(Josie
Sayz: This is a story of mine that I started writing several years ago, and I finally
got around to editing it. It is based off a MERP_UK game that an old friend and I started working on together. The game got lost very early on and
will never be revived. I originally wrote the story for the old friend that I
was working on the game with, however, as I know he will never get to read it,
as we are no longer friends, I am quite proud of it. I’m finally over the
emotional attachment and am ready to edit my story and share it.
Part 1: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2021/11/mf-saviour-of-ships-1-blackout.html)
Moonstone Fortress
Saviour of Ships
Awakening
His palms sunk. Water washed over him. Pain shot through his neck, as he rolled his head. A distant groaning grew louder. His eyes shot open. His heart hammered. Darkness. He gasped. Something covered him. His stomach spiralled. Grainy, crosshatched fabric pressed against his skin. His eyes widened. The roaring grew closer. His skin dampened. With a sharp sniff, he bolted up right. Light blinded him. Seeping a breath through gritted teeth, he threw a hand to his eyes. The fabric flopped to his lap. He shuddered. Sodden clumps clammed to his palms. Lowering his head, he dropped his hands to his lap. ‘Sand?’ he frowned as the grains clustered between his fingers. Watching the sand crumbled to his lap, his eyes fell upon the fabric. Running a thumb across its surface, he muttered, “Calico?” with a frown.
Roaring in the distance grew louder. His head shot up. Waves. His eyes widened. Punching his fists to the sand, he pushed himself to his feet. Staggering back, he let the sea carry the sheet with it. As the fabric washed away, he arched his head over his left shoulder. Sand stretched out several feet in front of him. A seagull swept overhead. Cawing, it rested on a cluster of rocks. A flock of the feathered birds flapped nearby. He shuddered. As his head continued to arch, his feet followed. Spinning in the sand, his toes sunk. As he kicked his ankles, his head lowered. His heart thudded. His shoes were gone. His trousers were torn. Water soaked up his legs. Buttons were missing from his shirt. Scratches clawed at his arms. Roaring gushed towards him. His eyes widened. Throwing his head over his shoulder, he leapt onto a rock. Jabbing his arms out, he flapped as he toppled to the right. Water lashed at his feet. His heart leapt to his throat. Scanning the ground, he hopped over a couple of rocks, distancing himself from the waves.
Staring ahead, his eyes widened. His chest pounded. Lodged in the sand lay a ship. He swallowed hard. Cracked through the centre, two halves of a wooden vessel protruded out of the sand. Angled away from each other, the bow and the stern pointed off in separate directions, both reaching towards the sky. As the waves lashed against the shore, water seeped in through the crack between the ship’s two sides. Sinking into the sand, the main mast separated the bow form the stern. Barrels, wooden chippings and fragments of the frame bobbed about in the shallowed sandbanks. Staggering forwards, he gasped. Images flashed through his mind. A storm. His heart leapt. Cannon fire. His chest pounded. A pirate ship. His stomach spiralled. Fog. Rocks. He gasped. Long Tom. The mast. His heart leapt to his throat.
Leaping down from the rocks, he splashed into the shallows that lined the wreckage. Debris kicked at his ankles, as his eyes gazed upon the cracked vessel. ‘It can’t be,’ the cabin-boy gasped, as thudding in his ribcage loudened. ‘The ship… our ship?’ his brow furrowed. Throwing his head over his right shoulder, he twisted around on his heels. With the remains of the vessel behind him, a mound of rocks lined the vision to his left. To his right lay the few feet of sand that he had traversed and the sea. Gushing up from behind him, the sea swept over his footprints. Washing back to the sea, the waves shushed him, as his lips parted. As he spun back towards the ship, his mouth dropped open. ‘I’m alone,’ he gasped. His pulse pounded at his temples. As the water swept towards him once more, something clung to his leg. Fabric. ‘The calico…’ he frowned, crouching down towards it. Gripping the material between his hands, he stretched it out in front of him. ‘It’s the sail,’ he realised. ‘They covered me.’ His stomach knotted. ‘They thought I was dead.’
Running a hand through his hair, he dropped the sail to the sea and fumbled through the debris. Kicking water up his legs, the cabin-boy ventured towards the stern of the ship. Cracked crates lined the edge of the stern’s final resting place. Stumbling, his heart leapt, as he grabbed out for a crate. Flopping against the wooden frame, he gawked at the gaping hole in the hull’s planking. Slats splintered. Cracked timber boards lined his surroundings. Peering into the darkened frame, he clambered inside. ‘They smashed their way through,’ he realised, poking his toe against a fired bullet case. ‘Whoever survived raided the supplies,’ he acknowledged, as he searched each crate. “Empty,” he muttered to himself, as he clambered deeper into the hull’s storage. Wooden slats lay shattered amongst shards of glass, dented steel plates and spoons. Sidestepping the shards, he fumbled into another crate. He stretched over it, leaning against its opening. His eyes widened. Something was inside. With a grunt, he strained his arm inside, spiking out his fingers. Tipping himself forwards, he kicked his legs out behind him. “Almost got it,” he croaked, as his digits wavered about skimming the edges of the item. A groan escaped his voice box, as he gave one final stretch. Clawing at the fabric, he threw himself back. A greyed, button-up shirt lay scrunched in his hands. ‘It’ll do,’ he told himself, ripping his tattered cloth from his torso. Slipping his arms into the sleeves, he cambered back through the debris.
Sloshing through the shallows, he strode towards the bow. Barrels lay overturned, bobbing about in the briny brook. Wooden beams littered his path. Slipping against a rock, he staggered forwards. His heart dropped to his stomach. Throwing his arms out, he flopped onto a barrel. Thu-thud! He gasped. Something rocked about inside the barrel. He pressed his stomach against it and stretched an arm over the head. Thumping his fist against it, he winced. His eyes darted around him. Sodden wood drifted by. Grumbling through gritted teeth, he jabbed his knee into the stave. Crack! The wood dented. Throwing his head over his shoulder, his eyes scanned the waters. Nothing but wet wood and rocks. Puffing out an exhale, he rolled his eyes. A glimmer of sunlight reflected off the water’s surface. The right corner of his mouth poked up. Crouching, he plunged his hand into the water. Sloshing the sea against him, he yanked up a rock. He scrunched his face, as he smashed his rock into the wooden container. A slit surged through the bung hole slat. Heaving his arm back, he gave a war-cry as he plunged the rock forwards again. The beam cracked inwards. ‘One more… oughta…’ He grunted, giving one final lunge. Staggering forwards, his fist plummeted through the barrel. Heart raging, he gasped. Dipping his head inside, a small rectangular object appeared to be wrapped in cloth. He slid his hand inside the barrel and swiped it.
Stepping away from the barrelled waters, he made his way back towards the sanded banks. Wind whistled, sweeping his curls from his face, as he perched on a rock. Peering through the clouds, the sun beat down on his sodden shirt and saturated trousers. He crossed his legs, placing his new-found object on his lap. Grabbing at the cloth, he tugged it back. His brow furrowed. A dark, leathered book slid out of the calico. ‘A book?’ he frowned, as he flipped the cover over. Running his thumb across the edges, it feathered against his touch. Tarnished metal squares fastened near each of the corners. ‘Why would anyone go to the trouble of hiding a book?’ he wondered, as he fanned open the pages. As the sheets flopped back, revealing the inside cover, he gasped. “Property of Captain H. Halakan,” he murmured. “The captain?” With a wrinkled brow, he prodded his right elbow into his knee, jabbed his cheek into his fist and flicked through the pages. ‘It’s his journal,’ he acknowledged, skimming through entries of the captain’s meeting with the king.
As his eyes danced further through the book, his heart beat louder. His stomach churned. A lump lodged in his throat. Shaking a hand across the script, he turned the page. ‘This isn’t what I signed up for,’ he gasped, as his eyes flickered across the page. ‘Capturing and hanging of pirates… bringing down their ships no matter what it takes.’ A shudder crept up his spine. His stomach spiralled. Shaking his head, he hunched his shoulders. ‘I thought we were just dropping off and picking up goods from Barkton Versulin.’ Running a hand through his hair, he let out a breath. ‘No one warned us of this… tracking down pirates… beating them to their death… fights… battles… ambushes…’
He wrinkled his nose. An ashy, burning, pine stench wafted into his nostrils. His head shot up. Smoke billowed out from a cluster of rocks, to his left. Pushing himself to his feet, a sweetened, gunpowder scent clung to the back of his throat. With a whooping cough, he flung his right arm across his face. Snapping the journal shut with his left hand, he stuffed it down the back on his trousers, stretching his shirt over it. As he stepped down from the rock, something knocked against his leg. Dipping down, he swiped it from the waters. Droplets dripped from a long, sturdy beam. Tossing the wood in the air several times, he caught it, testing its weight. He gave a nod, catching it for the last time. Running his fingers across the rugged surface, he flipped the wood over. Letters were etched in the plank. “The Charleston,” he gasped, staring down at the ship’s name in his hands. “You’d better bring me luck,” he muttered.
Crossing the wooden plaque over his body, the cabin-boy shuffled towards the smoke. Thud-thud! His heart rapped inside his ribcage. Thud-thud! Sweat saturated his palms. Swallowing hard, he tightened his grip on his weapon. Charcoaled ash swept into his throat. Throwing his back to the rocks, he flung a hand to his face, burying his nose in the nook of his elbow. His tongue scraped against the roof of his mouth. Squeezing his lips together, he pinched his nostrils tight. The tide roared towards him. Wind wafted the smoke. Inhaling a deep breath, he returned both hands to his weapon. He arched his back, hunching over his wooden blade. ‘This is it,’ he warned himself, as he neared the entrance within the rocks. Pressing his chest out, he marched on.
Keeping his head below the smoke level, his eyes squinted towards the light within. His heart leapt. He slid one foot in front of the other. Sweat dripped from his brow. Tightening the grip on the Charleston plank, he swallowed hard. “Aaarrrrrrgh!” came a war-cry to his right. Footsteps thundered towards him. He snapped his eyes tight. His heart barged into his ribcage. Leaning back, he slid down the wall of the cave. The footsteps slowed. Shaking, he squinted his eyes open. “Little Petey!” gasped a voice. Raising his head, Peter’s bottom lip quivered. A hand threw itself towards him. “Come here, lad,” beamed the voice above him. Placing his bony fingers inside the protuberant palm before him, the cabin-boy felt himself lift to his feet. Staggering, Peter swayed, as the large man before him, threw an arm around his shoulder. “Little Petey!” he exclaimed again, squeezing the cabin-boy into a bear hug. “Good ta see ya. Thought I was a goner.”
“It’s Peter,” the cabin-boy mumbled, against the chubby man’s pits. Twisting his head towards his new-found companion, Peter’s eyes widened. ‘Brandon,’ he realised, seeping a breath. Brandon was one of the men that he had been assisting with the Long Tom, during the pirate battle. He appeared to have lost his navy jacket and his yellowed, white shirt was also torn in several places. Mud marks streaked his dark complexion.
Pressing his weight against his companion, Peter allowed his eyes to wander. Flames from the crackling campfire, in the centre of the cave, lit the walls caving around him. He shuddered. A droplet of water dripped onto his head. Shifting his sight up, stalactites shimmered above. Arching his eyes around, moss crept across every crevice. Stalagmites cracked out of the ground, allowing water to simmer through. Ripples danced about in a rockpool, further ahead.
Something sparkled. Squinting, Peter’s eyes shot towards the campfire, before darting back, towards his companion. Swaying from Brandon’s right hand was the hugest, chopping blade Peter had ever seen. His eyes grew wider and his brow puckered as he stared. “Sorry I scared ya,” Brandon added, as he loosened his grip around Peter’s shoulder. “Thought ya were one a them pirates, like. Gotta be careful ‘round these parts,” he warned him, swinging his chopping knife. Leaning away from Brandon, Peter took a step back. “Chef’s blade,” Brandon told him, with a nod towards the knife. “Found it, like, when I awoke on shore. Thought everyone was gone, so I grabbed this ‘ere blade an’ hid away in ‘ere. Was scared a them pirates a showing up. I made this, ‘ere, fire ta keep me warm. Hoped one a ya survivors might see the smoke ‘n’ come lookin’ for me. A course,” he added with a shrug. “Woulda attracted them, there, pirates too.”
“Are you the only survivor?” Peter gasped, stiffening his shoulders.
“Who knows,” Brandon shrugged again. “I reckon Halaken made his way towards the village, like, with any a the men he could. Safety in numbers,” he told Peter, as he crouched towards the campfire. “Think I got knocked unconscious durin’ the crash,” he explained, over his shoulder. “But if it weren’t fer you, Little Petey, I’d a been a goner long ago.” Seeing Peter’s brow furrow, Brandon added, “Yer saved me from getting crushed by the main mast, boy.”
“Oh yeah,” Peter muttered with a nod.
“Aye, ‘n’ fer that, I’m most grateful.” Pressing his palms into his knees, Brandon pushed himself up and waddled around the campfire, towards the rockpool. “Reckon I’d been out cold several hours,” Brandon went on, as he cupped his hands into the water. “Anyways, now that yer ‘ere, the two a us can head towards the village.” Twisting his body around, Brandon faced the fire and poured a double hand scoop of sodden sand over the flames. The campfire hissed.
“You were waiting for me?” Peter frowned, tilting his head to one side.
“Not you exactly,” Brandon replied, pouring more sand from the rock pools over the glimmering glow. “J’st a companion a sorts. Can’t go a wandering through strange grounds alone. Who knows what’ll jump out at ya.” As the glow to the fire faded out, Brandon swiped his weapon and plodded over to Peter. Throwing an arm around the boy’s shoulder, Brandon led them both towards daylight. “Better stay close,” he warned Peter. “With a weapon like that,” he mused, eyeing Peter’s wooden plank, “Yer gonna need all the protection ya can get.”
Arching around the ridged coastline, Brandon led them to a line of greenery. Mounds of trees stretched out before them. “Once we find the river,” Brandon told him. “We’ll know we’re headin’ on the right course.” Peter stretched his head up, gazing at the top of the treeline, as it drew nearer. Something scratched at his feet. He seeped a breath, as his sight shot to the sand. Cracked shells and rugged rocks littered their path and blades of grass protruded through the sanded bank. Wobbling to his right, Peter threw an arm out for balance. “We’d better find ya some shoes, boy,” Brandon observed.
“I’m okay,” Peter muttered, wrinkling his nose. His foot throbbed. Pulse pounded down his leg. “I’m okay,” he repeated with a shrug. His stare hardened. ‘It’s only a cut,’ he told himself. ‘Worse could happen… and it probably will.’
As the pair traversed further into the forest, the thick, salty, seaweed stench faded. Inhaling long, and slow, Peter welcomed the scent of thick, musty barks and herbaceous grasses. Dusky earth, sweet nectar and springtime-due aromas swept over his skin. Choruses of birds tweeted away in trees up above. Scurrying squirrels leapt out in front of them. Bugs buzzed overhead. Bunches of black and grey birch trees faded into maples and oaks, the deeper into the forest they travelled. Peter hummed, as the thickness of nature swallowed the flashing images of cannon fire and sinking ships.
A distant hum loudened. Running across their right, the hum grew into a gushing hush. Clambering over some rocks, the two companions ventured closer towards the sound. Parting his way through the prickles in the privet, Brandon arched his head over his shoulder, towards Peter behind him. “Aye, we were right,” he informed him. “We found the river. Should lead us right ta the village.”
“And what help will that be when we get there?” asked Peter, pressing a hand against the branches that Brandon had yanked back. Passing through the privet, Peter joined Brandon alongside the riverbank.
“There’s an inn there,” Brandon told him, as he perched himself down on a rock. “The ‘Wreck-Age’. If Halaken made it, he an’ any a the survivors woulda headed there.” Perching down beside him, Peter nodded. “An’ if he’s not, Garrin’ll lend us a room ‘til we can get message t’ the king what happened.” As Peter’s furrowed frown returned, Brandon added, “Garrin, he’s the innkeeper. Lovely fella. Been here once before, with Halaken, like. Deliverin’ information an’ that t’ the isle.”
“Information?” Peter repeated. “The isle… wait, so you know where we are? You’ve been here before?”
“Yup,” Brandon nodded. “As a matter a fact, I have. ‘Nother duty from the king, it was. ‘Ad a pass on messages a smugglery. Pirates ‘ad been stealin’ the isle’s supplies an’ tryin’ a pass ‘em off as their own, once they docked inta Castellus. We docked in the harbour, mind you. None a this shipwreckin’ business.”
“So, you knew about the pirates?” Peter gasped. “You knew about Captain Halaken’s mission… we weren’t just dropping trade off at Barkton Versulin, but we were tracking down pirates, being made to cast fire upon any of them that cross our path, kill as many as we could, but bring their leader back alive.”
“N-n-n, now, now,” stuttered Brandon, running a hand through his brown hair. “How yer be knowin’ that?”
“I hear things,” Peter shrugged.
“Aye,” Brandon nodded. “Cabin-boy’s got a good ear. Yer, see, Cap’in Halaken was under strict word from King Charleston not t’ let word slip a what we were up to. The king didn’t want the country panicking over pirates. Yer’ve heard the stories, aye? Pillagin’ villages, slittin’ throats, lightin’ livestock ablaze. Ol’ King Charleston didn’t want Castellus ta fall apart wiv worry, like. Halaken swore ta secrecy. Only those closest to ‘im, that’ll be Lawson ‘n’ me, were ta know.” Dropping his sight to the ground, Brandon gave a shrug. “It ain’t all a lie, though. Truth is we were off ta Barkton Versulin with trade, ‘cept it was more information for protection, like. Only we never made it. Them rocks off a the edge a Shipwreck Cove (that’s a the island were stuck on, ‘ere) are a right blind spot fer travellers – ‘specially during bad weather, like the likes o’ last night.” Clambering to his feet, Brandon scooped some stones into his hand. Stepping towards the river’s edge, he snapped his wrist back and flung one of the stones towards the water. It skipped across the surface twice, before plopping into the riverbed. Punching his fist into the ground, Peter twisted himself around to grab a handful of pebbles, before jumping to his feet.
“So, what will happen now?” asked Peter as he flung a stone across the water’s skin. It took a bounce, before sploshing into the depths of the river.
“It’s all in the wrist,” Brandon told him. “Like this.” Arching his wrist back, Brandon snapped it forwards. His shingle took a hop, skip and a jump before gravity took its hold. “Well,” he breathed, leaning back, placing his hands upon his hips. “First it’ll depend if our Halaken made it.” Turning to Peter, he waited for the cabin-boy’s response. Peter nodded. “The mission’s at a loss ‘til we know more.” As Peter’s shoulders drooped, Brandon clasped a hand to his bicep. “Our Halaken’s one tough fritter,” he beamed. “Go on,” he added, jabbing his head towards the river. “Give it another go.” With a nod, Peter placed another pebble in his left hand. Parting his legs, he placed his right foot in front of his left. “That’s it,” Brandon encouraged, as Peter stretched his left arm out. “Twist yer wrist back a little.” Throwing his wrist forwards, Peter’s stone leapt towards the river. Dancing across the water, it skipped four times before landing with a splosh. “Atta boy,” Brandon beamed. “Yer a natural.”
In the distance, Peter spotted rows of coloured fabric flapping over the river, a little north-east of their position. The two leapt up and followed after it. Fumbling their way through branches, Brandon began slashing at the larger obstacles, swinging his blade about. With a bounce in his step, Brandon slashed his chopping knife in a swaying rhythm, as he stepped from his right foot to his left. Ducking, Peter leapt from one side to the other, as Brandon flung the freed branches overhead. As the branches thinned, a shrilled scream sounded in front of them. “Don’t strike me!” cried a wavering voice. “Take my clothes. Take my money! Just don’t strike me!” Lowering his weapon, Brandon stepped aside. Clambering through the bushes, Peter gasped at the wrinkled, elderly man, cowering behind his arms. Shuffled up against a large oak tree, the man pressed his back into the bark. Peter’s eyes flickered to the tree. Engravings etched above the cowering man’s head. Scratched into the bark were the markings of a steady hand. A perfect circle rung around a hatching of lines and curves. Stepping to the side, Peter leaned forwards staring hard at the markings. A crescent moon clung to the left edging of the circle. Crossed over it, the slashings of a star pointed from one side of the arc to the other. Five points jabbed out across the circle with a crooked, cracked line down the centre. Parting his lips, Peter let out a breath of awe.
“Relax!” cried Brandon, stabbing his blade into the ground. Hearing his companion’s voice, Peter shuddered, spinning his head towards the conversation. Brandon held his hands up in surrender and insisted, “We aren’t going to hurt you.” Returning his attention to the cowering man, Peter gasped, as a wrinkled face gazed back at his. Weathered cheeks and saggy eye sockets shimmered in his direction. As Peter shifted his balance to his left leg, the man shot his head back towards Brandon. The elder’s brow daggered.
“Have yer come to steal me wares?” the old man croaked, jabbing a knotted tree branch at Brandon. Returning the base of the stick to the ground, he leant his weight against it and limped forwards. “I ain’t got much, yer see an’ I-”
“Please Sir,” Peter begged. “We’re not thieves.” Wide eyed, Peter continued. “Our ship crashed. Last night. Out in a storm. We’re lost. We heard of a village.” Turning to Brandon, Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “We just need help,” he added. Returning his sight to the elder, Peter too held his hands out in surrender.
“I was just chopping through the forest,” Brandon added. “I was trying to create a faster route.” Folding his arms, the old man’s glare remained.
“We were trying to escape pirates!” Peter exclaimed.
“Pirates!” gasped the elder. “Why, now that makes all the difference.” His expression dropped. Nodding at Peter, the man turned his back to them and hobbled towards the river.
Flapping against the breeze, three lines of coloured fabric danced over the river. The hanging lines stretched across from the engraved oak tree to a leaning maple on the opposite side of the riverbank, strings knotted around the barks. Long flowing capes of spruce-blues, charcoals and mulberry wafted against the river’s surface. Blankets, jackets, trousers, dresses, hats and stockings all drooped against the old gentleman’s washing lines. Alongside the riverbank lay seven calico sacks, each knotted with a thick, double-twisted rope. Stretching up on his toes, the elderly man unhooked a navy cape from the centre line. As he turned back around, his sight returned to Peter. A warm smile stretched across the elder’s face, as he shuffled towards the cabin-boy. Stopping in front of Peter, the old man draped the blue fabric around Peter’s shoulders. With a sharp inhale, Peter opened his mouth. “There you go, sonny,” the old man smiled, patting Peter on the shoulder. “You two must be freezin’,” he added, looking Brandon up and down. Frowning at the chubbier man’s stomach, the elder tilted his head, stretching a finger across his chin. He shuffled back to the lines of clothing and tugged at one of the strings, shimmying some clothes towards him. Lifting a padded, black, tailed jacket from the wire, he handed it to Brandon. “Might be a little small fer you, fella, but it’ll do ‘til you make it t’ the village.”
“Thank you,” Brandon gasped.
“Yes,” Peter breathed. “Thank you, Sir. Thank you so much.”
“You’ll be needin’ some shoes too,” added the old man, shaking his stick at Peter’s bare, earthen feet. Before Peter’s voice box could squeak an objection, the man had wandered back towards his calico sacks. Bending his head over a rock, the man began muttering to himself. “Arrh!” he beamed, before shuffling back towards them. “Reckon they’ll fit ya just nicely,” he grinned, holding a pair of black, soled shoes out towards Peter.
“Sir!” Peter gasped. “I can’t take these,” he declared.
“But you must,” insisted the elder, placing the shoes in Peter’s hands.
“B-b-b, but, how could I ever repay you?” Peter stuttered with a shrug. “I have no money. I have nothing. I-” Placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder, the man’s expression softened. His eyes brightened.
“You will,” he whispered. “I see great things for you boy, should you choose to follow the right path.”
“I-I-” Peter croaked.
“Now, now, hush,” whispered the man. “Take them. You will earn them. In them, you will fight a great battle. Lives may be lost, but more will be saved. You will do the right things. I believe in you.” Winking, the man lowered his arm from Peter and bowed. “I bid the two of you a safe journey.” He turned to Brandon and bowed again. “Take care of this young soul,” he told him.
“I will,” Brandon muttered with a nod.
“Farewell, my friends. I feel adventure awaits you.”
After slipping into their new garments and bidding the elderly man goodbye, Peter and Brandon continued down the riverbank. The sun spanned the sky above them, their shadows looming behind. Having leapt across a slither of stepping stones, Peter now took the lead, on the opposite side of the river. As the vegetation changed from oaks to thinned leaves, black walnuts, ash and locusts now lined their way. Scraping his fingers out against the trunks of trees, Peter let his mind replay their interactions with the elderly gentleman. As he gazed down at his shoes, a smile stretched across his face. ‘They fit perfect,’ he mused. ‘It’s almost like they were made for me.’ Leaping over a rock, he landed with a chuckle. “You know,” Peter began, arching his head over his shoulder. “I think these are the comfiest shoes I have ever owned,” he confessed.
“Lucky for you,” Brandon muttered. Rolling his shoulders, he grumbled, “This jacket’s a little tight.” As Brandon tugged at the body of his new garment, Peter hid a snigger.
“Will you be able to get another in the village?” asked Peter, as he pressed a branch back for Brandon to pass.
“If I’ve got the coin,” Brandon grumbled, stuffing his fists into the jacket pockets.
They walked on in silence. Gravel crunched beneath their feet. A salty taste returned to the air. Inhaling the scent, Peter belched forwards. A rotten aroma clung to his lungs. “Yer alright?” asked Brandon, thumping him on the back. Coughing, Peter threw a hand out and grabbed onto a tree, as Brandon’s patting shuddered his skeleton.
“Yeah,” he wheezed, as he caught his breath. Arching his back, Peter pressed his palms into his knees. He closed his eyes and inhaled several slow, shallow breaths.
“Not used ta the sea air yet, are yer?” chuckled Brandon, passing him. “It’s alright; seaweed’s a little ‘ard t’ get used ta.”
“Seaweed?” Peter repeated with a frown. “You mean we’re back by the sea?”
“Can’t ya hear it?” boomed Brandon. “Village can’t be far.”
Seagulls cawed. Throwing his head to the sky, Peter watched, as they circled overhead. The line of trees thinned. Bushes sprouted at their feet. Trudging through long grasses, Brandon pointed up. “See the smoke?” he asked. Tilting his head away from the obstructing tree branches, Peter squinted. Puffs of dark smoke protruded into the sky.
“Yeah,” Peter replied with a nod.
“Bet it’s a chimney,” Brandon told him. “We must be close.” The two strode up the towering, rocky ledge, throwing one foot in front of the other. A stone rolled underneath Peter’s shoe. He staggered back. Looking up at Brandon, Peter swallowed, noticing his companion had come to a halt. Peter dove his heels into the ground, as he raced up the gravel to Brandon’s side. As he reached the top, his mouth dropped.
- Josie -
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