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24
Othello, William Shakespeare
Why are there flames in my bedroom? Is my flat on fire? I try to jump up, to reach for my phone to call for the firefighters, but I can’t move. I’m bruised and torn and every inch of my body feels like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.
And like a huge flash of lightning, it comes back to me. The storm… I was drowning. Am I… dead? I don’t feel dead. Is this…? Whatisthis? If I’m alive, where am I?
‘Welcome back,’ comes a deep voice from somewhere above me.
For a split moment, I think it’s actually God, telling me I’m dead. It’s a voice I know but can’t quite place.
Stephen? No. Someone else. Someone strong. Dependable. But who…?
And then the mist clears. Cornwall. Jago Moon. I can trust him. Because he’s blunt and sincere, no matter what. The barge. The speedboat. The storm. Jago yelling my name over the pandemonium around us. In my darkest, most perilous moment ever, he’s come to my rescue, risking his own life. When no one else has.
‘We’re alive?’ I rasp, trying to sit up, but every bone in my body hurts. ‘How?’
He’s grinning, moving through the shadows, carrying a lamp, which he sets on a bedside table. I’m in a bed, covered with thick, heavy blankets up to my chin.
‘You forget I’m a seaman. It was a big one, but we made it to here.’
‘Here? Where is here?’
‘Tempest Island. It’s a tiny rock a few miles off the coast of Starry Cove.’
Images come to me of monolithic, biblical waves towering over me, invading my lungs. Fear of blacking out completely. Fatally.
‘You… saved my life…’ is all I can say.
He shakes his head. ‘Honestly, I don’t think I had any say in it. Someone up there wants you alive. But yes, it was a close call.’
‘But h-how did you even know where I was?’
He shrugs. ‘I asked myself where a silly city slicker who doesn’t know a thing about boats could be in this kind of weather, and I knew.’
‘The storm…’ I try to swallow, but my throat is burning.
He pours some water from a bottle into a cup.
‘Here, drink up,’ he says, holding it to my mouth.
I cough, but at least the burning sensation has subsided.
‘Better?’
I want to tell Jago how the storm caught me unaware, but suddenly I’m exhausted and try as I might, I can’t stop my eyes from welling with silent tears. I dash a hand across them, refusing to bawl.
‘It’s OK,’ he whispers, wrapping an arm around me so that I’m leaning against his side. ‘Let it all out, Emmie. It’s good to cry.’
‘I’m not crying,’ I deny as more tears come. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening…’
‘You’re in shock. It happens to the best of sailors when they have a close brush with death. It’s OK, Emmie.’
Is it? Is crying going to rid me of this utter feeling of helplessness, of how tiny and insignificant my life is compared to the force of nature? I know I’m supposed to feel relieved to be alive. The overwhelming force of it has hit me like a high-speed train.
‘You’re exhausted. You need to eat,’ he says, moving away from me.
I fight the effort to reach for his hand in a silent prayer for him to stay. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman. The danger is over. What am I afraid of?
