Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales (8 page)

He sat on the floor with his legs curled around the basket and took each item out, lining it up on the floor. This would be his sustenance until he was able to find some way to feed himself. He had learned from his mother to ration food or go hungry, but all he really wanted was to devour it all at once. He resisted, enduring the hunger pangs that twisted inside his stomach.

As he removed the last item from the basket, he spied a folded bit of paper in the bottom. It was a note written in a carefully slanted hand:

Dear Will;

It is with deepest sorrow that I offer this small token for the death of your mother. I cannot imagine your suffering at this time, and I will no doubt be judged for my part in her demise. I would bring you into my own home and adopt you as my son, but circumstances are such that this is impossible. I will be sure to leave you food from time to time when I am able. I wish I could do more for you, son. You have always been a fine boy.

Whatever you do from this time on to support yourself and find your way in the world, please keep your dear mother in your thoughts. Be the man that would make her proud.

With My Sincere Condolences,

Your Servant,

David M. Worthing

Just how long had he been sleeping?
Small token for the death of your mother?
Will ran through the doorway to the front of the shop. He stomped his feet into his shoes, pulled his coat tight around his chest, and threw open the door to the cold winter night. He ran down the moonlit street, the chill wind slicing at his skin, and there before the town hall stood the gallows, his mother's stiff body swaying in the wind.

He stumbled up the wooden stairs of the hangman's platform and tried with all his strength to pull his mother's body up from below. In his futile effort, the rough fibers of the rope dug into his small hands. The wind numbed his fingers, but he continued his work until the rope was slick with his blood. Falling to his knees on the moonlit planks of the gallows, young Will wept for his mother, Maire Pennycock.

The boy holed up in the tailor shop for weeks. He lay curled in his bed, leaving only for a bite of food from his dwindling supplies or to relieve himself.

He finally decided to light a fire when ice formed on the chamber pot. His movements were slow and labored, the cold and hunger sapping his strength. He was huddled by the fire when a pounding came at the front door. A man had come each day, shouting to be let in, but Will ignored him. This time his shouting was relentless.

"I know you're in there, boy. I see the smoke coming from the chimney. You let me in or I'll come in after ye!"

He heard a crash and the tinkling of glass on the floor in the front room. Fearing for his life, he forced his cold body to move. He grabbed a thick piece of firewood, as heavy as his small hand could grip, and crept forward, peering through the doorway into the shop. A man's hand snaked through the broken pane of glass in the door and turned the key. Will rushed forward with his stick of wood and struck the man's hand as he was pulling it back through the broken window.

The man screamed and burst through the door, his hand dripping blood, cut by the loose shards in the window pane.

"Ye little bastard. I'll break yer neck."

Like a wild animal cornered in its den, Will ran for the safety of his bed with the man following in hard pursuit. As the stranger entered the back room he stopped cold, covering his mouth and nose with his good hand to stave off the stench from the un-emptied chamber pot and rotting food. He looked around at the filth and complete chaos of the room Will had been hiding in for weeks. The man walked to the side of the bed and struck Will so hard that his head snapped back against the wall.

"What have ye done to my shop, boy? Not only was your bitch of a mother in arrears for the rent, now I'll have to pay to have this shit hole cleaned because of the swine she left behind."

He looked around in disgust and eyed the boy trembling under the bedcovers.

"Get up, pig, and get yer clothes on. I'll have the missus clean the stink off ye', and you'll work off yer mother's debts at the inn."

Will didn't move.

"Go on before I drag ye through the snow and mud in that wretched coat and yer underclothes."

Slowly, Will reached for a pair of britches, already too short for him. He shrugged out of his father's coat, folding it carefully and laying it on the bed with reverence.

"What did I tell ye, boy? Get movin’ or I'll call the constable. It's only my good Christian charity that'll keep ye out of jail for the witch's debts. I'll be lucky if I can ever rent this hovel of a shop again, knowin’ what yer bitch of a mother had been doin’ here."

Will pulled a sweater over his head, shrugged back into the heavy coat, and shoved his hands in the pockets. He felt a fold of paper—Mister Worthing's letter. He remembered the words,
Be the man that would make her proud.
He turned to face the angry man.

"Sir,” he said, trying hard to steady his voice, “I'm deeply sorry for the trouble I've caused you. I'll work hard and pay off all the money owed you. It's what my mother would want me to do."

The man rolled his eyes and scowled, but Will thought he saw a flicker of softening in his hard expression.

"Come on then. The missus will be none too happy with the state of ye."

He was right. The innkeeper's wife, Missus Cavender, was loathe to have a young boy to look after as well as running the only inn found in the Village of Eastville. But after a good scrubbing, a bit a food, and a full night's sleep, she put Will to work. He was true to his promise to work hard. Aside from her displeasure with his constant wearing of the heavy wool coat, the Missus seemed pleased with him. And from Will's perspective, Mister Cavender and his wife gave him a warm place to sleep and breakfast and supper. Compared to being on his own, he found his lot quite tolerable.

Thoughts of his mother often crept into Will's mind and darkened his heart against the villagers of Eastville, but in those moments he touched Mister Worthing's letter in his pocket to remind himself of his duty. After such a painful stretch in his young life, many months passed with Will content to live day by day, honoring his mother's memory.

His tenth birthday came to pass at the inn and the missus offered a sweetcake with his supper by way of celebration. She'd become fond of him, though Will could tell her husband did not share the sentiment. To Mister Cavender, Will's presence simply marked a debt being paid.

Late one night, a ship anchored at the docks. The rough crew came ashore, as they always did, to the Eastville Inn for a meal and a warm bed with feminine company, if it could be had. The innkeeper stayed up late drinking and singing with the men, his long-time acquaintances in trade, the kind outside of the King's jurisdiction.

The missus ran herself and young Will ragged, keeping the ale flowing and serving heaping platters of meat and potatoes to fill the seemingly bottomless stomachs of the sailors. She held her tongue when the wagering began, but she knew her husband's weakness. Soon her worries were realized when the ship's mate began a drunken rant.

"I shoulda known ye haddena silver a’ hand. Pay up ye thievin’ bastard, before I gut ye fer me supper,” he shouted. He unsheathed the dagger from his belt, twisting it slowly as he pointed at the innkeeper's girth.

Always quick thinking, even saturated with drink, the innkeeper didn't blink at the threat.

"I've got somethin’ far better than a few coins, mate. I heard you're short of hands after the last haul to the Carolinas. Crew took quite a beatin’ with the fever is what I heard."

The ship's mate bristled at the comment, leaning forward he pressed the tip of his dagger against the innkeeper's gut.

"Cheat me, and now ye insult me. Aye, a guttin's too good for ye."

"Aw, now don't be frettin', Mister Rutt. You know my word is good. Look here.” He pointed to the exhausted boy carrying a heavy load of greasy dishes back toward the kitchen. “There's your prize, man."

"What are you on about? That bairn can narey hold a stack of plates. He's no use to me."

"Oh, but he's a pretty one, ain't he, mate?” asked the innkeeper with a wink.

The ship's mate took another look at the boy as he pushed through the kitchen door.

"Aye, he is that, but that still ain't no rightful settlin’ of our wager. Add tonight's meal and lodging to the pot and I'll not carve a hole in yer bowels this time."

Missus Cavender emerged from the kitchen to the hush in the room and the dagger pointing at her husband's belly.

"Martha,” said her husband, “bring the boy here. The first mate of
The Queen's Promise
will be his new keeper."

The missus staggered where she stood, but forced herself to stand her ground.

"I'll do no such thing, Mister Cavender. That boy is me hand and I'll not part with him."

The ship's mate leaned across the table and flicked the tip of his dagger across the innkeeper's cheek. Blood beaded from the wound and trickled to his chin.

"Martha,” said the innkeeper in measured speech, “the mate will see the boy ... now."

Missus Cavender knew the ways of these men, these pirates. She turned and fled through the kitchen door, grabbing the bewildered boy up into her arms. She squeezed him tight, her voice trembling as she spoke.

"I'm sorry, dear Will. I'm so sorry."

"What is it, missus?” said Will, his own fear beginning to rise.

The woman stood, avoiding his eyes. Without another word, she took him by the hand and led him into the dinning room. The place was nearly silent except for the snoring of a sailor face down on a table near the warm hearth. The ship's mate, Mister Rutt, turned his dagger, admiring the firelight reflecting from the blade. He smiled at the innkeeper, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

Eyeing the blood dripping on the front of the man's shirt, Mister Rutt said, “Sorry about the stain, Cavender.” He laughed and snorted at his own joke, breaking the tension in the room. The rest of the sailors joined in, laughing and slapping each other on the back. One of them shouted to the mate when the missus appeared with the boy.

"Hey, Mister Rutt, yer new girl's arrived.” He smacked his lips and blew the boy a lusty kiss.

"Bring the boy here, Martha,” said the innkeeper.

Will had no idea what was happening, but his instincts told him he was in danger. The feral looks of the men terrified him. Before, they had barely noticed him, but now they stared and reached out to pinch him and touch his red hair as the missus guided him to her husband's table. Together they stood before the pirate, Duncan Rutt. Missus Cavender pulled Will closer to her hip and put her arm around his shoulder.

"Come here, lad,” said the pirate.

"Won't you change yer mind, sir?” asked the missus. “He's just a wee boy and will only be in the way on yer fine ship. He's a right dolt, he is."

Rutt ignored the woman.

"I said, come here."

Sensing the danger to the missus, Will stepped away from her trembling hands and stood before the dark skinned man.

He bowed his head respectfully. “Sir."

The pirate leaned forward and grabbed his face in a huge rough hand and pulled Will within inches of his nose. The man squeezed Will's cheeks so hard that the pain made his eyes water, but the stench of his breath would have been sufficient.

"You're mine now, laddy! Or better still, I'll bring ye’ as a prize to the cap'n. He be sorely in need of a cabin boy. Anyways, we shares and shares alike!"

The men roared at that and drank to each other's good fortune. The singing commenced while Mister Rutt continued his inspection of his new cabin boy, turning him around, poking and prodding.

"You'll do, but if ye ken what's good fer ye, you'll be keepin’ yer mouth shut and do what yer told. No questions asked. It's nothin’ to toss a troublin’ bairn overboard. Ye hear me?"

Will nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. He shoved his hand in his pocket, searching for the letter. It calmed him to know it was there, but he wasn't sure how he'd keep his promise now.

After a fitful night of sleep, Will awoke to the voice of Missus Cavender.

"Come on, lad,” she said, a gentle tone in her voice. “I'll get ye yer breakfast. The men will be risin’ soon."

She set a bundle on the side table and lit the candle.

"I've packed ye some food, washed yer clothes, and cleaned that awful wool coat as best I could."

Will climbed from his bed, his bare feet on the cold floor, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Thank you, Missus,” he said, holding back his tears.

He would miss her and the inn. The work was hard, but he felt safe in this place. He did not feel safe knowing where he was going, being pulled away again from everything he knew.

Still, a part of his fear was soothed by a secret excitement. His mother had warned him to stay away from the docks for fear pirates would steal him, but from time to time Will and his friends would sneak to the waterfront and hide to watch the men loading and unloading the goods. They were boisterous and often violent, so unlike his father had been, but their life at sea seemed an adventure to him and the other village boys. They played pirate in the creek behind the school house, waging battles, hunting treasure, and singing shantys they heard at the docks—songs their mothers would never approve.

So Will's fear was mixed with the call of adventure. But when the men took him away, the look on Missus Cavender's face made him wonder if there was something more to worry about than he was aware of.

The ship's cook was assigned the duty of looking after Will, and he put him to work immediately. For hours, alongside the ship's crew, he loaded sacks of food and supplies aboard the ship. Some of the sacks and crates were nearly his own weight, but the sailors cursed him and pushed him out of their way, so he worked hard to look strong, dragging what he couldn't carry.