Jonathan Broughton: The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

A west wind blew, though her sails remained furled, as she headed towards the estuary and the English Channel. From her mast flew the national flag of Finland. A cargo clipper bound for the north east continent with a hold full of grain and livestock.

The helmsman steered her along the river’s middle course to avoid the mud flats that shifted at each new tide, and beached the unwary.

Gregor stood at the prow, and watched the wharves slip past on either side; his hand gripped the hilt of his sword concealed under his cloak.

The crew prepared the ship for the open sea. Commands, shouted in English, relayed around the crew; though as they worked, they whispered in Russian. Anticipation and excitement mounted as the river’s banks widened, and they executed their tasks with brisk efficiency.

The wind blew stronger, and the straggling remains of the City receded. The Captain blew one long blast on his whistle, and the crew in the rigging released the ropes, and the sails tumbled down and cracked like whips as the wind filled their canvas bodies.

Gregor pulled his cloak tight, and hugged it. The bulky scabbard with its broken sword pressed against his leg, and the Russian White lay in its velvet pouch and rocked in the darkness as the ship rolled.

The Lady Mary’s speed increased, and spumes of white water splashed along her gunwales.

Gregor rubbed the wolf charm between his finger and thumb. In the wind, the smooth silver felt cool. His brother lay dead in a foreign land, one to which Gregor would never return, and he mouthed a silent prayer for forgiveness.

“I love you. I will never forget you, but please, always be with me, and help me when I need it. I shall wear the wolf charm forever, even when I am buried.”

The Lady Mary sailed close to the north shore, where the flat marshes stretched away to a far horizon, and the land blurred between earth and sky. No one lived in these barren spaces. Stunted bushes grew in dense clumps, contorted into strange shapes by the wind, which bent them sideways. Beds of reed marsh hissed and clattered as the ship sailed past, and everywhere, the shadows of the night covered the land.

And through these shadows moved a darker shadow; a swift shadow, that kept pace with the Lady Mary, and sprinted along the shore and across the broken land. It turned its head towards Gregor, and held his eyes with a longing stare.

The sky darkened, and the Lady Mary sailed into the open sea and left the land behind. The wolf slackened its pace, and Gregor wiped his eyes as the wind blew away his tears.

The wolf lifted its head and howled at the approaching night.

Jonathan lives on the south coast of England. He has published two books of short stories.

Roadkill; Four Nasty Stories. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Roadkill-ebook/dp/B006H310XA

Gifts; Four Poignant Stories. http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006YPB2W0

People who choose to live by the sea have their own special stories to tell.

Connect with me online at Twitter. http://twitter.com/@jb121jonathan

Copyright 2012 Jonathan Broughton

Cover Design by Rayne Hall