Bell Ringer

“Avast me hearty’s, prepare for sail out on the open waters! Get yer scruff’s an’ paws to ye stations! Any beast who dare’s not move, dies here!”

“Full sail ahead!”

        Off the shorelines close to the northern cliffs of Fallen-peak highlands was a large old trades ship with three masts, about three full sails tall, cutting through the waves of the tempestuous sea. Its sides were paired with round Viking’s shields and rows of oars below them, red and white striped sail cloths were strung from its spars, partially torn, and stained, with the lettering of her name poorly re-painted onto the tar-stained wooden hull. Luach fola was the ships new name, and any who knew it, knew to steer clear of her wake.

        The captain and crew were preparing her to endure an ever changing, looming form of black currents in the heavens, with the heavy curtains of a great deluge hanging in suspense. The raging tempest blew forcefully, as razor-like mists raced by, and waves taller than mountains threatened to wash the ship against the Cliffside. The sound of ocean crescendos bellowed, as they thrashed into the hull, causing it to creak and groan arduously. The sailcloth’s, bursting full, pulled hard on the mast, causing the rigging to rattle and clang about under taught ropes. Skoglar, his sea-rat hoard and the slave crew were just audible through the humongous waves of sound, cursing the sea for some, and uttering prayers for others.

        The crusty marmot captain was wailing commands from the wheelhouse where the helm was located, as sea-spray washed across his visage. He was clothed in a long tan hide jacket, worn with time, with a knitted red and green kilt torn and fringed at the bottom, and heavy brass earrings. A golden fang was stuck in his lower jaw that would often show itself as he called his commands to the crew. His dark pale eyes, filled with the seas of a hundred journeys, were only focussed on one thing; a treasure only a few knew existed.

“Oi, hoist that sail and set it westward! Haul up the anchor and secure it in its rightful hold! (Grunt) Ye there! Gather all them slaves, every last scurvy one, and set ‘em to rowin’! We be needin’ all the might we can muster to steer clear of the sandbars and cliffs! Ar har-har-har-har-har! The seas will be me dancin’ partner yet!”

        Now conditions were getting more turbulent, with curtains of rains showering down, as the crew went hither and thither, port to starboard, fore, and aft; frantically fulfilling the captain’s commands. A rat had unwittingly approached Skoglar whilst he was in his element, temporarily breaking him out of his trance like state.

“Cap’im! We haven’t got enough riggin’s at the sails! The ropes keep snappin’ an’ tearin’ the sailcloth! We be sinking tonight for sure in the ragin’ -gulth!”

“Well, why don’t ye get back there with some rope in ye paws and get it re-strung! Use yer bloody tail if ye must! But I be keepin’ ‘er afloat even if I have ta fight the very heavens meself! You’ll see!”

“(Sigh) Aye Cap’im.”

        The spray of the seas out ahead, soaked every part of the ship and its crew. What didn’t help was that the wind would push the wet, often cold mists to even the most undesirable of places. Brian was used to sailing in his previous life as a ship-right, but nothing like this, however he still pulled on the anchor rope with other slaves as they brought the heavy iron out of the sea, to its resting position. They all chanted in unison, a rhythmic poem of effort as they pulled on the course, rough rope:

“Heave! Ho! Heave! Ho! Heave! Ho!”

        At long last, the anchor clunked into place, causing the other enslaved creatures to scatter in haste, striving to comply with the captain's directives. However, Brian harboured a different plan within his resourceful mind. Recognizing that much of the crew would be preoccupied with keeping the ship afloat, he surmised that the absence of one inconspicuous slave would likely go unnoticed. Instead of heading towards the rowing benches below deck as expected, he cunningly charted a course towards the cabin nestled deep within the ships belly, driven by the desire to procure additional sustenance for his newfound companion locked away in the storeroom.

        Ensuring his hood remained raised, he stealthily maneuverer across the deck with purpose, deftly evading his disoriented fellow slave-mates who were buffeted by the tempestuous waves, which relentlessly jostled the vessel in every conceivable direction. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that no prying eyes bore witness to his actions. Satisfied, he inadvertently neglected to raise his gaze, failing to anticipate the sea-rat who unwittingly crossed his path. With an abrupt collision, Brian found himself unceremoniously seated upon his rump, emitting a grunt of surprise. However, fortune favoured Brian, for the sea-rat had not yet seen him—the rat had found himself partway through the door when the smaller creature had rushed into him. With a winy tone of frustration and crudeness, he took a step out of the cabin and began to voice his rage indignantly.

“Oi! I be fixin’ to carve a fresh hole in the scurvy rat who dared shove me!”

        Brian prepared for the worst, when suddenly an otter stepped out between him and the rat!

“Sorry maty. Didn’t see yah standin’ there.”

His gravelly, baritone voice called, almost apologetically.

        The otter who made himself the heir of blame, was an impressive sight to behold, emanating strength and fortitude. His form was robust, his patchy fur was crusty with sea-salt and coloured like snowcapped mountains. His tunic was ill-fitted, purposely sliced down the middle to accommodate his muscular, furry yet scarred chest. A rope was affixed to his ankle, trailing towards the central mast. Marking his body were numerous scars, a testament to past trials, yet remarkably, both his eyes, orbs of a sea-blue colour, remained intact. Alas, the rat he engaged with did not share such fortune. A patch concealed his right eye, bearing witness to its loss, while his body displayed fewer scars. Though appearing young and inexperienced, his audacious demeanour mingled with impudence. Physically diminutive and lacking the otter's might, he nonetheless posed a threat with unwavering determination:

“Don’t ye dare say “sorry” to me, ye slave! Oi! An’ what are You doin’ here?! Haul yer hide to the mast and get em sales pointed! Else, I’ll fashion yer skin into a cape ‘round me neck!”

        As the rat stepped away from the cabin, he turned his head up, as if expecting to be treated as royalty and sniffed rudely as he passed the otter, but he didn’t notice Brian hiding behind.

“(Phew)... Thanks mate. I’ll repay you your kindness, taking the blame like that.”

        Brian said offering a paw, but the otter refused, looking him up and down with a stern eye before speaking. He observed the meagre, grey and brown coloured mouse’s well-worn but recognizable oversized white tunic, his blue, hooded vest, and the vibrant red scarf tied around his nape—the garments of a modest sailor. Looking hard into Brian’s eyes, the otter saw in his glossy orbs of yellow-green, an air of honesty and justice.

“Whatever you are doin’ in there, I want in. I don’t care if it’s food, or whatever it is you’re after, count me as your ship mate. I feel like causing some strife for that cruel beast after what he’s done!”

“(Sigh) I don’t have much time, see? I’ll repay you when we meet again, after my plan is finished, right?”

        Brian said as he held out his paw more desperately now.

“I think you owe me your life! The least I want is to be part of your plan, matey. Do we have a deal?”

        He asked this time with his own paw stretched out for a shake, the deal seeming to be an unavoidable one. Brian gave a moment of thought, his mind racing to incorporate this change in plans, before finally shaking his new ship-mate’s webbed-paw.

“Deal.”

        Brian took lead in scouting out the vacant cabin, being the better scavenger of the two, whilst the much tougher looking otter guarded the entrance. As Brian entered, the door emitted a squeak just barely audible over the commotion of the crew outside. The door remained partially ajar thanks to the otter’s sturdy foot-paw jamming it, as Brian began his investigation, just in such a case that an early trouble would foil their plan. As Brian stepped inside, he observed that the room wasn’t too big, and none the cleaner either. It was filled with old, empty bottles of wine and seaweed-spirits, empty crustation shells building a pile on the far side of the room, and an old rusted straight sword stuffed in the corner.

        A hammock swayed gently from above, a bed of woven ropes that provided a decent resting place to rest one’s head. Its tattered quilt, sewn from remnants of sails, messily covered over it. The air inside was laced with the scent of aged wood, dampness, and the tang of old wine. In the centre stood a sturdy, weathered desk, roughened through use and laden with scattered old maps and navigational tools.

        After a brief survey, Brian’s eyes alighted upon a plate holding meagre food remnants, accompanied by half a bottle of wine. With little else readily available, he swiftly gathered his findings and tucked them away within the recesses of his hood, ensuring their concealment. Driven by curiosity and resourcefulness, he delved deeper into the cabin's depths. Yet, as he ventured further, a tap on his shoulder warned that perhaps something may be going amiss.

“Right, I’ve almost searched everything!”

        He called back in a hushed tone as he continued searching the desk where the mighty Viking would leisure himself. Suddenly, a small glint of a shiny, decorated yet smooth, silvery object caught Brian’s eye. It captivated his attention as its small, half-round form seemed to tilt and rock on the desktop surface along with the movements of the ship’s swaying. Shaped like an open clamshell, it wasn’t something that Brian immediately recognized. Staring harder into its exposed secrets, he observed as two floating needles pointed in two different directions independently of each other, and of the ship’s heading! He went to snatch it for later observation, when suddenly he was yanked out of the cabin by force, his paw missing it by merely a breadth hair, but he managed to snatch a silver butter knife instead!

        The otter grabbed Brian and effortlessly slung him over his shoulder and out of the cabin. They slipped into a corner behind the stares that led to the wheelhouse, where Brian fought his way down before brandishing the silver kitchen utensil he snagged. With a frustrated tone, he aimed it at the otter as he spoke:

“Why’d you go and do that for?! I told you; I was almost done!”

“Best be Careful with that stab, mouse! Lest you want a bigger one in yer back! Look!”

        The otter warned as he pointed toward the cabin that Skoglar had now entered. Brian, now understanding the situation better, gave a sigh of relief as he put his weapon away. The both of them could hear Skoglar cursing and yelling at the rats that had accompanied him, complaining about the missing bottle of wine.

        In his rage filled wrath, he chastised the few of them, throwing objects of various different weights and hefts at them, with most of the ship able to hear the commotion.

“Flyin’ squirrels, I’d hate to be one of ‘em rats! Hehe, I’d be havin’ him walk the plank if ever I got the chance!”

        The otter jested quietly with a mischievous grin painted on his visage.

“Goodness, I’d say. A good bath would fix him up right.”

“Say… what was it that caught yer eye anyway, matey?”

        The otter asked in a hushed but curious tone.

“Maybe another time friend. I will need to get back in there to get it though, so I guess your now part of my crew. Here.”

        Brian said as he offered part of the spoils.

“Oh, and what’s your name, Mate?”

       The otter took the wine from Brian and began to suck it into his belly with just a few large gulps, only answering the mouse again after the bottle was empty.

 “(Gulp-sigh) I’m Rope-burn. The finest sailor on the seas. At least I was, before I was made a dumb founded slave for that cruel Skoglar!”

        As he answered, Rope-burn lifted his right foot-paw, hinting at the ropes that bound his ancle only 10 paces away from the centre mast, keeping him trapped on the ship.

“Right. I’m Brian…”

        After their introductions, Brian and Rope-burn watched as the same rat prior, approached the cabin to address Skoglar about a matter. Pausing in front of the door, he gathered the courage to make his report. The unfortunate rat was flattened between the door and the wall of the cabin when Skoglar had suddenly come bursting through the entranceway, totally unaware of the squashed rat’s presence. Madly, he turned his attention to one of the other horde rats to vent his rage.

“Some scurvy mate stole me precious elderberry wine! When I discover the scoundrel, I’ll send ‘em down to the depths of the seas and back! And as for that scallywag’s carcass, it’ll make fine fish bait, mark me words!”

        The two troublemakers, hidden from Skoglar’s sight, watched on and gave a quiet chuckle each at the antics of the maddened Marmot.

“We’d best get to the rowing benches if we want to keep our fur! Let’s meet at the storeroom when we dock again. Good luck to yah, Rope-burn.”

“Aye. Same to ye, Brian.”

        The two shook paws and quickly parted ways to their respective responsibilities each.

        Brian could still hear the trouble Skoglar was handing out to the unfortunate crewmates, just paces off his tail as he jammed through the crews, and back to his bench. He cut in front of the other slaves as he found his spot, clasped himself into the chains and started rowing. One slave beside him smelled the scrap of food remnant Brian had hidden in his hood. He was a vole, a skinny older thing with a half mouth of crooked teeth, an old burlap potato sack that was more air than tunic, and a shifty look about him.

“Share me some of that food matey, and maybe I won’t yawp at the top of me breath about your little tack!”

        He threatened under his breath.

“What are yah goin’ off about mate? See, I was needed to pull on the anchor, besides I don’t have anything to give yah!”

        The slave drew in a chest full of air, ready to belt out, make a commotion, and destroy Brian’s cover!

“Alright-alright, mate. I’ll give you a share. Just keep tight lips about you!”

        Brian gave a quick glance to his surroundings, then satisfied that no-one was watching, he reached around and grabbed a small chunk off the scrap from his hood and handed it to the greedy eyed vole beside him. The slave greedily ate it in one full bite, swallowed hardly, and gave a groan of satisfaction before whispering again.

“Thanks, matey, keep that comin, and mayhaps I’ll keep me mouth shut.”

        Brian gave an exasperated sigh as he pulled on the oar, knowing that this would make things more difficult for him.

        As if perfectly timed, a slam came from the wooden trap door that led up deck, bringing Skoglar to a near disgraceful crash into the wooden floorboards. He was just narrowly able to regain his footing, as the guards following close by, snickered behind his back. Poising himself in a nearly graceful manner as if nothing happened, he heard the snorting and shot back a look of contempt. With it, followed a chilled silence as he brought his gaze to the slaves of the rowing decks.

        Fixing his focus on rowing, Brian heard a gurgle from beside him. In one swift motion, his paw slapped over his rowing companion’s mouth, realizing that he was about to release a mighty belch that would surely spell their doom. The vole stared at him rudely, but Brian gave a gesture of a quiet nature, then nodding his head in the direction of Skoglar’s whereabouts, he whispered too low for the marmot’s ear to detect.

“Shh! Tight lips, remember?”

        The vole gave a regretful sigh as his features slouched grumpily, then with a good swallow, he evacuated the belch from his gullet.

        Not seeing anything unusual, Skoglar gave a tumultuous speech, venting his undignified rage at the whole of the unsightly paddling slaves.

“Avast me hearties! Keep them backs arowin’, no sleepin’ ‘til we get to open waters, ye yellow-livered squelches! Oh, and if I catch the greedy little chum who dared sneak into me cabin, I’ll make certain that ye have the tail ripped outta ye as ye hang from the mast!”

        With that, he left through the trapdoor and took his departure back up deck to command the crew again, leaving the slaves to their pitiful, back breaking chore.

        In a heavy sigh of relief, Brian pulled on the oar, his mind numbed by the laborious task of pulling the very seas themselves under the ship, the heavy wooden oars as his utensil. Time ebbed away as his eyes drooped shut halfway, and he began to snore. With a quick jab of the elbow, his rowing companion woke the weary Brian from his slumber, returning the manner that the mouse had used earlier.

“’No sleepin’ ‘til open waters’, ‘member matey?’”

“Right…”

          Turning his mind back to the thoughts of his own family—his beautiful wife Lilac, and his daughters Rosalind and Ruuna; Brian put an added determination into his effort.

“I will escape this blasted ship and find you both! By the fur, I swear it!”