CHAPTER FOUR
The Past
Fifty years ago at four o’clock in the morning, the on-coming dawn.
The longboat would have slid silently through the mist, had it not been for the noise of the oars pulling it along in tugs of groaning. The drum beating in slow rhythmic booms, also broke the silence that wasn’t there. Apart from that, it was silent though, the type of suspenseful silence one experiences in a pressing fog, on a flat sea, at four o’clock in the morning; which is exactly where this particular silence was being broken.
A black minstrel was on board; a tall dark stranger with eyes that flicked, well, one eye flicked. The other eye just stared straight ahead without seeing. It was not a tick which made his good eye flick as it did, from side to side, but the fear of another attack. So he kept an alert watch on the skies above, that is, on the fog where the skies above would normally be. He both blessed and cursed the fog. He and the other sailors; blessed it for the cover it afforded and cursed it because it gave no indication from which direction the next attack would be mounted.
He said “I bless you fog but I curse you too”
The fog was indifferent.
It had been more than an hour since the gargoyle had last descended upon them, tore viciously at the sails and rigging, dodged their flailing swords and had flown off with the Task Masters toupee. It was a narrow escape. Without the toupee they would have been doomed. The Task Master was now angrier than ever and beat the drum with more gusto than pre-dawn sailing through pea-soup fog warranted. He did not enjoy baldness although it suited his profession.
The black minstrel noticed the chains of office that he wore, thick iron links welded to his biceps. He was beating the time drum with the flat of his hand, since he had thrown his only drumstick at the winged demons which flew off with his hairpiece. It splashed into the ocean with a gloop sound. He was not impressed.
This journey was beginning to be a health hazard.
Some people will do anything for money. Other people spend money on anything. The black minstrel belonged to the former group. He worked for a company set up expressly to deliver messages. Not just any message but those of high importance. Their clientele was usually from the upper echelons of society, Dukes, Kings, Magi’s, the like but occasionally they took payment from the odd assassin with a sense for the dramatic. The company’s name was “Singing Doom-a-Grams Inc.” These were fearless men who would deliver a singing message of Doom anywhere in the world, to any body.
They had sailed all night and the previous day, from the Isle of Krap. (Translated this name literally means Isle of Barren Rock covered in bird droppings; for obvious reasons) This was an outpost of Arkwright territory. There they had rested the men from the previous month long journey from Centre Lotta. (So named because the reefs had Centre Lotta men to their deaths) This was still north of the equator and the passage from there had been terrible, constantly under attack from Mogodawn’s dark minions and the presence of the black minstrel was the primary cause. Finally they were approaching the shores of Skard.
Arkwrights, as their name implies, are shipbuilders. They invented shipping and consequently hold a tight monopoly over the trade. The Order of the Ark is a most secretive Order and their practices are strange and mysterious to men (Except Masons). They are a stern (No pun intended). race and solemn. Their sense of humour is no sense at all and barely qualifies as humorous an example of which is seen in the very word ARK which literally means ‘Coffin’.
The cult was established some nine hundred years ago, by King Blod of Ugdur, who suddenly appeared one day on the River Dum, in a canoe. It is said that when he died he was buried in his own canoe (to transverse the underworld in his soul ship) but others say that it was never a canoe in the first place. They claim the truth is that he discovered coffins could float and was able to take the fishing trophy because of his devious ingenuity in sailing one.
Eventually the Arkwrights built larger ships and could then navigate whole oceans. Because of this their wealth grew rapidly, they claimed many lands and islands as their own territory, which was quite acceptable as nobody else could get to them anyway. Thus their race unfurled itself upon history, until now. These days they are so eccentric and self-absorbed that most sensible people steer well clear of them.
The black minstrel gazed at the streamer of smoke that curled off the masthead as it sliced through the fog. He had been travelling with the Arkwrights now for nearly seven weeks and anticipated an end to this uncomfortable alliance, within the hour. They were now driving up the Bay of Bronglark (Meaning – lots of trees good for shipping). And heading for the Arkwrights one and only city Arklid of Skard (Meaning – Place for building ships more precisely coffins).
He looked forward to landing, not only to see the end of his quest but more urgently to part-company, with these strange monk-like eccentrics. It was not that their presence was life-threatening they were harmless enough, as long as he did not turn his back on them, or fall asleep. It was just that they were so weird; chanting as they rowed and all. They also said stupid things like “We have to catch the tide”; and non-sensible things like “Lets keel haul the lan’ lubber!”; and they were wine bibbers to boot for they were always heading ‘hard to port’. Their silly speech and intimidating stares made him feel uneasy, like being at a convention of conscientious tax auditors who moonlighted as life insurance salesmen. He just wasn’t sure if or when they would make a move on him. This was not fear as such but a foreboding. The frightening bat-winged gargoyles of darkness that were also after his life instilled fear, ordinary fear. He could cope with that. Either they were attacking or they weren’t and if they weren’t, there was nothing to fear. You could never tell with the Arkwrights however. If one was not extremely careful one could end up on another voyage altogether, as a rower!
He thought the fog was lifting but it wasn’t, it was just being diluted by daylight as they pulled the oars into an eastward direction. The incessant drum beat coaxed them on like a migraine. Their rowers obeyed in robotic duty dipping their oars into the syrup sea in unison. The figure-head of a carved dragon (The shape was debatable as dragons were mythical creatures) jerked its way through the fog in huge bites.
As visibility returned, the monkish ones, in their hooded sackcloth robes, began to chant (again). This was a monotone and divinely serious morning chant “Row Row Row the Boat Ommmm!”
The black minstrel could now make out the coastline on three sides. Huge tree studded cliffs rising into thick cloud in the sky. He could hear the clatter of dawn amongst them; bird songs mainly and other jungle noises but they were distant and faint. Relief washed over him as he knew this to be the final approach to Skard. He fondled the scroll inside his cloak. All was well.
Within hours he would approach Druid Mogie’s Fortified Castle with the two tier hedge up the driveway. He saw what he had to do in his mind. He would knock on the door without arousing any suspicion and when the Druid answered he would sing the Doom-a-Gram. He went over the words to be sure that he had not forgotten. “Happy Death day to you, Happy Death day to you, Happy Death day Druid Mogie; Happy Death day to you”. On completion he would leave a brown paper bag on the threshold containing a doggie do-do and then run like hell.