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

“It’s the least I can do to thank you for driving those wretches away from the house. The trouble they’ve caused me! And the whole village. But enough of that, you’ve probably got troubles of your own. Come on, you two, we’ll use the parlor. It’s not often I have visitors.”

14

    BEN SAT AT A SPINDLE-LEGGED COFfee table in the parlor, tucking into a sizable wedge of Mrs. Winn’s apple pie, with fresh cream poured over it. There was a tall glass of homemade lemonade with it. Ned had retired to the kitchen for his beef bone and water, where Mrs. Winn also gave him a piece of short-bread pastry. Horatio arched his back and leapt onto a table, until the big dog passed him reassuring thoughts. The cat did not reply, but after a while began purring and came down to rub itself against Ned’s leg.
    Mrs. Winn smiled approvingly as she came out to fetch the rest of her apple pie and cream. Returning to the parlor, she set it down in front of her guest.
    â€œBoys always like apple pie; help yourself, son, you look as if you could use some more. Go on, don’t be shy!”
    Ben took another generous slice. “Thanks . . . Winnie, we haven’t had much to eat since yesterday morning.”
    As he ate, the blue-eyed boy studied the portrait over the mantelpiece. “Is that your husband’s picture? Anchor Line cap’n, eh?”
    Mrs. Winn stared curiously at him. “Not many lads your age would know that the Royal Navy is called the Anchor Line. Are you a seafarer, Ben?”
    The boy took a thoughtful sip of lemonade. “Not really. I’ve knocked about on barges and coasters as a galley lad. You hear things about the sea . . . it’s always interested me. I’ve read quite a lot of sea stories, too.”
    The boy did not like lying to the old woman, but he knew he could not tell her the truth. Who would believe that he and Ned had sailed on the Flying Dutchman in the year 1620! It would strain any credibility to believe that boy and dog were still alive and well, ageless, in the year 1896.
    He caught Mrs. Winn staring at him intensely and turned away as she asked, “I won’t tell anyone, Ben, where are you really from?”
    He shrugged. “I think I was born in Denmark, Copenhagen, but I’m not sure. Ned’s from there, we’ve always been together. We’ve lived in quite a few places . . . here and there.”
    Mrs. Winn shook her head, perplexed. “I’ll bet you have. Any parents, brothers or sisters?”
    â€œNot that I know of, ma . . . Winnie. I was planning on staying in Chapelvale for a while, as soon as I can find somewhere that allows dogs. I don’t suppose you’d know of a place?”
    Mrs. Winn suddenly felt sorry for her strange visitor. He looked so young, so alone. Concern showed in her voice. “You mean that you haven’t anywhere to stay?”
    Ben nodded. “I’ve got money. I could pay for lodgings, and I’d see Ned didn’t bother anybody.”
    The old lady sat watching the boy. The flat grandfather clock chimes rang out four-thirty. Ben had finished the last morsel of apple pie when his dog came from the kitchen and lay down contentedly, his head resting on the boy’s scuffed boot. Fidgeting and fussing with her apron corner, Winnie looked up to the ornate molded ceiling, then down to her husband’s portrait, finally settling on Ben.
    Something in her eyes told him she had reached a decision. Tapping her worn gold wedding ring against the chair arm, Mrs. Winn pursed her lips. “You aren’t in any kind of trouble, are you, my boy?”
    Ben sat up straight. “Certainly not, Miz Winn!”
    She touched his hand reassuringly. “I believe you. You said you were thinking of staying in Chapelvale for a while. I suppose that means you’ll be moving on one day. Hmm, you’re a puzzle, Ben. There’s more to you and your dog than meets the