Submitted for the March 2025 prompt: Begin at the Big Ending

Celebrated Science Fiction husband and wife writing duo Robert and Sarah Wells died today in an automobile accident. Little is known about the early lives of the writers, but they and their son, Jules, survived one of the greatest maritime disasters in history, the sinking of the RMS Titanic in 1912. “Theirs,” Jules stated, “was a love story that transcended time.”

 

* * *

The Sea Venture is taking in water. Everyone aboard, including Mistress Sarah Emry, bails to keep the vessel afloat as the elements toss it between the broken islands of the Bermudas. A young boy, no more than seven, staggers under the weight of the bucket he carries. He is a scrawny little thing, and her eyes follow his unsteady progress as he starts to climb out of the rising water in the hold.

 

The foul tempest continues unabashed. Heavens blacken, and thunderous winds whip overhead as the child grips the ladder. The boat lurches, and the boy slips and falls beneath the surging seawater. Hitching her cumbrous skirts and petticoats, Sarah moves, weaving through provisions and biscuit barrels, struggling to find him.

 

No sign.

 

Sarah dives beneath the swirling water. There. A salt barrel pins his leg. Frantic eyes implore her for help. Sarah heaves with all her might. There is a slight movement, but not enough. Again, she pushes. Nothing. Another shove. It shifts. Once freed, the child swims upwards.

 

The ship tilts, catapulting Sarah against the far side beams. Blood trickles from a wound on her head, soiling her bonnet as she slides below the waterline. Her eyes grow wild when she sees the looming shape of another barrel following her downward path. She flings her arms out to ward it off, but it is futile. Pinioned beneath its crushing weight, she knows her life is ending. Her frantic movements cease.

 

Cold.

 

Darkness.

 

Nothingness.

 

* * *

 

Sarah bursts through the surface into a noisy ocean. Head bobbing in the water, her eyes scan the surroundings for any sign of the Sea Venture.

 

Her eyes adjust to the gloom, and terror becomes her companion. Bodies of men, women, and children drift alongside her. Sarah screams. A monstrous craft shudders as it lifts out of the water a distance away. No sails adorn the vessel’s decks. Instead, many blinking lamplit windows dot its hull, and wispy smoke trails emanate from three of its four chimneys as it stands almost upright in the sea. Gigantic moving metal blades attached to its underside rotate, cutting the air.

 

This world is very different from her own. Sarah drags her eyes away from the now dark boat. The ship breaks apart, and the ocean roils against its foreign, man-made intruder as it sinks.

 

Wails of more dying people perforate the night air, and Sarah feels strong water currents pull her closer to the stricken vessel. She swims, cleaving the body-filled, icy water. Almost spent, Sarah sees a small boat a short distance away. Its passengers pluck a struggling man from the water. She grits her chattering teeth and swims. Almost there, Sarah flounders and sinks below the surface as her strength fails her. She surfaces, arms flailing wildly.

 

“There!”

 

A voice. They see her.

 

The occupants pull her onboard, and she lies there gasping — another speck of humanity beneath the star-filled sky. Tears warm her face as they roll unhindered from stricken eyes.

 

A man with soft brown eyes covers her with a blanket. “Hush, you’re safe now; it’s alright, you’re safe.”

 

“Didst thou not see the shipwracke? Where be the Sea Venture?" Her voice is no more than a whisper.

 

“Reckon she’s gotta knock on the noggin; I’ve bin a sailor for many a year, an’ I seen it ‘appen to many in times like these, and dat’s a fact.”

Sarah’s head turns at the old sailor’s strange tongue. She turns away and finds herself staring into concerned brown eyes.

 

“Aye, she shur looks like one’ a dem dat’s use ta treadin’ the boards in that getup. One of them there stage lassies for sure,” the sailor continues.

 

Eyes flick in Sarah’s direction, taking in her attire. There is no animosity in the scrutiny, only polite curiosity.

 

The man beside her gently places a hand on her shoulder.

 

“By my troth. I saved him. As God be my witness, I perished in the bowels of the boat. Perished,” she repeats over and over, blessing herself. Her voice grows shrill, and she rocks back and forth.

 

“Quiet now; we’ll be rescued soon, and our ordeal will be over. May I?” He moves closer and wraps his arm around her shoulders. His solid warmth through the damp blanket is comforting, and when Sarah rests her head against his chest, she hears the steady thump of his heart. Soon, hers matches his, and she quietens.

 

“Thanks muchly, kind Sir.”

 

“Call me Robert.”

 

“I be Sarah.”

 

“Hello, Sarah,” Robert whispers.

 

The gentle movement of the lifeboat lulls its passengers, and the silence is broken only by calls echoing from other boats. Mirror-like, the sea is almost still.

 

Sarah’s eyes settle on a familiar blanket-shrouded shape that stares back.

 

“Dost thou see the child?” She shouts, jumping up. “It be him, the child I saved.”

 

“Sit down, woman. Enough of yer screechin,’” the old sailor grumbles. “Yer wailin’ ’ll tip us over.”

 

Robert’s eyes widen. “That child?”

 

Sarah nods.

 

Amidst the soft strains of passengers singing a hymn on the lifeboat, Robert and Sarah are silent. They remain like this, clutching one another until the Carpathia sails into view.