Brian Jacques - [Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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.

Vanderdecken 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 gaunt 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 fire-wood, 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.