Free The Seven Gifts by John Mellor

leaving without saying goodbye to Charlie. The little
seagull had been a good companion during all those months on the
island - months that would have been intensely lonely without
Charlie.
    The Mate was still talking.
    “No-one knows what happened," he was saying,
“but the Ice Princess has been in the foulest of moods ever since.
Something to do with the band, I believe. I tell you, the kingdom
is no place to be these days; you'd be better off staying
......"
    He was cut short by a scream from somewhere
above their heads. Then a seagull smashed into the deck at their
feet in a flurry of blood and feathers. Its neck was pierced with
the bolt of a crossbow, and blood poured from the wound, swirling
around the seamen’s boots like a red tide. The Mate stared
horrified.
    But the Bosun turned cold. Ice ran down his
spine and into his heart as he knelt and cradled the dying Charlie
in his arms. Charlie looked at him with surprisingly calm eyes for
a long time, then suddenly fell lifeless in the Bosun's shaking
hands.
    Tears streaked the old man's rugged, lined
face as he slowly rose to his feet, gently holding the dead body of
his friend in strong seaman's arms.
    “Good shot eh?" came a cheery cry from
behind him. The Bosun turned unseeing, his eyes blurred with tears.
But the Mate saw.
    At the break of the poop stood a grinning
merchant, on board to keep an eye on his wares. His ermine-trimmed
robe ruffled in the breeze and a crossbow swung negligently from
his right hand. His round, puffy face looked pleased.
    “Scum!" spat the Mate, who knew full well
where the souls of drowned sailors went. The Bosun turned to him -
a kindred spirit.
    “Take me back to the island please," he
said.
     
     
    o ------------------------
o
    The young boy closed the
book on the Third Gift
    and remained a while with
his thoughts
    in the lonely tower at the
end of the beach

And the Angel watched over
him
    o ------------------------
o
     
     
    Gone Fishing
    IT WAS soon after midday when the Angel
entered the room. The young boy was sat at the desk staring rather
glassy-eyed at the third story, which still lay open in front of
him. He felt tired and fed up. There seemed to be all sorts of
possibilities in this one. The gift could be almost anything -
love, eternity, hope, life; anything. He could not sort out which
one.
    He did not seem to be doing very well so
far. He felt sure the Angel would soon despair of him. Whatever it
was he had to do on Earth, he was beginning to think he was just
not capable of it.
    He swivelled in his chair at the sound of
the door opening, and was surprised to see the Angel standing
there. He shrugged his shoulders apologetically.
    “I can't seem to figure out this one at
all," he said, with a sigh. “There are so many alternatives. What
is it?"
    The Angel shook her head slowly. Yes, I
know, he thought, I must work it out for myself. “I'm tired," he
said with some feeling.
    The Angel smiled. “Never mind," she said.
“Forget about that for today, I think you have had enough. Let's go
fishing." And with that she turned and left the room.
    The boy could hardly believe his ears.
Fishing! His tiredness vanished and he flew out of the door.
    The Angel's boat bobbed alongside the wall
of the tiny harbour, varnish and yellow paint glinting in the
afternoon sun. She was a sturdy little open boat some eighteen feet
long, fitted with a small two cylinder diesel engine, and a stumpy
little mast and derrick just abaft the foredeck. Under the derrick
was a capstan, driven by rods and gearing from the engine, for
hauling the little wing trawl that lay neatly flaked in the stern
of the boat. A small wooden trawl door hung from each quarter.
    The two of them climbed aboard the boat,
started the engine, and motored slowly out of the harbour. The
Angel stood at the tiller and, once clear of the entrance, she set
course for a patch of clean trawling ground where she knew they
would find some big plaice.
    The boy sat perched on