Sprog

Copyright © 2016 by Charles G. Reid.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 01/26/2016

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Epilogue

Glossary

For Sioux

Chapter One

Sprog parted the fronds of bracken and poked his little button nose out—a liberal sprinkling of freckles affording perfect camouflage in the dappled moonlight. He strained to listen—pointy ears twitching under blond curls—but the only sounds carried on the murmuring breeze were the rumbles of nearby cattle lowing, interspersed from far away by a lone curlew crying its pitiful lament. No gunfire, no beating drums, no bugles blaring. He sniffed—no spent gunpowder, no blood, sweat, or tears—nothing but the sickly-sweet aroma of cow dung amid spring grass. He paused, frowning his unease, nothing but his eyes moving as they scanned the slope before him. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a single human for two days now, but months of bitter experience had taught the faerie that he couldn’t relax, not yet. Twice already he’d thought that he had slipped his pursuer, and twice, this particular black-hearted hunter had caught him unawares. What drove that grim fanatic so tirelessly? I mean, the church fire was all just a big misunderstanding. And the outbreak of swine fever was obviously an accident. And they couldn’t prove that he had anything to do with that epidemic of the pox, yet still the witch hunter came, spiteful and relentless. Tired of running, tired of hiding, Sprog closed his eyes, hardly daring to believe the peace. Eventually he rose to his full height and stepped out from his cover into the open. Finally satisfied that the lush meadow ahead was clear, he broke into a stumbling jog as his mind drifted back to the wife and children left in hiding on the bleak moorland up north. Stifling a cough, he took a deep breath and accelerated into a sprint, waist-high grass parting with scarcely a ripple, prompting no more than disinterested glances from the cows, content to simply chew and fart their way through the night.

Nearing the hedge defining the far side of the field, Sprog allowed himself to slow down, to savour the sweet fragrance of the elderflowers blossoming in profusion there. He sighed wistfully as he pushed his way through the barbed hawthorn branches, pausing atop the remnants of a dry stone wall as a nesting wren scolded him for intruding. Whispering his apology, the faerie clambered down from the rocks and backed away. Bordering the other side of the hedge, another meadow sloped away, its long grass glistening in the moonlight as dew started to form, and beyond that shimmered… the sea! Sprog’s heart jumped for joy at the sight of it: beautiful, benign, yet untamed and free, and abandoning all caution, he dashed down the slope towards the hiss of gently murmuring surf. For once, he didn’t bother to seek cover. Who would be out at this time, even on such a beautiful night as this? Ignoring the track that looped its way down the steepening slope, Sprog took the short, direct route and accelerated directly towards the wide expanse of sand at the bottom. Low, contorted trees, battered by the wind and rain, obscured his view of the water as the gradient eased, but soon he saw a glint of it through the foliage, and he grinned, yellow teeth luminous in the wan light. In his exuberance, he launched himself through the air to clear the trees, intending to execute a perfect somersault on to the beach, but emerging at head height from the screen of leaves, he was panic-stricken to find a group of men pushing a small boat down the beach towards the water. With his arms flailing in a futile attempt to reverse his flight, Sprog crashed clumsily on the sand ten yards behind the group and buried his face as if hoping to make himself invisible.

‘What wuzzat?’ asked a gruff voice.

‘Nuffin’. Shut up an’ push! We’re late,’ came the breathless reply. ‘The tide’s already turnin’, so we should be out there by now.’

Sprog lay motionless as the panting group struggled on in silence. The creaking of the hull and rattle of the rowlocks receded as the boat slid down to the water, but it was still some time before he could bring himself to lift his head. Even then, he made no further movement as he watched the boat push out through the gentle surf, its four oars working in well-practised unison. As it headed out into the wide expanse of the bay, even Sprog was forced to admire the skill of the oarsmen, for not a splash did they make. The faerie used his keen sense of hearing to eavesdrop on the crew, but the only voice came from the black silhouette sitting in the stern clutching the tiller, quietly exhorting the other men to greater effort.

‘Come on, lads. One, two. Heave-ho. We’re already late. Pull, pull. Come on, harder, that’s the way. Heave, heave…’

At his breathy encouragement, the boat punched its way through the waves out into the bay, and as it did so, a huge dark shape emerged from around the eastern headland. Slowly and silently, silhouetted against the twinkling mirror of the sea, one, two, and then three masts came into view. Sprog stood up to get a better view. Even a water sprite like him could see that this was no ordinary trading vessel, and with no navigation lights showing, he knew that it probably wasn’t here on official business either. A rasping noise followed by a splash signalled the galleon dropping anchor, and the smaller boat altered its course to rendezvous with it.

This was just too good an opportunity to miss, so Sprog sprinted east across the sand, kicking up a fine spray behind him as he did so. His curiosity made him impatient, and in his haste, he cut the corner and ran down to the firmer wet sand left behind by the receding tide, forcing him to get his feet wet to cross a shallow channel of freshwater entering the sea. Skipping through it, the faerie left footprints of phosphorescence in his wake.

‘Wossat? In the water, by the beach,’ puffed one of the rowers, missing a stroke as he pointed back to their launching place. The man in the stern twisted himself around to scan the beach through narrowed eyes. Even at this distance, he could make out the bubbles created by the faerie’s footsteps.

‘Probably just a fish jumping,’ he stated matter-of-factly, though he felt compelled to search the sand with his eyeglass. He did not find Sprog, who by this time was bounding across the rocks that formed the eastern boundary of the bay and was now almost level with the boat. ‘Come on, man, put your back into it! You’re starting to make everyone nervous. If you haven’t the stomach for this kind of work, then we’ll find someone who has. We cannot afford half-hearted passengers.’ Very quickly, the oarsman found his rhythm again, and no more was said as the boat pulled up to the warship.

Sprog trotted out over the slimy rocks to the water’s edge, where the waves sprayed his face with brine, stinging his eyes. Blinking away tears, he watched the small boat pull up amidships, and the stout, well-dressed man in the stern scrambled up the rope ladder that was lowered to him. Reaching the deck, there was a short exchange in a rapid, lisping tongue before the man was led below. The men in the boat maintained an uneasy watch, casting frequent nervous glances up at the hull towering over them. However, for a while, nothing stirred, and the only sound was the creaking of the rigging. After an uncomfortably long time, Sprog saw a ragged, barefoot sailor pad across the empty deck of the galleon to lean over the railings and whisper, ‘Eh, Eeenglish,’ before motioning across his throat with his index finger and hissing a throaty chuckle. The occupants of the boat were visibly unsettled by this unmistakable gesture, but thankfully, there was soon the sound of footsteps, and a group of men, including the tiller man, emerged on to the deck. Three barrels were lowered over the side to the waiting boat, where they were skilfully stowed in the hull so that although it now sat much lower in the water, it maintained perfect balance. The captain of the ship, dressed flamboyantly with a fashionable ostrich feather adorning his floppy, wide-brimmed hat, whispered his goodbye with a heavy accent and handed a small pouch to the dapper tiller man, who responded, ‘So in two nights’ time then?’ The captain nodded before turning briskly and returning to his cabin to finish the half-empty bottle of sherry sitting on his desk.

An uneasy silence followed as the ship’s crew stared at the lone Englishman fumbling to place the pouch in his coat pocket. Intimidated by their mute hostility, he backed to the railing and scrambled over. As he did so, something fell from under his coat to hit one of the men waiting in the boat, making him cry out in pain, and then landed in the water with a plop. Lowering himself back into the stern, the gentleman felt around the back of his belt until he confirmed that he had lost something. Glaring at the stocky oarsman who was still rubbing his head, he made no comment but barked, ‘Row, just row!’

Sprog watched the boat pull away from the side of the galleon and punch its way through the chop. A chuckle went up from the group of Spaniards on board the warship in response to a sneering comment as the four oarsmen strained to put some distance between the two vessels. With their heavy cargo, progress was painfully slow, so Sprog decided to take a closer look and dived into the cold water. Cutting through the waves, he made not a single ripple as he approached the massive hull of the galleon. Its great mass sat heavy and immobile in the calm waters. No wonder! thought Sprog, looking at all the barnacles and limpets hitching a ride on the hull. I’m surprised it moves at all! It wouldn’t want to go any shallower either! Another thought struck the faerie, and so after a quick glance up towards the rope ladder still dangling over the side, he ducked his head under the surface and was gone. With a couple of strong kicks, he went deeper, past the lumbering bulk of the hull, and pushed his way past long, slimy strands of kelp towards the bottom. The water was murky and visibility poor as Sprog nosed about the rocks and weeds, probing into crevices and stroking his fingers through the silt. He was about to give up the search when a sudden movement away to his right caught his attention. The dark outline of a huge crab, its shell at least twelve inches across, spun around to face him, and in its massive claws, it brandished a short knife. Even at this depth, Sprog could see that this was a very fine tool, adorned by a handle enamelled with a two-headed eagle and well balanced by a razor-sharp blade. With a raised eyebrow and nod of his head, he mouthed, ‘Thank you very much,’ and commandeered the weapon, deftly avoiding the snapping pincers of the crab. Tucking it into his own belt, Sprog kicked away from the ocean floor and struck out for the surface, only to be distracted by the bright luminescence of a pearl jellyfish. He spent the next few minutes studying the toadstool-shaped bell and playfully caressing its trailing tentacles. By the time he surfaced, the small boat had ploughed a quarter of a mile westward across the bay towards the rock stacks silhouetted there, so he set off in pursuit.

The crew on board the galleon was far too busy raising the anchor and setting sail to notice the small figure porpoising away in the moonlight. They had to put some distance between themselves and these rocks before the tide started to come in.

Chapter Two

Rufus paused to listen. Nothing. No gulls squabbling, wagons rumbling by, or sailors shouting down on the quay. Nothing at all. Not even a dog barked. The narrow streets of Polpipit were deserted. This was his favourite time of day. His time of day. No master constantly telling him what to do. No customers demanding or complaining. None of the other apprentices or young ruffians who always gave him a hard time, even on the Sabbath, the one day of the week when he didn’t have to rise hours before dawn to start his day’s work. No, everyone else slept, and he was the master. For a short, blissful period every morning, Rufus Miller Esquire was lord of all he surveyed. He smiled and bent down to gather an armful of logs for the fire. Hoisting them up, he tottered up the steep steps into the bakehouse.

This was his fifth load already this morning, and the heat from the oven was fierce as he fed the logs into it. Although it was a cold, cloudless sky outside, small beads of sweat broke out on Rufus’s broad forehead. His large brown eyes blinked their long lashes as he turned his head away from the smoke and took a deep breath, before thrusting in the last two logs and slamming the door shut. A tear ran down his plump, rosy cheek, which he wiped away with podgy fingers before rising to his full height again. That wasn’t very high, in fact, but what he lacked in height he made up for in bulk. Strong as an ox, sadly he was about as slow and dull-witted as one too, which was why he was so unmercifully teased by the other youths of the town. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father had followed her to the grave two years later from a fever, but he had been fortunate to be taken in by his maternal grandparents, who had then apprenticed him at the age of nine to a baker. Willem, or Bill as people called him, was a dour Dutchman who had migrated here fifteen years ago to escape the wars raging in his homeland and, for the last six, had attempted to teach Rufus how to bake. Quiet and humourless, he was nevertheless generally patient and tolerant of the youth’s lack of progress, quickly having recognised the boy’s limitations and working within them. Consequently, the boy was warm and well fed and content to labour fourteen hours a day, six days a week for his master.

As the oven heated up, Rufus poked around the bakehouse under the pretence of making sure that everything was ready for Bill to start work. Since he’d scrubbed and tidied and restocked the flour barrels last night before he’d gone to bed, it really didn’t need checking, but Bill was a bit late this morning, so it gave Rufus an opportunity to sneak into the kitchen and break his fast on a slab of yesterday’s bread. He wandered over to the window and stood staring blankly at the moon’s reflection in the harbour, neatly framed by the silhouettes of the buildings at the end of the street. Tilting his head to the left, Rufus gave a deep sigh of contentment. Why couldn’t it be three o’clock in the morning all day long?

From down the hill towards the quay, a sharp blast from a bugle almost caused the boy to choke on his mouthful. Something must be seriously amiss to cause the garrison’s bugler to shatter the peace at this time of day. What was that? Oh no! Footsteps clattering down the stairs! With no time to think, Rufus shoved the remaining hunk of crust into his already full mouth and chewed furiously. Eyes wide, he tried to swallow, but a lack of saliva caused the large bolus of food to lodge at the back of his throat. Bill was near the bottom of the staircase now! Rufus turned his back to the door and worked his jaw frantically as his master crossed the room towards him.

‘Woss goink on?’ asked Bill. Even after all these years, he still had an accent as clumsy as the oversized clogs he favoured around the bakehouse. Rufus did not answer but pointed out of the window at the column of men trudging up the steep slope towards the shop. Bill frowned but looked where he was bid, just in time to see the moon’s reflection obliterated by a mass of pikes wobbling up the road. It was hard enough for the poor soldiers to march up such a steep cobbled road, let alone carry a fifteen-foot pike without catching it on the awnings and overhanging upper stories, and the din from their cursing and clashing of arms shattered the peace.

‘Oh dear, iss de trained bands. I wonder where they can be goink,’ said Bill. Rufus gulped hard before turning to face the Dutchman and, eyes watering profusely, attempted one of his gormless, innocent smiles.

Chapter Three

Sprog was forced to slow down to avoid gaining too quickly on the little boat bobbing ponderously towards the rock stacks. The tide had now turned completely, and he could feel the current pushing him closer to the high limestone cliffs towering overhead. These humans were going to have to be quick, he thought, or they would never get around those huge monoliths and would be in real danger of being swept against the rock face.

Something brushed against Sprog’s leg. As he squirmed around in the water, a shower of saltwater sprayed his face, making him blink and splutter. When his vision cleared, he found himself face-to-face with one of the great auks from the small colony on the furthest stack. It squawked at him and dived beneath the surface, and the sprite couldn’t resist following. Clumsy and flightless above the surface, down in the depths, the bird was elegant and nimble, so it wasn’t long before it had a small silver smelt firmly in its powerful beak and, with another flap of its wings, shot up to the surface to enjoy its meal. The faerie kicked hard and followed the bird up. Turning round to get his bearings, he was alarmed to see that the boat had vanished. Surely it hadn’t been dashed on to the rocks already. Leaving the auk to deal with the still-thrashing fish, he skimmed over the waves to search for signs of the wreck.

As he rose and fell with the gentle swell, it became apparent to Sprog that there was a dark shadow at the base of the ghostly rock. Approaching cautiously, he could hear the echoes of waves crashing within the opening. It was a cave! Surely, submerged at high tide, it would make a perfect hiding place for smugglers. Pressing onwards, the water sprite entered the blackness of the tunnel, the roof of which hung oppressively low. Those sailors were lucky, he thought. Another fifteen minutes and they would never have made it in here. The surge of the swell rushing into the cave threatened to dash Sprog against the rocks, so when the next inflow of water reached its high point, he launched himself on to the heavily fissured walls, across which he scuttled, crablike, deeper into the tunnel. Twenty or so yards along, the tunnel opened up into a great cavern, whose ceiling arched away into the blackness. Sprog’s keen eyes scanned the area, but there was no sign of the boat. The churning waters, however, were calmer here, and a small sandy beach lay undisturbed along the western side of the cave. A metallic clash reverberated around the chamber, which the faerie now saw curved away to the right. Crawling over to the beach, he jumped down and ran across the sand towards the far wall, which afforded him a view around the corner, from whence a faint glow emanated.

Chapter Four

Nathaniel Busshe lay on the sagging mattress of his bunk and stared at the ceiling. Tormented by a relentless itching up his left arm, he scratched until he felt warm, viscous blood flow into the sleeve of his voluminous nightshirt. A rustling from the corner of the room betrayed the presence of vermin searching for scraps, but Nathaniel paid little heed to such inconsequential things. His interest was piqued, however, when a woman laughed raucously somewhere down the corridor. Coarse and gravelly, her laughter mutated into a rattly cough before the thud of furniture being knocked over on the hard wooden floor triggered more boorish ribaldry. Nathaniel’s thin lips tightened as he scowled at the ceiling until something bit him behind his left ear. He slapped aggressively at the offending insect. That’s it! he thought angrily. I’m just wasting time here in this godforsaken den of debauchery. And with that, he leapt out of bed to land with a crunch on something soft, which gave out a piercing squeal. Momentarily alarmed, he staggered back to sit on the edge of the bed before composing himself enough to fumble for his tinderbox and light the stump of the candle, which sat on the small table alongside him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Nathaniel lifted the candle to allow the yellow glow into the furthest corners. Moths and bedbugs were no more than he expected in a dive like this, but twitching in a dark pool of blood near the bed was a mortally injured mouse. Now quite calm and collected, only a flicker at the corner of his mouth betrayed the puritan’s distaste. Taking a measured step forwards, he brought his bare heel down on the helpless animal and crunched the last remaining glimmer of life out of it. Then to satisfy his obsession for neatness and order, he replaced the candle on the table, picked the body of the mouse up by the tail, and opening the shutters with his free hand, flung the corpse out into the blackness of the night.

Another rasping cackle from the woman down the corridor prompted a contemptuous glance around the cracked and flaking walls of the room before Nathaniel picked up his clothes, so neatly folded and draped over the back of the lone chair, and started to dress. When he had finished, he combed his straight shoulder-length hair and packed his few belongings into his haversack. Placing a tall, wide-brimmed hat on his head, he turned to check himself in the large, cloudy mirror on the wall. He frowned at the sight of a solitary hair straddling his left shoulder. Picking it off delicately between thumb and forefinger, he dropped it on the floor, watching it spiral down to land among the sawdust on the boards before turning his gaze back to the mirror. Plain. Very plain, just as one should be. None of these frivolous ribbons and bows or cockades of bright feathers. Just black and white and… decent. He chided himself for allowing stubble to remain on his dark, pockmarked features, but that would have to wait until the morrow, for he would not remain in this squalid place any longer.

Hoisting the haversack on his back, Nathaniel then picked up the ancient gnarled crab-apple staff he had left propped against the wall. Too short to aid the tall man’s walking, the stick was neither decorative nor functional and looked odd in his big hands, yet he never went anywhere without it. He frowned at the piece of wood as it lay inert in his grip. He too was starting to question the point of carrying it around, as for almost a week now, the staff had been inactive. Perhaps the wood was now dead. Perhaps there were no more faeries. Maybe Nathaniel had lost his