by J. L. Foster
"This cannot be real,” Graedal mumbled, but his voice was raw and hoarse, and barely a word drifted out.
"Aye, but I am,” Nicholas replied in a demonic voice, as black as the pit it came from. “Just as I have always been."
Finally, from somewhere deep inside of Estella, she found her voice, and with it, she forced the most deafening scream she had ever ignited. It sounded loudly into the night, forcing itself high through the trees and hills and shaking the snow from the branches onto the ground.
Then, from behind the children, somewhere from within the thicket of dead evergreens and darkness, a voice sounded into the night.
"Yon children have found the beast! They found Nicholas!"
Torches ignited in multitudes, and from behind every tree and mountain of snow, a militant troop of villagers appeared—armed and angry.
"Attack!” cried one as he rushed to the front of the pack. “Kill the beast! Kill Nicholas!"
"Kill Nicholas!” others shouted as they joined in. “Kill Nicholas!"
"Run, Estella,” Graedal demanded of his sister as he released her hand and pushed her toward the crowd of rescuers. As he, himself, turned to follow her, he felt the cold, strong hand of Nicholas Von Barron clench his arm and pull him back.
Estella turned back in time to see her brother crystallize at the mighty beast's touch and instantly form into a human ice sculpture. Nicholas's touch had claimed him.
"Graedal!” she cried, attempting to run to her frozen brother's side but being pulled back by a slender but sturdy hand. Looking up, she stared into her stepmother's drawn, saddened eyes.
"I'm sorry, my child,” the woman said softly and pulled her stepdaughter to her in a warm embrace. “More children have been disappearin'. We had to find the beast. It was the only way any of us knew how.” Lifting her eyes, she watched as the crowd chased after Nicholas, who had swiftly retreated into the thick of the woods. Through the rampage of people, she could see the large, chiseled block of ice that was her stepson. “This never was supposed to have happened."
Nicholas ran with a speed unknown to any man. He barely needed to breathe as he pushed through tree after tree, limb after limb, leaving those who searched after him in his snow-filled dust. Yet, the villagers did not seem to be just behind him. He could hear them all around. From his left, one began to rush up to his side—a young man of maybe twenty-five. In the youth's hand, he held a sturdy ax, ready to swing it and end Nicholas's reign of terror once and for all. Gaining speed, the young man came into close range of his target, but Nicholas was well aware that he was there. As the man lifted his arm to swing the ax, Nicholas turned toward him and opened his mouth, breathing crystallized air into his face. Upon contact with the air, the man transformed into a solid sculpture of ice—just as Graedal had when touched by the beast.
A moment later, two more villagers met their fates—one by touch and one by breath. Soon, Exile Wood began to fill with human ice sculptures—those who had been determined to seal Nicholas's doom.
Stopping suddenly, he turned behind him and could see that the villagers were more than persistent and still on his tracks. He could hear them screaming through the night—shrieking in terror at each sculpted friend and family member that they stumbled upon during their search.
As the flames of their torches began to grow nearer, Nicholas turned away and hurried once again through the thick, black woods. He knew Exile Wood better than any of the villagers trailing him, and he knew that if he continued in the direction that he traveled, he would enter into a dockside village and find a safe harbor to hide in.
The lights of the village began to blur into view, and with them his pace quickened to heavier steps. Grunting with eagerness, Nicholas forced himself through the thicket of trees and into a sudden clearing, lit by roadside torches and a full moon above. From here, he could see the water of the sea and took note of the ships that lined the dock.
From behind, the sounds and lights of the pack of villagers grew louder and closer and Nicholas found his feet moving once again. With swiftness, he crossed toward the docks and the cottages and businesses that lined them. There, he ducked into the shadows as voices filled his ears.
"Please, Michael, promise ye will not leave me,” the feminine voice pleaded delicately from within a cottage near him.
"Ah, ye know I cannot promise that,” replied a male—determined and honest. “I must meet up with Columbus's ship an’ bring yonder supplies an’ food, or else they will surely starve."
"How many men have ye going with ye?"
"There be three of us—meself, me mate, an’ a cook. T'is all we need, lassie."
"But there will be storms—terrifyin’ winter storms with ice an’ snow an’ sleet an'—"
"T'is enough, Margaret,” he pleaded warmly. “Me mates an’ I'll be just fine. We've sailed this course before. It's smoother than yer own wee bottom."
Nicholas had heard all that he needed to know. Glancing at the ships lining the dock, he saw one that was ready and awaiting sail. The cargo visible on board let him know that this was the ship that the man in the cabin would be sailing. This ship was Nicholas Von Barron's escape from Exile Wood and from the villagers that hunted him.
"What time will ye set sail?” he heard the female ask with a drawn, defeated voice.
"Me mates will be here before sunrise. Three hours tops."
"That gives us plenty of time."
"For what?"
"For this."
Nicholas did not need to look inside to know what the woman meant or to know what they were now in the process of doing.
They were making more children for him to eat.
In the distance, the screams and threatening chants of the villagers drew closer, and Nicholas pulled out of the shadows of the cottages and onto the wooden deck of the dock. There, he rushed over to the ship that would sail away in just a few hours, and in complete silence, he climbed aboard. He breathed deeply, releasing crystallized air as he searched for a place to hide.
"Stepmother,” Estella asked as she stared at the ice sculpture, also known as her brother. “What will happen to Graedal once spring arrives?"
Squatting down to her stepdaughter's level, she took her by the shoulders and turned her to face her. “Most certainly ... he will melt."
Chapter Two
It was one hundred and seventy-three hours before the ship met up with Columbus's own vessel. The hour was late and it was as black outside as it was cold. The two ships met side by side, and by means of a rowboat, the supplies were transferred to where they were most needed. There were several crates that were much too large to be carried over by the rowboat, and so they were chained and dragged from one ship to the other, pulled up and hoisted aboard Columbus's craft. Within one of these overtly large crates was Nicholas Von Barron.
"Take food supplies to the chef's quarters,” Columbus instructed with pleasure. He had been certain that the storms would have postponed the arrival of their much-needed supplies, but the vessel had arrived in almost perfect time. “Anything else put in the storage room.” Turning to Michael Wilder, the captain of his saving ship, he asked, “Ye an’ yer men will be joinin’ us in a feast, correct, Captain?"
"It would be an honor to dine with such a voyager as ye,” he commented proudly, recognizing the importance of the invitation. Michael had only been a captain for a few months, and to have received orders from the King to tend to Columbus's crises had been his highest honor.
"Also, yon sky promises problems for the new day. Our vessel is much larger than yer ship. Perhaps anchor it down until the storms pass. Ye an’ yer men can seek refuge in our chambers an’ freshen up a bit after yer rough voyage here."
"The storms weren't that bad,” Michael pointed out, but with a grand grin, he added, “but we could use a bit o’ rest, I believe. An’ there only be one cabin in me ship. Me mate's snore louder than a hog durin’ its feedin’ time."
Columbus laughed merrily at this comment, a
ble to imagine exactly what Michael meant. He, too, had a crew of loud ruffians. “Come, me friend. There be red wine awaitin’ us in me cabin. There, we can drink an’ talk more."
"I be certain ye have some high sea tales that ye be itchin’ to share,” Michael chuckled as they crossed over the large deck of the ship.
"Ye will not believe some of the tales I could share,” he remarked pleasurably. “I've seen things that would scare yon boots right off o’ yer feet."
"I don’ know ‘bout that, Cap'n,” Michael sneered with self-confidence. “I be a hard lad to scare."
"There be things in this sea that scare even me,” Columbus remarked as he opened the door to his cabin, “an’ I've been on the waters much longer than ye. Ye'd be amazed at what creatures lie just outside this door.” And with that remark, he closed the cabin door.
Columbus's cabin was much larger and more elaborate than any cabin Michael had ever seen on any ship that he'd sailed. The room was nearly the size of his own ship's entire deck, and it was equipped with everything from a mirrored bathing chamber to a bed large enough to fit eight sturdy men. There was more gold in the room than Michael had ever been witness to. Nearly every railing and trim was lined in it. The bed was dressed in the most flamboyant colors and fabrics in the known world, and they appeared soft and delicate to the touch. Just down from the bed was the dressing chamber—large and luxurious, filled with more clothes than any man would need on one voyage. There were mirrors here too, and even places to sit if needed.
Directly across from the bed was a comfortable conversation area with a table between two grand chairs. On the table sat a bottle of red wine and two steel goblets. Columbus ushered Michael to the first of the chairs and sat opposite him where he began to pour the wine.
"So, tell me, young Michael. What made ye decide on a life at sea?"
"Me father was a sailor,” the youthful captain replied swiftly. “It was his whole life."
"So ye made it yer whole life too? Ain’ ye got a lass at home?"
"Aye,” he nodded as he sipped the cool, refreshing wine. “She wished me to stay this trip, but ye needed the supplies an', if I dare be so frank, this be the opportunity of a lifetime. I was contacted by the King's men. The King!"
Columbus could not help but laugh at Michael's enthusiasm over the mention of royalty. The fame aspect of royal influence had faded from the elder captain's being long ago and such things no longer phased him. It was refreshing to see a lad so impressed with something he obviously understood so little about.
"Aye, the King,” he responded, nodding his head softly. “He be a fine man—true to the Spanish people. An’ I thank ye for takin’ the job. But ye best treat yer life with warnin'. Yer lass will surely grow tired of sitting alone while yer off at sea."
"I been fearin’ that for weeks now,” Michael agreed humbly. “There be nothin’ I want more than to be at home with her. But this be my job."
"Be there no work in your village?"
Michael fell silent now. The wise seaman had struck a nerve deep in his core. Margaret, his lass, had said the very same thing to him many a time. And there were, in fact, many places in his village where he could seek work—should he wish to give up his life of sea-faring adventure.
"So, Lord Columbus—share with me some o’ yer adventures. Tell me of these wonders ye swear will scare me so deviously."
Columbus grinned silently to himself, knowing that the young captain had purposely changed the subject. Deciding that he would let it go, he began his reply. “Some of the world's greatest terrors live in the water, lad. There be creatures with eight tentacles that could squeeze the life out o’ any mere man. There be serpent-like creatures that carry magic in their touch an’ can send fire into yer blood an’ body. Some o’ the monsters can sting ye straight to the devil, if ye be unlucky enough to touch one."
"I've battled many o’ these creatures before, Captain,” Michael announced with a determined smile on his face. “Not one had scared me."
"Ye be a brave lad,” Columbus spoke crudely. “But make sure ye be not an ignorant one too. It always be best to stay safe than sorry."
"Wise words spoken from a wise man,” he whispered gently and drank more from his goblet of wine.
A knock from the chamber door interrupted the conversation and Columbus offered permission for the crewman to enter. To the surprise of both captains, it was Michael's first mate.
"Cap'n Wilder,” he said with an inquisitive voice. “There be a problem wit’ the cargo."
"What kind of problem?” he asked alarmed.
"I think ye best come on down to the ship an’ take a gander for yerself."
The look in the man's eyes spoke of confused warning. There was a problem, but the man was not quite sure how to explain it.
A few moments later, they were back aboard Michael's vessel and in the cargo room of the ship. It appeared empty, just as it had been when they had finished the unloading of Columbus's supplies.
"I don’ see the problem,” he referenced, noticing nothing out of place. “What's wrong?"
"This,” the crewman stuttered as he crossed over the floor and opened a small wooden door. The cabinet was stuffed with supplies originally packed into one of the cargo crates. “Someone emptied one o’ the crates,” the first mate explained.
It took only a moment for the situation to fully sink into Michael's mind, and with perked eyebrows, he looked to Columbus and announced, “We have a stowaway."
Without delay, the three men rushed back to the rowboat and hurried aboard Columbus's vessel.
"Open up every supply crate,” the mighty captain ordered his men in a voice filled with worry and rage. “We have a stowaway! Every crate must be opened and checked."
"Captain!” cried a voice from below the deck where the storage shelter was. “We have a situation down here!"
"Bloody hell,” Columbus growled as he led the way through the door, down the stairs, and into the storage room. There, the two captains and their crewmen found everything just as they had left it, with the exception of one large crate that had been savagely ripped apart.
"A wild animal?” one of the crewmen asked with uncertainty.
"A wild animal couldn't o’ unpacked this crate, climbed inside, and sealed himself in,” Michael remarked. “This be the work of a stowaway."
"But could a stowaway have done this?” one of the men asked. Then, leading the captains’ eyes with his, he stared down at the bottom of the crate. A thin sheet of ice glistened coldly.
"I want every inch o’ this vessel searched,” Columbus ordered in a voice high and powerful. “Find the intruder an’ bring him to me.” Looking about him, he saw his men slowly begin to fall into motion. He knew that they were just as curious as he was about the ice and the stowaway, and he could smell a tinge of fear. Deciding the need to speed them up a bit, he shouted, “That's an order!"
With swiftness, they hustled about, many back to the deck of the ship and many searching all through each and every chambered contained below the deck. Two went down even further, where they investigated the dark regions of the ship's core.
Michael and Columbus now stood alone in the storage room, each with a look of curiosity on his face.
"I don’ understand how a stowaway got aboard me ship,” Michael spoke, verbalizing his thoughts. “Me ship was docked right in front o’ me cottage. An’ all the time we was on the water, we never seen hide nor hair o’ trouble."
"Most likely, it be someone out to get me, kill me before I spread the wealth of our great heritage. That's why they waited on yer ship an’ didn't strike. They were waitin’ for me."
Captain Christopher Columbus stood tall and proud with this announcement and a glistening look of accomplishment filled his eyes. This was the type of situation that the man thrived on. He feasted on the rippling nerves of adventure.
"Who knows what this stowaway expects from the New World, but so help me, he will be taken there as a prisoner."
Michael cocked an eyebrow and smiled at the determined leader, wondering exactly how many times the man had dealt with stowaways. Perhaps, if he was lucky enough, he would get to witness someone walking the plank.
From the heavens above, a loud rumble of thunder erupted and the two captains swallowed deeply. They had anticipated storms during the day, but neither had expected them so soon. It was barely daylight, and now that would fade away with the approach of the gray clouds that threatened to fill the sky.
"A storm be brewin',” Michael noted and stared into Columbus's deep-set eyes. “It sounds like it's gonna be a mighty one, too."
"Aye, it does,” he agreed, and in unison, the two retreated back to the top deck of the ship. With their arrival came the arrival of the heavy, cold rain. Darkness once again filled the sky.
"The waters be icy an’ rampant, Cap'n,” Michael's first mate noted as he stared over the ledge of the boat. “Our ship be anchored, but any heavy current will still send it into motion."
"Someone has to get down there to man the ship,” the young man ordered, patting his friend on the back. “That was me father's ship, mate. Treat her well."
"Aye, Cap'n,” he said sturdily, saluting his young superior and finding a new purpose in his mission. He not only had to man a ship—he had to man the ship of a legendary sailor. Turning to Columbus, he nodded at the Spaniard before embarking for his own Captain's vessel.
"Attention to all hand on deck!” Columbus shouted in his loudest roar, turning to face the seamen who were scattered about searching for the stowaway. “Prepare for the storm! Batten down the hatches! Tighten up the main sails! Hustle, boys. Yon storm waits for no man."
"Aye, aye, Captain!” his men cried, immediately falling in place to follow their superior's orders.
"Ye seem to have a way with yer men, Captain Columbus,” Michael noted, watching the men—each soaked to the bone—preparing for the impact of the storm as ordered.
"Eight o’ me men still be missin',” Columbus added, lowering his eyes to the deck. “They must still be searchin’ for the stowaway."
