Ben smiled mischievously as he answered his dog’s thought. “Huh, you can brush your own self off tomorrow if you’re planning on rolling about in straw all night. I’m not your kennel maid.”
The Labrador looked indignant. “Never said y’were, and by the way, when did I last roll about in a barnful of straw, eh?”
Ben mused a moment before answering. “Er, April the ninth, 1865, if I remember rightly. The day Robert E. Lee surrendered to Grant. We were in a barn somewhere outside Kansas City.”
“Oh yes, you jumped on my head, I remember that much!”
“Had to jump on your fat head. Otherwise you’d have kicked off doing your barking exercises and betrayed us to those renegades. Don’t forget, Ned, I saved you from becoming a dogskin saddlebag.”
The Labrador sniffed airily. “Thank you kindly, young sir, but this isn’t the American Civil War. ’Tis nought but a sleepy English backwater village. I’ll bark to my heart’s content. Got to exercise the old bark now and again, y’know. Never can tell when it’ll come in useful!”
Ben halted. “Quiet, Ned, d’you hear that? Sounds like shouting?”
The dog’s keen ears raised. “It is shouting. ‘Winnie the Witch with the crinkly face, come on out and give us a chase.’ Might be some type of quaint local custom, eh, Ben?”
As they rounded a tree-fringed bend, Ben caught sight of the big, old, redbrick house, standing alone on the hillside.
“What did Alex say that gang’s name was, Ned?”
“Er, the Grange Gang, I think. Why?”
“I think we may have found them. Come on, let’s go and take a quiet peep at what’s going on.”
There were ten of them altogether, led by Wilf Smithers and his cousin Regina Woodworthy. Wilf kept the others busy searching for more ammunition to throw, whilst he and Regina stood by, shaking the rhododendron bushes. A fat boy with piggy eyes, who had been searching the garden, came creeping back through the shrubbery. He was carrying a double handful of rotten vegetation.
Wilf pulled a face, turning away from the stench that emanated from the mess. “Phwaw! That doesn’t half stink. Where’d you get it, Tommo?”
The fat boy threw the stuff awkwardly. It landed short of the house, splattering on the front steps. He snickered with glee, wiping his hands upon the grass. “ ’Round the back there, Wilf. Winnie the Witch has a big compost heap piled up against the wall!” He watched Wilf’s tough, sun-reddened face for signs of approval.
The leader of the Grange Gang ignored his minion and gave orders to the others. “You lot get ’round to that compost heap and fetch a load back here. We’ll make the witch’s house smell like a sewer before we’re finished. Bring as much as you can!”
Ben and his dog had been eavesdropping from the other side of the garden wall. Ned’s hackles rose. “Witch hunters persecuting some poor old lady! Grr, stupid ignorant louts, I can’t abide them!”
Ben was of the same mind. “There’s always bullies to pick on somebody who can’t defend themselves, Ned. Let’s go and upset them a bit.”
The Labrador shook his head. “If we’re staying ’round here awhile, it won’t do for you to invite trouble right off. Leave this to me, pal!”
Ben cautioned his friend. “Don’t go causing them any real damage, Ned. This isn’t the Battle of Trafalgar, you know.”
Ned’s face was the picture of injured doggy innocence. “Who, me? What possible harm could a gentle, ancient pooch do to a gang of great, tough teenagers?”
Thinking back to past adventures, Ben was about to remind Ned of several incidents. But when he looked around, the Labrador had vanished like a black shadow.
The gang was taking its time gathering garbage from the compost pile—rotting apples, carrot tops, withered cabbages. Wilf’s deputy, Regina, crouched impatiently behind the bushes. “What’s the matter with ’em, Wilf, have they gone asleep ’round there?”
Wilf was facing away from her, peering across the garden. “I’ll kick that Tommo’s behind if he doesn’t move himself!”
Something heavy hit Regina’s back and knocked her flat. She turned over and found herself facing a giant mad dog! It was black as night, showing gleaming white fangs as its lips twitched hungrily. Dark eyes glittering, fur standing up on its spine, it stood snarling, ready to attack.
Regina managed to stammer. “W-W-Wilf, there’s a d-d-dog!”
She need not have spoken, the beast already had Wilf’s undivided attention. The boy took one pace back and fell flat on his behind. The dog turned to face him, froth showing in its jaws.
“Grrrrr gurrrr, wooooof!”
The thunderous bark galvanized them both into instant motion. Scrambling upright, Regina ran for it, banging into Wilf and smacking his head against the sandstone garden wall. “Owwooof! Yaaaaagh!”
Ned had the way out blocked. Wilf and Regina both fled toward the compost heap, which, being piled high against the wall, offered the only quick way out of the garden. The big black Labrador pursued them, snarling and growling viciously. The rest of the gang took one look at the savage hound and tried to make good their escape. However, the soft, ripe compost couldn’t bear their joint weight, and Wilf, Regina, and their cohorts found themselves sinking into the odious squelching mire, shrieking and grabbing at one another. As he barked and bayed like a mad wolf, Ned allowed a little slather of froth to wreathe his jaws, though inside he was giggling like a puppy. The fleeing Grange members fell over one another, kicking and fighting to be first over the wall, faces, hands, elbows, and legs covered with the stinking mass of decayed vegetation.
Standing outside, Ben saw the first few fling themselves from the walltop, thudding painfully onto the dusty path. Before they could rise, more yowling muddy apparitions landed on them. It was utter bedlam! Ben pulled a disgusted face at the smell hanging on the air, then he turned away, carelessly whistling an old sea shanty, his untidy blond shock of hair bobbing as he entered the garden jauntily.
Ned came bounding up, his teeth bared in a huge doggy grin. “Now you know why my barking practice is important. Did you hear me, Ben, I made more din than a pack of beagles. Pretty good going, I’d say!”
“Excellent! You did very well for an ancient hound. Bet they cover a mile or two before they stop running. What’s this? Look, Ned, there’s an old lady coming out of the house.”
Mrs. Winn had a walking stick in her hand in case of trouble, and she stopped several yards from them. Her voice had a sharp note to it as she looked them over. “You don’t look like one of those hooligans. What are you doing here? Is that dog yours?”
Ned sat still and did some friendly dog-panting exercises, which he rated as important as barking practice.
Ben flicked the hair from his eyes with a swift nod and smiled disarmingly. “Afternoon, marm. We didn’t mean to trespass, but we thought that gang was annoying you. Not nice that, annoying folk.”
Mrs. Winn peered closer at the strange, polite boy. His white canvas pants and crewneck sweater, together with what appeared to be a cut-down naval jacket, gave him the look of a seaman, freshly arrived ashore.
Behind his smile she could sense calm; however, it was mainly the boy’s blue eyes that caught her attention—they seemed ageless, misty blue, like the summer horizon of a far sea.
She blinked, beckoning the two forward with her stick. “Does that dog attack cats?”
The Labrador shot out an indignant thought. “Attack cats, me? Is the old dear mad? I love the furry little things, as long as they keep their claws to themselves. Huh, attack cats!”
Ben patted his dog fondly. “Ned’s just fine with cats, marm. He’s friendly, too. Give the lady your paw, Ned!”
Mrs. Winn held out her hand, and Ned dutifully presented a paw.
Obviously impressed, the old lady stroked Ned’s sleek coat. “Oh, you’re a good dog, Ned, good dog!”
Ned gave her the benefit of his soulful gaze. “Thank you, marm, and you’re a nice lady, nice lady!”
&n
bsp; She turned to the strange boy. “So, what’s your name?”
“Ben, marm, just call me Ben.”
She offered her hand. Ben shook it gently, and she winked at him. “My name’s Winifred Winn, but you can call me Winnie, and stop ‘marming’ me. You sound like my husband used to. ‘Marm’ this and ‘marm’ that. Well, Ben, I suppose you like apple pie and lemonade, and I’ll bet Ned wouldn’t mind a dish of water and a beef bone with lots of marrow and fat to it.”
“Ooh, ooh! I could grow to love this old lady dearly!”
Ben bypassed the dog’s compliment. “That’d be very nice, ma . . . er, Winnie, thank you.”
She ushered them both inside. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for driving those wretches away from the house. The trouble they’ve caused me! And the whole village. But enough of that, you’ve probably got troubles of your own. Come on, you two, we’ll use the parlor. It’s not often I have visitors.”
14
BEN SAT AT A SPINDLE-LEGGED COFfee table in the parlor, tucking into a sizable wedge of Mrs. Winn’s apple pie, with fresh cream poured over it. There was a tall glass of homemade lemonade with it. Ned had retired to the kitchen for his beef bone and water, where Mrs. Winn also gave him a piece of short-bread pastry. Horatio arched his back and leapt onto a table, until the big dog passed him reassuring thoughts. The cat did not reply, but after a while began purring and came down to rub itself against Ned’s leg.
Mrs. Winn smiled approvingly as she came out to fetch the rest of her apple pie and cream. Returning to the parlor, she set it down in front of her guest.
“Boys always like apple pie; help yourself, son, you look as if you could use some more. Go on, don’t be shy!”
Ben took another generous slice. “Thanks . . . Winnie, we haven’t had much to eat since yesterday morning.”
As he ate, the blue-eyed boy studied the portrait over the mantelpiece. “Is that your husband’s picture? Anchor Line cap’n, eh?”
Mrs. Winn stared curiously at him. “Not many lads your age would know that the Royal Navy is called the Anchor Line. Are you a seafarer, Ben?”
The boy took a thoughtful sip of lemonade. “Not really. I’ve knocked about on barges and coasters as a galley lad. You hear things about the sea . . . it’s always interested me. I’ve read quite a lot of sea stories, too.”
The boy did not like lying to the old woman, but he knew he could not tell her the truth. Who would believe that he and Ned had sailed on the Flying Dutchman in the year 1620! It would strain any credibility to believe that boy and dog were still alive and well, ageless, in the year 1896.
He caught Mrs. Winn staring at him intensely and turned away as she asked, “I won’t tell anyone, Ben, where are you really from?”
He shrugged. “I think I was born in Denmark, Copenhagen, but I’m not sure. Ned’s from there, we’ve always been together. We’ve lived in quite a few places . . . here and there.”
Mrs. Winn shook her head, perplexed. “I’ll bet you have. Any parents, brothers or sisters?”
“Not that I know of, ma . . . Winnie. I was planning on staying in Chapelvale for a while, as soon as I can find somewhere that allows dogs. I don’t suppose you’d know of a place?”
Mrs. Winn suddenly felt sorry for her strange visitor. He looked so young, so alone. Concern showed in her voice. “You mean that you haven’t anywhere to stay?”
Ben nodded. “I’ve got money. I could pay for lodgings, and I’d see Ned didn’t bother anybody.”
The old lady sat watching the boy. The flat grandfather clock chimes rang out four-thirty. Ben had finished the last morsel of apple pie when his dog came from the kitchen and lay down contentedly, his head resting on the boy’s scuffed boot. Fidgeting and fussing with her apron corner, Winnie looked up to the ornate molded ceiling, then down to her husband’s portrait, finally settling on Ben.
Something in her eyes told him she had reached a decision. Tapping her worn gold wedding ring against the chair arm, Mrs. Winn pursed her lips. “You aren’t in any kind of trouble, are you, my boy?”
Ben sat up straight. “Certainly not, Miz Winn!”
She touched his hand reassuringly. “I believe you. You said you were thinking of staying in Chapelvale for a while. I suppose that means you’ll be moving on one day. Hmm, you’re a puzzle, Ben. There’s more to you and your dog than meets the eye, a lot more.”
She cleared away the plates and glasses, watching the crestfallen lad out of the corner of her eye. “Shall we say that you can stay here for a few days, then? I don’t think those bullies will bother coming ’round to harass me if they see Ned wandering in the garden.”
Ben brightened up immediately. “Oh, thank you, marm! Ned’ll keep them away and I’ll help you ’round the house and do your shopping for you, and I can pay for lodgings, too. I have money, you know. . . .”
Mrs. Winn held up her hand, cutting Ben off frostily. “Please, I’m not rich, but I have enough to get by on with Captain Winn’s pension. I’m not beholden to anybody, and I don’t need you to pay me—I’m allowing you to stay here as a friend.”
Ned passed a thought to his master. “What a nice old lady Winnie is. This place feels just like home, whatever home’s supposed to feel like. Don’t forget to thank her for me. I’ve been trying to talk with that cat, Horatio, but he’s not got much to say for himself. It must be with his having no other creatures to speak to that he’s lost the art of conversation, poor fellow.”
Ben answered the dog’s thoughts. “Well, when you do finally get chatting together, see what you can find out from him. It might give us a clue as to why we’ve been sent here.”
Mrs. Winn tapped Ben’s shoulder. “Are you listening to what I’m saying, young man?”
“What, oh, er, sorry, Miz Winn. I must have dozed off!”
The old lady chuckled. “Hmm, you looked as if you were ready to drop off there, sitting and staring at the dog. I was just saying that you and Ned could take the rear upstairs bedroom. I sleep down here in the small sitting room nowadays. My left leg’s not too good, I need help getting upstairs. Perhaps you’d best go and take a nap. There’s a nice bathroom up there, too.”
Ben rose gratefully. “Thank you, Miz Winn. Thanks for everything from both of us. I think I will take a bath and a nap.”
The old lady took Ben’s hand. “Help me upstairs and I’ll show you your room. I’ll have dinner ready for you both at seven. Come on, Ned, good boy!”
The Labrador looked questioningly at Ben. “I don’t mind the nap, but a bath’s out of the question. It’s not half an hour since I had a good scratch and lick!”
Ben tugged at the black Lab’s tail as they went upstairs. “Miz Winn means me, not you!”
It was a comfortable room with a soft, old-fashioned bed. Ben picked up a framed sepia photograph from the bedside table. A young man and woman with two small boys stood on a palm-fronded verandah. The boy studied it. “Hmm, looks like India or Ceylon, some sort of plantation.”
Mrs. Winn was mildly surprised at her strange guest’s knowledge, yet looking at his wise blue eyes, it seemed right somehow that he should know about the photograph. “Your second guess was correct, Ben. It’s Ceylon. That’s my son Jim with his family—he manages a tea plantation for a British company out there. I’ve not yet seen his wife Lilian, or the children. That photograph is all I have of them. Maybe someday they’ll come over for a visit. . . .”
Mrs. Winn suddenly looked very sad, and she sighed. “Still, maybe it would be better for me if they stayed in Ceylon.”
Ben became curious. “Why do you say that, Winnie?”
She shuffled slowly out of the room as she replied. “I’ll tell you at dinner. Stay where you are, lad, I can manage going downstairs on my own quite well.”
After a good hot bath, Ben dressed in a clean change of clothing from his canvas bag and lay on the bed, watching a shaft of late day sunlight on the floral wallpaper. Bird-song from the garden and the distant rumble of
a train sounded pleasant and comforting. He drifted off into a slumber, happy that Ned and he had found somewhere to stay.
The dream stole unbidden into his sleep. Gale-force winds sweeping over a heaving deck, tattered sails framed against a storm-ripped sky, great grey-green waves rushing across the raging main. He was clinging to the dog as they were washed overboard through the shattered midship rails. Water, water, the earth was awash in wild seawater, pounding in his ears, filling his nostrils, that odd faraway sound of muffled breath escaping beneath the ocean’s surface. Then spray churning white as he and the dog surfaced in the vessel’s wake. He tried to swim with one hand, whilst clinging to the dog’s collar with the other, when he was struck by a spar and his dream became cascades of colored lights, exploding from the darkness. A velvety calm enveloped Ben as he floated off someplace in time and space. A gentle golden radiance filled his spirit when the angel’s voice called, soft as noon breeze in summer meadows.
“Rest here, stay awhile, help those in need of your gifts. Even in a place such as Chapelvale there are petty tyrants and those whose hearts are ruled by greed. You and your dog must come to the aid of the good folk here. But, hearken, at the sound of a single toll from a church bell, you must leave!”
The message of the bell—a church bell this time—remained clear in Ben’s mind, even as his dreams raced on, over centuries, across seas, over mountains, through distant lands, wherever he and Ned had been sent to assist the oppressed in their struggle against villainy. He saw faces from the past, friends and enemies alike, felt the apprehension of arrival, the joy of being part of so many communities and the sorrow of having to depart and leave them behind. Always onward to fresh adventures, with his faithful, unchanging friend Ned. The last thing that trailed through his dream was a vision of the Flying Dutchman, with Vanderdecken wild-eyed at the ship’s wheel. Away, away across the dark waters it fled, until it, too, was lost to sight. Ben’s slumber drifted with him off in the opposite direction, to calm, untroubled sleep.