Bell Ringer

“So, ye be the scallywag who dared t’battle a Viking near twice yer bulk! Ho-Ho-Ho! Ye be a brave soul, ain’t ye...”

        The gravelly, yet wet and crusty northern sea-marmot’s voice sounded mockingly.

“But alas, such bravery be extinguished now! Prepare yerself for a lengthy and jolly life in servitude, me hearty, whether ye be likin’ it or not!”

“Morning then? Ugh! It must be your foul breath that put out the sun’s light... Oof!”

        Finlay let out a painful groan after receiving an excruciating strike to his abdomen.

“Rrrr! Ye blind, feeble cave-bat, open yer peepers! Ye got chores awaitin’ ye! And who knows, if ye be behavin’, ye might just become me trusty first mate at me right paw, savvy?

        The now unpleasant gravelly voice roared with a chuckle. Finlay emitted another grunt, mingled with a wheeze, as he endeavoured to regain his composure after enduring the afore-mentioned strike. He began to open his eyes, yet they winced in discomfort as a radiant beam of sunlight infiltrated their depths, causing a prickling sting. In time, Finlay prevailed, his gaze fixed upon blurred silhouettes that loomed in his field of vision. Through narrowed, diminutive orbs of a deep crimson hue, Finlay strained to discern the identities of the figures who stood before him. One was large, with a round gut and long coattends draping behind, whilst the other seemed skinnier and more robust, yet both seemed to illude his ability to decern which of the two had delt the blow.

“Who goes there?!” Stuttered Finlay’s young adolescent voice.

“Why don’t ye give yer eyes a few good blinks and discover fer yerself, matey!”

“Well, you said it right before when you called be a cave-bat. I can’t see well. But I can hear plenty! And by the sound of your voice, you sound like a traitorous, evil, dirty old sea Rat! Hauhck!”

        He was hit with a sharp pain in his stomach, just below his ribcage. Instantly, he fell over in pain as he gasped for air.

“Oi! Fetch this foul-tongued bait from the floor and shackle ‘im to the back wall! Two days without grub or drink for this rogue! The sight of ‘im stirs the rage within me gullet!”

The evil voice echoed as he turned and took his leave.

          As Finlay's acute ears detected the distinct sound of footsteps, their rhythmic tip-tapping upon the wooden surface drew closer to his vicinity. Before long, he found himself being rudely hauled along the course, weathered planks, his body subjected to jarring abrasions. Finlay emitted a hiss, accompanied by a fierce growl, as he valiantly attempted to resist the unwelcome procession. Alas, his efforts proved futile, and he was met with a forceful shove that sent him sprawling upon the floor. The scrape of chains against his foot claws reached his ears, followed by the resolute clasp of a lock, firmly binding his appendages. With one final click, the echoing footsteps receded, departing from the scene, leaving Finlay in his constrained predicament.

“Rrr... Come back and fight me like a real warrior you vermin scum! (Hisss!)”

        Finlay yelled rebelliously. Suddenly, a mysterious object hurtled through the air, swiftly homing in on its target—none other than Finlay's head. With a resounding Conk! it made contact, striking its intended mark with undeniable precision.

“Ow! Why you! I’ll get out of here one day! Mark my words, me, and anyone you have captive here!”

        Finlay yelled as he fought and struggled against the chains only to receive the door shackle locking in response, its sound coloured by the reverb of the tiny, wooden storeroom that served as a prison.

        Within the confines of this enigmatic wooden prison, a profound stillness settled, broken only by the mournful creaking of its timeworn structure. To exacerbate matters, the very ground beneath seemed to sway with an unhurried rhythm, swaying slowly from side to side and at times, fore and aft. There was nothing to hear other than the drone of what seemed like a distant zephyr along with the sporadic, sombre drip that splashed upon the puddled wooden floor. Finlay battled against his restraints once more, a surge of fervour empowering his every move, while the chains responded with a tumultuous uproar. He thrashed about until he grew weary from the effort! Teeth gnashing against unyielding metal proved naught but a painful endeavour, and scratching at it yielded no respite. Even the most forceful of tugs merely tore at his ankles, leaving them to bleed unabated. Defeated, Finlay sank into a hunched position where his thoughts were left to roam freely.

“RRrrr! I miss the sounds of home… I shouldn’t have flown so far… What if there is no escape? What if I never feel the stone floors of my cave again? What if… No… I must escape! But how?”

        Suddenly something caught his ear and distracted his attention. It resembled that of shuffling not even six paces away. Finlay froze as he listened intently. Soon he could here whatever it was, reach the floor with their foot paws. Tick…tick…tick. Each foot paw wavered unevenly. The figure stumbled closer to the cage bars and began to speak.

“He’s got us locked in here till we get to sea, and I, even longer than that...”

        The voice said tiredly.

“Sorry, forgot me manners. I’m called Rootbag.”

        It was hard to make out what this rough-looking creature was, but by the sound of her voice, she seemed likely to be a hedgehog, or perhaps even a vole.

“Mmm? Rat got your tongue? Well, you must have a voice, I heard you screaming vengeance against that big, bruiting Marmot up deck. But he’s not to toy with, you know. I found that out the hard way.”

        Her voice fell to a more resentful tone as she spoke. She wondered over to where weak sunlight was being diagonally cast, its rays leaking in from a crack in the old, wooden sideboards. Finlay could now just make out that it was in fact a Rat maid that was speaking. She was skinny and malnourished, with more bony features visible. Foodless times had taken their toll. She wore little more than an old potato sack that had been tattered and maltreated as clothing. A meagre rope was cinched around her waist, once tasked with securing a now-vanished haversack, that had long since been missing. But there was also something else absent. Finlay gasped when he saw the stub end of where her tail had been, once.

“I thought that I could be his lover. I thought that I could gain his trust and share in the spoils. But I was wrong; and now I’m left here to rot. I haven’t had a scrap of food or been given a drip of water for days, and I keep getting weaker. All I have keeping me alive right now is that small splash of deck water you hear in that corner.”

        Rootbag took the chance to reflect a quiet moment more, but soon her legs became too weak to support her any longer. Beneath her weight, the aged wooden floorboards protested with a chorus of creaks and groans. Weary and fatigued, she positioned herself with her legs folded to one side, assuming a feeble posture as she slouched, bathed in the gentle illumination that filtered through the crack in the wooden wall. She gave a hearty, singular cough or two before speaking again.

“Anyway, enough about me. What’s your name, love?”

        Finlay thought a moment before speaking.

“I’m Finlay.”

        The once confident voice spoke nervously. A hushed moment passed between them as Rootbag expected Finlay to continue, curiosity filling her tired voice.

“Aye, go on. Where are you from, Finlay?”

“Right, uh... I’m from the Rockwood caves to the south.”

“Hmm. What is a cave-bat all the way from the Rockwood mountains doing so far North?”

“It’s a long story...”

“Well, go on. It’s not like we have anywhere we can go.”

“(sigh) Right… Well, I felt as if I were trapped in my life there, to do nothing but waste away learning about some history or such. I wanted to fly for a change, and perhaps find that fabled treasure my brother had told me was north of here. It’s all I could think about.  And so… I resolved to take flight at dawn before any other creature would awaken. What I didn’t realize is that a storm had been brewing in the direction I was headed.”

        With a memory like that of a painting, he recalled being ensnared within the clutches of the tempest, finding it hard to fly, let alone see. Rain stung his eyes as he found himself lost among the dark rainy forms. The wind was strong, impeding not only his vision but also his ability to soar unhindered. In an abrupt moment of sheer terror, a resounding -CRACK! – reverberated through the stormy expanse, lightning striking with merciless precision just ahead of Finlay’s beleaguered form! Caught unawares, he instinctively flapped his wings in a fervent attempt to evade the scorching blaze of the bolt or manoeuvre around it, yet the relentless gusts had depleted his remaining strength, rendering his efforts futile. Helplessly, he plummeted from the heavens, gathering more and more velocity with each passing moment. Down, down he fell, his gaze fixated on the swiftly approaching ground! Panic consumed him as he frantically unfurled his wings, hoping to decelerate his descent. Instead, it sent him into a spiral as he realized that his right wing had become damaged and filled with holes. Unable to slow his fall, he covered his vulnerable head in a last-ditch effort to shield himself. With a resounding thud and a graceless skid, he crashed into the earth, coming to a jarring halt. His senses extinguished, oblivion enveloped him, his connection to the world severed by the merciless grip of the earth’s unforgiving embrace.

“And then I awoke on this awful wooden box, and you know the rest I’d wager…”

        Finlay finished now in a sour mood, at both himself, and the situation he had found himself in.

“Aye… But how is a cave-bat such as yerself, able to survive such a plunge? (Gasp!)”

        Rootbag quickly drew her attention to the wooden door that led up deck, and following this, Finlay too strained to hear faint footsteps approach the door.

“Do yerself a favour if you want to live, and don’t make any mention of me to anyone! They already think I’m dead, so dead I shall be.”

        Rootbag scrambled to her hay-cot, and she concealed herself beneath the sole tattered and soiled cover that graced its worn surface. She made herself motionless almost convincing him that she had met an untimely demise! The creaky, weathered wooden door swung open, ushering in the gentle caress of the spring sun, its golden rays casting warmth upon the interior, and with it, Finlay’s full attention.

        Down the weathered wooden steps, the echo of paces resounded, their weight and demeanour distinct from the gruff, earthy gait of the marmot captain. Rather, they bore an air of uncertainty, as though bracing for a reaction. Only a silhouette, akin to that of a mouse, materialized before Finlay’s strained gaze. His mind racing with rage at the evil marmot, his eyes trembled as he fought against the sting of the sun, but it was for naught. Relinquishing their fight, Finlay’s weary eyes finally succumbed, shutting tightly, as he resigned himself to the imminent retribution that awaited him. This time however, there was a softer touch of a gentle creature; but he couldn’t help but flinch away.

“Get your paws off of me you… you Vermin scum!”

“Shhh! You don’t have to be afraid of me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone another creature.”

        The mouse’s dryer yet rounder voice reassured with a hearty chuckle.

“I don’t care! Get off me, you rot spiller!”

          Finlay yelled rebelliously, trying desperately to show no fear.

“Is that anyway to treat a creature who’s brought you vittles?!”

        Finlay calmed some, feeling that his stomach was painful from hunger, he could now smell the half-baked scone that the mouse was carrying tenderly in his paw.

“I heard that you fought that evil beast quite well. But you are still quite young and inexperienced despite your fighting spirit! Here. Have this scone I’ve found.”

        With his paw naively outstretched towards the flightless bat, he extended the scrap to him. Immediately, Finlay selfishly snatched the scone out of the creature’s paw in a greedy swiftness that only hunger could produce. With a couple quick bites, he nearly finished the whole scone, say for one nibble.

“I-I can tell that you aren’t like that other beast. But why are you helping me? Aren’t you one of that marmot’s corsairs?”

        Finlay’s now calmer voice asked as he swallowed.

“No, just a slave like you. We good creatures need to stick close if we want to free ourselves.  My name’s Brian. I’m a farmer who was captured and made a slave here.”

        The small mouse’s tone seemed optimistic, with a near jolly nature to it. Feeling that this seemingly diminutive mouse meant no trouble, Finlay resolved an introduction of himself.

“I’m Finlay.”

        There was a moment’s pause as Finlay gathered his composure before he continued to speak again.

“Where are we? This isn’t anything like the mountains I grew up in, it’s all wooden and it’s constantly moving. I can’t seem to get a good standing in here.”

“That’s because we’re on a ship, not far off shores I’m afraid. Though I don’t yet know what that salty old marmot has planned for us.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I would give anything to give that beast a piece of my mind!”

        Finlay voiced with revenge nestled deep in his tone.

“Oh, I don’t know if you’d want to do that. At least not here, or in your condition friend. Your wings are all cut up, and full of holes.”

“(Sigh) Fantastic, I’m as talented as a flightless duck!”

“Shhh! Right. We’d best bide our time until a better opportunity arrives before we take any actions.”

        Brian cautioned smartly.

“Believe you me. I have a family of my own that I would much rather escape back to. Oh, I miss them so.”

        This seemed to calm Finlay’s fighting spirit a moment as he grew more curious.

“Oh? Are they nice like you?”

“Ye filthy rascals with yer grubby backs and loose tails, start rowin’! No more squawkin’ from ye lot!”

        The distant voice called angrily, bringing with it, Brian’s unsettled awareness back to the upper deck. Turning back a moment, he rendered a half-hearted smile to reassure his new friend as he spoke.

“(Sigh) Perhaps another time, friend. For now, keep a good head atop your shoulders and your eyes, uh… ears and claws open.”

        Finlay watched as Brian now scurried back up deck closing the door behind him, until it grew dark again. Turning his attention back to Rootbag’s cage, he called in a hushed whisper to her.

“Rootbag? I know it’s not much, but I got a small bite of a scone left. Here.”

        Finlay tossed the remainder of food into the cage where she was trapped. It landed squarely through the cage bars and onto the wooden boards before her hay-bed. Rootbag slowly and weakly pushed herself out of her cot at the invitation of food, though for a moment, she only stared at it, completely in disbelief. When she knelt to pick it up, she hesitated, believing it to be nothing more than a dream. Soon she had gathered the courage to finally reach its physical form, and a deep gratitude gripped her spirit as she held it in her paws. It was soft and smelled like old ail and rotten fruit, but in her eyes, it was as if she was holding gold. Rootbag’s eyes widened at the thought of having been given food after so long. Her now teary eyes looked up at Finlay as she held the scrap in her paw.

“Why? … why did you do that? You could have eaten the whole thing yerself.”

“You told me that you were starved. By the looks of it, you’re not lying.” Finlay said plainly. “Like Brian said, if we good creatures stick together and bide our time, we can escape this floating prison! I just know we can.”

        Finlay’s voice was strong with resolve. With a new-found hope in her heart, grateful tears started to stream down her face. Rootbag then slowly slumped to a sit before taking a small, solemn nibble of her most precious gift.