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

The gang was taking its time gathering garbage from the compost pile—rotting apples, carrot tops, withered cabbages. Wilf’s deputy, Regina, crouched impatiently behind the bushes. “What’s the matter with ’em, Wilf, have they gone asleep ’round there?”

Wilf was facing away from her, peering across the garden. “I’ll kick that Tommo’s behind if he doesn’t move himself!”

Something heavy hit Regina’s back and knocked her flat. She turned over and found herself facing a giant mad dog! It was black as night, showing gleaming white fangs as its lips twitched hungrily. Dark eyes glittering, fur standing up on its spine, it stood snarling, ready to attack.

Regina managed to stammer. “W-W-Wilf, there’s a d-d-dog!”

She need not have spoken, the beast already had Wilf’s undivided attention. The boy took one pace back and fell flat on his behind. The dog turned to face him, froth showing in its jaws.

“Grrrrr gurrrr, wooooof!”

The thunderous bark galvanized them both into instant motion. Scrambling upright, Regina ran for it, banging into Wilf and smacking his head against the sandstone garden wall. “Owwooof! Yaaaaagh!”

Ned had the way out blocked. Wilf and Regina both fled toward the compost heap, which, being piled high against the wall, offered the only quick way out of the garden. The big black Labrador pursued them, snarling and growling viciously. The rest of the gang took one look at the savage hound and tried to make good their escape. However, the soft, ripe compost couldn’t bear their joint weight, and Wilf, Regina, and their cohorts found themselves sinking into the odious squelching mire, shrieking and grabbing at one another. As he barked and bayed like a mad wolf, Ned allowed a little slather of froth to wreathe his jaws, though inside he was giggling like a puppy. The fleeing Grange members fell over one another, kicking and fighting to be first over the wall, faces, hands, elbows, and legs covered with the stinking mass of decayed vegetation.

Standing outside, Ben saw the first few fling themselves from the walltop, thudding painfully onto the dusty path. Before they could rise, more yowling muddy apparitions landed on them. It was utter bedlam! Ben pulled a disgusted face at the smell hanging on the air, then he turned away, carelessly whistling an old sea shanty, his untidy blond shock of hair bobbing as he entered the garden jauntily.

Ned came bounding up, his teeth bared in a huge doggy grin. “Now you know why my barking practice is important. Did you hear me, Ben, I made more din than a pack of beagles. Pretty good going, I’d say!”

“Excellent! You did very well for an ancient hound. Bet they cover a mile or two before they stop running. What’s this? Look, Ned, there’s an old lady coming out of the house.”

Mrs. Winn had a walking stick in her hand in case of trouble, and she stopped several yards from them. Her voice had a sharp note to it as she looked them over. “You don’t look like one of those hooligans. What are you doing here? Is that dog yours?”

Ned sat still and did some friendly dog-panting exercises, which he rated as important as barking practice.

Ben flicked the hair from his eyes with a swift nod and smiled disarmingly. “Afternoon, marm. We didn’t mean to trespass, but we thought that gang was annoying you. Not nice that, annoying folk.”

Mrs. Winn peered closer at the strange, polite boy. His white canvas pants and crewneck sweater, together with what appeared to be a cut-down naval jacket, gave him the look of a seaman, freshly arrived ashore.

Behind his smile she could sense calm; however, it was mainly the boy’s blue eyes that caught her attention—they seemed ageless, misty blue, like the summer horizon of a far sea.

She blinked, beckoning the two forward with her stick. “Does that dog attack cats?”

The Labrador shot out an indignant thought. “Attack cats, me? Is the old dear mad? I love the furry little things, as long as they keep their claws to themselves. Huh, attack cats!”

Ben patted his dog fondly. “Ned’s just fine with cats, marm. He’s friendly, too. Give the lady your paw, Ned!”

Mrs. Winn held out her hand, and Ned dutifully presented a paw.

Obviously impressed, the old lady stroked Ned’s sleek coat. “Oh, you’re a good dog, Ned, good dog!”

Ned gave her the benefit of his soulful gaze. “Thank you, marm, and you’re a nice lady, nice lady!”

She turned to the strange boy. “So, what’s your name?”

“Ben, marm, just call me Ben.”

She offered her hand. Ben shook it gently, and she winked at him. “My name’s Winifred Winn, but you can call me Winnie, and stop ‘marming’ me. You sound like my husband used to. ‘Marm’ this and ‘marm’ that. Well, Ben, I suppose you like apple pie and lemonade, and I’ll bet Ned wouldn’t mind a dish of water and a beef bone with lots of marrow and fat to it.”

“Ooh, ooh! I could grow to love this old lady dearly!”

Ben bypassed the dog’s compliment. “That’d be very nice, ma . . . er, Winnie, thank you.”

She ushered them both inside. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for driving those wretches away from the house. The trouble they’ve caused me! And the whole village. But enough of that, you’ve probably got troubles of your own. Come on, you two, we’ll use the parlor. It’s not often I have visitors.”

14

BEN SAT AT A SPINDLE-LEGGED COFfee table in the parlor, tucking into a sizable wedge of Mrs. Winn’s apple pie, with fresh cream poured over it. There was a tall glass of homemade lemonade with it. Ned had retired to the kitchen for his beef bone and water, where Mrs. Winn also gave him a piece of short-bread pastry. Horatio arched his back and leapt onto a table, until the big dog passed him reassuring thoughts. The cat did not reply, but after a while began purring and came down to rub itself against Ned’s leg.

Mrs. Winn smiled approvingly as she came out to fetch the rest of her apple pie and cream. Returning to the parlor, she set it down in front of her guest.

“Boys always like apple pie; help yourself, son, you look as if you could use some more. Go on, don’t be shy!”

Ben took another generous slice. “Thanks . . . Winnie, we haven’t had much to eat since yesterday morning.”

As he ate, the blue-eyed boy studied the portrait over the mantelpiece. “Is that your husband’s picture? Anchor Line cap’n, eh?”

Mrs. Winn stared curiously at him. “Not many lads your age would know that the Royal Navy is called the Anchor Line. Are you a seafarer, Ben?”

The boy took a thoughtful sip of lemonade. “Not really. I’ve knocked about on barges and coasters as a galley lad. You hear things about the sea . . . it’s always interested me. I’ve read quite a lot of sea stories, too.”

The boy did not like lying to the old woman, but he knew he could not tell her the truth. Who would believe that he and Ned had sailed on the Flying Dutchman in the year 1620! It would strain any credibility to believe that boy and dog were still alive and well, ageless, in the year 1896.

He caught Mrs. Winn staring at him intensely and turned away as she asked, “I won’t tell anyone, Ben, where are you really from?”

He shrugged. “I think I was born in Denmark, Copenhagen, but I’m not sure. Ned’s from there, we’ve always been together. We’ve lived in quite a few places . . . here and there.”

Mrs. Winn shook her head, perplexed. “I’ll bet you have. Any parents, brothers or sisters?”

“Not that I know of, ma . . . Winnie. I was planning on staying in Chapelvale for a while, as soon as I can find somewhere that allows dogs. I don’t suppose you’d know of a place?”