the half-mug of ale she had drunk, prompted her to proclaim this particular Shard…“Sharp Rock”.

And so, “Sharp Rock” it now is, written in Eleanor’s slightly scratchy handwriting next to the respective shape on the map.

Just next to it, a ring of pencil encircles several cloud-like blobs, and next to those in neat, slightly plump handwriting, “The Sheep (probably)”. Rufus shakes his head and makes a mental note to take Dawn and George on a trip to see some actual sheep, some day.

The names give the stones character, and Rufus runs his fingers over them, a soft smile creasing his eyes. Who’d have thought he’d be thinking so fondly of those treacherous rocks, six months ago? But now they had personality, and even the Zaira bears scrapes and splinters from becoming a little too friendly with these personalities.

She has done well, he thinks, my Zaira. No bigger ship would have dared to make this voyage, and a smaller one would have been dashed to pieces on the tenth Shard in. She is perfect, and has largely borne these last months without a complaint.

Even the one heart-stopping moment between what Rufus has dubbed “The Teeth” – two of the largest Shards; enormous jagged triangles that narrow at their bases to a sharp point, nearly touching – when he’d suddenly been aware of an eerie silence, and their altitude had started to plummet…

Even then, as they gained speed and the rocks either side hemmed in, nearer and nearer, the Zaira had gently coughed, juddered, and with a hum, found her voice again. The feeling in Rufus’ stomach when the engineer had rushed back on deck and given him the signal that the engine was back up and running…he shudders, shaking off the memory, but that feeling will stay with him for a good while yet.

Rufus looks fondly around his cabin and makes his way over to the frost-encrusted window at the back, where the Table is starting to dwindle in size as they leave it further and further behind.

He runs a weathered hand over the wooden window frame. He is glad this is over, but there’s a faint sadness in his eyes as he watches the last vestiges of light seep away into the gloom outside. This feels like the end of an era for him. His last, glorious tale, told in a map, and in a crew brought together through hardship and sheer determination. A heck of a tale to end a career with.

There is a knock on the cabin door.

“Yes?” He responds, and it creaks open to reveal Jim, hand halfway to his mouth as he stifles a yawn.

“Table’s behind us now, in case you hadn’t seen.” He states casually, and Rufus smiles.

“So I saw. Just the Nose to go now, and then open air ‘til home.”

Jim nods, his smile reflecting his Captain’s, and Rufus beckons him in. The Captain makes his way over to a small drinks cabinet in the corner of the cabin, and from it he takes a pair of worn metal tankards and a half-empty bottle.

Jim’s eyes widen slightly as he sees the handwritten label on the thick glass. Rufus chuckles slightly.

“You think I’d be that stingy, to not give our star Navigator a congratulatory drink?”

He uncorks the bottle with a pleasing thunk, and pours out a measure of the dark amber liquid into each tankard. He passes one to the still-staring Jim.

“Drink up, lad.” Rufus raises his tankard. “To you, for taking us safely through where no-one has dared to sail ‘til now. May you prosper.”

Jim shakes off the shock at seeing the bottle and raises his tankard to meet the Captain’s. He nods his head in thanks, not trusting himself to speak, and blinks back the shimmering in his eyes.

At the first taste of the drink, Jim sighs in appreciation. “Wow.”

Rufus grins. “Oh yes. The finest brandy in the Isles. Count yourself lucky to taste it – that bottle cost me dearly.”

Jim puts his hand out to Rufus, who takes it and pulls the young man in for a rare, heartfelt hug. Jim murmurs a quiet “thank you” into his shoulder before they part. The older man’s eyes are shining, and he turns quickly away to place the bottle back in the cabinet.

Savouring the brandy, Jim closes his eyes and lets the sweetness and heat of the rare spirit coat his tongue, locking the memory away in a safe place in his mind, reserved for all of the precious moments he has experienced these last months.

He opens his eyes and looks down at the map, as Rufus sits himself down in his chair once more, sipping at his drink.

“Should be able to retrace our route around the Nose and then back home, I think.” Jim muses, running his finger along the line charted at the top right corner of the map. “This is plain sailing from now on, compared with what we’ve dealt with.”

Rufus raises his tankard again and leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “I’ll drink to that, lad.”

Down below, the shiny leather boots of Eleanor Reed make their precise way along the now nearly-empty rows of supply crates and barrels in the hold. Her notebook, only a few pages of which are still to be filled, is open in her hands, and she jots down the remaining supplies without once looking at the pages. She has done this so many times, it is almost as familiar to her as breathing.

She feels a surge of pride as she notes how perfectly she’s calculated everything. Exactly enough to last the trip, with a week or so in hand. She closes the notebook with a neat snap, and places her pen back in her waistcoat pocket, giving the hold a last glance before turning on her heels and making her way back to the ladder to the upper decks.

But as she does so, something hanging from the ladder catches her eye. A little frown creases between her brows, and she reaches out to detach the object.

Dangling from a recently tacked-in nail on the rail of the ladder, hangs an exquisite piece of knotwork. The size of Eleanor’s palm and almost flower-like in shape, it has been expertly crafted and dyed a russet red, and sways slightly with the motion of the ship.

Eleanor takes it, running her thumb over the intricate entanglement of the rope, feeling her face grow warm as she sees the little scrap of paper with a small letter N scribbled on in charcoal.

Gently closing her hand on the gift, she holds it close to her chest for a moment, attempting to shake the blush from her cheeks, before pocketing the knotwork and prying the nail from the ladder. She takes a steadying breath, but is unable to wipe the smile from her face as she climbs back up.

From his hiding spot behind a crate, Natt Chamber’s unkempt hair cannot hide the absolute joy that has sprung into his eyes.

The night wears on, cloaking the deck of the Zaira in shadows. Thin wisps of cloud float by, illuminated by the ship’s lamps into ghostly forms, caressing her hull. Hours pass, and soon the last of the Shards appears, a black shadow against a black night.

Those who remain on deck for the night watch, Jim included, gaze upon the Nose with the dawning realisation that they have triumphed. The familiar shape of this one Shard, the one that marks the start of everything, seems to encompass their entire journey: the fear and peril, the moments of sheer, unparalleled beauty, and the overwhelming sense of togetherness. Everything, all of life, all the joys and troubles – it all seems to be here, on the Zaira, and there, in the rock.

Jim nods his head at this last Shard, blinking back the tears that come. He can’t quite bring himself to let it sink in yet, but he knows at some point he will have to let it all wash over him. For now, though, he is content to stand at the prow of the ship and stare into the night, feeling more like himself than ever before.

It is just as dawn is breaking, and Grace Verlinnick walks out on deck, stretching her tired limbs, when she glances up into a greying sky. She frowns, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, and stuffs her cold fingers deep into her pockets.

The clouds seem to swell – and the first drops of freezing rain begin to fall.