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 fluent 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 Saint Elmo’s fire. Even from that distance he could see the sails, gale-torn and tattered, with ice shrouding spars and rigging from stem to stern. No wake followed the vessel, no seabird flew near to it. The ship was not sailing on the waves, but slightly above them. Fear gripped the very heart of Luis. He felt the presence of evil, mingled with despair for the souls aboard that spectral ship. Making a hurried Sign of the Cross, he kissed his thumbnail and turned to hurry away from the clifftop. In all his years on the coast of Cape Horn, Luis had seen many things. But none like the sight of Vanderdecken’s ship. The Flying Dutchman!
10
WINTER FINALLY GAVE WAY TO SPRING. Late-afternoon breezes soughed over the short headland grass as Den drove the flock toward the penned area. Leaning on the open gate, Neb watched his dog’s progress. The boy chuckled aloud, communicating his thoughts to Den. Rain began to spatter the back of his hand on the gatepost. Once the mental telepathy between them both had been firmly established, Neb soon learned that his dog had a wit and sense of humor that any intelligent being would envy. He laughed aloud at Den haranguing the sheep, listening to the dog’s mental grumbling.
“Grrr move, you useless lumps of wool and mutton, move! Ahoy there, Bellface, grrr stir your stumps and lead ’em into the pen. Not that way, you blathering bonebag, over there! Can’t y’see Neb holding the gate open? Grrrr, leave it to you and the whole flock would end up going over the cliff!”
The bellwether turned and stared resentfully at Den. “Baaah!” Den returned the stare with interest, baring his teeth. “Baaah to you, too, sir! Now get ’em in that pen or I’ll give that baggy tail of yours such a nip that I’ll bite it off!” Finally getting things right, the bellwether led the flock past Neb into the pen. Neb closed the gate and looped a securing rope noose around the gatepost.
Den joined him, standing on hind legs, forepaws perched on the gate. Neb patted the Labrador’s head, passing him a thought. “Haven’t you taught these sheep to speak yet?”
Den shook his head in disgust. “All they know is to eat, sleep, and look stupid. ‘Baaah’ is about all I can get out of them!”
Rain was starting in earnest. Neb hunched his shoulders against the onslaught, hiding a smile. “I remember when every second thought from you was either a wuff or a gurrr.”
Den kept his gaze on the sheep milling about in the pen. “‘Wuff’ and ‘gurrr’ are important expressions to dogs. But ‘baaaah’ or ‘maaahah’—sheep don’t even know what that means.”
Neb pulled up the hood on his poncho. “Just thank the Lord that sheep weren’t born intelligent, or they’d be twice as hard to control. If I thought somebody was keeping me only for wool and meat, I’d be off like a shot and away!”
Den bounded off in the direction of the hut, leaving a thought to Neb. “Well, I’m off like a shot for the hut. You can stay here and exchange baaahs with them if you like.”
Neb stayed awhile, making sure the sheep settled down. It was close to lambing time, and some of the ewes were slow and heavy with their unborn burdens. A sheet of lightning lit the horizon far off, accompanied by the rumble of thunder from the ponderous, dark cloud masses. The boy shuddered. Closing his eyes, he gripped the rail once again. In his mind’s eye he saw the ship’s deck peopled by the living and the ghastly dead, felt the Flying Dutchman roll to the storm’s swell beneath his feet, envisioned Vanderdecken, wild-eyed, lashed to the ship’s wheel. Neb shook himself. Tearing his cold hands from the gate rail, he dashed off to the hut, forcing his mind to blank out the terrifying scene.
Luis was waiting by the fire with hot tea, mutton stew, and bread made from wild maize. He smiled up at the boy as Neb cast off his wet poncho and sat down next to Den. Luis listened to the thunder rumbling far off. “The Drums of Heaven. It will be a bad storm tonight, my son.” He peered across the fire at the silent boy. “My son, are you ill? You look pale, what is it?”
Applying himself busily to the meal at hand, Neb shook his tousled hair and flashed Luis a quick smile.
“It’s nothing, I’m all right, old man. You should be concerned about the flock and that storm brewing outside. I think it will be a hard one.”
Luis crossed himself again. “I pray the Lord it will not be so. With eight ewes ready for lambing, what shepherd wants a storm to upset them? We’d best keep an eye on the weather tonight.”
Den nuzzled his head under Neb’s hand, sharing a thought. “It was the Dutchman, wasn’t it. I felt him, too, when I heard the thunder, as if he were reaching for us.”
Neb scratched behind his dog’s ear. “Aye, I felt the ship was close somewhere—it’s a hard thing to drive from your mind. But we’re safe, and we have our angel to thank for it.”
Den replied with his usual dry wit. “We have a lot to thank that angel for. I’ll bet it was the angel who taught Luis to make mutton stew taste so heavenly.”
The shepherd had been watching them both closely. Handing Neb a bowl of tea, he chuckled. “Talking to Señor Den again, eh, boy? What did he say to you?”
Neb winked secretively at Luis. “He says your mutton stew tastes heavenly.”
The shepherd rocked back and forth as he laughed. “What a good dog he is. Truthful, too!”
Neb took his tea to the door and opened it halfway. “Just look at that rain coming down. I’ll sit here and take first watch on the pen.”
Shortly after midnight the storm’s intensity doubled. Thunder boomed overhead like a cannon, lightning sheeted and crackled over the headlands, and the rain drove sideways on the wind, spattering heavily on the hut’s outer rock wall. Neb and Den lay asleep in the old lifeboat. Luis kept watch by the door, holdin
g it half open against the elements with one foot. Bleating piteously, the sheep flattened themselves against the ground. A hard gust of wind slammed the door shut. Luis winced, rubbing his foot where the door timbers had cracked against his ankle. He leaned forward, thrusting the door open again.
The wind had torn the pen down. The flock was loose. Den’s bark, close to Neb’s ear, roused him into wakefulness. Luis was grabbing his crookstaff from its hanger, pulling his coat about him and shouting.
“Hurry, friend. The pen is destroyed, our sheep are running. I’ll turn them from the cliffs. You save the ewes and get them inside the hut here. Vamos!”
The old shepherd ran out and was soon lost to sight in the rainswept darkness. Den was ahead of Neb as he struggled into his poncho and dashed outside. The next hour was an onslaught of furious activity. A stray ewe charged right into Neb, knocking him flat and winding him. The boy hung grimly on to the bleating creature and dragged it by one ear and its tail across the pasture and into the hut. Den was already back with two ewes he had driven before him. One was already giving birth at the back of the hut; the other lay against the keel of the lifeboat maaahing for all it was worth. Shaking rainwater from his coat, Den trotted past Neb, communicating a hasty thought.
“Stay here with them, help them as Luis showed you. I’ll find Luis and bring him back here with the other ewes!” The boy set about putting water to heat on the fire; he gathered as many clean flour sacks as he could find. Turning his attention to the ewe in the far corner, Neb found she had already delivered herself of a lamb and was licking the little creature. Both mother and babe appeared to be getting along quite well, so he went after the ewe he had brought in. It panicked, staggering upright and leading him on a chase around the hut. He tripped over the third ewe as it came from beneath the lifeboat. The one he was chasing butted the door and fled outside. The boy dashed out, stopped momentarily, then, ignoring the ewe, ran for the cliffs with his dog’s urgent call ringing through his brain!
“Neb, Neb, Luis has fallen over the cliff!”
The Labrador was barking aloud, looking over the cliff edge as Neb hurried up and threw himself flat at the rim of the plateau. About twenty feet below him, he could barely make out Luis, lying on a ledge. The old shepherd had a ewe in his arms; both were lying still. Neb sent Den back to the hut for a rope, then he climbed down the slippery rock, clawing at any niche he could get his freezing fingers into. Sliding and stumbling, he reached the ledge. Lifting the old man’s head carefully, he laid it in his lap and murmured anxiously. “Luis, old friend, are you hurt? Speak to me, Luis!”
Slowly opening one eye, the shepherd looked from the ewe he was clutching to the boy. He spoke barely above a whisper. “Ah, my son from the sea, look at this poor little one. She will never become a mother, or see another dawn.” Leaning over Luis, the boy broke his grasp upon the dead sheep. It rolled to one side on the ledge.
Neb rubbed the old man’s hands, trying to get some circulation going in them. “Forget the ewe, Luis. Are you hurt? Tell me!”
The old shepherd sighed. “I cannot move my legs, and it pains me to breathe. No, please, keep your poncho on, son. You need it.” Then he lost consciousness.
The rope snaked down, striking Neb’s shoulder. Den stood on the cliff edge with the other end clenched in his jaws. Wrapping Luis in the thick sheepskin poncho, Neb fashioned around him a cradle of rope, making sure it was firm and secure. He climbed back up to the plateau, using both handholds in the rock and the rope. Between them, Neb and Den hauled the old shepherd’s still form back up to the clifftop. How Neb found the strength and endurance to get his injured friend back to the hut, he did not know, but he accomplished the task. With Luis draped about his shoulders and his own legs quivering furiously, Neb staggered through the doorway and collapsed inside.
After a while he was wakened by Den licking his face. Neb stood up slowly, but found that his head remained bowed from the strain that had been put upon him. He no longer had the strength to lift Luis, so he dragged him across to the lifeboat and rolled him in onto the soft grass and sack padding. Luis gave out a long, high-pitched moan, like that of a wounded animal. Neb made tea, cooling it by pouring in lots of milk. He managed to get a drop between the cold, parched lips of his friend, but Luis coughed it back up, pleading feebly.
“No more, I cannot swallow. I’m cold . . . so cold!”
Neb piled wood and sea coal on the fire brazier. He stroked the old man’s forehead, murmuring to him. “Is that better? You lie still, I’ll take care of you.”
The shepherd’s eyes beckoned him to lean in closer. When he spoke, Luis’s voice was barely discernible. “Let me sleep . . . so tired . . . tired.”
Outside the storm had abated, the wind had died down to a mere whisper of breeze, and the rain had ceased. A calm, starlit sky was visible through the partially open door. Two lambs had been born, and the ewes wandered out into the quiet pastures with their wobbly legged babes. Neb made Luis as comfortable as he possibly could. The old man slept with his two friends close by, watching the gentle rise and fall of the coverlet as he breathed.
Dawn was but a few hours away when Neb and Den fell into a slumber. All the earth seemed very quiet; even the seas off the Cape stilled their wrath to a placid murmur. Then the angel spoke to the boy. “You made his last years the happiest he ever knew. Your time here is over. Both of you must travel on when you hear the sound of a bell. The world is wide and has other needs of your gifts. Once the bell sounds you cannot linger in this place.”
Morning sunlight shafting through the doorway, coupled with the Labrador baying aloud, aroused Neb from his short but deep sleep. He could not piece together a coherent thought from the dog, only a feeling of immense grief. The boy knew what it was all about when he looked upon the old shepherd’s face. There in the lifeboat Luis lay, forever still, his features peaceful as he slept the eternal sleep of death.
The weather that sad day continued fine, the sunniest day Neb and Den had ever seen since their arrival upon Tierra del Fuego. The flock had dispersed, with nobody to tend to their movements. Only one ewe could be seen in the pasture, with its lamb reveling in the joy of newfound movement, skipping and leaping awkwardly about. Hardly a thought had passed between the boy and his dog. They sat outside the whole morning, heavy-hearted, gazing at the hut where the old shepherd lay. Neb finally rose at midday.
He went inside the hut and gathered together a sack of provisions, his sheepskin poncho, and the crooked staff that had belonged to Luis. Lighting a tallow candle, he touched the flame to the interior sailcloth lining of the hut in several places. Dry-eyed, the boy placed his hand upon the shepherd’s cold brow and said slowly, “Good-bye, old friend. Thank you for the happiness you brought into our lives. Rest in peace.”
Neb left the hut without looking back.
He sat outside with Den, both of them watching the smoke curling up from the roof and wafting away on the breeze in silence. An hour passed; they moved back from the heat. The hut was now well ablaze. With a crash of burning timber the roof collapsed inward. It was then that the old bellwether ram plodded up from wherever he had been grazing. Ding! Clank! Ding! Clank! Ding!
Neb had not seen the bellwether since the previous morning. He thought the old ram had probably been killed in the storm, maybe fallen over the cliff, or succumbed before the onslaught because of its great age. The boy smiled sadly as the old creature approached him, its primitive iron bell clanking mournfully. A pang of realization suddenly pierced him like a sword.
“It’s the angel’s message, the tolling bell!”
The dog turned its sorrowful brown eyes up to him. “I dreamed about the angel, too, but I never thought our ram’s bell would carry the message. What do we do now?”
Tears flowed unchecked from Neb’s clouded blue eyes. He slowly picked up the old man’s crooked staff, watching the bellwether back away from the glowing embers of the shepherd’s dwelling, its simple iron neckbell still dinging
and clanking hollowly. “We must follow the angel’s command. It is time to go!”
Up the valley they went together, north to Punta Arenas and the plateau land of Patagonia, leaving behind Tierra del Fuego, where great oceans meet at the bottom of the world.
Away o’er wild and watery wastes
Vanderdecken sails his ship,
restless phantom, cursed by heaven
to that doomed eternal trip.
While decades turn to centuries,
as down throughout the ages
a boy and dog, forever young,
tread history’s vast pages.
Sharing times, both bad and good,
a friendship formed in smiles and tears,
guided by their angel’s hand,
two innocents roam the years.
O’er hill and mountain, land and sea,
’cross desert dry and pasture green,
mystic countries, towns, and cities,
what strange sights those two have seen.
Gaining wisdom, wit, and knowledge,
in joy, and sorrow, peace, and war,
helping, caring, bringing comfort,
always traveling, learning more.
Is it not surprising, then,
each of them has changed his name,
Den is Ned, and Neb is Ben,
the two who from the Dutchman came?
Where are they now, our dog and boy,
where heaven commands they go,
beyond the echo of some far bell?
Read on and you shall know!
THE VILLAGE
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[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman Page 6