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

“What is it, Ben, you don’t look too cheerful today. Do you feel ill, is that it?”

The quiet boy flicked his hair aside and managed a smile. “Oh, I’ll brighten up, I suppose. Didn’t sleep too well last night, that’s all. I’m all right, really.”

The old lady’s hand caressed his cheek. “You’re thinking of leaving, aren’t you.”

Ben took the basket from his dog’s mouth and handed it to her. He could not explain the dreams that had been haunting him for the past two nights. Booming waves, hissing surf, creaking rigging, and the slap of wet sails against taut ropes. Vanderdecken’s ranting voice and his mad eyes. In his dreams the angel’s voice echoed clear again.

“When you hear the toll of a church bell, you must leave this place and travel on!”

The boy turned his clouded blue eyes away from the old lady. “You do your shopping, Miz Winn. I’ll go over to the almshouse and see how the new project’s coming along.”

She watched him walking across the square with Ned trotting alongside. A boy and his dog. A sudden sadness descended on her, and she called after her strange friend.

“I’ll see you at Evans Tea Shoppe for lunch, Ben.”

Without turning, he waved his hand.

As Ben dropped his hand, his big, black dog licked it. “I know, you don’t have to tell me, mate, we share the same dreams, remember?”

Ben scratched the dog’s ear gently. “Aye, we’ve left a lot of places behind in our travels, but this village and the friends we’ve made here . . . I tell you, it’s going to be hard to leave Chapelvale.”

Looking up, he saw Alex waving to them from the almshouse door.

Almost everybody was there. Amy threw an arm around Ben’s shoulder, leading him into the building. Sheaves of reconstruction blueprints were laid out on the table. Jon, Will, Mr. Braithwaite, and Mr. Mackay were studying them. Amy coughed, waving her hand at the dust that was floating about. She called to Regina and her friends. “Stop that sweeping for a moment, please. Could you start carrying those benches outside?”

Her brother wrinkled his nose. “Oh, all right, bossy boots. Come on, Regina, Tommo, let’s take this big one between us.”

The old seaman took a pencil from behind his ear and made a minor adjustment to one of the blueprints. “There, we can extend the evening tea garden out into the old graveyard at the rear.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “Evening tea garden?”

The girl nodded. “Wonderful idea, isn’t it? Dai and Blodwen Evans are employing Hetty Sullivan to run the tea garden five evenings a week, after the Tea Shoppe closes in the late afternoon. They’ll be supplying her with the materials, of course. Hetty’s delighted with her new job. Show him the other plans, Curator Preston.”

The old ship’s carpenter assumed a mock dignified attitude. “Ahem, that’s my new title, y’know, Curator Preston, of the Preston-Braithwaite Collection. I’m going to be Caretaker Handyman, too. Good, isn’t it, I never had that many high-flown titles in my sailin’ days. Mrs. Winn wants the old almshouse to be part of our village life, not an old ruin moldering away unused at the corner of the square. Apart from rethatching the roof, and the addition of a window or two, the outside’ll look pretty much the same, nice an’ quaint.

“But inside there’ll be the collection, the cross, chalice, candlesticks, and deeds, all in display cases, together with the story of how Chapelvale was saved. We all get a mention in it, even good old Ned. Then there’s the evenin’ tea garden and an extra room inside for any village meetings, dances, young people’s events. We’re even gettin’ a small library—Mr. Braithwaite will be in charge of that. A proper little village hall for everyone to use, eh, lad!”

The boy shook his friend’s big, tattooed hand heartily. “Sounds wonderful, mate. When will all the rebuilding work start?”

Mr. Mackay interrupted. The dapper little lawyer was positively beaming. “First thing Monday morning, m’boy! My friend the magistrate and I visited the firm of Jackman Donning and Bowe in London last week. We came to an amicable agreement with them. This morning I received by special post a check for a considerable amount. Together with the express wish that the name of Jackman Donning and Bowe never be associated with past events in Chapelvale and the hope that all will be forgotten.”

Mr. Mackay actually performed a small dance of triumph as he pulled forth the check and waved it over his head. “Sufficient funds for our almshouse restoration fund. The workmen arrive with materials on Monday morning, eight o’clock sharp!”

Mr. Braithwaite looked up from a list of new books he was studying. “Quite, er, very good, very, er, er, good. Yes!”

Will Drummond picked a crowbar from a wheelbarrow of tools he had brought from the farmhouse. “Aye, lad, meanwhile ’tis our job to clear all the rubbish from this almshouse an’ make it ready. Here y’are, Curator Preston, the crowbar you asked for, sir!”

Jon hefted the long curved iron, moving to the center of the room.

His blue eyes twinkled as he winked at Ben.

“You can lend a hand later, shipmate, but first there’s something I’ve got to do, just to satisfy my own curiosity.”

The boy gave his friend a puzzled look. “Of course I’ll help, but what’s the crowbar for?”

The old seaman looked up at the ceiling. It was cracked, damp-stained, and bellied. “Ever since I first docked at this almshouse I’ve wondered what that big, ugly hump atop of the roof could be. I ain’t going to let no team o’ strange workmen find out afore I do. So cover your eyes an’ mouths, everybody. There’s goin’ to be a load of old dust an’ rubbish an’ whitewash comin’ down.

“Stand clear now, pals. Here goes!”

Whump! Bump! Thud!

A mess of dried rushes, twigs, old plaster, and limewash showered down. Ben and the others shielded their eyes and nose. Jon shaded both eyes with a hand as he battered furiously at the growing gap in the ceiling.

Crack! Whump! Thud! Whack!

He stopped a moment and stared into the huge, dark cavity he had made. “Push that table over here, quick!”

Suddenly Ben knew. He grabbed Ned’s collar and hurried outside. The black Labrador sensed it, too. They began running to get as far away from the almshouse as possible, both knowing that they would not outdistance the sound of inevitable fate.

The ground beneath Ben seemed to sway, like the deck of the Flying Dutchman , and cold sweat broke out on his face, like seaspray. The distant hiss of escaping steam from a train pulling into the station sounded as if it were the gales off the coast of Tierra del Fuego, so long ago, so far away.

“Leave this place, do not stay to watch your friends grow old and die one by one, while you are still young. You must go!” At the sound of the angel’s voice, the dog increased his speed, pulling at his master’s hand on his collar, dragging Ben along with him.

Jon stood on the table. He had not noticed Ben and his dog going; amid the curtain of dust and falling rubbish, neither had the others. Will climbed up alongside the old ship’s carpenter, holding up a lighted lantern. “What is it? What’s up there, Jon?”

“It’s a bell, Will! That’s what the hump was, a little bell tower. Our new village center will have a bell! Listen!” The old seaman swung the crowbar and struck the inside of the bell. Booonnnnggggg! The sound of the bell boomed out over Chapelvale.

As the brazen echoes reverberated far and near, a baby cried.

Eileen popped her head through the back window of the almshouse, looking none too pleased. “Stop that noise this instant! I just got little Willum nicely to sleep out ’ere, now you gone an’ wakened ’im, poor mite.”