Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

BRIAN JACQUES

Castaways

of the

FLYING DUTCHMAN

ALSO BY BRIAN JACQUES

Redwall

Mossflower

Mattimeo

Mariel of Redwall

Salamandastron

Martin the Warrior

The Bellmaker

Outcast of Redwall

Pearls of Lutra

The Long Patrol

Marlf ox

The Legend of Luke

Lord Brocktree

The Great Redwall Feast

The Redwall Map and Riddler

Redwall Friend and Foe

Build Your Own Redwall Abbey

Seven Strange and Ghostly Tales

Copyright © 2001 by The Redwall Abbey Company, Ltd.

Illustrations copyright © 2001 by Ian Schoenherr

All rights reserved.

THE LEGEND OF THE FLYING DUTCHman. Who knows how it all began: Throughout the centuries many a

seaman could swear an oath that he had seen the phantom ship. Plowing an endless course over storm-tossed seas and

the deeps of mighty oceans. Many a night, mariners have sat together in lantern-lit fo'c'sle heads, speaking in hushed

tones of the vessel, and its master, Captain Vanderdecken. What awful curse sent the Flying Dutchman bound on an

eternal voyage, across the trackless watery wastes, from the Marquesas to the Arctic Circles, from the Coral Seas to

the Yucatan Straits, forever roaming alone. Whenever the ghostly craft is sighted, death is near. Bad fortune hovers

about those poor sailors, who see by chance what they wish their eyes had never witnessed.

The Flying Dutchman!

Salt-stiff rigging and gale-torn sails flapping eerily, a barnacle-crusted prow, down by the bow in soughing

troughs of blue-green waves. Crewed by silent wraiths of humanity to whom time and the elements have no end.

Vanderdecken paces the quarterdeck, his face like ancient yellow parchment, hair laced by flying spume, wild,

hopeless eyes searching the horizons of the world. Bound to the sea for eternity. For what dread crime? Which

unspoken law of man, nature, or God, did he break? What dread nemesis doomed him, his crew, and their ship?

Who knows how it all began?

Only two living beings!

I take up my pen to tell you the tale.

THE SHIP

1.

COPENHAGEN. 1620.

THEY SAT FACING ONE ANOTHER ACROSS A table in the upper room of a drinking den known as the

Bar-bary Shark. Two men. One a Dutch sea captain, the other a Chinese gem dealer. Muffled sounds of foghorns from

the nighttime harbor, mingling with the raucous seaport din outside, passed unheeded. A flagon of fine gin and a

pitcher of water, close to hand, also stood ignored. In the dim, smoke-filtered atmosphere, both men's eyes were

riveted upon a small, blue velvet packet, which the gem dealer had placed upon the table.

Slowly he unwrapped the cloth, allowing a large emerald to catch facets of the golden lantern light. It

shimmered like the eye of some fabled dragon. Noting the reflected glint in the Dutchman's avaricious stare, the

Chinaman placed his long-nailed hand over the jewel and spoke softly. "My agent waits in Valparaiso for the arrival

of a certain man—somebody who can bring home to me a package. It contains the brothers and sisters of this green

stone, many of them! Some larger, others smaller, but any one of them worth a fortune.

Riches to lire a man beyond his wildest dreams. He who brings the green stones to me must be a strong man,

commanding and powerful, able to keep my treasure from the hands of others. My friend, I have eyes and ears

everywhere on the waterfront. I chose you because I know you to be such a man!"

The captain's eyes, bleak and grey as winter seas, held the merchant's gaze. "You have not told me what my

reward for this task will be."

The gem dealer averted his eyes from the captain's fearsome stare. He lifted his hand, exposing the emerald's

green fire. "This beautiful one, and two more like it upon delivery."

The Dutchman's hand closed over the stone as he uttered a single word. "Done!"

The boy ran, mouth wide open, gasping to draw in the fog-laden air. His broken shoes slapped wetly over the

harbor cobblestones. Behind him the heavy, well-shod feet of his pursuers pounded, drawing closer all the time. He

staggered, forcing himself to keep going, stumbling through pools of yellow tavern lights, on into the milky, muffling

darkness. Never would he go back, never again would the family of his stepfather treat him like an animal, a drudge, a

slave! Cold sweat streamed down into his eyes as he forced his leaden legs onward. Life? No sane being could call

that life: a mute, dumb from birth, with no real father to care for him. His mother, frail creature, did not live long after

her marriage to Bjornsen, the herring merchant. After her death the boy was forced to live in a cellar. Bjornsen and his

three hulking sons treated their captive no better than a dog. The boy ran with the resounding clatter of Bjornsen's

sons close behind him. His one aim was to escape them and their miserable existence. Never would he go back.

Never!

A scarfaced Burmese seaman crept swiftly downstairs, where he joined four others at a darkened corner of the

Barbary Shark tavern. He nodded to his cohorts, whispering, "Kapitan come now!"

They were all sailors of varied nationalities, as villainous a bunch of wharf rats as ever to put foot on shipboard.

Drawing further back into the shadows, they watched the staircase, which led from the upper room. The long blue scar

on the face of the Burmese twitched as he winked at the others.

"I 'ear all, Kapitan goes for the green stones!"

A heavily bearded Englishman smiled thinly. "So, we ain't just takin' a cargo of ironware out to Valparaiso.

Who does Van-derdecken think he's foolin', eh? He's only goin' out there to pick up a king's ransom of precious

stones!"

A hawkfaced Arab drew a dagger from his belt. "Then we collect our wages, yes?"

The Englander, who was the ringleader, seized the Arab's wrist. "Aye, we'll live like lords for the rest of our

lives, mate. But you stow that blade, an' wait 'til I gives the word."

They took another drink before leaving the Barbary Shark.

The boy stood facing his pursuers—he was trapped, with no place to run, his back to the sea. Bjornsen's three

big sons closed in on the edge of the wharf, where their victim stood gasping for air and trembling in the fogbound

night. Reaching out, the tallest of the trio grabbed the lad's shirtfront.

With a muted animal-like grunt, the boy sank his teeth into his captor's hand. Bjornsen's son roared in pain,

releasing his quarry and instinctively lashing out with his good hand. He cuffed the boy a heavy blow to his jaw.

Stunned, the youngster reeled backward, missed his footing, and fell from the top of the wharf pylons, splashing into

the sea. He went straight down and under the surface.

Kneeling on the edge, the three brothers stared into the dim, greasy depths. A slim stream of bubbles broke the

surface. Then nothing. Fear registered on the brutish face of the one who had done the deed, but he recovered his

composure quickly, warning the other two.

"We could not find him, nobody will know. He had no relatives in the world. What's another dumb fool more or

less? Come on!"

Checking about to see that they had not been noticed in the dark and fog, the trio scurried off home.

Standing at the gangplank, the Dutch captain watched the last of his crew emerge from the misty swaths which

wreathed the harbor. He gestured them aboard.

"Drinking again, jahl Well, there be little enough to get drunk on 'tween here and the Pacific side of the

Americas. Come, get aboard now, make ready to sail!"

The blue scar contracted as the Burmese smiled. "Aye, aye, Kapitan, we make sail!"

With floodtide swirling about her hull and the stern fenders scraping against the wharf timbers, the vessel came

about facing seaward. Staring ahead into the fog, the captain brought the wheel about half a point and called, "Let go

aft!"

A Finnish sailor standing astern flicked the rope expertly, jerking the noosed end off the bollard which held it.

The rope splashed into the water. Shivering in the cold night air, he left it to trail along, not wanting to get his hands

wet and frozen by hauling the backstay rope aboard. He ran quickly into the galley and held his hands out over the

warm stove.

The boy was half in and half out of consciousness, numbed to his bones in the cold sea. He felt the rough manila

rope brush against his cheek and seized it. Painfully, hand over hand, he hauled himself upward. When his feet

touched ship's timber, the boy pulled his body clear of the icy sea and found a ledge. He huddled on it, looking up at

the name painted on the vessel's stern in faded, gold-embellished red. Fleiger Hollander. He had never learned to read,

so the letters meant nothing to him. Fleiger Hollander in Dutch, or had the lad been able to understand English, Flying

Dutchman.

2

MORNING LIGHT FOUND THE FOG HAD lifted, revealing a clear blue icy day. The Flying Dutchman

plowed past Goteborg under full sail, ready to round the Skagen point and sail down the Skagerrak out into the wide

North Sea. Philip Vanderdecken, captain of the vessel, braced himself on the small fo'c'sle deck, feeling the buck and

swell of his ship. Light spray from the bow wave touched his face, ropes and canvas thrummed to the breeze

overhead.

Valparaiso bound, where his share of the green stones would make him a rich man for life, he was never a man

to smile, but he allowed himself a single bleak nod of satisfaction. Let the shipowners find another fool to sail this

slop-bucket around the high seas. Leave this crew of wharf scum to pit their wits against another captain. He strode

from one end of the vessel to the other, snapping curt commands at the surly bunch that manned the craft. Often he

would wheel suddenly about—Vanderdecken neither liked nor trusted his crew. Judging by the glances he received

and the muttered conversations that ceased at his approach, he knew they were speculating about the trip, plotting

against him in some way probably.

His solution to this was simple: keep the hands busy night and day, show them who was master.

Vanderdecken's quick eye missed nothing; he glanced past the steersman to the ice-crusted rope left trailing astern.

Signaling the Finnish deckhand with a nod, he pointed. "Stow that line and coil it, or the seawater will ruin it!"

The deckhand was about to make some remark; when he noted the challenging look in the captain's eye, he

touched his cap. "Aye aye, Kapitan!"

Vanderdecken was making his way amidships when the Finn leaned over the stern rail, shouting. "Come look

here— a boy, I think he's dead!"

All hands hurried to the stern, crowding the rail to see. Pushing his way roughly through, the captain stared

down at the crumpled figure on the molding below his cabin gallery. Crouched there was a boy, stiff with seawater

and frost.

Vanderdecken turned to the men, his voice harsh and flat. "Leave him there or push him into the sea, I don't

care."

The ship's cook was a fat, bearded Greek, who had left his galley to see what all the excitement was about. He

spoke up.

"I don't have galley boy. If he's alive, I take him!"

The captain gave the cook a scornful glance. "He'd be better off dead than working for you, Petros. Ah, do what

you want. The rest of you get back to work!"

Lumbering down to the stern cabin, Petros opened the window and dragged the lad in. To all apparent purposes,

the boy looked dead, though when the Greek cook placed a knife blade near his lips, a faint mist clouded it. "By my

beard, he breathes!"

He carried the boy to the galley and laid him on some sacking in a corner near the stove. The ship's mate, an

Englishman, came into the galley for a drink of water. Placing the toe of his boot against the boy's body, he nudged

him. The lad did not respond.

The Englander shrugged. "Looks dead to me, I'd sling him over the side if I was you."

Petros pointed with his keen skinning knife at the Englander. "Well, you not me, see. I say he stays. If he comes

around, I need help in this galley, lots of help. He's mine!"

Backing off from the knife, the Englander shook his head. "Huh, yours? Like the cap'n said, that one'd be better

dead!"

For almost two days the boy lay there. On the second evening Petros was making a steaming stew of salt cod,

turnips, and barley. Blowing on the ladle, he tasted a bit. As he did this, the Greek cast a glance down at the boy. His

eyes were wide open, gazing hungrily at the stewpot.

"So, my little fish lives, eh?"

The boy's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Petros took a greasy-looking wooden bowl and ladled some

stew into it, then placed it in the boy's open hands. "Eat!" It was bubbling hot, but that did not seem to deter the lad.

He bolted it down and held the empty bowl up to the cook. The bowl went spinning from his grasp as Petros hit it

with the ladle, narrowing his eyes pitilessly.

"No free trippers aboard this ship, little fish. I caught you, now you belong to me. When I say work, you work.

When I say eat, you eat. When I say sleep, you sleep. Got it? But you won't hear me saying eat or sleep much. It will

be mostly work, hard work! Or back over the side you go. Do you believe me?"

He wrenched the boy upright and reached for his knife. The wide-eyed youngster nodded furiously.

Petros filled a pail with water, tossing in a broken holystone and a piece of rag, then thrust it at his slave. "You

clean this galley out good, deckheads, bulkheads, the lot! Hey, what's your name, you got a name?"

The boy pointed to his mouth and made a small, strained noise.

Petros kicked him. "What's the matter, you got no tongue?"

The Arab had just walked in. He grabbed the boy's jaw and forced his mouth open. "He has a tongue."

Petros turned back to stirring the stew. "Then why doesn't he talk? Are you dumb, boy?"

The lad nodded vigorously. The Arab released him. "You can have a tongue and still not be able to talk. He's

dumb."

Petros filled a bowl for the Arab and made a mark by a row of symbols on a wooden board to show the Arab

had received his food. "Dumb or not, he can still work. Here, Jamil, take this to the kapitan." He indicated a meal set

out on a tray.

The Arab ignored his request. Sitting close to the stove, he started eating. "Take it yourself."

The boy found himself hauled upright again. Petros was acting out a strange pantomime, as many fools do who

think somebody is stupid merely because they cannot speak. "You go, take this to Kapitan ... Kapitan, understand?"

Petros stood to attention, mimicked Vanderdecken's stance, then made as if he were a captain dining, tucking an

imaginary napkin into his shirtfront. "Kapitan eat, understand. Hey, Jamil, what you call a boy with no name?"

"Nebuchadnezzar."

Petros looked askance at the Arab. "What sort of name that?"

Jamil broke ship's biscuit into his stew and stirred it. "I hear a Christian read it once, from a Bible book. Good,

eh, Nebuchadnezzer—I like that name!"

Petros scratched his big, grimy beard. "Nebu ... Nebu. Is too hard to say. I call you Neb, that'll do!" He

presented the boy with the tray, then poked his finger several times into the lad's narrow chest.

"Neb, Neb, you called Neb now. Take this to Kapitan, Neb. Go careful—spill any and I skin you with my knife,

yes?"

Neb nodded solemnly and left the galley as if he were walking on eggs.

Jamil slurped stew noisily. "Hah, he understand, all right. He'll learn."

Petros stroked his knife edge against a greased stone. "Neb better learn ... or else!"

A timid knock sounded on the captain's cabin door. Somehow or other Neb had found his way there.

Vanderdecken looked up from the single emerald he had been given as part payment. Stuffing it swiftly into his vest

pocket, he called out, "Come!"

As the door opened, the Dutchman had his hand on a sword set on a ledge under the table edge. None of the

crew would ever catch him napping; that would be a fatal error. A look of mild surprise passed across his hardened

features as the boy entered with a tray of food. Vanderdecken indicated the table with a glance. Neb set the tray there.

"So, you never died after all. Do you know who 1 am, boy?"

Neb nodded twice, watching for the next question.

"Can you not speak?"

Neb shook his head twice. He stood looking at the deck, aware of the captain's piercing stare, waiting to be

dismissed.

"Maybe 'tis no bad thing, I've heard it said that silence is golden. Are you golden, boy? Are you lucky, or are

you a Jonah, an unlucky one, eh?"

Neb shrugged expressively. The captain's hand strayed to his vest pocket, and he patted it.

"Luck is for fools who believe that sort of thing. I make my own luck. I, Vanderdecken, master of the Flying

Dutchman!"

Immediately he applied himself to the food. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he looked up at Neb. "Are you still

here? Off with you—begone, boy!"

Bobbing his head respectfully, Neb retreated from the cabin.

Next day and every day after that was much the same for Neb, punctuated with oaths, kicks, and smarting blows

from the knotted rope that the fat, greasy sea cook Petros had taken to carrying. The lad was used to this kind of

treatment, having suffered much of it at the hands of the Bjornsen family. Aboard the Flying Dutchman the only

difference was that there was nowhere to run and fewer places to hide.

However, Neb bore the ill usage. Being mute and not able to complain had made him, above all, a survivor. He

had grown to possess a quiet, resolute strength. Neb hatred Petros, along with the rest of the crew, who showed him

neither pity nor friendliness. The captain was a different matter. The boy knew that Vanderdecken was feared by

every soul aboard. He had a ruthless air of power about him that scared Neb, though he was not needlessly cruel,

providing his orders were obeyed swiftly and without question. The boy's survival instincts told him that he was safer

with the captain than the others, a fact he accepted stoically.

3.

ESBJERG WAS THE LAST PLACE IN DENMARK the Flying Dutchman would touch before sailing out into

the North Sea and down through the English Channel. Beyond that she was bound into the great Atlantic Ocean.

Some of the crew were ordered ashore to bring back final provisions. Petros and the Englander mate headed the party.

Captain Vanderdecken stayed in his cabin, poring over charts. Before he departed, the Greek cook grabbed Neb and

shackled him by the ankle to the foot of the iron galley stove.

"No good giving you the chance to run off just when I'm training you right. Slaves are scarce in Denmark. You

can reach the table. There's salt pork and cabbage to chop for the pot, keep you busy. I'm taking my knife with me, use

that old one. You know what will happen if the work's not done by the time I get back, eh?"

He waved the knotted rope at the boy, then waddled out to join the others who were off to the ship's chandlery.

Neb could move only a short distance either way because of the iron slave shackle—escape was out of the

question. Through the open door he could see the jetty the ship was moored to. Freedom, so near, yet so far away. He

applied himself to the task of chopping the pork and cabbage. It was hard work. The knife had a broken handle and a

dull blade. In his frustration, he vented his feelings upon the meat and vegetable, chopping furiously. At least it was

warm inside the galley. Outside it was a cold, grey afternoon, with rain drizzling steadily down. He sat on the floor by

the stove, watching the jetty for the crew returning. They had been gone for some hours.

A half-starved dog wandered furtively along the jetty, sniffing for scraps. Neb watched the wretched creature.

Despite his own plight, the boy's heart went out to it. The dog was barely identifiable as a black Labrador, half grown,

but emaciated. Ribs showed through its mud-caked and scarred fur. One of its eyes was closed over and running. It

sniffed up and down the timbers, getting closer to the ship. Poor creature, it seemed ready to take off and bolt at the

slightest noise. It had been badly served by some master—that is, if it had ever known an owner.

Pursing his lips together, the boy made encouraging sounds. The dog stopped sniffing and looked up at him. He

held out his open palms to it and smiled. It put its head on one side, regarding him through its one great, sad, dark eye.

Neb took a piece of salt-pork rind and tossed it to the dog. Gratefully it golloped the scrap down, wagging its tail. He

made the noise again and took more rind, holding it out to the dog. Without hesitation it came straight up the

gangplank and boarded the ship. Within seconds the boy was stroking the Labrador's wasted body while it devoured

the food. There was plenty of tough rind left from the salt pork, sometimes the hands used it for bait to fish over the

side at sea.

While the dog ate, Neb took a rag and some warm water with salt in it. The dog allowed him to bathe its eye.

Freed from the crust and debris of some old infection, its eye gradually opened—it was clear and undamaged. Neb

was pleased and hugged his newfound friend. He was rewarded by several huge, sloppy licks from the dog's tongue.

Knowing the effects of salt-pork rind, he gave it a pannikin of fresh water. As the dog curled up by the galley stove, a

fierce affection for the ownerless creature burned within Neb. He decided there and then that he was going to keep it.

Spreading some old sacks under the far corner of the table, he pushed the dog onto them, all the time petting

and stroking it. His new friend made no fuss, but went quiet and willingly into the hiding place, staring at him with

great trusting eyes as he covered it with more sacks. Neb peeped into the secret den. He looked warningly at the dog

and held a finger to his tight-shut lips. It licked his hand, as if it understood to remain silent.

A sound from behind caused Neb to scuttle out from beneath the table. Captain Vanderdecken stood framed in

the galley doorway, his teeth grinding as his jaw worked back and forth. Neb cowered, expecting to be kicked.

Normally he slept beneath the galley table, but only when told to go to bed. The captain's voice had the ring of steel in

it.

"Where's Petros and the rest, not back yet?"

Wide-eyed with fear, the boy shook his head.

Vanderdecken's fists clenched and unclenched, and he spat out the words viciously. "Drinking! That's where the

useless swine will be, pouring gin and ale down their slobbering faces in some drinking den!" He stamped off, raving

through clenched teeth, "If I miss the floodtide because of a bunch of drunken animals, I'll take a swordblade to

them!"

Neb knew by the captain's frightening eyes that there was going to be trouble, no matter whether the crew

arrived back early or late. For refuge he crawled back under the table and hid with his dog. A warm tongue licked his

cheek as he huddled close to the black Labrador, staring into its soft, dark eyes and stroking its thin neck. Neb wished

fervently that he could talk, to speak gently and reassure the dog. All that came from his mouth was a hoarse little

sound. It was enough. The dog whimpered quietly, laying its head on his lap, reinforcing the growing bond between

them.

Less than an hour later, hurried and stumbling footsteps rang out on the jetty. Neb peered out. The five men

who had been sent for provisions came tumbling aboard, followed by Vanderdecken like an avenging angel. He laid

about them with the knotted rope end that he had snatched from Petros, thrashing them indiscriminately, his voice

thundering out with righteous wrath.

"Brainless gin-sodden morons. Half a day lost because of your stupidity! Can't you keep your snouts out of

flagons long enough to do a simple task? Worthless scum!"

The Dutchman showed no mercy. He flogged the five hands with furious energy, savagely booting flat any man

who tried to rise or crawl away. Neb could not tear his eyes from the fearful scene. The captain's coattails whirled

about him as he flogged the miscreants. Knotted rope striking flesh and bone sounded like chestnuts cracking on a

hearth amid the sobs and screams of his victims.

When Vanderdecken had exhausted his energy, he flung some coins at the chandler's assistant, waiting by the

jetty with a loaded cart. "You, get those supplies aboard before we lose the tide!"

Whilst the materials were being transferred, Petros raised his bruised and tearstained face. He had spotted

something none of the others had noticed. The emerald glinted on the deck where it had fallen from the captain's

pocket when he was beating the crewmen.

Slowly, carefully, the fat cook stretched out his grimy hand to retrieve the gemstone.

"Eeeeeyaaaargh!" he screeched as the Dutchman's boot heel smashed down on the back of his hand.

Vanderdecken snatched the emerald, continuing to grind Petros's hand against the deck, thrusting all his weight onto

the iron-tipped heel.

"Thief! Drunkard! Pirate! No man steals from me! There, now we have a one-handed cook. Back to work, all of

you, cast off for'ard, aft and midships! Make sail, leave no lines drifting, coil them shipshape. Seamen? I'll make

seamen of you before this voyage is out!"

He stormed off to take the steersman's place at the wheel.

Whimpering and moaning piteously, Petros crawled into the galley, falling flat on Neb's outstretched leg, which

was still chained to the stove. Raising his tearstained face to the boy, he sobbed piteously. "He broke my hand, see.

Petros's hand smashed, an' what for? Nothing, that's what for. Nothing!"

Neb felt sick just looking at the hand. It was wretched beyond healing, a horrific sight. Blubbering into his

greasy beard, the cook looked to Neb for help. "Fix it for me, boy. Make bandage for poor Petros's hand."

Neb felt no pity for the fat, wicked cook. He was secretly glad that the hand that had often beat him was now

useless, but he had to get the man upright before he looked under the table. The boy made his muted noise and pointed

at the chain, indicating he could do nothing until he was freed.

Amid much groaning and wincing, Petros found the key with his good hand and unlocked the shackle. Neb

helped him up onto a bench, where he sat weeping and nursing his hand.

Drizzling rain gave way to a clear evening. Ropes and lines thrummed as the vessel's sail bellied tautly, backed

by a stiffening breeze. The wheel spun under Vanderdecken's experienced hands as he guided the Flying Dutchman

out into deeper waters. It was well out to sea by the time Neb was done with his ministrations. Medical supplies were

virtually nil aboard the vessel, but the boy used some relatively clean strips of coarse linen from a palliasse cover.

Tearing the cloth into strips, he soaked them in clean, salted water and bound the hand and arm from fingertips to

elbow. Petros howled as the salt stung broken bone and torn, swollen flesh, but he knew the salt would clear up any

infection.

All the time Neb's dog stayed silent in his hiding place.

The Englander and Jamil came furtively into the galley. Petros kept up his whining, glad he had more of an

audience to listen to his complaints. "See, the poor hand of Petros. What use is a man at sea with only one good hand?

I ask you, my friends, was there any need for that devil to do this to me?"

The Englander ignored the cook's misfortune. "What did you try to pick up off the deck, something that

belonged to the cap'n, eh?"

Petros held out his good hand to the pair. "Help me to my cabin, Scraggs. You, too, Jamil. The boy is too small

for me to lean on. Help me."

Scraggs, the Englandcr, grabbed the bandaged hand from its sling. "What did you pick up off the deck? Tell us."

"Nothing, my friend. It was nothing, I swear!"

Jamil's curved dagger was at Petros's throat. "You lie. Tell us what it was or I'll give you another mouth, right

across your filthy neck. Speak!"

Petros knew they meant business, so he spoke rapidly. "It was the green stone, the dragon's eye. A man could

have bought three tavernas with it!"

Scraggs shook his head knowingly and smiled at Jamil. "See, I told you: emeralds. That's what this trip's about."

Looking hugely satisfied that his hunch had been confirmed, Scraggs strode from the galley, leaving Jamil to help

Petros to his cabin. Scraggs paused in the doorway and pointed his own knife in Neb's direction.

"Not a word of this to anyone, lad. D'ye hear?"

Neb nodded vigorously.

The Englander smiled at his own mistake. "How could you say a word, you're a mute."

4.

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN WAS NOW ON course, cutting the coast of Germany and the Netherlands, picking

up the English Channel currents. Neb had spent a happy few days. Petros refused to leave his bunk, and lay in his

cabin moaning night and day. Alone in the galley, Neb cooked for all hands. The menu was not difficult to contend

with—salt cod or salt pork, boiled up with whatever came to hand: cabbage, turnips, kale. Neb threw it all in a

cooking pot and boiled it with pepper and salt. Now and then, to satisfy his longing for something sweet he would

pound up some ship's biscuit, damp it down into a paste, mix in a bit of dried fruit—figs, apricots, and raisins. Baked

up in the oven, this made a stodgy pie. There were no complaints, in fact, one of the hands remarked that it was an im-

provement on the Greek's efforts.

Neb decided to call his dog Denmark, that being the country from which they both came. There was a marked

change in the black Labrador. Overnight under his young master's care he had grown bigger, sleeker, and healthier. A

very intelligent dog, quiet and obedient. At a quick nod from the boy, Denmark would immediately go to his place

under the table.

Neb worked hard around the galley. As long as the crew got their meals, they seldom came near the place. In

the forecastle of the Flying Dutchman was a big cabin, where the crew ate and slept; Neb had to go there every day,

usually in the evening. He would brew fresh coffee in a large urn—it always had to be on tap for any hands to drink

hot, night or day.

They were sailing through the English Channel—the white cliffs of Dover could be glimpsed from the fo'c'sle

head. Crewmen coming off watch were bustling in, pale-skinned from the cold. At the urn, they guzzled down

earthenware mugs of the cheap coffee. It was strong and black. Made from roasted acorns, chicory, and a few coffee

beans, it tasted bitter, but it was a hot drink.

Neb was pouring boiling water into the urn, the crew ignoring him completely. Because he could not talk, they

treated him as deaf, dumb, and dim-witted, a thing people did to anyone not the same as themselves. Neb could see

their faces in the surface of the copper urn, which he had polished earlier. Though they whispered, the boy heard

every word of the conversation between Scraggs, Jamil, and the Burmese scarface, whose name was Sindh. They

were plotting against the captain.

"You go into his cabin with a blade while he sleeps."

"Oh no, not Jamil. They say the Dutchman never sleeps."

"Stay out of that cabin, my friend. He keeps a sharp sword there, always near at hand. If we want to finish

Vanderdecken, it must be done by us all, swiftly, out on deck. That way he can be thrown right over the side an' we

sail off, eh?"

Scraggs sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Aye, you're right, Sindh . . . when 'tis good and quiet. When he comes

out to check on the night watch before turning in. That's the best time."

The scar on Sindh's face twitched. "Good, me an' Jamil will change watches with the two out there later tonight.

You can hide yourself on deck."

A stiletto blade gleamed as Scraggs laid it on the table. "You two grab him, I'll give our cap'n a swift taste of

this beauty, then we strip the body and he's ready for the fishes!"

Sindh traced his blue scar with a cracked fingernail. "When the kapitan is gone, what then, Scraggs, my friend?

One green stone is hard to split three ways."

Scraggs winked at them both. "Then I take command. We sail her to Valparaiso and I as cap'n pick up the rest

of the stones. There should be plenty to go 'round twixt three then."

Sindh thought about this for a moment before replying. "Why can't I be kapitan, or Jamil here?"

"Because I'm an Englander, I look more like a Dutchy than you two ever could, an' I speak the lingo. Any

objections?" Scraggs toyed with the dangerous-looking stiletto, watching them. Jamil smiled and patted the mate's

hand.

"Of course not, my friend, it is a good plan. But I do have a harmless little question. What happens when we

have both the ship and the stones? We cannot sail back to Europe."

"Simple, we follow the coast up north until we sight a place called Costa Rica. Anchor up there to take on fresh

water and fruit. While the crew are busy doing that, we jump ship. Other side of the mountain there is the Carribean

Sea, His-paniola, Cartagena, Naracaibo, beyond the reach of law. Sunny climes, blue seas, golden sands, an' we three,

rich as kings. Think of it—we could build our own castles, own ships, employ servants, or buy slaves. That would do

me fine, never to feel another cold day for life!"

Petros came stumping through from a cabin that led off the main one. The conspirators nudged one another and

fell silent. The Greek cook clipped Neb's ear with his good hand. "You never brought me any coffee. Get on, boy,

leave some on the table by my bunk!" Obediently Neb poured a bowl of coffee and hurried through to the other cabin,

with Petros following, berating him. "After all I do for you, save your life, feed you, teach you how to be sea cook.

This is how you treat Petros. I should have left you for the fishes. Don't spill that coffee, put it down there. Not there ...

there! Get out of here and leave me now. Nobody wants a poor sea cook with one hand. I'm in pain night and day,

with not a soul to care. Out, out!"

Neb retired gratefully to his galley.

Sitting beneath the table with his dog, Neb stroked Denmark as he pondered his dilemma. Three crewmen were

planning to murder the captain! From what Neb had seen of the Dutchman's crew, he knew they were lawless

drunkards and thieves. Vanderdecken was a hard and cruel ship's master, but he was the only one aboard who could

keep the vessel running in an orderly and disciplined manner. Without a proper captain the alternatives were bleak.

Neb doubted that such a wayward bunch would take orders from Scraggs, nor was he sure the Englander would be

able to bring them to their destination safely. Even if he did, what then? How could he warn the captain of the plot on

his life? Vanderdecken would take scant notice of his crew's lowliest member, a dumb, mute boy. The dog watched

Neb with its soft, dark eyes. As if sensing his dilemma, it licked the boy's hand and gave a single low whine.

Later that evening footsteps sounded out on deck. Neb nodded to Denmark, and the dog vanished beneath the

table to its hideout. The boy peered around the galley door. There was Vanderdecken, emerging from his cabin at the

stern. Coming toward him from midships were the two hands, Jamil and Sindh. The boy's stomach went into a knot of

anxiety. He could feel a pounding in his chest.

Somewhere between the captain and the two crewmen, Scraggs was waiting in hiding, holding the stiletto ready.

A thousand things raced through Neb's brain, silly inconsequential ideas. He dismissed them all. What could he do?

The captain halted in front of Jamil and Sindh, eyeing them suspiciously. He knew the watch order. "What are

you two doing out here? Ranshoff and Vogel are the late-night watch."

He caught Jamil looking over his shoulder toward the rear of the galley. Vanderdecken turned as Scraggs broke

cover and ran toward him. Jamil and Sindh threw themselves upon the captain from behind, grabbing him by his neck

and arms. Neb saw the blade flash upward as Scraggs covered the last few strides. He could not see the captain

murdered.

Flinging himself out the galley door, Neb collided with Scraggs. Carried forward, they bulled into

Vanderdecken, with Scraggs bellowing, "Hold him tight, I'll deal with the lad!" Caught between the captain and the

mate, Neb gave out a mute cry as the stiletto blade arched overhead.

There was a deep, mumbling growl as a black shadow flew through the air. Landing on Scraggs's back, the dog

Denmark sank its fangs into the mate's shoulder. As Neb went down, he grabbed for the two crewmen's legs and held

on tight.

Vanderdecken was a tall, powerfully built man who could hold his own with any crew member. Shrugging off

the two who held him, he grabbed Scraggs's knife arm with both hands. The captain swung hard, whirling the

murderous mate around and around. The knife clattered to the deck as Van-derdecken swung the man, both staggering

across toward the rail, then he released Scraggs. The mate's startled yell was cut short as he hit the rail and jackknifed

over into the sea. His head struck the side and he went under.

The Flying Dutchman sailed onward to the vast Atlantic, leaving Scraggs and his dreams of riches in the depths

of the English Channel. Vanderdecken smashed Jamil and Sindh to the deck with wild blows and kicks. He grabbed

the stiletto and stood over the petrified men, his whole body shaking with wrath, bloodlight in his wild eyes. Neb

stood by, holding on to Denmark's neck, terrified at what he thought would happen next.

Suddenly a great sigh shook the captain's shoulders, and he grated harshly at the conspirators. "On your feet,

you treacherous rats! Walk in front of me to the fo'c'sle cabin, or I'll cut your throats where you stand! You, boy,

follow behind me with that dog. Cover my back!"

The remainder of the Dutchman's, crew were sitting around the stove drinking coffee, or lying in their bunks

and hammocks. With a loud bang the cabin door burst open. Sindh and Jamil were booted roughly inside, landing flat

on their faces. Looking up with a start, the crew beheld Captain Vanderdecken with Neb and Denmark behind him.

"Muster all hands now. Jump to it!"

There was an almighty scramble as Petros and others who had side cabins came stumbling in. An awful silence

fell on the crew—they quailed under their captain's icy glare. Ramming the stiletto into his belt, he seized Jamil and

Sindh, hauling them up by their hair and bellowing at them.

"Who else was in this with you? Tell me or I'll throw you to the fishes, like I did with that villain Scraggs!"

Jamil clasped his hands together and wept openly. "There was only us two, Kapitan. Scraggs made us do it. We

were afraid of him. He said he'd kill us if we didn't!"

Sindh joined him, tears running down the blue scar channel in his face, pleading for his life.

"He speaks the truth, Kapitan. We didn't know Scraggs meant to kill you. We thought he was just going to steal

the green stone. Spare us, please, we meant you no real harm!"

Ignoring their sniveling pleas, Vanderdecken beckoned to a burly German crewman. "Vogel, you are first mate

now aboard my ship and will be paid as such. Make two hanging nooses and throw them over the mid-crosstrees.

These criminals must pay for what they did."

Vogel saluted but did not move. He spoke hesitantly. "Kapitan, if you execute them, it will leave us three hands

short. No ship of this size could round Cape Horn with three experienced seamen missing."

There was silence, then the captain nodded. "You are right, Mr. Vogel. See they only get half-rations of biscuit

and water until we make harbor. They will be tried and hanged by a maritime court when we get back to Copenhagen.

When they are not on duty, see they are shackled in the chain locker. Is that clear, Mr. Vogel?"

The new mate saluted. "Aye, Kapitan!" He turned to Neb. "Half-rations of biscuits and water for the rest of the

trip, d'you hear that, cook?"

As Neb nodded obediently, Vanderdecken turned his quizzical gaze on the boy. "This lad is the cook? How so?"

Petros nursed his damaged hand, whimpering. "Kapitan, my hand is bad hurt. I could not cook with one hand."

He tried to shrink away, but Vanderdecken grabbed Petros by the throat. He shook him as a terrier would a rat,

the Greek's terror-stricken eyes locked by the Dutchman's icy glare. The captain's voice dropped to a warning rasp. "I

signed you aboard as cook, you useless lump of blubber. Now, get to your galley and cook, or I'll roast you over your

own stove!"

He hurled the unfortunate Petros bodily from the cabin. There was danger in Vanderdecken's voice as he turned

on the rest of his crew. "Every man does as I say on this vessel. Nobody will disobey my orders. Understood?"

Averting their eyes from his piercing stare, they mumbled a cowed reply. "Aye aye, Cap'n."

Neb trembled as the captain's finger singled him out. "You, come here. Bring the dog, stand beside me!"

Neb obeyed with alacrity, Den following dutifully alongside him. There was silence, and Vanderdecken's eyes

roamed back and forth beneath hooded brows—each crewman felt their fearful authority. "This boy and his dog, they

will watch my back wherever I go. They will stay in my cabin, guarding me from now on.

"Vogel, take the wheel, put out a new watch. When we pass the Land's End light, take her south and one point

west, bound for Cape Verde Isles and out into the Atlantic. We'll take this ship 'round Cape Horn and up to Valparaiso

in record time.

"The Horn, Vogel, Tierra del Fuego! The roughest seas on earth! Many a vessel has been smashed to splinters

by waves, storm, and rocks there. Seamen's bones litter the coast. But by thunder, I intend to make it in one piece. The

rest of you, as master of the Flying Dutchman, I'll tolerate no slacking, disobedience, or backsliding. I'll see the white

of your rib bones beneath a lash if you even think of crossing me. Now, get about your duties!"

Pushing men contemptuously aside, Vanderdecken strode from the fo'c'sle cabin with Neb and Den close in his

wake. The boy was completely baffled by the turn of events—glad not to be under Petros's sadistic rule, yet

apprehensive to find himself expected to be in close proximity to the captain all the time. One other thing gnawed at

his mind: Cape Horn and the other strange-sounding place, Tierra del Fuego, the roughest seas on earth. What were

they really like? A warm nose touching his hand reminded him that whatever the danger, he was no longer alone. He

had a true friend, the dog.

5.

AFTER A WHILE NEB LOST count of time; nights and days came and went with numbing regularity. It was a

world of water, with no sign of land on any horizon. Both he and the dog had been seasick. There were moments

when the boy wished himself back on land. Even living in Bjornsen's herring cellar seemed preferable to the high seas.

As the Flying Dutchman sailed south and a point west, warm waters and fair weather fell behind in the ship's wake. It

grew progressively colder, windier, and harsher. The south Atlantic's vast, heaving ocean wastes were relentless and

hostile, with troughs deep as valleys and wavecrests like huge hills.

It took a lot of getting used to, one moment being lifted high with nought but sky around .. . next instant, falling

into perilous troughs, facing a blue-green wall of solid water. Having few duties to keep him busy was very frustrating,

and Neb sat with Denmark just inside the stern cabin doorway, forbidden to move until the captain ordered it.

Vanderdecken talked to himself a lot when studying charts and plotting his vessel's course. The boy could not

avoid hearing most of what was said.

"Yesterday we passed the coast of Brazil in the Southern Americas, somewhere 'twixt Recife and Ascension

Island. I gave orders to the steersman to take another point sou'west. In three days we should pick up the currents

running out from Rio de la Plata, sailing then closer to the coast, but keeping well out at the Gulf of San Jorge towards

Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn, the most godforsaken place on earth."

Neb could not help but shudder at the tone of Van-derdecken's voice. He hugged his dog close, seeking reassur-

ance in the friendly warmth of Denmark's glossy fur. The captain glanced across at him, setting down his quill pen.

"Bring food and drink, boy, and don't waste time dawdling with the hands. I need you back here. Jump to it!"

There were lines strung across the deck. Without these ropes to hold on to, a body would be swept over the side

and lost forever in seconds. Neb came staggering into the galley with his dog in tow, both of them drenched in icy

spray. Petros had wedged himself in a corner by the stove. His stomach wobbled as he strove to stand normally on the

bucking, swaying craft. The Greek cook glared hatefully at the boy, upon whom he seemed to blame all his

misfortunes.

"You creep in here like a wet ghost. What you want, dumb one?"

Neb picked up a tray from the galley table and conveyed by a series of gestures that he had come for food and

drink. With bad grace Petros slopped out three bowls of some unnamed stew he had concocted and three thick ship's

biscuits that clacked down on the tray like pieces of wood. He waved his knife menacingly in Neb's direction.

"You an' that mangy dog get food for nothing. Get out of Petros's galley before I kick you out!"

He raised a foot, but dropped it quickly. The black Labrador was standing between him and the boy, its hackles

up, showing tooth and fang, growling dangerously. Petros shrank back.

"Take that wild beast away from me, get your own coffee an' water from the crew's mess. Go on, get the dog

out!"

Neb delivered the food to Vanderdecken, then went off to the crew's mess bearing his tray.

Jamil and Sindh had just arrived in the fo'c'sle cabin after checking the rigging. As Neb came through the door,

they cast surly glances at him, another case of malcontents blaming him for their bad luck, though with some

justification in their case. Vogel, the German mate, was also suspicious of Neb and his dog. Talk among the crew was

that the captain used them both to spy on the crew. Not wanting to lose his position as mate, Vogel elbowed Jamil and

Sindh aside, allowing the boy to fill two bowls with coffee and one with water for the dog. "When you two have had

coffee, I'll chain you back in the anchor locker," he said to the seamen. "Kapitan's orders. Hurry up, boy. There be

cold, thirsty men waiting to get a drink!"

The tone of the mate's voice caused Denmark to turn and snarl. Vogel sat quite still, as if he was ignoring the

dog, though it was obvious he was scared to move. "Get that hound out of here, back to the kapitan's cabin!"

Neb nodded meekly, not wanting to upset the big German. Sindh took his turn at the coffee urn, commenting,

"Bad luck to have dog aboard ship, eh, Jamil?"

The Arab grinned wickedly. "Aye, bad luck. This ship be all bad luck, poor fortune for poor sailors. Wrong time,

bad season to be going 'round Cape Horn. You know that, Mister Vogel?"

The mate stared at the hawkfaced Arab. "Never a good time for going 'round Horn, no time. I know of ships that

never get 'round. Many try once, twice. For long time. Ugh! They run out of food, starve. You see that bad ocean out

there, dumb boy? That is like a smooth lake to the seas 'round Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn!" Neb placed his

drinks on the tray and maneuvered carefully out of the cabin, with Jamil's parting remarks in his ears.

"Ship won't run out of food if it gets caught in the seas— we got fresh meat on board. Dog! You ever eat dog

before, Mister Vogel?"

"No, but I hear from those who have, in Cathay China— they say dog make good meat, taste fine. Hahahaha!"

Neb crossed the spray-washed deck with a set jaw and a grim face, Denmark at his heels.

Winter came howling out of the Antarctic wastes like a pack of ravening wolves. Once the Flying Dutchman

had passed the Islands of Malvinas the ocean changed totally. It was as if all the waters of the world were met in one

place, boiling, foaming, hurling ice and spume high into the air, with no pattern of tide or current, a maelstrom of

maddened waves. Beneath a sky hued like lead and basalt, gales shrieked through the ship's rigging, straining every

stitch of canvas sail, wailing eerily through the taut ropelines until the vessel thrummed and shuddered to its very keel.

Every hatch and doorway was battened tight, every movable piece of gear aboard lashed hard down. Only those

needed to sail the ship stayed out on deck, the rest crouched fearfully in the fo'c'sle head cabin, fear stunning them

into silence.

Petros tried to make it from the galley to the fo'c'sle cabin. As he opened the galley door, the ship was struck by

a giant wave, a great, milky-white comber. It slammed the galley door wide, dragging the cook out like a cork from a

bottle, flooding inside and snuffing out the fire in the stove with one vicious hiss. When it was gone, so was the cook,

the huge wave carrying his unconscious body with it, out into the fathomless ocean.

Neb and Denmark were in the captain's cabin, viewing the scene through the thick glass port in the cabin door.

He had once heard a Reformer in Copenhagen, standing on a platform in the square, warning sinners about a

thunderous-sounding thing called Armageddon. Both the boy and the dog leapt backward as a mighty wave struck the

door, causing it to shake and judder. Neb clasped the Labrador close to him. Had the Flying Dutchman sailed into

Armageddon?

Vanderdecken was in his element out on the stern deck. None but he had a real steersman's skill in elements

such as these—he seemed to revel in it. A line wound and tied about his waist and the wheel held him safe. He fought

the wheel like a man possessed, keeping his ship on course, straight west along the rim that bordered the base of the

world. Only when the vessel rounded Cape Horn would the course change north, up the backbone of the Americas to

Valparaiso. With the fastenings of his cloak ripped apart and the hat ripped from his head by the wind's fury, the

captain bared his teeth at the storm, hair streaming out behind him like a tattered pennant, salt water mingling with icy

tears the elements squeezed from his eyes. Bow-on into the savage, wind-torn ocean, he drove his craft, roaring aloud.

" 'Round the Horn! Lord take us safe to Valparaisooooooo!" He was a skilled shipmaster and had learned all of his

lessons of the seas the hard way.

But the maddened seas off Tierra del Fuego washed over the bones of captains far more experienced than

Van-derdecken, master of the Flying Dutchman.

6.

TWO WEEKS LATER AND HALFWAY BACK TO the Malvinas Islands, the Flying Dutchman languished in

the swelling roughs with sheet anchors dragging for'ard and stern, beaten backward from the Horn. The captain paced

the decks like a prowling beast, flogging with a rope's end and berating the hands, angered at this defeat by the sea.

Men were aloft, chopping at rigging and cutting loose torn sail canvas. A ship's carpenter was up there also, binding

cracked and broken spars with tar-coated whipping line.

Neb was back as cook, swabbing out the galley and salvaging what he could from the food lockers. There was

precious little, as some of the vegetables in sacks and a cask of salted meat had been swept away when Petros was lost.

One of the clean water barrels had its contents tainted by seawater. The dog dragged saturated empty sacks from

beneath the table, his old hiding place. Soon Neb had a fire going in the stove and warmth began returning to the

galley. He chopped vegetables and salt cod to make a stew and put coffee on the brew in a big pan.

It was very unusual for the captain, but he came into the galley and sat at the table, eating his meal and drinking

coffee there. Denmark stayed between the stove and the far bulkhead. The dog never showed any inclination to be

near anyone except Neb. Ignoring the animal's presence, the captain gave orders to the boy.

"Take that food and coffee to the fo'c'sle head cabin, serve it to the hands. Don't hurry, but listen to what they

are saying, then come back here. Go on, boy, take your dog, too." Neb did as he was bidden. While he was gone,

Vanderdecken sat at the galley table, the door partially open, staring out at the restless waves, thinking his own secret

thoughts.

After a while Neb returned, carrying the empty stewpot, with the dog trailing at his heels. Vanderdecken

indicated a packing box, which served as a chair at the table.

"Sit there, boy, and tell me what you heard."

Neb looked perplexed. He pointed to his mouth and shrugged.

The captain fixed him with a stern, piercing stare. "I know you are mute. Keep your eyes on me and listen. Now,

the crew are not happy, yes? I can tell they're not by the look in your eyes. Keep looking at me. They are talking

among themselves. It's mutiny, they want to take over my ship and sail back home. Am I right?"

Neb's eyes widened. He felt like a flightless bird in the presence of a cobra. His gaze riveted on the remorseless

pale-grey eyes.

The captain nodded. "Of course I'm correct! Who is the one doing the most talking, eh, is it Vogel? No? Then

perhaps there's another, Ranshoff the Austrian? No, he's too stupid. Maybe there's two spokesmen, the pair I had put

in chains?

I'm right, aren't 1! It's Jamil and Sindh. Though I'll wager that Sindh is the one who does most of the talking."

Neb sat fascinated by Vanderdecken's uncanny judgment. He did not move, the icy grey eyes held him pinned,

as if they were reading his mind like a book.

The captain laid a short, fat musket on the table. It had six stubby barrels, which could discharge simultaneously

at one pull of the trigger. A pepperpot musket of the type often used in riots with devastating effect in enclosed

spaces.

"Aye, your eyes are too honest to lie, boy. Stay here, lock the door, and admit nobody but myself." Concealing

the weapon beneath his tattered cloak, the Dutchman swept out of the galley.

Locking the door securely, the boy, trembling, was left with his dog. They sat staring at one another, Denmark

laying his head upon his young master's lap, gazing up at him with anxious eyes.

Neb had no idea how long he sat thus, awaiting the report of the fearsome musket. But none came. He thought

that maybe the crew had overcome their harsh captain and thrown him overboard. The boy's eyes began to close in the

galley's warmth, when Denmark stood up, suddenly alert. Somebody banged on the door, and a voice called out.

"Open up, boy, it's your captain!"

Trembling with relief, Neb unbolted the door. Van-derdecken strode in and sat at the table. "Bring my logbook,

quill, and ink from my cabin."

Whilst he made more coffee, Neb listened to Van-derdecken intoning as he wrote in the ship's log:

"We sail back to Cape Horn at dawn's first light. This time the Flying Dutchman will make it 'round the Horn.

Every man will be on deck working. Tonight I quelled a mutiny among the crew; now there are no voices raised

against my command. Sindh, a Burmese deckhand, was the ringleader. He no longer has to wait until we get back to

Copenhagen for judgment and execution. Using my authority as captain to stem mutiny and preserve good order

aboard the vessel, I summarily tried and hanged him myself!"

Vanderdecken glanced up from his writing at Neb's horrified face. For the first time the boy saw what appeared

to be a smile on the captain's face. "If ever you command a ship, which isn't very likely, always remember this, boy,

should the voyage prove risky and the returns valuable, it is wise to sign up your crew from all nations. That way they

lack any common bond. A disunited crew is the easiest one to control. Take my word for it."

Those were the last words Vanderdecken spoke that night. He slept sitting in the chair, the pepperpot musket on

the table in front of him.

Neb and Denmark lay down together near the stove by the far bulkhead, watching the strange man. Red

reflections from the galley stove fire illuminated his harsh features: they never once relaxed, not even in sleep.

Four days later the Flying Dutchman was off the coast of Tierra del Fuego again, with Vanderdecken as

steersman and all hands on deck, striving in the depths of midwinter to round the cape once more. It was sheer

madness and folly to attempt such an undertaking at that time of year, but none dared say so. Armed with sword and

musket, the captain drove his crew like slaves. Sleep was snatched in two-hour shifts, rations were reduced to half fare,

men were constantly forced aloft to cut away, repair, or adjust battered rigging.

Neb was kept on his feet night and day, rationing out boiling coffee, cooking the meager scraps that were the

crew's diet and battling constantly to keep the galley dry and the fire going. It was extra difficult, because most hands

slept there now—under the table, on empty sacks in all four corners, catching what rest they could until lashed out by

the knotted rope end of Mister Vogel, the mate.

Vanderdecken drove himself even harder than his crew, retiring only briefly once a night to his cold, stern cabin

and eating both little and infrequently.

Neb had never imagined the sea more wild and cruel. Under the hurricane-force winds, icicles formed sideways,

sticking out like daggers astern. There was no lee side to anything on Cape Horn. Now and again, through the

sheeting mixture of sleet and rain, the coast could be glimpsed. Gigantic dark rocks, with a nimbus of ice and spray

framing them, looked for all the world like prehistoric sea monsters, waiting to devour anything that sailed too close.

Cold and wet became a thing that had to be lived with. Some of the crew lost fingers and toes to frostbite, two of them

on the same day fell from the rigging to their deaths in the bedlam of freezing waves. Sometimes Neb imagined he

could hear thunder in the distance, or was it just the boom of tidal-size waves, crashing upon the coastal rocks?

Driven forward one day, then twice as far back the next, the ship tacked sideways and often turned completely

about, sails filling to bursting, then slacking with tremendous slapping sounds. Half the cargo of ironware was

jettisoned into the sea to keep the vessel afloat. One morning Neb was recruited to join a party in the midships hold,

where groaning timbers were leaking water into the hatch space. All day he spent there, plugging away at the cracks

with mallet, flat chisel, and lengths of heavy tarred rope they called oakum.

The boy's hands became so bruised and cracked with the cold that another crewman had to take his place. Neb

fought back tears of pain as he thrust both hands into a pail of hot water on the galley stove. Denmark whined and

placed his head against the boy's leg. Even over the melee of waves, wind, and creaking timbers, Vanderdecken's

voice could be heard cursing the crew, Cape Horn, the weather, and the heaving seas with the most bloodcurdling

oaths and imprecations.

Three weeks later the Flying Dutchman was in the same position, pushed back again, halfway betwixt Tierra del

Fuego and Malvinas Isles. Defeated for the second time by Cape Horn!

Weary, sick, and half starved, the crew lay in their fo'c'sle cabin. There was a terrible atmosphere hanging over

the place. No longer did the men speak to one another, they stayed in their bunks or huddled alone in corners. Some

had missing finger and toe joints from the frostbite. All of them, to a man, were beginning to suffer with scurvy,

owing to the lack of fresh vegetables. Teeth loosened and fell out. Hair, too. Sores formed around cracked lips. The

two who had perished were not mourned—their blankets, clothing, and personal effects were immediately stolen by

former crewmates. Survival was the order of the day, with each man knowing his chances of staying alive were

growing shorter, alone and freezing out on the south Atlantic Ocean within the radius of the great white unknown

regions of Antarctica.

Locked in the galley with his dog Denmark, Neb could do nothing but carry out his captain's orders. He

smashed up broken rigging to feed the stove fire, supplementing it with tarred rope, barrel staves, and any waste he

found. Water was growing short, the coffee supply was almost negligible, food was down to the bare minimum. Still

he carried out his duties as best he could, knowing the alternative would be for him and the dog to move into the

crew's cabin. He shuddered to think how that would end up. Vanderdecken had told him that was what his fate would

be unless he obeyed orders.

The captain kept to his cabin at the stern, showing himself only once every evening when the day's single meal

was served. Armed with pepperpot musket and sword, he would arrive at the galley with his tray and command Neb

to open up. Having served himself with weakened coffee and a plate of the meager stew, he would half-fill another

bowl with drinking water and give Neb his usual orders.

"Heed me carefully, boy. I will return to my cabin now. Place the pans of stew, coffee, and water for the crew

out on the deck and get back inside quickly. I'll ring the ship's bell, they'll come and get their meal then. I'll ring the

bell again in the morning when they return the empty pans. Collect them up and lock yourself in again. If they catch

you with that galley door open, the scum will slay you, eat your dog, and strip the galley bare. You open this door

only to me. Understand?" Neb, his eyes never leaving the captain's, saluted in reply and set about his tasks.

Only once did a crew member venture out on deck for reasons other than going to the galley door. Mister Vogel,

the German mate, driven almost mad with hunger and cold, approached the captain's cabin. He was a big, powerfully

built man. Emboldened by the ship's predicament, he banged upon Vanderdecken's door. When the door did not open,

he began shouting. "Kapitan, it is I, Vogel. You must turn this ship around. If we stay here longer, all will be lost.

Kapitan, I beg you to listen. We are fast running out of food and water, the men are sick and weak, this ship will not

stand up to these seas for long. We are going nowhere! Give the order to put about and sail for safety, Kapitan. We

can go anywhere, Malvinas, San Marias, Bahia Blanca. The Americas are close. There we could refit the vessel, sell

what cargo remains on board, take on another cargo, and sail for Algiers, Morocco, Spain, even home to Copenhagen.

Soon you will have mutiny aboard if we sit here, Kapitan. You know what I say makes sense. Do it, now, I implore

you in the name of the Lord!"

Vanderdecken cocked the big pepperpot musket. It was a clumsy but awesome weapon—one pull of the trigger

could send out a fusillade of leaden shot, six heavy musket balls. Without opening the cabin door he fired, the blast

killing Vogel instantly. Neb and his dog jumped with shock at the sound of the explosion. Reloading swiftly, the

captain marched from the cabin with sword and pistol, a maniacal light in his eyes, calling out in a voice like thunder.

Neb and the crew could not help but hear him.

"I am Vanderdecken, master of the Flying Dutchman! I take orders from neither God nor man! Nothing can stop

me, nothing in this world or the heavens above. Cower in your cabins or throw yourselves into the waters, what need

have I of worthless wharf dregs who call themselves sailors. Sailors. I will show you a sailor, a captain! As soon as I

have this ship rigged and ready, I set course again for Tierra del Fuego! I will take my vessel 'round the Horn

single-handed. Do you hear, single-handed. Stand in my path and I will slay you all!"

7.

NOT ONE SOUL ABOARD THOUGHT THAT he could ready the ship for sail alone. But Vanderdecken did it.

All night and half a day he could be heard, banging, clattering, scaling the masts, dragging sailcloth from lockers,

reeving lines, and lashing yards. His final mad act was to slash the sheet anchors free, fore and aft, then he dashed to

the steering wheel and bound himself to it. The Flying Dutchman took the swell of the gale as it struck her stern. Off

into the seas the battered craft sped, like a fleeing stag pursued by the hounds of hell into the midwinter wastes of the

ocean, headed again for Cape Horn and destiny.

One week later the food and water ran out. Without the captain's protection now, Neb was left to fend for

himself. The boy had never been so frightened before. Now, bolting the galley door, he fortified it by jamming the

table and empty barrels against it. Whenever a crewman hauled himself across the swaying, rolling decks to bang

upon the galley door, Denmark's hackles rose and he barked and snarled like a wild beast until the crewman went

away.

Each time the ship lost way and was driven back in the pounding melee of blue-green waves, Vanderdecken

screeched and raved, his sanity completely gone, tearing at his hair and shaking a bloodless fist at the seas and sky,

sometimes laughing, other times weeping openly in his delirium.

On the first day following that dreadful week, the Flying Dutchman was driven backward for the third time by a

howling hurricane of wind, snow, and rain. But straight to the east the vessel careered this time, sails torn, masts

cracked, shipping water that sloshed about in empty holds from which the last scraps of cargo had been jettisoned to

save the ship.

Then by some perverse freak of nature the weather suddenly becalmed itself! An olive-hued stillness hung upon

the Atlantic; rain, snow, and wind ceased. Startled by the sudden change, Neb and his dog came out on deck. The

crew deserted their accommodation, creeping out furtively into the dull afternoon. It was as if heaven and all the

elements were conspiring to play some pitiless joke on the Flying Dutchman.

"Eeeeaaaarrrggghhh!" All hands turned to watch Vanderdecken, for it was he who had roared like a condemned

man being dragged to execution. With his sword he was feverishly hacking at the ropes that bound him to the ship's

wheel. Tearing himself loose, oblivious to the onlookers, he jabbed the blade skyward and began hurling abuse, at the

weather, at the failure.... At the Lord!

Even though the crew were men hardened to the vilest of oaths, they were riveted speechless by their captain's

blasphemy. Neb fell on his knees and hugged the dog that stood guarding him. Across on the eastern horizon, bruised

dull skies gave way to immense banks of jet-black thunderclouds, building up out of nowhere. With fearsome speed

they boiled and rumbled until they darkened the daylight overhead.

Simultaneously, a bang of thunder shook the very ocean and a colossal chain of crackling lightning ripped the

clouds apart. Men covered their eyes at the unearthly scene. The green lights of Saint Elmo's fire caught every spar,

mast, and timber of the vessel, illuminating the Flying Dutchman in an eerie green glow. Vanderdecken fell back

against the wheel, eyes staring, mouth gaping as the green-flamed swordblade fell from his nerveless grasp. Neb had

buried his face in the dog's coat, but as Denmark crouched flat, he unwittingly allowed his master this view.

A being, not of this earth, was hovering just above the deck. It was neither man nor woman, tall and shining

white, bearing a great sword. It turned and pointed the sword at Vanderdecken. Its voice, when it spoke, was like a

thousand harps strummed by winds, ranging out over the sea, beautiful yet terrifying. "Mortal man, you are but a grain

of sand in the mighty ocean. Your greed and your cruelty and your arrogance turned your tongue against your Maker.

Henceforth, and for all the days of time, this ship, with you and all upon it, are lost to the sight of heaven. You will

sail the waters of the world for eternity!"

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.

Vanderdeckcn 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 firewood, 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.

Carefully the old man approached Neb. He touched the youngster's cold, damp arm, then placed a palm on his

hot, dry forehead, murmuring gently. "Young one, you are starving, soaked, and fevered. You will not have much to

give thanks for if you perish out here in the open. Your dog needs rest and food, too. My hut has food and fire—you

will both be warm and dry. Come with me, I won't harm you. Come!"

Luis took off his cloak and draped it about the boy's trembling shoulders.

Neb and Den exchanged thoughts. "This is a good old man, we will go with him, Den."

"Gurr, I go with you."

Luis had quite a big hut, which of necessity suited the lay of the windswept clifftops. It was dug into the lee of a

slanting rock, which formed one wall and part of the roof. The rest of its construction was mainly of ship's beams,

planking, and tree boughs, chinked together with stones and earth sodding. The whole thing had a lining of ship's-sail

canvas, of which Luis seemed to possess a fair amount. It had a rough door, which had once belonged to the cabin of

some sailing vessel, with a canvas curtain draped across to keep out drafts. There were no windows, so all in all it was

fairly weathertight. Luis seated them in a peculiar construction made from a wrecked lifeboat, padded out with dry

grass and sacking. It was very comfortable. He fed wood and coal to the fire, which was held in a deep brazier of strap

iron. On a tripod over the flames was an upturned ship's bell, with the name Paloma Verde engraved into its

soot-blackened metal. Luis struck it with a ladle; it clanked dully.

"Sometimes the sea is kind to a poor man. It washes up gifts for him. See, a cooking pot, a lifeboat couch, and

many other things I have taken from the shores. Señor Neptune can be a good friend. Look at tonight—he sent a

lonely old shepherd two guests to share his fire and food. Wait!" He rummaged in a corner, bringing forth a thick

sheepskin poncho and some soft, clean flour sacks, which he gave to Neb. "Give me your wet clothes, dry yourself

and that good dog with the sacks, then put on the sheepskin. It is a fine warm one. Do not fall asleep yet, young one.

You must both eat first."

Neither the boy nor the dog had ever known such kindness in their short, hard lives. Luis handed them each a

bowl of hot mutton and barley soup, which they ate in silence. He watched them both, refilling the bowls twice. The

old shepherd then brewed a hot, dark, fragrant drink from cut and dried leaves, to which he added sugar that he broke

from a big cone and creamy ewe's milk

Luis sipped his own, noting their grateful reaction. "That is called tea. It comes from the east, where it grows in

far Cathay. Some years ago a merchant vessel was wrecked off the coast. My friend the sea provided me with four

barrels of tea. It is rare and valuable. Do you like it, Neb?"

Sniffing at the fine aroma, Neb replied, "It is good!"

The meal finished, Luis watched with eyes that were grey and watered from years in the hostile climate. As his

guests' heads began to droop with weariness, he mused quietly. "You are the strangest pair ever to come my way, but

the Tierra has taught me to ask no questions. If one day you wish to tell me about yourself, boy, I will listen. If you

should choose to keep your secret, well, who am I but a poor old shepherd who takes bad and good fortune alike. Life

is but part of the Lord's great mystery. He did not put me on this earth to interrogate others. Sleep now, you are tired,

sleep."

A final thought communicated itself from boy to dog. "Luis is a good man, we are safe here, Den."

"Gurrrr, no more Dutch .. . man, grrrr!"

9.

TIERRA DEL FUEGO. 1623. THREE YEARS LATER.

DAWN CAME, AS HEAVY AND GREY AS the headland rocks, with pale light piercing forbidding cloud

banks on the far horizon. Aided by Neb and Den, Luis herded his small flock back from the clifftops. Hooking a

half-grown ewe with his crooked staff, the old shepherd turned her back inland.

"Come away from the cliff edge, little one, or you will never grow to be a mother. Go, join your family."

He waved to the boy, who was some distance away. "That's the last one, my son. Take them to the pen. It is not

good for sheep to roam loose on a day like this."

Cupping both hands around his mouth, Neb called back. "Aye, winter played a trick on us, hanging about and

not letting spring arrive yet. Don't stay out too long, Luis. We'll see you back at the hut!"

The shepherd's leathery face wrinkled into a smile. He stood with his back to the cliffs, watching his two friends

moving the flock along, as though they were born to the task.

Before the dog arrived, Luis had only a bellwether to lead his animals, a crusty old ram with a clanking iron bell

tied about his neck, a flock patriarch who bullied and jostled his charges into submission. Sheep would always follow

a bellwether, often into dangerous areas, much to the shepherd's dismay. However, with the arrival of the dog, all that

changed. Luis was astounded at how quickly Den learned to take commands; the black Labrador immediately took

issue with the lead ram and gave the bellwether more than one severe lesson.

Den became the flock leader. Though he graciously allowed the bellwether his customary position in front of

the sheep, it was the dog who circled them, giving directions and keeping the creatures together and safe. Den had

grown stronger. In the course of three years he was bigger and healthier with a coat that shone like black silk. A far

cry from the half-starved bonebag Luis had first discovered at the sea's edge with Neb. The old shepherd turned to

stare out at the restless face of the deeps, his thoughts turning to dwell on the boy.

Neb! That strange boy, the gift Luis had received from these same stormy seas. The boy who had only a few

words and some odd sounds upon arrival at Tierra, yet within an amazingly short time was speaking fluent Spanish.

But he was not a Spaniard. Luis knew this because in odd moments he had heard Neb singing snatches of sea shanties

in several languages, mainly some Scandinavian tongue, Danish perhaps. The boy had been a mystery and a wonder

to Luis in these years. He was highly intelligent, and after a month or so of his coming, very strong and agile. The

shepherd put down the boy's physical fitness to his own good cooking.

Neb took to sheepherding like a duck to water, and he and the dog were a superb team. They had but to look at

one another and any problem with the flock was solved. The boy never spoke of his past life, seeming only to live for

the moment. Sometimes Luis would sit by the fire late at night, staring at his sleeping face, trying to fathom the

enigma of this sea child. Always Neb would open his eyes and smile disarmingly. He would question the old man on

many things. What was the best way to shear a sheep, which grasses and herbs could cure various forms of lamb

ailments, which plant should the flock avoid eating? Luis would forget his original thoughts about Neb's clouded past

and would converse animatedly with the lad, speaking to him as the son he never had.

Yet, before Luis turned to sleep, his mind would stray back to the question of his young friend. Who were his

parents? How did he come to be living here, in a shepherd's hut at Tierra del Fuego, the place some called the Tip of

the World? Where was he bound, how were he and Den able to comprehend one another with such surety, and more

important, why had neither the boy nor the dog grown taller or seemed to age by a single day since they had arrived?

Granted, they had both filled out and grown quite healthy, but not older.

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 Lui9. "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 were 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.

"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.

O'er hill and mountain, land and sea,

'cross desert dry and pasture green,

mystic countries, towns, and cities,

what strange sights those two have seen.

Gaining wisdom, wit, and knowledge,

in joy, and sorrow, peace, and war,

helping, caring, bringing comfort,

always traveling, learning more.

Is it not surprising, then,

each of them has changed his name,

Den is Ned, and Neb is Ben,

the two who from the Dutchman came?

Where are they now, our dog and boy,

where heaven commands they go,

beyond the echo of some far bell?

Read on and you shall know!

THE VILLAGE

11.

ENGLAND. 1896.

THE RAILWAY HAD FINALLY COME TO Chapelvale. Obadiah Smithers drew a turnip-shaped gold watch

from the pocket of his brocade waistcoat and consulted it. "Hmph! Eighteen minutes past two, a quarter hour late. I'd

liven 'em up if it were me running this railway, by thunder I would. Time's money, and I can't afford to waste either,

that's what I always say!"

The young lady sitting opposite him clung to the velvet strap as the train jerked noisily to a halt. She adjusted

her bonnet, agreeing with the older man.

"That's what my papa always says, too, sir." Obadiah plastered a few strands of hair into position on his red,

perspiring brow. Standing, he adjusted his black-tailed frock coat and donned a silk top hat.

"Sensible man, your father, 'twas him and I who persuaded the powers that be to install this branch line to

Chapelvale. Progress, y'know, this town needs t'be dragged into modern times, been a backwater too long. Can't stop

progress, m'dear."

Maud Bowe hated being referred to as "m'dear," or "young lady." However, she smiled sweetly at Mr. Smithers.

"Indeed, sir, progress and modernity go hand in hand."

But Obadiah was not paying much attention to her observation. He was struggling to get the door of the private

compartment open, without much success. Lowering the window, he bellowed officiously at a porter. "You there! Get

this confounded door open this instant!"

Both engine and leading carriages had overshot the platform by twenty feet or more. Recognizing Chapelvale's

most prominent citizen, the porter came running and snapped the door open with alacrity. Obadiah fumed as he

allowed himself and Maud to be helped down onto the sleepers and rough limestone pebble. "What's the matter with

you people, eh? Can't you stop the train in its correct position?"

Bridling at the unjust accusation, the porter complained. "Ain't my fault, sir, I don't drive the engine, y'know!"

Obadiah Smithers's face went brick red in its frame of muttonchop whiskers. He shook his silver-mounted

walking cane at the man and almost tripped over a sleeper. "Damn your impudence! Get along to the guard's van an'

pick up this young lady's luggage before the train goes an' it ends up who knows where. Go on, get along with you!"

A towheaded lad aged somewhere between thirteen and fourteen years, accompanied by a big, black Labrador

dog, emerged from the guard's van. Over one shoulder the boy toted a canvas bag with a drawcord neck. He dug into

his pocket and passed a silver sixpence to the guard, winking. "Thanks for the ride, Bill!"

The guard, a cheery-looking young man, grinned as he returned the wink and patted the dog's head. "Now, don't

go shoutin' to everyone that I let you 'n' Ned ride without a ticket. You'll get me in trouble, Ben. 'Bye, you two!"

The porter came scurrying up. "Baggage for the girl in the private compartment, you got it there, Bill?"

A lady's traveling valise and a fancy carpetbag were slung out onto the platform by the guard. "There y'are, two

pieces!"

Black smoke wreathed up from the engine into the hot blue summer sky. All along the platform train doors were

slamming shut. The dog Ned stood patiently at Ben's side as they took stock of their surroundings. A uniformed

station-master waved them away from the train with his folded flag as, whistle in mouth, he checked the length of the

platform. Hissing noises emanated from the engine as it dripped water on the track. Suddenly, it emitted a rushing

cloud of steam. Maud screamed shrilly, hobbling up onto the platform in her long, fashionably narrow skirt.

Shooshing steam enveloped Obadiah Smithers as he stamped onto the platform, roaring, "Engine driver, what's

your name, man? Near scalded us both t'death, you idiot. I'll report this to your superiors!"

His speech was drowned by a long blast from the train whistle combined with the noise of the stationmaster's

whistle and a grinding of wheels and gears. Chuffing noisily, the train rumbled away up the branch line. Whilst

Smithers harangued the stationmaster, a local carrier bore Maud's luggage to a horse-drawn cart outside the station

fence.

With the train's departure, Chapelvale resumed its customary calm. Ben communicated a thought to his black

Lab. "Come on, let's take a look at the village."

Ben was opening the white picket gate of the station when he found himself in competition to get out of the gate

with the impatient Smithers. "Out o' me way, silly young ass!"

Ben was trapped in the gateway by the man's bulk as he tried to push past, brandishing a silver-mounted stick

angrily and shouting, "Make way for your elders an' betters, or I'll . . ."

"Grrrrrrrr!"

Ned was beside Smithers's leg, the Labrador's hackles bristling as it bared its teeth. Obadiah Smithers froze in

his tracks. The dog took a step aside, allowing the man an escape route, but Smithers stepped back a pace, too,

allowing both boy and dog to pass through the gate. His confidence returned once he was clear of the pair, Obadiah

closed the gate and ranted at them in high bad humor. "That beast should be destroyed—it nearly attacked me! I'll call

a constable if you set it on me again!"

The boy turned to face him, smiling at first. Then the smile went from his face. With eyes like two chips of blue

ice, he stared at the big, stout man. Smithers was lost for words. Those eyes. He shuddered, transfixed by the strange

lad. There was neither fear nor respect in the boy's silent gaze, only contempt. Dismissing him, the boy turned away

and walked off with the dog loping alongside him.

Snorting indignantly, Smithers turned to the girl. "Did y'see that? Impudent young blaggard. If he crosses my

path again I'll lay this stick about him, and that growlin' cur, too, see if I don't!"

Ignoring his bluster, Maud went to stand by the cart, and Smithers turned his wrath upon the driver. "What're

you standing there gawking at? Let's get going!"

Outside the station, Ben and Ned stood at the top of the lane looking down toward the village, which nestled

snugly in a valley between two hills. Roads leading in and out were little better than broad tracks of well-trodden,

hard-packed earth, old and dusty. None of them straight paths, they meandered and rambled quaintly. Some were

skirted by hedges of privet and hawthorn, overhung by elm, beech, and holm oak trees. Others had dry stone wall

edgings, the soft greystone chinked with moss and bordered by hogweed, dandelion, and yarrow. The far hill had a

spired church on its brow. Cottages and small landholdings dotted patchwork fields where sheep, cows, and horses

grazed. Ben stared at the not-too-distant village square with its black and white Tudor shops and buildings, none over

two stories high. He passed a thought to his friend.

"There's the chapel on the hill and the village in the valley. Chapelvale. What do you think, Ned?"

The Labrador's tail wagged idly. "Sleepy little place. I hope the people are nicer than that big, blathering lard

barrel we met at the station. I like it, Ben, but what are we supposed to be doing here?"

Ben scratched behind the dog's ear. "It's got me stumped. We both had the same feeling—this was the place to

get off the train. Let's go and take a look at the village. If nothing comes up, we might just move on to somewhere

else."

A boy and girl, obviously brother and sister, were walking up the lane toward the greystone station. The girl

was about Ben's age, the boy slightly younger.

Ben waved cheerily at them. "Hello there, wonder could you help us?"

They immediately warmed to Ben's friendly manner. He looked a carefree type, with his unruly blond hair and

blue eyes, long white canvas pants and a crewneck cream sweater, and a coat that appeared slightly large. There was

an air about him, as if he had some sort of seafaring experience. The big, black Labrador with him was wagging its

tail, a nice, companionable dog. The boy stroked it.

"We haven't seen you two around Chapelvale before, are you new here? How can we help you? This is a fine

dog you've got!"

"What an intelligent boy, he recognized quality right off!"

Ben cut across the Lab's thoughtful remark. "We're straight off the train, never been here before. I'm Ben, which

is Neb backwards, short for Nebuchadnezzar. This fellow is Ned, which is Den backwards, short for Denmark. Bit of

an odd name for a dog, ain't it?"

The girl, who had dark hair and brown eyes, was very pretty, even prettier when she smiled. "Nebuchad . . .

what? Sorry, my name's Amy, Amy Somers. This is my brother Alex. I'm quite nice, but he's fairly dreadful

sometimes. What is it you want, Ben?"

"Er, someplace we can get something to eat. We're absolutely famished, aren't we, Ned?"

The dog nodded. Alex looked startled.

"Ned, your dog ... he just nodded his head?"

Ben scratched Ned's neck roughly. "It's just his collar, it bothers him on warm summer days. Now, is there

anywhere we can buy some food?"

Alex thought a moment, frowning. "I think you'll be out of luck, Ben, shops are closed today, but take a stroll

around the village square. Maybe you'll find something, though I doubt it. Good luck anyway."

Ben and Ned moved off.

Amy called after them hopefully. "Will you be staying in Chapelvale, Ben?"

He winked at her and smiled secretively. "Who knows, maybe."

Alex called out rather anxiously. "Be careful, Ben, watch out for the Grange Gang!"

The strange boy shrugged carelessly. "Who are the Grange Gang?"

"A gang of rotten bullies who go about trying to make people's life a misery. Particularly strangers and old

people."

Amy warned, "I'd steer clear of them if I were you."

Ben turned to look at Amy. She felt her skin prickle at the sudden iciness in his strange blue eyes. Then it was

gone, and he chuckled quietly.

"Don't worry about us, pals. We've met gangs before!"

Amy watched Ben and his dog wander off down the lane. "I'll bet they have, too. He's the oddest boy I've ever

seen, but I like him."

Alex found himself agreeing with his older sister. "I do, too, I don't know why. And that black Labrador ... I

wish we had a dog like it. I hope they stay. D'you think they will, Amy?"

His sister repeated the strange boy's words. "Who knows, maybe."

Alex had been right—all the shops in the market square were closed for the afternoon. It was as if Chapelvale

were taking a long siesta in the summer heat. The worn cobblestone paving, whitewashed walls, and heavy black

beams, combined with blue-grey slate roofing and dark green roller blinds in shop windows, accentuated the lazy

noontide stillness and the absence of folk out shopping.

The boy and his dog crossed the square together and made their way up the big, sloping hill behind the village.

Shops thinned out, and so did the houses after a while. Ned gave Ben a sad look. "Please tell me we're not looking for

another barn to spend the night in."

Ben passed his thoughts back to the Labrador. "We never asked to turn up in this village. I'm sure the angel has

guided us here. Just thank your lucky stars it's a peaceful little country place."

The dog raised his eyes mournfully. "Oh, it's peaceful enough."

Ben tickled his ear fondly. "Stop grumbling, a barn is better than a dry ditch beneath a hedge. We'll get a good

breakfast tomorrow morning, as soon as everywhere is open. Bacon, sausage, toast, eggs ..."

Ned let his tail droop. "D'you mind, my tummy's rumbling!"

12.

A FAT PEAR, BROWN WITH ROT, SPLATTERED against the parlor window, causing the black cat inside to

leap down from the sill, where it had been sunning itself. Old Mrs. Winn watched the overripe pulp slide down the

glass, then heard the chanting begin. It came from behind the thick fringe of purple-and-white rhododendron bushes

growing at the bottom of her sloping lawn. "Winn Winn, Winnie the Witch! Winnie the Witch and her big black cat!

Winn Winn, Winnie the Witch!" This was followed by barely stifled giggling and the hollow boom of a wet earth clod

striking the old lady's front door.

She spoke to the cat, who was her only companion. "Those children are back again, Horatio. Why do they

persecute us? We've never harmed them, have we?"

Horatio jumped lightly into her lap, staring at his mistress with magnificent amber eyes, meowing faintly as he

stroked his head against her open palm. Mrs. Winn sighed.

"If Captain Winn were still alive, they wouldn't be so quick to bother us then, eh, Horatio?"

She stared sadly at the oval framed portrait hanging above the fireplace mantelpiece. Captain Rodney Winn,

R.N., stood frozen in time there, dapper as a new pin in his number-one dress uniform, complete with medals, braid,

and bars. His peaked cap was tucked under one arm, a strong right hand resting on a table that contained a potted

aspidistra and a Moroccan leather-bound Bible. Not a hair of his white goatee was out of place. Square-jawed and

resolute, the captain had steady blue eyes that commanded all he surveyed, a man among men. Hero of the Sevastopol

blockade and many other naval encounters in the Crimean War of the 1850s. Now sadly deceased.

The parlor window shuddered under the impact of a bloated dead toad, which fell onto the outside sill. Chanting

broke out anew as Mrs. Winn rose stiffly from her chair and made for the door.

"Winnie the Witch with the wrinkly face, come on out and give us a chase!"

She collected her cleaning equipment and opened the door slowly. Horatio slid by her, his tail curling sleekly.

He watched as the old lady placed mop and bucket to one side. Taking a straw-fringed brush, she began sweeping the

broken soil clod from her porch onto the flower bed below.

"Look, Winnie the Witch is going to chase us on her broom. See, I told you she was a real witch!"