[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman by Brian Jacques Page B

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 fire-wood, 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.”
    â€œGurr, 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,