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

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, holding 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.