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

“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.