Castaways of the Flying Dutchman fd-1

by Brian Jacques

  dull skies gave way to immense banks of jet-black thunderclouds, building up out of nowhere. With fearsome speed

  they boiled and rumbled until they darkened the daylight overhead.

  Simultaneously, a bang of thunder shook the very ocean and a colossal chain of crackling lightning ripped the

  clouds apart. Men covered their eyes at the unearthly scene. The green lights of Saint Elmo's fire caught every spar,

  mast, and timber of the vessel, illuminating the Flying Dutchman in an eerie green glow. Vanderdecken fell back

  against the wheel, eyes staring, mouth gaping as the green-flamed swordblade fell from his nerveless grasp. Neb had

  buried his face in the dog's coat, but as Denmark crouched flat, he unwittingly allowed his master this view.

  A being, not of this earth, was hovering just above the deck. It was neither man nor woman, tall and shining

  white, bearing a great sword. It turned and pointed the sword at Vanderdecken. Its voice, when it spoke, was like a

  thousand harps strummed by winds, ranging out over the sea, beautiful yet terrifying. "Mortal man, you are but a grain

  of sand in the mighty ocean. Your greed and your cruelty and your arrogance turned your tongue against your Maker.

  Henceforth, and for all the days of time, this ship, with you and all upon it, are lost to the sight of heaven. You will

  sail the waters of the world for eternity!"

  Neb saw Scraggs then, and Sindh, Petros, Vogel, and the two hands who had been swept from the rigging and

  drowned. All of them, pale, silent, and dripping seawater, stood by the crew, staring with dead eyes at their captain. It

  was a sight to haunt the boy's dreams for centuries to come. A sea-scarred ship, crewed by the dead and those who

  would never know the release of death, standing in the fiery green light, silently accusing the captain who had brought

  the curse of the Lord upon them and the Flying Dutchman.

  Without warning the elements returned. At the sound of a second thunderbolt the waves sprang up. Icy sleet

  carried sideways on the wailing wind drove a huge roller, smashing into the vessel's port side. Neb and Denmark were

  washed from the deck straight into the Atlantic Ocean. Clinging to the dog's collar with both hands, the boy did not

  see the wooden spar that struck him, nor did he know that his good and faithful dog pulled him up onto that same spar,

  saving them both. The last thing he remembered was a cold abyss of darkness. The Flying Dutchman receded into

  storm-torn darkness, leaving astern a dog clinging to a spar, with an unconscious boy draped across it, cast away upon

  the deeps.

  Vanderdeckcn and his crew

  sailed cursed into eternity,

  leaving in the Dutchman's wake

  two castaways upon the sea.

  A struggling dog, a helpless boy

  pounded by storm and wave,

  victims of the dread Cape Horn,

  that deep and watery grave.

  But lo! The angel returned to them,

  commanding, serene, and calm,

  bringing a message unto their minds,

  preserving the friends from harm.

  "You are saved by innocence of heart

  and granted your lives anew,

  the gift of heaven's mercy

  bestowed in faith, on you!

  I am sent to bless you both

  with that which you shall need:

  boundless youth, understanding,

  and speech to succeed.

  Throughout the ages, roam this world,

  and wherever need is great,

  bring confidence and sympathy,

  help others to change their fate.

  Fear not the tyrant's bitter frown,

  but aid the poor in their woe,

  make truth and hope bring evil down,

  spread peace and joy where you go!"

  THE SHEPHERD

  8.

  THE NIGHT WIND KEENED OUT ITS LONELY dirge across the barren coast of Tierra del Fuego. Ragged

  drifts of cloud shadowed the moon, casting weird patterns of silver and black over the land below. Mountainous dark

  green waves, topped by stark white crests and flying spume, thundered madly, smashing against the rocks, failing in

  their quest to conquer the shore, hissing vengefully through the small, pebbled strand, retreating to the seas for a

  renewed assault on Cape Horn, where two mighty oceans meet. '< ' Neb regained his senses gradually. He was being

  dragged around the rocks and shallows of a little cove; the dog had its teeth sunk into his collar, trying to pull him

  clear of the water. An incoming roller knocked them both flat, but the Labrador clung stubbornly to him. Painfully the

  boy staggered to his hands and knees. Shuffling, crawling, he assisted the faithful creature attempting to tug him

  beyond the tideline. He lay there a moment, dazed, then he retched, shivering and vomiting seawater among a debris

  of seaweed, driftwood, and pale sand scattered with pebbles, his whole body shuddering with the effort. "Gurround!

  Gurr Neb grrr!" The sound came from nearby. Neb got to his knees, wiping his mouth with a sand-crusted forearm,

  and looked around. There was no sign of any living being, except for the dog. A thought flashed through his mind that

  somebody was trying to talk to him. Yet it was not an actual sound, just a feeling.

  The rough voice came again. He realized it was like a thought, something invading his mind.

  "Gurround Neb, wurrrr safe, grrr!"

  The dog's paw was worrying at his leg, as Neb stared up at the cliffs above, searching in case someone was

  hiding there. All this time his mind was in a jumble of speculation: What could it be? A voice, not aloud, but like a

  spirit inside his head. Was it the angel, haunting his imagination? No, angels didn't growl! Neb flinched as the dog's

  blunt claw scraped his leg. Turning, he took the dog's face in both hands, staring deep into its warm brown eyes. He

  thought as they gazed at one another, What is it, Denmark, can you feel something, too?

  The reply hit him like a bolt as he heard the dog's thought.

  "Denmurrk, gurr ... I Denmurrk, grr, Neb 'live!"

  Then Neb heard his own voice, but not from within his head as a thought. It was from his mouth! A shout,

  echoing from the cliffs, above the sea and wind.

  "You Den! You Dennnnnnnn!" Immediately Neb's hand shot to his throat, and he spoke, halting, but quite clear.

  "I... talk!"

  Denmark bowled him over, covering his face with a warm, slobbery tongue, both paws on his shoulders.

  "Gurrrrrr! We t... talk, Neb, Denmurrrk ... gurr . . . talk!"

  Overcome by the sudden miracle, Neb and Den suddenly found themselves expressing their joy in the way any

  boy and his dog would, rolling over, wrestling in the sand, tears streaming from their eyes as Neb roared with laughter

  and Den barked aloud.

  Old Luis the Shepherd heard the noise. He had climbed down a wide rift in the cliffs, descending to the shore.

  There were always bits of interesting flotsam to be found, besides driftwood and sea coal for his fire. But this was a

  sound he had never heard on the hostile coast of the Tierra, the strains of happiness. Shouldering his bundle of wood,

  Luis picked up the small sack of sea coal he had garnered and waded into the shallows, where a rocky point divided

  the shore. Gathering his woolen blanket cloak about him, and holding on to a rock to steady his balance against the

  sucking tidewater, he narrowed his eyes against the flying spray. Then, still peering up the beach, he sloshed through

  the shallows, crow's-feet crinkling around his eyes. Luis could not help smiling at the odd sight.

  A gau
nt boy, ragged and rake-thin, his hair matted with sand and seawater, was screeching and laughing wildly

  as he danced around and capered like a mad thing. With the lad was a big, emaciated black dog, its ribs showing

  through the sheen of its saturated coat. It stood on hind legs, both forepaws on the boy's shoulders, as it leaped about

  with him, barking and howling at the moon.

  Luis walked toward the pair, waving the bundle of firewood, calling out in his native Spanish tongue. "Hola!

  Are you stricken by the dance of Saint Vitus? Why do you celebrate on these Tierra shores in such weather? My

  friends, what brings you here?"

  Neb and Den halted, staring at the old fellow, unsure of what to do next. Thoughts raced between them. "Stay,

  Den, he is friend, I understand how he speaks."

  Denmark licked his young master's hand. "Grr, old one good, gurr. Den not know his speak. You do, Neb?"

  Luis put down the wood and the coal and held out his open palms to them in a gesture of peace. "Friend, you

  must have come here from a ship, maybe it was wrecked. Are there no others left alive?"

  Neb shook his head dumbly, not trusting his newfound voice.

  The old shepherd merely nodded. "May the Señor God give their poor souls rest. So there are only two left alive,

  you and the dog, eh. My name is Luis the Shepherd—how are you called?"

  Slowly the boy pointed to the dog. "Den!" Then he pressed a finger to his own chest. "Neb!"

  Luis repeated his former question. "How did you come here?"

  The strange boy did not reply, but the old man watched as tears flowed silently down Neb's cheeks.

  Carefully the old man approached Neb. He touched the youngster's cold, damp arm, then placed a palm on his

  hot, dry forehead, murmuring gently. "Young one, you are starving, soaked, and fevered. You will not have much to

  give thanks for if you perish out here in the open. Your dog needs rest and food, too. My hut has food and fire—you

  will both be warm and dry. Come with me, I won't harm you. Come!"

  Luis took off his cloak and draped it about the boy's trembling shoulders.

  Neb and Den exchanged thoughts. "This is a good old man, we will go with him, Den."

  "Gurr, I go with you."

  Luis had quite a big hut, which of necessity suited the lay of the windswept clifftops. It was dug into the lee of a

  slanting rock, which formed one wall and part of the roof. The rest of its construction was mainly of ship's beams,

  planking, and tree boughs, chinked together with stones and earth sodding. The whole thing had a lining of ship's-sail

  canvas, of which Luis seemed to possess a fair amount. It had a rough door, which had once belonged to the cabin of

  some sailing vessel, with a canvas curtain draped across to keep out drafts. There were no windows, so all in all it was

  fairly weathertight. Luis seated them in a peculiar construction made from a wrecked lifeboat, padded out with dry

  grass and sacking. It was very comfortable. He fed wood and coal to the fire, which was held in a deep brazier of strap

  iron. On a tripod over the flames was an upturned ship's bell, with the name Paloma Verde engraved into its

  soot-blackened metal. Luis struck it with a ladle; it clanked dully.

  "Sometimes the sea is kind to a poor man. It washes up gifts for him. See, a cooking pot, a lifeboat couch, and

  many other things I have taken from the shores. Señor Neptune can be a good friend. Look at tonight—he sent a

  lonely old shepherd two guests to share his fire and food. Wait!" He rummaged in a corner, bringing forth a thick

  sheepskin poncho and some soft, clean flour sacks, which he gave to Neb. "Give me your wet clothes, dry yourself

  and that good dog with the sacks, then put on the sheepskin. It is a fine warm one. Do not fall asleep yet, young one.

  You must both eat first."

  Neither the boy nor the dog had ever known such kindness in their short, hard lives. Luis handed them each a

  bowl of hot mutton and barley soup, which they ate in silence. He watched them both, refilling the bowls twice. The

  old shepherd then brewed a hot, dark, fragrant drink from cut and dried leaves, to which he added sugar that he broke

  from a big cone and creamy ewe's milk

  Luis sipped his own, noting their grateful reaction. "That is called tea. It comes from the east, where it grows in

  far Cathay. Some years ago a merchant vessel was wrecked off the coast. My friend the sea provided me with four

  barrels of tea. It is rare and valuable. Do you like it, Neb?"

  Sniffing at the fine aroma, Neb replied, "It is good!"

  The meal finished, Luis watched with eyes that were grey and watered from years in the hostile climate. As his

  guests' heads began to droop with weariness, he mused quietly. "You are the strangest pair ever to come my way, but

  the Tierra has taught me to ask no questions. If one day you wish to tell me about yourself, boy, I will listen. If you

  should choose to keep your secret, well, who am I but a poor old shepherd who takes bad and good fortune alike. Life

  is but part of the Lord's great mystery. He did not put me on this earth to interrogate others. Sleep now, you are tired,

  sleep."

  A final thought communicated itself from boy to dog. "Luis is a good man, we are safe here, Den."

  "Gurrrr, no more Dutch .. . man, grrrr!"

  9.

  TIERRA DEL FUEGO. 1623. THREE YEARS LATER.

  DAWN CAME, AS HEAVY AND GREY AS the headland rocks, with pale light piercing forbidding cloud

  banks on the far horizon. Aided by Neb and Den, Luis herded his small flock back from the clifftops. Hooking a

  half-grown ewe with his crooked staff, the old shepherd turned her back inland.

  "Come away from the cliff edge, little one, or you will never grow to be a mother. Go, join your family."

  He waved to the boy, who was some distance away. "That's the last one, my son. Take them to the pen. It is not

  good for sheep to roam loose on a day like this."

  Cupping both hands around his mouth, Neb called back. "Aye, winter played a trick on us, hanging about and

  not letting spring arrive yet. Don't stay out too long, Luis. We'll see you back at the hut!"

  The shepherd's leathery face wrinkled into a smile. He stood with his back to the cliffs, watching his two friends

  moving the flock along, as though they were born to the task.

  Before the dog arrived, Luis had only a bellwether to lead his animals, a crusty old ram with a clanking iron bell

  tied about his neck, a flock patriarch who bullied and jostled his charges into submission. Sheep would always follow

  a bellwether, often into dangerous areas, much to the shepherd's dismay. However, with the arrival of the dog, all that

  changed. Luis was astounded at how quickly Den learned to take commands; the black Labrador immediately took

  issue with the lead ram and gave the bellwether more than one severe lesson.

  Den became the flock leader. Though he graciously allowed the bellwether his customary position in front of

  the sheep, it was the dog who circled them, giving directions and keeping the creatures together and safe. Den had

  grown stronger. In the course of three years he was bigger and healthier with a coat that shone like black silk. A far

  cry from the half-starved bonebag Luis had first discovered at the sea's edge with Neb. The old shepherd turned to

  stare out at the restless face of the deeps, his thoughts turning to dwell on the boy.

  Neb! That strange boy, the gift Luis had received from these same stormy seas. The boy who had only a few

  words and some odd sounds upon arrival at Tierra, yet within an amazingly short time was speaking flu
ent Spanish.

  But he was not a Spaniard. Luis knew this because in odd moments he had heard Neb singing snatches of sea shanties

  in several languages, mainly some Scandinavian tongue, Danish perhaps. The boy had been a mystery and a wonder

  to Luis in these years. He was highly intelligent, and after a month or so of his coming, very strong and agile. The

  shepherd put down the boy's physical fitness to his own good cooking.

  Neb took to sheepherding like a duck to water, and he and the dog were a superb team. They had but to look at

  one another and any problem with the flock was solved. The boy never spoke of his past life, seeming only to live for

  the moment. Sometimes Luis would sit by the fire late at night, staring at his sleeping face, trying to fathom the

  enigma of this sea child. Always Neb would open his eyes and smile disarmingly. He would question the old man on

  many things. What was the best way to shear a sheep, which grasses and herbs could cure various forms of lamb

  ailments, which plant should the flock avoid eating? Luis would forget his original thoughts about Neb's clouded past

  and would converse animatedly with the lad, speaking to him as the son he never had.

  Yet, before Luis turned to sleep, his mind would stray back to the question of his young friend. Who were his

  parents? How did he come to be living here, in a shepherd's hut at Tierra del Fuego, the place some called the Tip of

  the World? Where was he bound, how were he and Den able to comprehend one another with such surety, and more

  important, why had neither the boy nor the dog grown taller or seemed to age by a single day since they had arrived?

  Granted, they had both filled out and grown quite healthy, but not older.

  Then a feeling would steal over the old shepherd. He had grown very fond of his two friends, never wanting to

  see either of them unhappy, for he knew with a rock-sure certainty they had lived through much misery and pain, both

  of the body and spirit. He would be antagonizing Neb by ceaseless interrogation. If the lad wanted to remain silent

  about his former life, then so be it.

  Expelling a small cloud of white mist with a perplexed sigh, one night the old man stared out at the sea when

  suddenly the breath froze on his lips. Luis saw the ship, not half a league from land, bathed in the weird green light of