The Ghostfaces

by John Flanagan

  “I have to confess,” he told Millika, or perhaps it was Pillika, “we often switched places on you girls.”

  Millika’s smile widened. “We know,” she said. “So whenever you did, we switched places back. And sometimes we did it when you didn’t.”

  The two Skandians looked suitably confused. The girls solved the problem by embracing both of them again—twice—and giggling.

  Hal smiled. “I’ve never seen those two taken aback quite so much,” he said.

  Ingvar, standing close by, replied gruffly. “It’ll do them good.”

  Apart from that moment of laughter, it was a subdued farewell, overshadowed by the sadness of the two funerals, so different in nature. More and more of the villagers streamed out onto the beach as the Herons went aboard. Jesper retrieved the beach anchor, leaving the ship attached to the shore by just a meter or so of keel grounded in the sand. Without consultation, Thorn took Stig’s normal place at the stroke oar and called a command to the other rowers. Stig took up a spot in the stern of the vessel, close by Hal on the steering platform.

  “Oars!”

  There was the usual rattle and clatter of wood on wood as the oars were taken from their storage racks and raised vertically.

  “Ready!” Thorn called and the oars were lowered to the horizontal as one and set in their oarlocks. Mohegas, watching, was put in mind of an eagle preparing its wings for flight.

  “Back water!”

  The rowers strained, heaving their oars in a reverse stroke that dragged the bow free of the sand with a slight sucking sound. Released, the little ship glided back for several meters until Thorn judged they had enough room to turn.

  “Back starboard. Forward port. Stroke!” Thorn ordered and the Heron turned in her own length under the opposing forces of the two banks of oars. Onshore, the Mawagansett people moved forward involuntarily until they were standing right at the water’s edge. Softly, they began to sing, a song of farewell to their friends.

  The plaintive, beautiful notes carried across the water to the Heron brotherband, contrasting with the practical sounds of the peremptory commands from Thorn and Hal, the clatter of oars being unshipped and stowed and the squeal of halyards through the blocks as the sail was raised and clunked into place.

  Hal judged the angle to the gap between the headlands, and the leeway that the ship was making as the port sail took effect. He adjusted the tiller so that they’d go out through the bay entrance on one tack. Heron settled on the course he’d selected and began to move faster and faster.

  Stig stood, a little apart, one hand resting on the sternpost, staring back at the group of people on the beach as the singing began to fade, obscured by the background sounds of the ship in motion—the creak of the rigging, the swish and thump of the waves.

  He remained there as they passed through the gap between the headlands and felt the southwest wind strengthen. The first real rollers passed under their keel as they left the sheltered bay. Instinctively, he swayed with the motion of the ship, still staring back at the beach. They passed a small patch of blackened, burnt timber floating on the surface, marking the spot where Orvik’s canoe had finally settled beneath the waves. Then the land was a long green line low on the horizon as they moved farther offshore.

  Finally, when the land sank below the horizon, Hal called to him gently.

  “I could use a spell on the tiller here,” he said.

  Stig nodded, moving to take control of the ship, glancing up at the sail and the wind telltale on top of the mast, getting the feel of the wind strength and direction. He twitched the tiller slightly and made a small adjustment to their course. Hal smiled. A new helmsman almost invariably did that. He dropped a hand on his friend’s muscular shoulder.

  “Take us home, Stig.”

  Epilogue

  This time when they arrived home, there would be no celebrations, no raucous saga to be sung describing the crew’s exploits while they had been away. Hal timed their approach to Hallasholm so that they slipped through the harbor entrance close to midnight.

  Their arrival was noted only by half a dozen sleepy harbor guards. One of them ran down the stone-flagged wall to greet them as they moored the Heron in her usual spot.

  “We thought you were dead!” he said.

  Hal gave him a tired smile. “So did we, at times.”

  “Well,” said the guard, “there’ll be a big celebration to mark your return. People will go wild!”

  Hal’s smile faded. “I don’t think so. We’ll just go quietly to our homes. Keep an eye on the ship, will you? We’ll come back and stow things properly in the morning.”

  And so, singly and in pairs, the crew slipped ashore and made their way through the darkened streets to their homes. Around the town, lights could be seen going on in their houses and cries of joy and surprise, and tears of relief, could be heard. Hal, Thorn and Stig were the last to leave the ship.

  “Tell Mam I’ll be along directly,” Hal said quietly to Thorn. “I’ll walk home with Stig.”

  He was deeply concerned for his friend. Stig had barely spoken to any of his shipmates on the journey home, beyond those remarks necessary for the running of the ship. He was obviously still mourning the loss of Tecumsa, but seemed unable to speak about it.

  They set off together for the small cottage Stig shared with his mother. When they reached it, there was a light shining inside. Stig’s mother was a light sleeper and usually retired late. Hal told Stig to wait, then knocked and went in. Briefly, he described the events of the past few months to Stig’s mother, telling her of her son’s love for the Mawagansett girl and her death. That way, he spared Stig the pain of going over the details himself.

  Stig’s mother came out to where her son was waiting. She folded her arms around him and led him inside.

  “I’ll be going,” Hal said.

  She touched his arm in a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you, Hal.”

  He shrugged and turned away.

  The woman regarded her son with sorrow in her eyes. So young, she thought, and yet he’d seen so much tragedy and pain in his life: Her husband had been disgraced, leaving Stig to grow up bitter and fatherless. Now this girl had been killed before his eyes, breaking his heart. How could someone so young bear such sadness, she wondered. Then she looked toward the shadowy figure of Hal, walking head down back to the village.

  Because he has friends like that, she told herself. That’s how he bears it.

  • • • • •

  The following morning, on his regular early morning walk, Oberjarl Erak and his friend Svengal were amazed and delighted to see the salt-stained, weary little ship moored alongside the mole. On board, they could see Hal, Ingvar and Edvin setting the ship to rights, furling and stowing the sails, taking any remaining supplies out of the hull to go ashore.

  “You’re back!” Erak bellowed from fifty meters away. “Welcome home!”

  Hal rose from the task of furling the port sail around the yardarm and waved a greeting as the Oberjarl thundered along the mole toward them. He retrieved a package of papers, wrapped in oilskin, from the ship’s strong box and stepped ashore to greet the huge Oberjarl, who instantly enveloped him in a bear hug. He staggered a few paces as Erak released him, then was engulfed by Svengal, whose face was lit by an enormous smile.

  “We thought you were dead,” Erak said, and he dashed the back of his hand across his eyes, unashamed by the tears that had formed there.

  “Four wolfships were lost in that storm,” Svengal put in. “How did you survive?”

  Hal shrugged. “We ran before it,” he said. “Out into the Endless Ocean.”

  “And where have you been all this time?” Erak wanted to know.

  Hal went to answer, then realized that half a dozen bystanders were listening and recalled his pledge to Mohegas.

  “I’ll tell you later,”
he temporized, and handed Erak the oilskin packet by way of changing the subject. “Here are the contracts from Hibernia, all signed and sealed. And Sean of Clonmel has agreed to hire three ships for a two-year period to keep their coast free of slavers and Sonderland raiders.”

  Erak weighed the packet in his hand. He couldn’t stop a grin bursting out over his face. He had been devastated when the Heron hadn’t returned. The Herons were his favorite crew, and Hal was his best-loved skirl. He sensed that Hal had more to tell him, but not in such a public place.

  “Come up to the Great Hall when you’re ready,” he said. “You can give me your report then.”

  Hal nodded. “I’ve a few things to attend to first.”

  Erak made a magnanimous gesture. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Later that morning, toward midday, Hal was surprised when Stig entered the cozy little eating house his mother kept. He rose hurriedly from the table where he was writing his report for the Oberjarl.

  “Stig! Come on in! What can I do for you?”

  The muscular first mate hesitated. He’d removed his Heron watch cap as he entered the eating house anteroom. Now he turned it nervously in his hands.

  “Actually, I wanted to speak to your mam,” he said.

  Karina, who had been in the adjoining kitchen and heard voices, entered, catching the last comment.

  “I’m here, Stig,” she said gently. She and Stig were close. They had enjoyed a special relationship since he and Hal had become friends. She gestured for him to accompany her back to the kitchen and take a seat by the big, scrubbed pine table. Curious, Hal followed them, standing just inside the doorway, leaning against the frame.

  “What is it, Stig?” Karina asked. Hal, of course, had told her about Tecumsa and she sensed that was why he was here. He started to speak, stopped, started again, then finally managed to say:

  “You lost your husband.”

  She nodded, thinking she’d been right in her supposition. “I did,” she said calmly. Stig looked down at the scarred surface of the work table, running his forefinger along a groove cut by a cleaver years before. He seemed unable to proceed, so she encouraged him gently.

  “And you lost Tecumsa,” she said.

  He looked up at her then, anguish filling his eyes. “How do you get over something like that?” The words seemed to erupt from him. “It’s been over a month! And I can’t forget her!”

  Karina reached out and placed one of her hands over his.

  “Do you want to forget her, Stig?” she asked, and he shook his head, his eyes lowered now. Karina continued gently. “When we lose someone we love, it leaves a giant hole in our lives. It’s like a wound, an open wound in our soul. If you try to forget the person, that wound festers. You can’t push the memories aside as if they’d never existed.”

  “Then what do you do?” he said miserably.

  “You remember her. You remember her for the wonderful times you had together. You cherish those memories as you cherished the person herself. And you learn to cope with the loss. You don’t ever forget, but each day, it becomes a little easier to bear the loss.” She paused. “Ask yourself this: Do you wish you’d never met her?”

  He shook his head without hesitation. “No,” he said.

  She smiled kindly at him. “Then you will gradually accept that the joy of knowing her, of spending time with her, is more than worth the pain of having lost her.”

  He nodded slowly. Her words made sense, he thought, and the logic eased the pain in his heart a little. Perhaps not completely, but a little.

  “Karina,” he said, “how did you become so wise?”

  Her smile widened. “I’m a mother. It’s my job.”

  She took his hand now and raised him from his seat, leading him toward the kitchen window.

  “Another thing, Stig,” she said. “Lean on your friends to help you through this. Talk about her with them. Remember her with them. Or just let them be with you and lend you their silent support and companionship. You’ll find that it helps.”

  She drew back the curtain and Stig was surprised to see a small group of people seated on the grass slope outside the kitchen.

  Ingvar, Stefan, Jesper, Edvin, Ulf, Wulf and Lydia were all sitting there. His brotherband. His friends. Hal straightened up from where he leaned against the door frame and joined Stig by the window. He looked at his mother, puzzled.

  “How did you know they were there?” he asked.

  She inclined her head in a mysterious gesture. “I told you. I’m a mother.” Then she patted Stig’s shoulder and pointed to the silent, waiting group. “Go and join them. They’re here to support you.”

  The crew looked up as Stig and Hal emerged from the kitchen and came down the steps to join them on the grass. Some of them muttered a greeting. Others simply nodded as Stig sat on the soft grass, then they all moved a little closer, forming a tight circle around him. Including him. Drawing him in. Giving him their strength. As the day wore on, they continued to sit in that small, intimate circle around Stig. Little was said among them. Lydia sat beside him, holding his hand in both of hers. Hal sat on his other side, one arm across his shoulders. The others simply sat, ready to lend him their support if he needed it. Ready to talk if he wanted to. To listen if necessary. Or simply to sit in companionable silence, letting him know they loved him.

  And he drew strength from their silent company. Strength to cope with the terrible loss he had experienced. Strength to pick up the pieces and go on. Strength to remember Tecumsa and think about her with joy in the remembering, mixed with the sadness of his loss.

  • • • • •

  The sun passed over the mountain behind the town and the shadows grew longer. He looked at the faces around him. They were his friends. But they were more than that. They were his brotherband, he thought, tied together by an unbreakable, if invisible, bond that would last for the rest of their lives. He smiled. It was a sad, wan little smile. But it was a smile, nevertheless, and that was something they hadn’t seen from him in weeks.

  “I’m lucky to have you all,” he said.

  Author’s Note

  I would ask readers to bear in mind that the world of Brotherband, and Ranger’s Apprentice, is not the real world. It’s a fantasy world, although it’s similar in many ways to our own.

  This is particularly relevant when it comes to indigenous people referred to in the book. Astute readers will quickly identify the real-life groups who have inspired the fictional ones. But please remember, they’re not intended to be identical. For this reason, I haven’t used any identifiable language to create the words and descriptive phrases used by my indigenous people. They are all fabricated.

  I have tried to avoid any stereotypes or potentially offensive words and phrases, be they about appearance or behavior. If any references or phrasing cause offense, please understand that this is totally unintentional, and forgive me for my ignorance.

  John Flanagan

  About the Author

  JOHN FLANAGAN grew up in Sydney, Australia, hoping to be a writer, and after a successful career in advertising and television, he began writing a series of short stories for his son, Michael, in order to encourage him to read. Those stories would eventually become The Ruins of Gorlan, Book 1 of the Ranger’s Apprentice epic. Now with his companion series, Brotherband, the novels of John Flanagan have sold millions of copies and made readers of kids the world over.

  Mr. Flanagan lives in the suburb of Manly, Australia, with his wife. In addition to their son, they have two grown daughters and four grandsons.

  You can visit John Flanagan at

  www.WorldofJohnFlanagan.com

  Looking for more?

  Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.

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    John Flanagan, The Ghostfaces

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