For months the Captain repeated his odd ritual. Every night he came to the galley, spoke a few words with the Chef, looked at the boy and said, “Good night, sleep well. I hope to kill you in the morning.”
But the nights were not good, the boy did not sleep well, and though many mornings came the Captain never did kill him. The boy hated sailing with pirates. They constantly assailed weaker vessels, took everything from those who did not resist, and never spared any who fought back. Their swords were wicked, cutting down good men without restraint. With each raid the boy silently hoped the for the pirates’ defeat and his freedom, but the pirates were cowards. They never risked an attack on a ship that looked even the least bit dangerous. One day the boy heard the pirates complaining about the Royal Navy, which grew stronger and closer every day. The King was coming against them. So the pirates set sail for distant waters and waited for the King to forget about them. But those waters were dark and strange, and the crew grew uneasy. While they were out on those high seas, the waters grew rough and uneasy. Tall and terrible waves crashed around the ship, and yet there was not even a breeze of wind. The crew trembled in fear, as did the boy. The sky was black and speckled with stars. It was no storm. An awful screeching roar blared forth from the sea. Long slender shapes twisted into the starry sky. A frightened crew member yelled the single word each of them feared. “Kraken!” The terrible tentacles twisted down to the deck of the ship, ripping through sails and rope as if they were nothing. Men screamed and hacked at the massive arms of the beast, but it was no use. The ship split in half. The boy clung with all his might to a barrel of dried fruit. There came up a dreadful sucking sound from beneath him. It reminded the boy of water draining from a tub but longer and far louder. As he looked down he saw a fearsome black pit open beneath him. A ring of teeth ran around the edge of that awful mouth, and he stared in horror as the beast swallowed men whole. At that moment the boy did not fear death. Whatever came after life, it was surely better. Life, from the boy’s experience, was a constant state of fear, shattered dreams, and, apparently, Kraken teeth. His father often tucked him in bed after tales of far better things. He remembered whispers of beauty, adventure, and love – and a better world after this one. He prayed silently and prepared himself for the teeth. They looked sharp. The tentacle wrapped around the boy’s barrel lifted him skyward. He came closer and closer to a point directly above the grinding teeth and black maw of the beast. From the corner of his eye he saw a bright flash. The noise that followed was that of a gunshot. A gunpowder keg exploded, glaring for a moment more brilliantly than the sun. The Kraken roared deafeningly. The tentacle wrapped around the boy’s barrel writhed in pain and flung him away into the sea. His barrel was knocked away by the blast. Icy water surrounded him as he sank into the sea. He felt little strength to swim. The moonlight slipped down to meet his eyes, stinging from the salt water. Still, he no longer feared his death. He welcomed the thought of leaving the terrible sea. But a terrible spark ignited in his heart, and it refused to let him die. The sea did not kill him, pirates did not slay him, and even the mighty Kraken did not swallow him. He refused to let himself die. With every fiber of strength left in his body he pumped his legs and thrashed his arms. Truthfully, he did not know how to swim, but he began to rise up. The moon grew larger, the stars began to glimmer, and at last his head rose above the water. Far in the distance he heard the roar of the Kraken once again. A barrel bobbed in the water nearby, and after a moment he reached it and clung to it for dear life. Cold sea water surrounded him. Salt stung his eyes. His ears still rang from the roar of the beast. His body throbbed in pain. As he blinked away the salt from his eyes he saw a small fishing ship on the horizon. He yelled with all his strength. A small band of fishermen found the boy floating in the sea, clinging to a barrel of dried mangos. The fishermen could hardly believe his tale, but when they came to port at a nearby island they discovered the boy’s father, who also survived the pirates’ raid. His own tale is almost stranger than his son’s, but that is a story for another day. As for the boy, he never again feared the sea. He even joined the Royal Navy, where his stories continue to be disbelieved by new recruits and bested by the oldest captains. The end.
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The boy, too terrified to even think of trying anything, kept his mouth shut.
The two pirates brought him aboard the terrible vessel and pushed him to the deck. “’Ere’s the little scunner Cap. What should we do wif ‘im?” The boy looked up, trembling, and stared into the steely gray eyes of the Captain. A single long scar distorted his face. His lips bent down in a sneer. A large dark hat topped his head. Too scared to look away, the boy continued to stare at the Captain. With a voice like cold steel the terrible man spoke. “Put him in your charge, Chef, and have him prepare my breakfast tomorrow morn’. If I do not enjoy my breakfast I shall run him through and let the sea swallow him with the rest of that crew.” His verdict pronounced, the Captain turned on the silver heel of his boot and marched away. With the Captain gone, the crew burst into laughter. A pudgy hand landed on the boy’s shoulder and pulled him to his feet. “Looks like you and Oi are goin’ to be good friends.” The ogre-pirate called “Chef” bellowed, “if you know ‘ow to cook, that is.” Another round of boisterous laughter followed the Chef’s comment, and the boy lost all fear of the churning waves for dread of the Captain’s frozen eyes. Shoved down a steep set of stairs, the boy saw a dimly lit room that smelled of death. In the center was an aged iron cooking pot that bubbled ominously. “Ere’s the galley then,” bellowed the Chef, “Make a mess of it an’ Oi’ll see that the Cap’n doesn’t like your cookin.” His ugly laugh sounded again. Piles of litter covered the room. The boy could imagine no possible way to make the disgusting galley any more vile. He found hope in that thought. He was at once set to cleaning by the Chef, and bit-by-bit he scrubbed away the mess. Each moment the careful eye of the ugly pirate watched him, but the boy decided to follow orders whether or not he was being watched. He did not care to think of the alternative. His overseer yawned and stretched his swollen body. “Well, is abou’ time fer me to sleep. If ye care fer yer life though, ye may wan’ to star’ thinkin’ o’ the Cap’n’s breakfast.” His thudding footsteps clunked out the door and into the hold where the crew slept. Once again terrified, the boy panicked. The galley, hardly any cleaner than before, was no fit place to cook. Still, the image of the Captain’s sword pushed him to try something, and all night the boy searched his mind for something to cook. Finally an idea came to him, and as the sun began to rise he was done. A crewmember peaked through the door, “The Captain is waiting for his breakfast in his quarters.” The door slammed shut, making the boy jump. He looked at his creation, a piece of fish and roasted vegetables baked over the fire. His father often served a similar dish in his inn. His hands shook as he carried the plate upstairs to the Captain’s room. More than once he almost dropped it, causing his heart to skip a beat. At last he entered the most beautiful room in the ship, and there sat the Captain, steel-eyed and cold. Without a word the boy set the plate in front of the Captain. The Captain’s long slender fingers picked up the fork and knife. He began to eat. Agonizingly slowly the fish and vegetables began to disappear. Time crawled by. At last the plate was empty. The Captain wiped his mouth and glared at the boy. “You have bought yourself one more day, boy.” He stood up and brushed a few crumbs from his shirt. “Do whatever Chef asks, and stay out of the way.” The rest of the day passed quietly. The crew seemed sullen at their lost sport, but their fresh loot distracted them. The boy continued to clean under the Chef’s careful eye, and when at last the sun began to sink, the Captain came to the galley. “I will have my breakfast at sunrise.” He said, and he looked at the boy with a queer smile. “Good night,” he said. “Sleep well. I hope to kill you in the morning.” Once upon a time in a fair kingdom by the sea, there lived a young lad who was terrified of the ocean. He watched ships go out to sea, but each time they set sail he imagined himself standing on the deck watching the land sink away. His stomach turned over and his fear forbade him to set foot on one of the great sailing ships.
This terrible fear of the sea was likely the fault of the sailors’ many tales. Often when the ships came to land, the sailors came to the inn of the boy’s father. There they bested one another with terrible stories of sea witches, giant serpents, and the terrible Kraken. Even when the sailors were not telling tales of monstrous creatures they traded news of pirates. Many of those burly men bore vicious scars from the raiding brigands. “Sea Devils,” they called the pirates. He hated listening to those stories, but as much as he despised them, they amazed him. Now one-day the boy’s father announced a plan to travel to a distant land. The boy was delighted, for he would never again need to stare at the ships going out to sea. Neither would he listen to the terrors of the sea as the sailors traded stories. His father’s announcement of their new home soon crushed that delight. They were moving to an island. The boy panicked at this news, for in all his life he never once imagined a fate more terrible than living on an island. An island, he thought, was more like a ship than real land. Yet the day of their departure came, and the boy gripped his luggage with white knuckles. Ahead of him menaced the white sails of a ghastly ship. Far behind him stood the lovely white caps of the mountains. With his knees shaking and stomach writhing, he crawled up the wobbly gangplank and stumbled onto the ship. The next thing he remembered was laying in a hammock in the belly of the ship and trying to hold in the contents of his own belly. He failed. Day by day the rocking of the ship put terrible visions of sea beasts and pirates into his mind. Though his father tried to nurse him back to health he showed little improvement. The boy could not be persuaded to leave his bed for anything. One fateful day as they sailed on and on - for it was quite a long journey - a ship appeared on the horizon. Its black sails towered into the sky, and a red flag fluttered in the sea wind. No one came below deck to tell the boy, but he heard the shouting, the readying of canons, and the clamor of swords being drawn. The clattering became silent for a long while, and the boy hoped the pirates had left them alone. An unfamiliar voice crushed those hopes. “Give us your treasure, or we take your lives!” The boy could not think of any reason a dead man might need gold and quickly decided he preferred life to treasure. He hoped his captain thought the same. The booming of canon fire dashed his frail hopes once again. Gaping holes opened in the walls of the ship, and the boy saw sunlight for the first time in weeks. His absolute terror prevented him from caring. He felt the boards of the ship breaking apart underneath him and clung desperately to a wooden beam. His ears rang from the cry of canons. His stomach rolled and twitched. He could smell the burning canon powder mixing with the salty air. Water gushed into the ship. Another canon roared, and the boy found himself trying to hold on to a piece of wood bobbing in the open ocean. Around him floated the wreckage of his own ship, and there, standing against the cloudy sky, was the ship with black sails. A menacing red flag fluttered in the wind. “Oi! We’ve got a live one ‘ere cap’n!” Yelled a rough voice. “Bring it aboard!” Came a smooth and dreadful reply. A strong hand grabbed the boy, and he was rudely plopped into a small boat between two incredibly ugly men. The uglier of the two – though both sported grand-champion scars, warts, and wildly disproportionate features – pointed a rusty blade at the boy and smiled. “Try anyfing an’ Oi’ll gut you quicker ‘an you can blink.” |
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