Chapter Two: A Dream Forgotten
The page Alan slipped into the palace stables, contemplating hard. He didn't care a whit about how George had come to power, and, true to his honor, he would be a good friend and not tell. What he wanted to know was where he had seen that one-legged pirate, Long John Silver, before. He couldn't be certain, but the face of the old scoundrel stuck in his mind like nothing else had, even the history facts the old Mithran priests drilled into the pages until they could recite them perfectly. It was like a dream he had once had, an odd feeling of dejá vu, seeing this man's face. Where had he seen him before? Alan kicked in frustration at the door to one of the stalls, and a horse poked his head out, sleepy and confused.
"Naow, you don't be wantin' t'do that," said a drawling voice from above. "Leave the poor beasts be, and let 'em get the sleep they deserve, the way ye lads ride 'em so 'ard."
Alan glanced up. There in the hay loft, leaning against a beam with his arms crossed, at ease with the world, was the horse handler, Stefan, a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face. "What be troublin' ye, lad? And why be ye comin' in so late? Not another drinkin' contest wiv His Majesty, naow?"
Alan sighed. "I don't drink that much, Stefan, and you know it. Have you ever heard of Long John Silver?" Stefan's expression quieted, and somehow Alan didn't think it was because of confusion. "Well, do you?" he demanded, holding back his frustration when Stefan didn't speak for a few long moments.
"Why be ye askin'?" said Stefan, slowly and with an odd note in his voice.
"He was there tonight, at the Dancing Dove with George. Came in late in the evening and stayed to talk to George in private. I think I've seen him somewhere, only I can't remember where, or when." Stefan was still silent, staring at a niche in a wall with a look Alan couldn't ever remember seeing on his face before. Startled, Alan realized that it was fear.
At last Stefan looked up. He took a small swallow, and then looked at Alan as though sizing him up. Finally he spoke in a low voice, close to a whisper, and Alan had never heard him so anxious before. "Whatever ye do, Alan, don't go lookin' for him. And perchance ye do meet him, never mention my name. Promise me this, Alan?"
"Of course," said the page, puzzled. "But Stefan, wha–"
"Say it!" Stefan pleaded urgently. "Say ye promise!"
"I promise to not mention you to him," Alan said, putting emphasis on each word. "But who is he, why are people so in awe of him?"
"He was the quartermaster of the great Flint, the pirate. An' he was the fiercest, most underhanded, sly dog o' them all. Strong methods he used to ensure the men's loyalty, strong and subtle. Why, when I remember the times..."
"Wait a minute," Alan interrupted, a strange thought growing in his mind. "You were one of them? You were a pirate under Silver?"
"Aye," said Stefan softly. "I was young then, tha' was before I discovered me true talent wiv horses. I thought to go to sea and bring home rich treasures, like so many of th' young lads do. But all it ever brought me was trouble."
Alan's stunned thoughts showed across his face. Stefan, a pirate? Somehow he just couldn't imagine it. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and then asked carefully, "So, why don't you want him to know you're here? I bet he'd love to have a couple of ales with an old shipmate of his–" but Stefan was shaking his head impatiently.
"Ye don't understand, lad. See, I crossed him. Badly. And he never forgets a man who's crossed him. Usually he just takes yur finger, an' that's it, but I was too scared. I ran that night, and I was just lucky to escape him. If he can't have yur finger, he vows to take th' rest of ye. And no, I ain't tellin' ye what I did to make him so angry. You should be in bed, and if my lord Duke finds ye here, talkin' wiv me past curfew, I could lose my job. 'Sides, I got horses to tend." And with a crunch of hay, he disappeared.
Alan stared after him dubiously. They had had late night talks in the stables before, and the hostler had never used that excuse to halt the conversation before. Gloom settled on the boy. It looked as though he wasn't going to find much more from Stefan, at any rate. Sighing, he went to bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The little boy wandered the shoreline, kicking at driftwood aimlessly and staring out across the ocean. He had heard there were dolphins out there in the deep blue, creatures almost as intelligent as humans, and twice as friendly. How he wished he could see one, but they didn't come in this close to shore. He dropped his gaze to the sand, searching for shells. If he brought back enough pretty ones, he could make a shell necklace for his mother; that would please her. Thoughts preoccupied, he started when he heard a faint shout from the way he had come. Blinking, he glanced back at the beach house and stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide. A ship was anchored in the harbor. It hadn't been there when he had last looked back; it was as though it had appeared out of thin air. Squinting, he could see figures moving about rapidly on the decks, and he glanced towards the flag that was waving from the mast. Black, with a white figure that he couldn't make out. Definitely not a merchant ship. He panicked; it could be a pirate ship! And with his mother there, and his little brother... He raced towards the action, hugging the shoreline and trying not to trip over rocks. He had to get there, had to save them; not for a second did he pause and reflect that, as a small boy with little strength, he could do little to help his family. He just ran on.
As he drew towards the fighting, he saw his father, sword in hand, fighting the pirates with all his strength. And his mother wasn't standing by idly and watching, either. Yelling furiously, she had plowed into the fray, swinging her frying pan with such skill and deadly accuracy that there were few who dared to come near her. Pausing to catch his breath, the little boy drew his knife, intending to bring down as many as he could with his speed and agility, but before he could join the chaos, a shot rang out. His mother fell to the ground, dead, her frying pan still tight in her grip. His father, seeing this, screamed with rage and grief and flew into such a whirlwind of attacks and thrusts that the pirates were forced to retreat to their ship. Panting, the man collapsed on the ground, only managing to drag himself over to his lifeless wife, caressing her still face and sobbing into the sand.
All the little boy could do was stare, numb. His knife fell from his grip and he sat down on the ground, hard. It had happened so quickly; how could it have happened? It must be a dream, he told himself, refusing to let himself look at her. It must be a nightmare. Oh, please, let it be just a dream...
But he never woke up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gasping, Alan sat up in his bed, the sheets clinging to him in cold sweat. The nightmare was still running through his mind, and he forced himself the wipe the tears from his eyes. He hadn't had that one in a while. He thought he had almost forgotten the memory of that horrible day, the day his life was forever altered by marauding pirates. For some reason the memory had resurfaced, in a dream, no less. What could have prompted it? Then he realized. Closing his eyes, a face resurfaced from the memory that had been buried so long. The face of the pirate leader, the man who had held the gun that shot his mother...
The face of Long John Silver.
Rage gripped him like a glove as he realized that, just hours ago, he had been sitting at the very same table as his mother's killer and had done nothing. He had been in the presence of her murderer, and all he could think of at the time were the compliments the old sea shark had given him. Inside he had glowed with pride at being recognized by a man so highly regarded as an old friend of George's. How could he have been so deceived? And George, how could he be friends with a man like that? Alan lay back on his pillow, his emotions wired. He couldn't go back to sleep. This problem needed serious contemplation.
The page Alan slipped into the palace stables, contemplating hard. He didn't care a whit about how George had come to power, and, true to his honor, he would be a good friend and not tell. What he wanted to know was where he had seen that one-legged pirate, Long John Silver, before. He couldn't be certain, but the face of the old scoundrel stuck in his mind like nothing else had, even the history facts the old Mithran priests drilled into the pages until they could recite them perfectly. It was like a dream he had once had, an odd feeling of dejá vu, seeing this man's face. Where had he seen him before? Alan kicked in frustration at the door to one of the stalls, and a horse poked his head out, sleepy and confused.
"Naow, you don't be wantin' t'do that," said a drawling voice from above. "Leave the poor beasts be, and let 'em get the sleep they deserve, the way ye lads ride 'em so 'ard."
Alan glanced up. There in the hay loft, leaning against a beam with his arms crossed, at ease with the world, was the horse handler, Stefan, a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face. "What be troublin' ye, lad? And why be ye comin' in so late? Not another drinkin' contest wiv His Majesty, naow?"
Alan sighed. "I don't drink that much, Stefan, and you know it. Have you ever heard of Long John Silver?" Stefan's expression quieted, and somehow Alan didn't think it was because of confusion. "Well, do you?" he demanded, holding back his frustration when Stefan didn't speak for a few long moments.
"Why be ye askin'?" said Stefan, slowly and with an odd note in his voice.
"He was there tonight, at the Dancing Dove with George. Came in late in the evening and stayed to talk to George in private. I think I've seen him somewhere, only I can't remember where, or when." Stefan was still silent, staring at a niche in a wall with a look Alan couldn't ever remember seeing on his face before. Startled, Alan realized that it was fear.
At last Stefan looked up. He took a small swallow, and then looked at Alan as though sizing him up. Finally he spoke in a low voice, close to a whisper, and Alan had never heard him so anxious before. "Whatever ye do, Alan, don't go lookin' for him. And perchance ye do meet him, never mention my name. Promise me this, Alan?"
"Of course," said the page, puzzled. "But Stefan, wha–"
"Say it!" Stefan pleaded urgently. "Say ye promise!"
"I promise to not mention you to him," Alan said, putting emphasis on each word. "But who is he, why are people so in awe of him?"
"He was the quartermaster of the great Flint, the pirate. An' he was the fiercest, most underhanded, sly dog o' them all. Strong methods he used to ensure the men's loyalty, strong and subtle. Why, when I remember the times..."
"Wait a minute," Alan interrupted, a strange thought growing in his mind. "You were one of them? You were a pirate under Silver?"
"Aye," said Stefan softly. "I was young then, tha' was before I discovered me true talent wiv horses. I thought to go to sea and bring home rich treasures, like so many of th' young lads do. But all it ever brought me was trouble."
Alan's stunned thoughts showed across his face. Stefan, a pirate? Somehow he just couldn't imagine it. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and then asked carefully, "So, why don't you want him to know you're here? I bet he'd love to have a couple of ales with an old shipmate of his–" but Stefan was shaking his head impatiently.
"Ye don't understand, lad. See, I crossed him. Badly. And he never forgets a man who's crossed him. Usually he just takes yur finger, an' that's it, but I was too scared. I ran that night, and I was just lucky to escape him. If he can't have yur finger, he vows to take th' rest of ye. And no, I ain't tellin' ye what I did to make him so angry. You should be in bed, and if my lord Duke finds ye here, talkin' wiv me past curfew, I could lose my job. 'Sides, I got horses to tend." And with a crunch of hay, he disappeared.
Alan stared after him dubiously. They had had late night talks in the stables before, and the hostler had never used that excuse to halt the conversation before. Gloom settled on the boy. It looked as though he wasn't going to find much more from Stefan, at any rate. Sighing, he went to bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The little boy wandered the shoreline, kicking at driftwood aimlessly and staring out across the ocean. He had heard there were dolphins out there in the deep blue, creatures almost as intelligent as humans, and twice as friendly. How he wished he could see one, but they didn't come in this close to shore. He dropped his gaze to the sand, searching for shells. If he brought back enough pretty ones, he could make a shell necklace for his mother; that would please her. Thoughts preoccupied, he started when he heard a faint shout from the way he had come. Blinking, he glanced back at the beach house and stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide. A ship was anchored in the harbor. It hadn't been there when he had last looked back; it was as though it had appeared out of thin air. Squinting, he could see figures moving about rapidly on the decks, and he glanced towards the flag that was waving from the mast. Black, with a white figure that he couldn't make out. Definitely not a merchant ship. He panicked; it could be a pirate ship! And with his mother there, and his little brother... He raced towards the action, hugging the shoreline and trying not to trip over rocks. He had to get there, had to save them; not for a second did he pause and reflect that, as a small boy with little strength, he could do little to help his family. He just ran on.
As he drew towards the fighting, he saw his father, sword in hand, fighting the pirates with all his strength. And his mother wasn't standing by idly and watching, either. Yelling furiously, she had plowed into the fray, swinging her frying pan with such skill and deadly accuracy that there were few who dared to come near her. Pausing to catch his breath, the little boy drew his knife, intending to bring down as many as he could with his speed and agility, but before he could join the chaos, a shot rang out. His mother fell to the ground, dead, her frying pan still tight in her grip. His father, seeing this, screamed with rage and grief and flew into such a whirlwind of attacks and thrusts that the pirates were forced to retreat to their ship. Panting, the man collapsed on the ground, only managing to drag himself over to his lifeless wife, caressing her still face and sobbing into the sand.
All the little boy could do was stare, numb. His knife fell from his grip and he sat down on the ground, hard. It had happened so quickly; how could it have happened? It must be a dream, he told himself, refusing to let himself look at her. It must be a nightmare. Oh, please, let it be just a dream...
But he never woke up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gasping, Alan sat up in his bed, the sheets clinging to him in cold sweat. The nightmare was still running through his mind, and he forced himself the wipe the tears from his eyes. He hadn't had that one in a while. He thought he had almost forgotten the memory of that horrible day, the day his life was forever altered by marauding pirates. For some reason the memory had resurfaced, in a dream, no less. What could have prompted it? Then he realized. Closing his eyes, a face resurfaced from the memory that had been buried so long. The face of the pirate leader, the man who had held the gun that shot his mother...
The face of Long John Silver.
Rage gripped him like a glove as he realized that, just hours ago, he had been sitting at the very same table as his mother's killer and had done nothing. He had been in the presence of her murderer, and all he could think of at the time were the compliments the old sea shark had given him. Inside he had glowed with pride at being recognized by a man so highly regarded as an old friend of George's. How could he have been so deceived? And George, how could he be friends with a man like that? Alan lay back on his pillow, his emotions wired. He couldn't go back to sleep. This problem needed serious contemplation.