The ship groaned and swayed against the rain and wind. Waves lashed against its sides threatening to engulf the entire vessel and everyone aboard. Sailors manned their stations, clinging on for dear life as sea and foam spilled upon the main deck. One misstep, one slip of the rigging would be a matter of life or death for these men. The Bay of Belfalas seemed a world away.
“Take heart, brothers!” cried the captain, using all the strength that he could muster to control the wheel. “We have faced worse and survived!”
These words of encouragement, if they were even heard at all, did little to inspire the men of The Blessed Badger. The ship had indeed seen worse, but it was by mere chance that it survived. The captain, a man by the name of Veronmir, struggled to suppress his own sense of panic. How would it look to the men if he despaired and cowered below decks praying that all would be well? This was above pride and duty, this was a matter of survival. Veronmir spun the wheel to combat and oncoming wave, by doing so he heard screams below. A man had fallen overboard, but what was he to do? It was a terrible thing to not attempt a rescue, but the odds were stacked up against them.
“Captain!” shouted a soldier form the crow’s nest. His voice fell upon deaf ears as he the noise was too much to hear the call. It was then that the ship jolted, shuddered and began to tear apart. The men upon the deck began to fall simultaneously. Veronmir himself was cast forward over the wheel and toppled down the steps onto the deck. They had struck something, a reef perhaps? Whatever the case, it spelled doom for the captain and his crew. The ship began to plummet into the depths with the wailing and crying of those aboard echoing as a chorus against the unforgiving ocean.
What remained of The Blessed Badger washed up upon Gondorian shores some hours later. Stray pieces of wood, rope and metal littered the beach prompting a group of nearby farmers to abandon their business and rush down in search of survivors. Any hope to find life among the wreckage seemed slim. There were many bodies of soldiers to be found, pale skinned and pruned, some of whom sustained a fatal injury, if they were lucky. But one farmer cried for aid as he came across a sole survivor of the most unlikely sort. It was a small boy, no more than four to five winters old, clinging onto a piece of timber just big enough to sustain his weight. He was unconscious and in poor condition, but alive. One of the larger farmers scooped him up with little effort and carried up the costal path to the settlement nearby.
This is where our story begins.
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The village healer known to the locals as Kinsley made his way towards the largest house nestled upon the hill. This had belonged to the foreman of the nearby mine before his untimely death. Since then, it was passed down to his widow, Desmilda, who opened her doors to the locals to visit at their pleasure. It was not uncommon for one of the spare rooms to be used to house and comfort those in need, especially the elderly in their final years who required care. Kinsley, therefore, knew this house well and did not knock before entering. He made his way up the stairs from the hall and walked along the corridor to the farthest room, where the lady of the house sat beside a bed.
“Any progress?” asked Kinsley.
“If you can call it progress” said Desmilda. “His fever is still high and he is in such a state when he wakes. Poor boy, doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.”
“Let me see” said Kinsley, dropping his satchel and approaching the boy laying wrapped up in bed. He placed a hand upon his forehead. “You have been applying the cloth and herbs I’ve prescribed?”
“Daily” said Desmilda.
“And the ointment for his cuts?” asked Kinsley.
“Washed and twice a day” replied Desmilda.
Kinsley eyed the boy with mild interest. At such an early age it was difficult to deduce where he might have come from. He was certainly no child of the village, and no evidence to suggest that he came from overseas. The villagers who scoured the beach could find no trace of where the ship had come from and, based on this child’s age, they doubted anything would come of questioning him if he woke. If being the prominent word.
“Kinsley!” said Desmilda in a hushed tone. “His eyes!”
Removing his hand from the forehead, Kinsley looked at the boy whose eyes began to flicker open. There were a few seconds of peace in those eyes, before panic and fear took hold. Sitting upright, his breath short and laboured, he began to cry out. Desmilda and Kinsley tried their best to calm him, urging him to lie back down onto the bed, however he struggled and fought.
“Boy!” shouted Kinsley. “Boy! Calm yourself!”
The boy continued to struggle until his strength left him, causing him to fall feebly back onto the bed, weak and weary. He did not cry, nor did he speak, he merely lay recovering himself and taking in his surroundings.
“What is your name?” asked Desmilda, placing a hand upon his.
He was silent.
“Where did you come from?” she asked further, brushing her thumb against his palm.
He remained silent.
“Bless him, he’s frightened half to bits! I’m not surprised, it’s a miracle he survived the storm!”
“Nevertheless” said Kinsley, pulling up a stool and taking a seat on the opposite side of the bed. “We must return him to wherever he came from. He might have family, kin, someone who are awaiting his arrival.” Kinsley leaned in and fixed his eyes upon the boys. They were a deep, sea blue. Wide with fear. “Boy, can you speak?”
The boy remained, as before, silent as the grave.
“Is this common? I have given him water, I thought that would have purged the salt water from his throat.”
“His speech should return, in time. He is no doubt recovering from his ordeal. It’s quite common, mostly in men returning from conflict. For a boy of his age, it’s a lot to take in.” Kinsley rose from his stool and took his satchel. He nodded to Desmilda before leaving. “I shall come back tomorrow. Do what you can for him, but do not worry. His condition will improve.”
Several days past and, although up and on his feet, the boy did not speak. At dinner time he timidly ate what was given to him and was encouraged to roam the house, but did not. He would sit in his room and stare, as if in a daze, incapable of human interaction. As weeks past, it was clear to the villagers that this poor, traumatised boy was not going to be claimed. They had hoped that someone, somewhere would send out a search party looking for survivors. But none came. As hospitable as the villagers were, they did not have means to raise such an infant. However, Kinsley knew of somewhere that might be able to take further care of him.
“Pelargir” he said, sitting at the dining table of Desmilda’s household. “There is an orphanage of good standing there who look after children of his situation. We can only presume that his parents or whomever they were perished at sea with the rest.”
“The poor lamb” said Desmilda, “Are you sure he will be okay there? I mean, will they look after him?”
“He will be well looked after, I am sure of it” said Kinsley. “I visit the orphanage once a month and have seen the conditions of their estate. It is more than suitable.”
So without any further delay, a small pack was made for the boy containing spare clothes and food. A carriage was arranged to take him to Pelargir and deliver him to the orphanage. Still, after weeks since the event, he said nothing. Where one might be able to read someone from their features alone, he displayed none. He remained wide-eyed with a nervous temperament. Desmilda embraced him, for she had grown used to his, albeit silent, company. He did not return the gesture but merely stood, his head nestled against her shoulder, in absolute silence.
