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

with its lamb reveling in the joy of newfound movement, skipping and leaping awkwardly about. Hardly a thought had passed between the boy and his dog. They sat outside the whole morning, heavy-hearted, gazing at the hut where the old shepherd lay. Neb finally rose at midday.
    He went inside the hut and gathered together a sack of provisions, his sheepskin poncho, and the crooked staff that had belonged to Luis. Lighting a tallow candle, he touched the flame to the interior sailcloth lining of the hut in several places. Dry-eyed, the boy placed his hand upon the shepherd’s cold brow and said slowly, “Good-bye, old friend. Thank you for the happiness you brought into our lives. Rest in peace.”
    Neb left the hut without looking back.
    He sat outside with Den, both of them watching the smoke curling up from the roof and wafting away on the breeze in silence. An hour passed; they moved back from the heat. The hut was now well ablaze. With a crash of burning timber the roof collapsed inward. It was then that the old bellwether ram plodded up from wherever he had been grazing. Ding! Clank! Ding! Clank! Ding!
    Neb had not seen the bellwether since the previous morning. He thought the old ram had probably been killed in the storm, maybe fallen over the cliff, or succumbed before the onslaught because of its great age. The boy smiled sadly as the old creature approached him, its primitive iron bell clanking mournfully. A pang of realization suddenly pierced him like a sword.
    â€œIt’s the angel’s message, the tolling bell!”
    The dog turned its sorrowful brown eyes up to him. “I dreamed about the angel, too, but I never thought our ram’s bell would carry the message. What do we do now?”
    Tears flowed unchecked from Neb’s clouded blue eyes. He slowly picked up the old man’s crooked staff, watching the bellwether back away from the glowing embers of the shepherd’s dwelling, its simple iron neckbell still dinging and clanking hollowly. “We must follow the angel’s command. It is time to go!”
    Up the valley they went together, north to Punta Arenas and the plateau land of Patagonia, leaving behind Tierra del Fuego, where great oceans meet at the bottom of the world.
    Away o’er wild and watery wastes
Vanderdecken sails his ship,
restless phantom, cursed by heaven
to that doomed eternal trip.
While decades turn to centuries,
as down throughout the ages
a boy and dog, forever young,
tread history’s vast pages.
Sharing times, both bad and good,
a friendship formed in smiles and tears,
guided by their angel’s hand,
two innocents roam the years.
O’er hill and mountain, land and sea,
’cross desert dry and pasture green,
mystic countries, towns, and cities,
what strange sights those two have seen.
Gaining wisdom, wit, and knowledge,
in joy, and sorrow, peace, and war,
helping, caring, bringing comfort,
always traveling, learning more.
Is it not surprising, then,
each of them has changed his name,
Den is Ned, and Neb is Ben,
the two who from the Dutchman came?
Where are they now, our dog and boy,
where heaven commands they go,
beyond the echo of some far bell?
Read on and you shall know!

THE VILLAGE

11
    ENGLAND. 1896.

    THE RAILWAY HAD FINALLY COME TO Chapelvale. Obadiah Smithers drew a turnip-shaped gold watch from the pocket of his brocade waistcoat and consulted it. “Hmph! Eighteen minutes past two, a quarter hour late. I’d liven ’em up if it were me running this railway, by thunder I would. Time’s money, and I can’t afford to waste either, that’s what I always say!”
    The young lady sitting opposite him clung to the velvet strap as the train jerked noisily to a halt. She adjusted her bonnet, agreeing with the older man.
    â€œThat’s what my papa always says, too, sir.”
    Obadiah plastered a few strands of hair into position on his red, perspiring brow. Standing, he adjusted his black-tailed frock coat