Free The Angel's Command by Brian Jacques Page A

was not easy. The Spaniard was torn by doubts as to the location of La Petite Marie— he seethed with resentment toward Thuron. At all costs the gold must be retrieved. Rocco did not take into account that it was he who had cheated the gold from the Frenchman in the first place. No! It was his gold, and he could not lose face in front of his crew by letting it, and Thuron, slip through his fingers. Besides, some of the gold had really belonged to him—it had been his stake in the game. Raphael Thuron and his crew had to pay for their boldness. He would punish them, yea, even unto death!
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The spectral figure halted in front of Ben and sat down. Enormous relief flooded the boy: this was no evil ghost, it was only an old man. But what an old man!
    Firelight reflected off his face as he pushed back his hood, revealing weather-lined features of immense serenity and kindness. A thousand wrinkles creased his brown-gold skin as he smiled through dark Latin eyes set in deep cream-coloured whites. Ben could see, without the least doubt, that this was a good and honest old fellow. His hair was wispy, pure silver; the robe he wore was that of some religious order, and a wooden cross of polished coconut shell hung from his neck on a cord. He spoke in Spanish, which the boy could readily understand.
    â€œPeace be with you, my son. I am Padre Esteban. I hope that you and your friends mean no harm to me or my people.”
    Ben returned his smile. “No, Padre, we only need food and fresh water, so we can continue our voyage.”
    A thought from Ned flashed into Ben’s mind as he saw Ned returning, dragging a large dead tree branch along the sand: “I felt your fear. Who is the man? Where’s he from?”
    Ben replied mentally to the Labrador. “Come here and take a look at his face, Ned—he’s a friend, Padre Esteban.”
    Ned released the branch and came to sit by Ben. “Padre Esteban, eh? He’s more like a statue of a saint than a man. I like him!”
    The padre reached out a hand that was the colour of antique parchment. Stroking Ned’s offered paw, he was silent for a while. Then, staring at Ben, he shook his head in wonder. “Who taught you to speak to an animal?”
    Somehow, the boy was not surprised that the charismatic old man had the wisdom to read his mind. He decided to tell him the truth. “Nobody taught me. It was a gift from an angel. Could you really tell I was talking to my dog, Padre?”
    The old priest never once took his eyes off Ben. “Oh yes, my son, you are called Ben, and this fine dog is Ned. But I see by your eyes that you have not been a young boy for many, many years—yours has been a hard and difficult life.”
    Ben was shocked by Padre Esteban’s perception. He felt as if he wanted to pour out his story to the wonderful old man.
    The padre merely reached out and took Ben’s hand in his. “I know, Ben, I know, but there is no need to burden an old man with your history. I see great honesty in you. The evil of this world has not tainted your heart. I must go now, but I will return at dawn. My people will see to the needs of your ship. Tell the captain we mean no harm to you.” He paused. “I must ask you to do something for me, Ben.”
    Squeezing the padre’s hand lightly, the boy nodded. “Anything for you, Padre Esteban. What is it?”
    The old man took the cross and its cord off and placed it about Ben’s neck, tucking it inside his shirt. “Wear this. It will protect both you and your dog from the one who pursues you. Remember it when you are in danger.”
    Ben took the cross in his hand. It glistened in the firelight. The depiction of the figure upon it had been carved carefully into the wood and outlined with dark plant dye. When the boy looked up again, the old man had gone.
    Ben told Thuron of his encounter with Padre Esteban, but he did not tell him of the cross or what the old