The Grey Hunger

Caught between encroaching ice and a relentless pursuit, Randy and the crew of the Raven's Tooth face impossible odds on the unforgiving Hudson Bay, their illicit cargo and lives hanging precariously in the balance.

The wind, a raw, indifferent thing, plucked at the loose threads of Randy's woolen cap. It tasted of salt and something metallic, like old blood, and brought with it the bite of the bay. He could feel it in his teeth, a dull ache in his jaw. The Raven's Tooth groaned beneath them, a living, suffering creature, protesting every push of the current, every grinding shudder against the early autumn ice that hadn't been here a week prior. Up ahead, Davidie gripped the helm, knuckles white. The older man’s face, etched deep with sun and frost, gave nothing away. It never did. Randy hated that.

He wiped a gloved hand across his nose. The snot was probably frozen by now. Twenty years old, and he felt eighty, the cold seeping into his joints, promising a long, miserable life or a quick, brutal end. Either seemed likely out here. He leaned over the rail, the scarred wood rough against his oilskins. Below, the water, a churning, bruised grey, spat flecks of foam back at him. Not a welcoming sight, not ever.

"Ice," Davidie said, his voice a gravelly rumble that barely cut through the wind. Just the one word. He didn't need more.

Randy followed Davidie's gaze. Ahead, not a solid sheet, but loose floes, like shattered dinner plates, spun and bobbed in the relentless current. A few were the size of small boats, dirty white under the oppressive sky. They weren't a wall, not yet, but they were a promise of what was coming. Early. Too early.

"Thought we had another week before this," Randy muttered, half to himself, half to the indifferent expanse of the bay. The words felt thin, pointless, swallowed by the roar.

Davidie gave a short, humourless puff of air through his nose. "Bay don't care what you think, boy. Never has. Never will." His eyes, the colour of deep sea ice, flicked to Randy, then back to the horizon, scanning. Always scanning. For ice, for shoals, for the glint of a Company brig's mast on the distant line where water met sky. Or worse, for a familiar sail that wasn't Company. The Orion or the Sea Viper, both hungry dogs, always looking for an easy prize.

Randy shifted, the cold making his left knee stiff. He'd banged it against a supply crate during the last storm, a stupid, clumsy move. Now it ached with every roll of the ship. He reached into his coat, fingers fumbling for the half-eaten hardtack he’d tucked there, only to find the crumbs cold and stale. He chewed anyway, the grit dissolving into little more than tasteless paste. Better than nothing. Always better than nothing.

### Below the Weather

The Raven's Tooth was a small vessel, built for speed and shallow drafts, not for battering through early ice. Every shudder echoed through the timbers, a low groan rising from the keel. The mast, sturdy elm, flexed and hummed. Randy knew every creak, every groan, a language of its own. He’d lived on this ship since he was thirteen, a dirty cabin boy, then deckhand, now first mate. Still a boy in Davidie’s eyes, probably. Always would be.

He spat over the side. The wind caught it, tearing the small globule into nothing before it hit the water. Pointless. Everything felt pointless lately. The endless runs, the endless cold, the endless looking over their shoulder. For what? A few pelts, some dried fish, a handful of coin that melted through your fingers faster than ice in a summer thaw.

"She'll hold," Davidie said, startling Randy. He hadn't realised Davidie was even looking at him.

Randy just nodded. What else was there to say? *Of course she'll hold, she always does.* It was more a question than a statement, a silent dare thrown into the teeth of the gale.

He turned, heading towards the narrow companionway that led below deck. The deck was slick, a sheen of freezing spray turning to black ice in patches. His boots, heavy and worn, found little purchase. He almost slipped, his arm flailing for a moment before he caught himself on the mainmast stay. A grunt of annoyance escaped him. Clumsy. Always clumsy.

Below, the air was thicker, heavy with the scent of wet wool, bilge water, and the musk of beaver pelts from the hold. A single lantern, swinging from a hook, cast jumping shadows. The small cabin, cramped and low-ceilinged, was empty. The rest of the crew, what little was left of them, were likely in the fo'c'sle, trying to find warmth, trying not to think about what lay outside.

Randy sat on his bunk, the straw mattress lumpy, the thin blanket smelling faintly of mildew. He pulled a small, worn leather-bound book from his sea chest. The cover was cracked, the pages dog-eared. Not a logbook, not a map, just stories. Fantastical nonsense about heroes and distant lands where the sun always shone. He ran a thumb over the faded ink. Old Captain Blackwood had given it to him, years ago. A fool's gift, maybe. But he’d kept it.

He opened it to a random page, the words blurring slightly in the dim light. He couldn't focus. His mind kept returning to the ice, to Davidie's grim face, to the distant threat. They were running a particularly hot load this time. Smuggled rum from the colonies, destined for the thirsty throats of the Company men, who, ironically, were supposed to be stopping such trade. The hypocrisy was a bitter taste. And in return, a hold full of prime beaver pelts, bound for some anonymous merchant in Montreal. It was a risky game, always.

A sudden, sharp thud vibrated through the hull, making the lantern sway wildly. Randy snapped the book shut, his heart hammering against his ribs. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his knee again on the edge of the bunk. A dull throb.

---

### The Unkind Embrace

He burst back onto the deck, the wind immediately clawing at his face. Davidie was bracing against the helm, his body a rigid line.

"What was that?" Randy yelled, the words ripped from his mouth.

Davidie pointed, a single, gloved finger. "Floe. Big one."

And there it was. Not ahead, but off their starboard bow, a massive slab of grey ice, like a jagged tooth. They had grazed it, not head-on, but a glancing blow. Enough to make the ship shudder, enough to make the timbers groan a new, alarming note.

Randy hurried to the rail, peering over. He couldn't see a visible crack, not from this angle. But the sound… the sound had been too solid, too bone-jarring.

"Any damage?" he asked, his voice tighter than he liked.

Davidie shook his head, a dismissive gesture. "Not yet. Keep your eyes out. Wind's shifting. Gonna push more of this damned stuff down on us."

The wind *was* shifting. He felt it, a subtle twist in the gale’s relentless pressure. Now it blew from the northeast, directly from the deeper, colder reaches of the bay. It meant more ice, faster. And it meant they were being pushed towards the western shore, towards a labyrinth of islands and rocky shoals he knew too well. Good hiding places, yes, but also a death trap if the ice locked them in.

"We need to get to the Passage," Randy said, stating the obvious. The Passage was a narrow, ice-free channel, a winding path through the islands that led to a deeper, more open water to the south. Their only clear route to their rendezvous point.

"I know where we need to be, boy," Davidie growled, not unkindly, but with a weary edge. "Getting there's the trick." He wrestled the helm, trying to coax the Raven's Tooth around a particularly menacing floe that drifted across their path. The ship, sluggish now, responded slowly.

Randy gripped the rail, watching the water, watching the ice. Every floating shard, every dark ripple, felt like a personal insult. The bay didn't care for their smuggling, didn't care for their lives. It just was. And it was trying to swallow them whole.

The sky, already a bruised grey, seemed to press down heavier. A few snowflakes, large and wet, began to fall, melting instantly on his cheeks. A premonition of winter, a cruel early taste. He thought of the warm, smoky common rooms of Montreal, the sound of fiddles, the smell of cooked meat. A lifetime away. A fantasy.

"Light!" The shout came from the crow's nest, a young voice, sharp with alarm.

Randy's head snapped up. His eyes searched the horizon, instinctively following the direction of the voice. Nothing. Just the endless grey, the churning water, the scattered ice.

"Where?" Davidie bellowed, his voice suddenly urgent, cutting through the wind like a knife.

"East! Small… low to the water! Looks like a… a cutter!" The voice from above was strained, almost a whimper.

A cutter. Not the Company's brigs, those heavy-bellied beasts. A cutter was fast, manoeuvrable, designed for chasing down smaller vessels like theirs. Designed for patrols. Designed for *them*. And "low to the water" meant it was hugging the swells, trying to stay hidden. Clever bastards.

Randy squinted, trying to pierce the gloom, to find the source of that faint, distant light. His heart hammered a different rhythm now, a frantic drum against the cold. They were caught. Pinched between the shifting ice and a pursuing hunter. The rum, the pelts, his own miserable life – all suddenly very much on the line.

"Davidie, if it's the Kestrel—" Randy started, the words catching in his throat. The Kestrel was a notorious Company cutter, captained by a man known for his ruthlessness. No quarter given.

"Shut it, boy!" Davidie barked, his eyes blazing, scanning the tumultuous water. He spun the helm hard, trying to bring the Raven's Tooth into the wind, to present a smaller target, to buy precious seconds. The ship leaned, groaning protest. Another shudder, a deeper, metallic scrape, sent a jolt through Randy's feet. This wasn't just ice. This was something else. He felt it, a cold, sinking certainty in his gut.

"We hit something!" Randy shouted, running to the stern, peering into the churning wake. The water was darker there, oilier. And then he saw it. Not a crack. Not a scrape. A splintered hole, low in the stern, just above the waterline. A steady, dark trickle, mixing with the foam.

"Oh, for…!" Davidie swore, a long, guttural curse, his usual stoicism shattering. He knew what that meant. They were taking on water. And the Kestrel, or whatever hellish cutter it was, was closing in, a phantom light in the gathering gloom. Randy looked from the distant, barely visible spark on the horizon to the darkening stain in their wake. They were broken. And hunted. And the cold, indifferent bay was ready to claim them.