di Antonio Napoli

A ship, which had strayed from the formation, was gliding across the vast ocean, dazed, heading toward the African coast where, along with the other vessels, it would raid the inhabitants to fuel the shameful slave trade.
The sailors, leaving the ship’s steering to the wind, distracted themselves from certain strange pains by playing cards and smoking pipes. The captain had stopped deluding himself with speculations about the weather’s evolution for the day, and from a certain moment onward, he no longer cared to maintain discipline.
As soon as the wind ceased, everything sank into a spectral calm: the silent sea; the game proceeding slowly, without words or gestures; the smoke rings lingering in the air; the empty barrels that no longer rolled; the ropes slackened. On board, they all slumped, weighed down by the thought of a deathly fate.
Those who once felt aversion toward any god now asked the religious companion to teach them how to pray. Suddenly, something horrible appeared at the bow, an abomination to both sight and sound. It was not a whale, nor a sea monster, but a chilling presence resembling a wall of shadow, solid as a mountain of coal; something alive, like a dense throng of ancestral spirits, accompanied by an unbearable hum.
That thing seemed unbelievable, so opposed to nature. The card players threw their cards aside in disdain, the smokers cast their pipes away in disgust, and some threw themselves into the sea, never to resurface. No one could shake off the pain of that vision.
The wind rose, but it felt like the breath of that black giant. The captain emerged from his cabin, thinking he had found the way to the Great Challenge, the one he had dreamed of his entire life after the monotony of that vile trade, and shouted, “Full speed ahead!”
Without anyone raising a hand, the ship moved, driven only by the voice of the wind. Amid the astonishment of some and the despondency of others, the vessel headed straight toward that dark wall, as though it were irresistibly drawn to it by some mysterious force.
Cowardly, the helmsman released the wheel and stepped aside.
“Rejoice, for soon we shall touch the Almighty!” the captain cried out, exhilarated.
The collision was imminent, and everyone, except the captain, closed their eyes. Even their ears were terrified by the expected, deafening crash.
But nothing happened.
The ship passed through the obstacle as if a pin were piercing a dark cloud, thick with lightning. The darkness dissolved into the whiteness of the horizon. Calm returned. The wind made its presence known again, with its voice and its farce.
In the distance, the formation of the other ships awaited the signal to move forward with infamy toward the African coast. When the wandering ship appeared in their sight, the captains of each unit prepared to give the order to move. But the ship was approaching with great speed, and the crew lay weakened, exhausted, without will.
The moment came when the captains of each ship grew alarmed and shouted at the mad vessel that was about to ram them: “Vile and corrupt sailors, may the abyss swallow you!” The cannons fired, but it was as if corks were hitting a rocky wall.
The crash was inevitable. The formation crumpled like a piece of paper balled into a fist; the fir wood flew through the air, along with its well-shaped beams and planks; the gunpowder pirouetted in its last violent, fiery dance.
In a terrifying gurgle, filled with blasphemies and prayers, curses and desperate farewells, the flock of ships sank. The sea closed over the fleet as if it had never passed there: the coast, which was supposed to be attacked, did not smile at such tragedy.

Thus, the curse of the Black Cliff was realized, rising unpredictably to defend the sacred land of Africa.