Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

drifts of cloud shadowed the moon, casting weird patterns of silver and black over the land below. Mountainous dark

green waves, topped by stark white crests and flying spume, thundered madly, smashing against the rocks, failing in

their quest to conquer the shore, hissing vengefully through the small, pebbled strand, retreating to the seas for a

renewed assault on Cape Horn, where two mighty oceans meet. '< ' Neb regained his senses gradually. He was being

dragged around the rocks and shallows of a little cove; the dog had its teeth sunk into his collar, trying to pull him

clear of the water. An incoming roller knocked them both flat, but the Labrador clung stubbornly to him. Painfully the

boy staggered to his hands and knees. Shuffling, crawling, he assisted the faithful creature attempting to tug him

beyond the tideline. He lay there a moment, dazed, then he retched, shivering and vomiting seawater among a debris

of seaweed, driftwood, and pale sand scattered with pebbles, his whole body shuddering with the effort. 'Gurround!

Gurr Neb grrr!' The sound came from nearby. Neb got to his knees, wiping his mouth with a sand-crusted forearm,

and looked around. There was no sign of any living being, except for the dog. A thought flashed through his mind that

somebody was trying to talk to him. Yet it was not an actual sound, just a feeling.

The rough voice came again. He realized it was like a thought, something invading his mind.

'Gurround Neb, wurrrr safe, grrr!'

The dog's paw was worrying at his leg, as Neb stared up at the cliffs above, searching in case someone was

hiding there. All this time his mind was in a jumble of speculation: What could it be? A voice, not aloud, but like a

spirit inside his head. Was it the angel, haunting his imagination? No, angels didn't growl! Neb flinched as the dog's

blunt claw scraped his leg. Turning, he took the dog's face in both hands, staring deep into its warm brown eyes. He

thought as they gazed at one another, What is it, Denmark, can you feel something, too?

The reply hit him like a bolt as he heard the dog's thought.

'Denmurrk, gurr ... I Denmurrk, grr, Neb 'live!'

Then Neb heard his own voice, but not from within his head as a thought. It was from his mouth! A shout,

echoing from the cliffs, above the sea and wind.

'You Den! You Dennnnnnnn!' Immediately Neb's hand shot to his throat, and he spoke, halting, but quite clear.

'I... talk!'

Denmark bowled him over, covering his face with a warm, slobbery tongue, both paws on his shoulders.

'Gurrrrrr! We t... talk, Neb, Denmurrrk ... gurr . . . talk!'

Overcome by the sudden miracle, Neb and Den suddenly found themselves expressing their joy in the way any

boy and his dog would, rolling over, wrestling in the sand, tears streaming from their eyes as Neb roared with laughter

and Den barked aloud.

Old Luis the Shepherd heard the noise. He had climbed down a wide rift in the cliffs, descending to the shore.

There were always bits of interesting flotsam to be found, besides driftwood and sea coal for his fire. But this was a

sound he had never heard on the hostile coast of the Tierra, the strains of happiness. Shouldering his bundle of wood,

Luis picked up the small sack of sea coal he had garnered and waded into the shallows, where a rocky point divided

the shore. Gathering his woolen blanket cloak about him, and holding on to a rock to steady his balance against the

sucking tidewater, he narrowed his eyes against the flying spray. Then, still peering up the beach, he sloshed through

the shallows, crow's-feet crinkling around his eyes. Luis could not help smiling at the odd sight.

A gaunt boy, ragged and rake-thin, his hair matted with sand and seawater, was screeching and laughing wildly

as he danced around and capered like a mad thing. With the lad was a big, emaciated black dog, its ribs showing

through the sheen of its saturated coat. It stood on hind legs, both forepaws on the boy's shoulders, as it leaped about

with him, barking and howling at the moon.

Luis walked toward the pair, waving the bundle of firewood, calling out in his native Spanish tongue. 'Hola!

Are you stricken by the dance of Saint Vitus? Why do you celebrate on these Tierra shores in such weather? My

friends, what brings you here?'

Neb and Den halted, staring at the old fellow, unsure of what to do next. Thoughts raced between them. 'Stay,

Den, he is friend, I understand how he speaks.'

Denmark licked his young master's hand. 'Grr, old one good, gurr. Den not know his speak. You do, Neb?'

Luis put down the wood and the coal and held out his open palms to them in a gesture of peace. 'Friend, you

must have come here from a ship, maybe it was wrecked. Are there no others left alive?'

Neb shook his head dumbly, not trusting his newfound voice.

The old shepherd merely nodded. 'May the Senor God give their poor souls rest. So there are only two left alive,

you and the dog, eh. My name is Luis the Shepherd—how are you called?'

Slowly the boy pointed to the dog. 'Den!' Then he pressed a finger to his own chest. 'Neb!'

Luis repeated his former question. 'How did you come here?'

The strange boy did not reply, but the old man watched as tears flowed silently down Neb's cheeks.

Carefully the old man approached Neb. He touched the youngster's cold, damp arm, then placed a palm on his

hot, dry forehead, murmuring gently. 'Young one, you are starving, soaked, and fevered. You will not have much to

give thanks for if you perish out here in the open. Your dog needs rest and food, too. My hut has food and fire—you

will both be warm and dry. Come with me, I won't harm you. Come!'

Luis took off his cloak and draped it about the boy's trembling shoulders.

Neb and Den exchanged thoughts. 'This is a good old man, we will go with him, Den.'

'Gurr, I go with you.'