The rim of the earth flashed past them as they fell. The edge of the world looked rather like the cliffs of Gibraltar--tall edifices of solid imposing rock. Only here the basalt stretched to the left and the right as far as the eye could see, and when looking up, ran what seemed like miles above them. Finally it disappeared into roils of mist and clouds.
Once they had fallen past the edge it started to dwindle into the distance above them.
Sheets of seawater still cascaded down with the ship.
Pedro Yzquierdo used his knife to dig the bone out of the piece of meat in his stew. Already he'd made a mess, wobbling the bowl and causing its contents to ooze out into the air. He finally got the bone out. It spun away to hit the mast. Pedro retrieved it, throwing it out, away from the ship.
"Caca." Heavily salted meats, shriveled peas, stale water, and when he tapped his hardtack biscuit, weevils wriggled out into the air. The tossed bone passed the railing, and flew up past the ship's masts as the flat side of the bone caught the wind rushing up the sides of the hull.
Pedro noticed Rodrigo Gellego begin to shudder and heave.
He's seasick, Pedro thought. Or at least just sick. It had nothing to do with the sea, really. The seawater near them now just hung in curtains.
Rodrigo threw up. The bland results of dinner floated out in pasty globules. Several members of the crew swatted at the liquid in disgust with empty plates, trying to redirect the nasty-smelling bile over the decks and out across the ship's railing. It helped some. But if they hit it too hard it splattered and spread instead, making a worse mess.
"Mierda," someone muttered from inside steerage, the rear area of the deck covered by the quarterdeck. They started making similar sounds. Pedro sunk his knife into the mast and pushed off over to the sick man.
"Rodrigo," he yelled. The sound of the wind singing through the rigging and rails forced him to project his voice. "Stay near the edge. You'll have everyone else sick at this rate."
Rodrigo shook his head.
"No. I won't go near the edge. Dios mío, no! Give me a sack, Pedro, but do not make me do that."
"We can tie you to the rails..."
"It's windy. It's loud. Leave me here en la calma," Rodrigo pleaded. Diego de Arana, master-at-arms, leaned over the quarterdeck.
"What happens here?" he demanded. Rodrigo twisted in the air to look at him.
"He's sick."
"Put him in a hammock. He shouldn't eat for a day."
"Señor Diego..."
"No buts, Pedro. He will keep throwing up if we feed him. Do you remember what you were like the first time you put out to sea?" Diego de Arana smiled. "He will get accustomed to it, just like he got accustomed to being at sea. Some people get used to the sea faster. Eh, Pedro?"
Pedro nodded.
"Verdad, señor. But none of us have ever fallen off of the edge of the world before." He tugged on Rodrigo gently, towing him towards steerage. Here underneath the quarterdeck all the other men huddled, strapped into their hammocks.
"Pedro," Diego said. "Don't say that; we have not fallen off of the edge of the world. Don't be an ignorant peasant. Agilipollao!"
Pedro guided them both through steerage, looking for an empty hammock and a sack for Rodrigo. Diego could call him an ignorant peasant, a stupid fool, but Pedro did not care. It still didn't make sailing off of the edge of the world any stranger than it was.
)
