Dead Leaves

From a distance beyond the clearing I could see the indelicate mound rising from the otherwise flush earth, and my heart sank. My skin drank in the light trickling through the trees. Summer was giving way to fall as revealed by the wavering colors of the woods. The day was quickly escaping as night waited patiently to take its place. The journey had been deafeningly quiet. I had kept one foot in front of the other, focusing on each step, fearing that my mind would be allowed to wander and think of her. This was as far as my body would willingly take me. I knelt down and stared at the ground as if it could offer me solace. The grass was browning here and I plucked individual blades out, letting them fall to the side. They came away from the ground easily and as long as I payed attention to the meaningless task, the fear of what I was about to discover was kept at bay.

My heart was beating as fast as if I had run the whole length of the woods to reach this clearing. But I hadn’t. I tried to slow my breathing, but every time I did I was reminded of the bubbling paranoia.

The woods were warm but this place sent a chill into my very soul. There was a coldness here that existed beneath the world, beyond the veil. Perhaps I was imagining it. No one ventured this far into the woods - there were no compelling reasons to do so. But she had a reason. And I had to find her. I couldn’t stop her from going and perhaps I even caused her to leave.

But I blame him. The boy from the edge of town.

* * *

The carriage stopped abruptly and I could hear the horses whinnying outside. What new source of displeasure awaited me beyond the wooden walls of my conveyance? The night had already been more of a disaster than I could handle. I glared at Penny and told her to wait in the carriage. I opened the door and was greeted with a downpour of rain water. The wind was howling and the sky was dark. I shut the carriage behind me and opened my umbrella. I sloshed through the muddy road towards the carriage driver. The crunch of glass brought my attention to the ground. One of the hooded lanterns had fallen from the carriage and was shattered to pieces. I looked to the driver for an explanation. He was kneeling a few yards ahead looking intently at something. There, lying crumpled in the street was a boy who could not have been older than fifteen. With reticence, I approached, keeping a safe distance from the boy. The roads were becoming increasingly unsafe and should the boy’s injuries prove a ruse I would prefer not to add robbery to the list of the night’s disappointments. Before she was at my side I could sense her approach. Penny didn’t so much as walk as she did drift. She passed by me and knelt by the boy’s side. She looked up at me - when she was determined there was no changing her mind.

We brought the boy back to the manor. He was in fact injured and unconscious - his right arm bent at a horrific angle and his skin was bruised and abraded. Penny stayed at the boy’s side while I elicited the assistance of Mr. Cadril, the local physician. He was not overly pleased at my late night insistence but he came just the same. He set the boy’s arm and bandaged the wounds. He handed me a bottle of pills to dull any remaining pain when the boy should awaken. I offered Cadril a glass of brandy and we exchanged pleasantries. The hour grew late and I thanked him for his time as he returned to the night.

Penny had not left the boy’s side since we found him lying on the road. She had a predilection for taking on projects and I could already tell that her obsession was starting in. The morning would be a better time to calm her - I was exhausted. I kissed her goodnight and retired to my bed chamber. I awoke only once that night as Penny slipped under the covers and slid her arm over my chest.

The boy as it turns out was called Oliver. He didn’t give a last name, nor did he speak much during the weeks that followed. I allowed the boy to stay under my roof until such time as he was well enough to leave. Penny agreed to attend to his needs should any arise while I was away for work. My duties to the province required I travel to the capitol and there I resided for the next month. During my stay I received a letter from Penny assuring me that everything was well at home. Oliver was mending quickly and was becoming quite a helpful presence around the manor.

I returned from my trip overjoyed to see Penny. I took her out for brunch with the Falwicks at Saunder’s Park. It was good to have a day with no distractions and no disturbances. And yet, Penny was distant. She carried on with polite conversation but I knew that she was not entirely well. Her mood devolved upon our return to the manor. When I pressed the subject, she politely excused herself to her bedchambers. I poured myself a glass of brandy and sat in the garden with the local paper. It was there that I witnessed a peculiar sight. The boy Oliver stood at the far side of the garden staring with an unnatural stillness at a row of hedges. I observed him standing thusly for a few minutes more before growing curious. I called to him and he started at the sound of my voice. He looked at me for a moment and then ran off into the nearby woods. After he had gone, I ventured over to the spot when he had been standing and found a disturbing image. At the base of the hedges was the corpse of a rabbit. It’s neck had been snapped but twisted back into place. It was laid out on a bed of leaves which had been torn from the hedge. It looked almost peaceful were it not for the brutal circumstance of its death.

Oliver did not return to the manor until the last light had been painted away by the inky black of night. Penny and I were sitting at the table for dinner when the front door opened. The boy was covered in grime and Penny rushed to him and pulled him to the washroom. She cleaned him up and sent him to his room. I wished to speak to the boy but I confess, I was timorous to be alone with him. There was something about the way he looked at me from across the garden that turned my skin cold. That night I locked the door to our bedchambers. I lay in bed far too aware of the noises in the dark. It was as if the creaks and moans of the manor spoke to one another. Sleep could not come soon enough.

The next day I spoke to Penny about sending Oliver away. His injuries had all but healed and there was no need for him to stay any longer. At this she grew increasingly irate. The boy had nowhere else to go. I decided against pressing the subject further that day. The week that followed was better. Penny seemed in higher spirits and Oliver was less reclusive. The boy refused to speak to me. On more than one occasion I caught him staring at Penny with a look that might seem like a youthful crush but all I could see was obsession. One day Penny wanted to take Oliver in to town to buy some sweets. In their absence I stole into Oliver’s bedchamber and found another grisly display. I opened the closet and found the wall covered in dead butterflies, each one pinned meticulously to the plaster.

Penny went to bed that night with a smile on her face and I was glad. Glad to have a moment to speak to the boy alone. When I arrived in his bedchambers, I was disturbed to find the room vacant. I searched the parlor and the dining room but found them equally unoccupied. I am not a man who frightens easily but my recent discoveries invited a murkiness into my mind. A sudden anxiety drew my attention upstairs to my bedchambers. Furtively, I climbed the worn-out staircase. I rounded the corner just in time to see Oliver, half concealed by the night’s shadows, shut the door to my bedchamber. Panic gripped my heart and drove me towards the boy. I seized him by the arm pulled him away from the door. In a heated whisper I demanded to know what he was doing in my chambers. He remained as silent as a ghost. Not wishing to let him leave my sight I cracked the door to my chambers and saw Penny lying in bed as still as a corpse. I held my breath and waited - in a moment her chest raised as she took in breath. A wave of relief washed over me as I gently closed the door.

I dragged Oliver downstairs and into his room at which point I less than gracefully cast him onto the bed. With very little attempt to calm my demeanor I marched to the closet door and flung it open. I stared at the empty walls inside with consternation - the shrine of death had disappeared. Intent on discerning the truth, I questioned the boy about the butterflies and the rabbit. I watched his face, hoping to find some sign of humanity, but found nothing but a void. I would not allow this disturbed boy to stay in my home a day longer. As I was about to exit the room Oliver finally spoke, his voice oddly detached. They were too beautiful.

I locked the door to his room that night.

The next morning during breakfast, Penny inquired why Oliver was not joining us. I told her that he was locked in his room for our safety. He would not be staying with us any longer. This upset her greatly and she fetched the key to let Oliver out. I tried to reason with her as I followed her across the foyer but her concern for the boy outweighed my words. I placed a pleading hand on her shoulder as she slid the key into the lock. She paused and then turned the latch. The door creaked open revealing an empty room. Oliver was gone. He had escaped through the window and into the night. Penny became resolute and insisted on going after him. I tried to no avail to calm her and keep her home but she feared for the boy’s safety. Against my better judgement, I didn’t stop her from following after him. She was gone and I was left alone with my breakfast.

* * *

I stood up and relaxed my fist, allowing the last blades of grass to fall to the earth below. Every instinct I had pulled me away from here but my feet carried me forward into the clearing. I could see it sitting there in the middle of the dell but the strangeness of it being there kept me from understanding. My legs nearly buckled with each new step but I crept ever closer. My heart threatened to burst forth from my chest. And there she was, my beautiful Penny, lying on a bed of dead leaves. Rational thought escaped me - instead my head was a wave of emotion. Penny lay dead before me, peacefully positioned as if she was on display. I collapsed to the ground as my legs refused to continue holding my weight. And there was only one thought that found purchase in my mind. She was too beautiful.

---

Dead Leaves was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.

The Paladin's Story: Hope

So, you've decided to stay another night? It’s just as well - I revel in the company of others. A traveler meets many people on his journeys, but the road always beckons. Another story? Let me think...ah yes. This one should do nicely.

There was once a village that thrived on farming. After every harvest season, when the crops were sold, the village would prosper. A festival was held every year to celebrate a successful yield. But one year, a dragon came to ravage the town and pilfer their profits. The following winter was rough but the gods saw fit to allow the villagers to survive. Perseverance kept them going and with the threat of the dragon passed, they grew their crops once again. But when the harvest festival came once more the dragon returned to pillage their town.

This cycle of growth and loss continued for three more years until the village was in decay. The land was scarred and the people were weary. If the dragon returned once more, the village would not survive. During the month before the harvest festival, a traveler happened through the village. He was taken aback by the generosity of those who had so little to give. Their plight became his plight and he promised to hunt down and slay the dragon. Though the villagers did not doubt his sincerity, they did not hold out hope for his return. They harvested their crops and prepared for the worst. But when the harvest festival came, the dragon was nowhere to be seen. The man returned and they celebrated him as their savior. The dragon was no more.

The dragonslayer stayed and led the village into prosperity. The villagers were happy for a time but dragons were not the only monsters among men. The dragonslayer, having gained the villagers’ loyalty, began to abuse his power. It was subtle at first - increased taxation, harsher laws enacted. But the village quickly fell into poverty as the tyrant dragonslayer prospered.

The villagers had survived harsh winters, poor crop yields, famines, and dragon attacks, but betrayal was something they would not abide. On a cold winter night, a crowd gathered and raided the tyrant's manor. Even the lord’s personal guard stood aside - he was defenseless. As the villagers condemned him to death, the dragonslayer simply laughed. For you see, he had never slain the dragon at all. Realizing that a desolate village offered no spoils, the dragon had concocted a plan to ensure his own prosperity. The dragon had used his dark magic to conceal himself as the very savior that stood now before the crowd. In that moment, the dragonslayer’s true form was revealed. He burst through the keep and lifted into the air.

The village was razed and the survivors fled into the night. With the village destroyed, the dragon abandoned the land there in search of new prey. In time, the land became fertile again, villagers returned, and the town was rebuilt. To this day, the villagers celebrate the dragon’s harvest. It is a time in which they celebrate life but also remember what they have lost.

People are nothing if not stubborn. There will always be darkness in the world, my friend, often overwhelmingly so. But as long as the smallest spark of hope survives, the light will one day shine again. You’ll excuse me if I retire for the evening. There are long travels ahead.

---

The Paladin's Story: Hope was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.

The Paladin's Story: Choice

I’m going to tell a story. You don’t have to listen. You don’t even have to stay. If you walk away right now, I won’t stop you.

This story is about a boy.

The boy lived in a city, and you must forgive me but I can’t recall the name of that city. Every day, that boy’s father would rise with the sun and leave to work in the lord’s manor. The boy would wake with him and eat a breakfast that consisted of bread and nettles. His father was so generous that he would often skip his own meal so that his child could eat a little more. He loved to be around his father, but his father had to work the lord’s land from sunrise to sunset.

During the day, the boy would play with his sister. They would chase each other around the dank streets of their district but they never strayed too far from home. The lord’s manor was off limits - children weren’t allowed. One day after dark, the boy waited patiently for his father to return. When he did not, the boy made supper for his sister and put her to bed. He fell asleep on the floor before his father returned late that night.

The next day, the boy overheard an argument between his father and a magistrate. He was too young and uneducated to understand the fancy words but he gleaned that if his father did not pay more money to the man, they would take his home and his possessions. His father did not speak of this to his children - he continued on as normal. But in the coming days, meals became scarcer. In fact his father didn’t eat at all. He made sure that the boy and his sister were fed and then spent more long days and nights at the manor.

It pained the boy to see his father overworked, when he saw him at all. He decided that he could help. Someday he would be a man after all and a man provides for his family. He told his sister to stay at home one day and then ventured towards the lord’s manor. There were many servants bustling about, some working the land, others cooking the food. The boy was unassuming and he knew that he would fare better unnoticed. He found his way inside the kitchen and crept along the floor to avoid notice. When the servants left the room, the boy peered his head over the counter and was bombarded with a savory scent. He had never seen so much food in all his life!

Before he knew what he was doing, the boy began to devour the fare. Fruits, and breads, and cheeses. Meats, and soup, and vegetables. It was too much. He ate until he felt sick and then abruptly remembered where he was. A noise in the hall frightened him into action. He grabbed what he could stuff in his shirt and ran.

He and his sister feasted that night. He laid her to bed with a full stomach and awaited his father’s return. A few hours later, with his eyes barely open, the boy saw his father. His eyes lit up as he showed his father what he had done. Now you can eat papa, he said. His father grew irate at the sight of the food. Where have you gotten this food? he asked sternly. I took it from the manor, said the boy. With that his father unhinged. He struck the boy out of fear as much as anger. The boy was confused as tears streamed down his face. His father regained his composure and embraced his son. I’m so sorry. I should not have hit you, his father’s words pleaded for forgiveness. But you can not return to the manor. Do you understand me? But, you were hungry, pried the boy. It is not our place to decide the fates of men, his father explained, that is work for the gods.

But the boy refused to accept this. How could the ladies and lords of the manor walk around fat in the belly while he and his sister and father starved to death? There was enough food in that kitchen to feed the whole town. And so he returned to the manor despite his father’s insistence. He did so again, and again. He and his sister ate like lords and when his father asked why they would not eat the dinner he provided the boy explained that the baker’s wife had shown mercy to them or that an apple had fallen from a nearby tree. Any excuse so that his father would eat. And perhaps it was his father’s naivete that kept him from learning the truth or perhaps it was his refusal to watch his children shrivel into dust that he held his tongue. Whatever the case, their lives improved.

Until one day, the boy wasn’t so careful.

A heavy knock woke the family up late into the night. The magistrate had returned with a cadre of guards. The boy’s father feigned indignance for the intrusion, but he had no right to stop the men. They forced their way into the house overturning what little furniture they had until they found what they were looking for. The boy had a stash of stolen food underneath his cot. The guard seized the boy by the arm but his father spoke up. I stole the food, he said, leave the boy alone. Despite the boy’s pleading, the guards took his father away.

He could not sleep that night, his conscious had caught up with him. He didn’t know how to explain to his sister what happened, so he lied. Father will be back in the morning, he told her. But he did not return in the morning, nor the next day. In fact, his father would not be returning at all. He was to be hanged.

On the morning of the hanging, the boy made his sister stay home. He pushed his way through the crowded streets until he could see his father standing at the gallows. The hangman stood ready to throw the switch when the magistrate finished his reading of the crime. The boy ran towards his father but was intercepted by a guard. The boy screamed to the magistrate, it wasn’t him! I stole the food!

The magistrate bent down and waived the guard off. He spoke so that only the boy could hear. A father is responsible for his child. And you are responsible for his death. With that he stood and motioned the hangman. The switch was thrown and the boy watched as his father dropped.

We all have defining moments in our lives. Moments when we are faced with a diverging path. It is in these moments that we choose the men we want to be. The boy’s world was shattered on that day and he made a choice. His father was wrong - a man can choose his own fate. His father chose his own death long ago; for living as a slave was not life. And so the boy left with his sister in tow, determined to make a better life. He was not consumed with thoughts of revenge against the magistrate, nor did he burn with a righteous ambition to right the imbalance of wealth in that small city. The corruption there would rot the foundations of that aristocracy until only decay remained. The boy chose another path.

What became of the boy you ask? He became a man as boys are ought to do. But that is a story for another time. Let us sit in silence for a while and watch the fire dance.

---

The Paladin's Story: Choice was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.

Captain Cuddly

The air was clear and a gentle breeze playfully tossed the young girl’s hair. Ocean waves lapped gently at the wooden planks of the boat, sloshing up the sides. The wind carried little droplets of sea spray, wetting the child’s face. Rebekka stood with one leg up on the bow of the small dinghy and took a deep breath. She inhaled the salty ocean air and sighed. In her best attempt to look like a captain, she raised the toy spyglass up to her eye and peered at the island ahead.

“Land, ho!” she cried out.

Pete and Bill continued rowing towards shore. Pete was a lanky man who was too tall for his britches. His knees rose up to meet his chest, confined by the size of the boat. Bill on the other hand was a hefty man with a mustache that looked like it might at any moment crawl off his face. Pete wiped the sweat from his brow and went right back to rowing.

“Ya fink it’s a good idea ta be standin’ up, little miss?” Pete asked. He spoke as if he chewed his words thoroughly before spitting them out. “Cap’n Cutty gave us strict orders….”

“Did the captain not put me in charge of this vessel?” Rebekka huffed.

“Well of course ‘e did,” Bill chimed in with a raspy tenor, “But ‘ow would it look to ‘er mates if a captain went in the drink?”

“So,” thought Rebekka out loud, “I am the captain?”

Pete chuckled and the sudden inhalation that followed caused him to snort.

“Sure, yer the captain of this dinghy,” Bill grunted in response, “But don’t let that go to yer little ‘ead.”

Rebekka pondered this for a moment before internalizing Bill’s advice.

“Well then, as captain, I’ve decided that it I should sit,” she spoke with a righteousness that only an eight year old could own, “A captain must keep up appearances.”

Pete and Bill continued to row until they reached the shore. The waves threatened to topple the small boat and the clumsy pirates didn’t help matters. The two men splashed towards shore, beaching the dinghy. Bill offered a hand to Rebekka to help her onto the shore. The small camp was already set up. The crew of the Devastation were lounging about; drinking, gambling and gluttony abound. Rebekka approached the camp, trailed by Bill and Pete, and was disappointed with the lack of recognition. She tugged on Pete’s shirt until the lanky man knelt down next to the girl so she could whisper in his ear.

“Don’t make me say that,” Pete pleaded.

“When my father get’s back, he won’t be very happy to hear that his authority was undermined.”

Pete groaned and stood.

“The young miss Captain Rebekka ‘as arrived. On your feet!”

The din of debauchery ended and after a moment of indecision, the crew let loose a raucous guffaw.

“Shut yer trap ya freebooter,” squawked a drunken pirate named Sloppy Tom. He was leaning back in a rickety wooden chair, his mud covered boots resting on a wooden table. He took a swig of gin from his rusty mug and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “We don’t take orders from no little girls. If Cap’n Cutty wants somthin’ done he’ll make sure we know it.”

Rebekka squinted her eyes and wrinkled her nose in frustration. What use was there being a captain’s daughter if no one followed your orders? She took a deep breath, smiled, then walked over to Sloppy Tom. She eyed the man up and down. His dirty clothing reeked of gin, he was missing a fare share of teeth, and his left eye sat crooked in his skull. Rebekka gently leaned her hands on the edge of Tom’s chair and put on her best innocent child smile.

“He’s right,” said Rebekka, with an air of innocence. And then in a mimicry of Tom she continued, “If Cap’n Cutty wants somthin’ done, he’ll make sure you know it.”

With a sudden and simple flourish, Rebekka shoved Tom’s chair backward. The man had been sitting precariously and it didn’t take much effort for the young girl to tip his weight. Tom wiggled his arms in an attempt to right himself but there was no use. He crashed to the ground knocking over a pile of barrels as he went. Rebekka stepped deliberately onto the collapsed man’s chest, then onto the chair, and finally onto the card table before addressing the crowd.

“Captain Cutty,” Rebekka paused and pointed at herself, “wants somthin’ done.”

Rebekka watched with a smug satisfaction as the men snapped to attention. She surprised even herself. But then she noticed the visible twitching coming from Pete. Bill remained as stoic as ever but his unbreakable gaze said more than words could.

“Get to work you pox faced blaggards before I personally disembowel the lot of ya,” it was voice of the man who called himself Rebekka’s father, Captain Brant Cutty.

The men who were sober enough to stand scrambled to look busy lest they be caught in the Captain’s tirade. Rebekka turned to face the man. He was a hulking individual with a harsh countenance. The scars on his face mirrored a life of sin.

“The mighty captain graces us with his presence,” Rebekka, making no attempt to mask her derision, curtsied toward the man who now towered over her.

Cutty stomped toward the young girl and, without any show of remorse, tore her from the table. He slammed her down into an empty chair and stuck her with the back of his fist. Rebekka was a tenacious girl, but she was still only eight and alone could not stand against his violent hand.

“Do not speak to my men as though you had any actual sway. They do as I command just as you should,” his words cut her sharper than any sword, “I’ve allowed your verve for far too long. It’s time you started to act like a Cutty.”

Rebekka quivered in her chair but refused to appear weak to the captain.

“I want to see my mother,” Rebekka was doing a poor job of holding back tears.

“Her weakness runs in your blood,” Cutty laughed, "You'll do as I say or I'll see to it that she never sees the light of day."

Then he addressed the crew, “The raid will continue as planned. I need three men with me. We will assault the Duke’s manor during the confusion.”

Cutty smiled an evil grin down at Rebekka.

“I’ll deal with you when I return.”

“I really don’t fink this is a good idea,” whispered Pete.

He had to duck to avoid slamming his head into the low hanging lamp posts. The small port town of Grettin was quiet this evening, it’s residents resting easy after a long day of commerce. The gentle crash of waves against the shore echoed across the docks. Apart from the occasional rat scurrying between crates, there wasn’t a soul to see the pirates. Bill walked in front of Pete holding a small lantern.

“We ain’t monsters, Pete,” Bill whispered back, “She’s just a girl. She don’t deserve Cutty’s brand o’ cruelty.”

“But what if the cap’n finds out what we done?”

“Let’s just ‘ope ‘e doesn't.”

Across the docks, one of the other crewmen held up a lantern and alternated covering the light and uncovering it.

“It’s time,” said Bill, “You ready, little miss?”

Rebekka nodded from her hiding place behind a stack of crates. Bill raised his lantern to give the return signal. In a sudden burst, the men across the docks screamed and charged forth, lighting torches as they ran. The noise was enough to draw the attention of the town guard but by the time they rang the warning bell, the pirate’s plan was in motion - the pillaging had begun. The quiet peace of night was replaced with the din of violence. Buildings began to blaze as torches touched thatch. Villagers ran screaming from their homes as the pirates did what they do best.

Pete and Bill escorted Rebekka along the docks until they reached Lady Lynchmire, the largest vessel in the port. There was only one guard standing watch over the boat - the rest had joined the fight in town.

“This is it,” said Rebekka.

“You sure about this, little miss?” asked Pete.

“Positive. The document I found the captain’s quarters said this is the boat.”

“It’s just one guard,” Bill said, “She’ll be fine.”

There was no argument to be had. Before Pete could speak again, Rebekka had stepped around the corner and ran toward the guard. With all the sincerity she could muster, Rebekka began crying and clung to the guard’s leg. The man seemed confused and then saw Pete and Bill approaching with swords drawn.

“Now, now. Don’t cry little one,” Bill chortled. “We ain’t gonna ‘urt ya. We just wanna ‘ave a little fun, that’s all.”

The guard drew his sword and pointed it at Bill and Pete. With a quiver in his voice, he spoke.

“In the name of the queen I order you to drop your swords and stand down.”

Pete smiled an evil grin, and Bill chuckled.

“Oh but we never said we wouldn’t ‘urt you.”

The guard took one step toward the pirates but before he could attack, Rebekka swung one of the boat’s low hanging pulleys into the back of his head. He collapsed to the ground and Rebekka stood behind him triumphantly. She composed herself and reached down for the guard’s keys.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” said Pete, “Remind me not to get on ‘er bad side.”

“I guess I really am my father’s daughter. Come on,” Rebekka said, “This way.”

The trio rushed up the slipway and onto Lady Lynchmire. Bill’s lantern illuminated the dark hallways below deck. The sounds of pillaging were distant outside, the only sounds audible now were their own footsteps and the creaking of wood.

“Okay this is it,” said Rebekka excitedly.

They had stopped outside the brig - shadows cast from the lantern concealed a huddled figure inside. Rebekka grabbed the bars and peered inside.

“Mother?”

The huddle figure shifted cautiously and then moved towards the bars. The dim lighting revealed a middle aged woman wearing torn and dirtied rags. The creases on her face told a story of woe.

“Rebekka? My sweet angel, is that you?” The woman’s voice quivered as tears began to fill her eyes.

She placed her hands over the young girl’s. They felt rough against Rebekka’s skin but the connection overwhelmed her.

“Well go on you bloody deck swab,” Bill shoved Pete, “Let the lady out.”

Pete fumbled with the keyring and finally opened the door to the cell. Rebekka’s mother ran to her daughter, collapsed to her knees and embraced her.

“It’s beau’iful,” Pete wiped a tear away from his eye.

A sudden explosion from outside rocked the boat.

“I ‘ate to break up this moment,” said Bill, “but we ‘ave to leave, little miss.”

The four of them navigated their way outside the boat and back to the docks. They moved hurriedly along the plankway, avoiding the violent cacophony of the pirate raid. With stealth and cunning they arrived at the small rowboat they had arrived in. Rebekka helped her mother into the vessel and then turned to Pete and Bill.

“I owe you my life. I don’t see how I can ever repay you.”

She hugged them both.

“Oh now you're gonna make me cry,” choked Bill.

“What about the Captain? If he finds out you helped me escape...” Rebekka trailed off, “Come with us, it’ll be safer.”

“Oh don’t worry about us,” said Bill, “Pete and I ‘ave survived worse. Besides, we ain’t cut out for the civilized life.”

Rebekka hopped into the dinghy and squeezed next to her mother.

“Thank you both for keeping my daughter safe,” her mother paused and held Rebekka tight, “First chance you get, you put a sword though that bastard Cutty’s heart.”

“No promises, ma’am,” said Pete.

“Better get going,” said Bill, “Pretty soon, there won’t be much of a town left to flee from.”

Another explosion rocked the dock and threatened to knock Bill and Pete off their feet.

“So long little miss.”

They drew their swords and ran off toward the town. As Rebekka and her mother rowed away from the dock she watched the inferno that was once the port town of Grettin. A cool ocean breeze wrapped around the boat and Rebekka leaned against her mother for warmth.

---

Captain Cuddly was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.