[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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.