[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (8 page)

“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!”

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
!

WINTER FINALLY GAVE WAY TO SPRING. Late-afternoon breezes soughed over the short headland grass as Den drove the flock toward the penned area. Leaning on the open gate, Neb watched his dog's progress. The boy chuckled aloud, communicating his thoughts to Den. Rain began to spatter the back of his hand on the gatepost. Once the mental telepathy between them both had been firmly established, Neb soon learned that his dog had a wit and sense of humor that any intelligent being would envy. He laughed aloud at Den haranguing the sheep, listening to the dog's mental grumbling.

“Grrr move, you useless lumps of wool and mutton, move! Ahoy there, Bellface, grrr stir your stumps and lead 'em into the pen. Not that way, you blathering bonebag, over there! Can't y'see Neb holding the gate open? Grrrr, leave it to you and the whole flock would end up going over the cliff!”

The bellwether turned and stared resentfully at Den. “Baaah!” Den returned the stare with interest, baring his teeth. “Baaah to you, too, sir! Now get 'em in that pen or I'll give that baggy tail of yours such a nip that I'll bite it off!” Finally getting things right, the bellwether led the flock past Neb into the pen. Neb closed the gate and looped a securing rope noose around the gatepost.

Den joined him, standing on hind legs, forepaws perched on the gate. Neb patted the Labrador's head, passing him a thought. “Haven't you taught these sheep to speak yet?”

Den shook his head in disgust. “All they know is to eat, sleep, and look stupid. ‘Baaah' is about all I can get out of them!”

Rain was starting in earnest. Neb hunched his shoulders against the onslaught, hiding a smile. “I remember when every second thought from you was either a wuff or a gurrr.”

Den kept his gaze on the sheep milling about in the pen. “‘Wuff' and ‘gurrr' are important expressions to dogs. But ‘baaaah' or ‘maaahah'—sheep don't even know what that means.”

Neb pulled up the hood on his poncho. “Just thank the Lord that sheep weren't born intelligent, or they'd be twice as hard to control. If I thought somebody was keeping me only for wool and meat, I'd be off like a shot and away!”

Den bounded off in the direction of the hut, leaving a thought to Neb. “Well, I'm off like a shot for the hut. You can stay here and exchange baaahs with them if you like.”

Neb stayed awhile, making sure the sheep settled down. It was close to lambing time, and some of the ewes were slow and heavy with their unborn burdens. A sheet of lightning lit the horizon far off, accompanied by the rumble of thunder from the ponderous, dark cloud masses. The boy shuddered. Closing his eyes, he gripped the rail once again. In his mind's eye he saw the ship's deck peopled by the living and the ghastly dead, felt the
Flying Dutchman
roll to the storm's swell beneath his feet, envisioned Vanderdecken, wild-eyed, lashed to the ship's wheel. Neb shook himself. Tearing his cold hands from the gate rail, he dashed off to the hut, forcing his mind to blank out the terrifying scene.

Luis was waiting by the fire with hot tea, mutton stew, and bread made from wild maize. He smiled up at the boy as Neb cast off his wet poncho and sat down next to Den. Luis listened to the thunder rumbling far off. “The Drums of Heaven. It will be a bad storm tonight, my son.” He peered across the fire at the silent boy. “My son, are you ill? You look pale, what is it?”

Applying himself busily to the meal at hand, Neb shook his tousled hair and flashed Luis a quick smile.

“It's nothing, I'm all right, old man. You should be concerned about the flock and that storm brewing outside. I think it will be a hard one.”

Luis crossed himself again. “I pray the Lord it will not be so. With eight ewes ready for lambing, what shepherd wants a storm to upset them? We'd best keep an eye on the weather tonight.”

Den nuzzled his head under Neb's hand, sharing a thought. “It was the Dutchman, wasn't it. I felt him, too, when I heard the thunder, as if he were reaching for us.”

Neb scratched behind his dog's ear. “Aye, I felt the ship was close somewhere—it's a hard thing to drive from your mind. But we're safe, and we have our angel to thank for it.”

Den replied with his usual dry wit. “We have a lot to thank that angel for. I'll bet it was the angel who taught Luis to make mutton stew taste so heavenly.”

The shepherd had been watching them both closely. Handing Neb a bowl of tea, he chuckled. “Talking to Señor Den again, eh, boy? What did he say to you?”

Neb winked secretively at Luis. “He says your mutton stew tastes heavenly.”

The shepherd rocked back and forth as he laughed. “What a good dog he is. Truthful, too!”

Neb took his tea to the door and opened it halfway. “Just look at that rain coming down. I'll sit here and take first watch on the pen.”