Another bit of stuff

Shelly didn't recognise the face she saw In the mirror. She knew it was hers but she did't identify with the image reflected in front of her. Turning the tap she focuses on the streak of gray in her hair.
How long had that been there?
She looked tierd, she was tired. She felt empty and alone. Running water over her hands she splashes her face and trys to wash away that feeling.

just a quick bite

The key to her sadness sits in her hand. Its sharp teeth bite at her tight grip as its cold metal form weighs heavy on her mind.
'Have they taken everything?' She asked no one in particular.

New(ish) Legend of captain Dag

A slightly altered with the addition of the next part of my story

I decided prologue was a better description for what it is. I wanted to give an image of an old man and his forgotten life. which will turn out to be the biggest adventure that no one knew about except of few who stopped to listen........

The Legend of Captain Dag

Prologue part one

In between a row of houses sits a tiny old cottage. For years it has existed, distinctive but unnoticed long before the others sprang up squashing it between them. Its uneven  walls hold a lifetime of furniture and memories within.  If it could talk it would tell so many tales, some of sadness and many of joy. The lives of the occupiers were depicted in the pictures covering the ancient wallpaper throughout . In the corner of the front room sits a figure, resting in his favourite chair. Behind his wispy white whiskers and pale grey hair his face is a map of wrinkles which betrayed his age. As he leans forward the sun light catches his fur making it glint with the fiery gold of his youth. His paws rest upon the edge of an open trunk beside the granite fire place. The ancient trunk was covered in carvings, depicting old sailing ships from all over the world. Among them were a corvette, a galleon, a junk, a brig and a fluyt. If you were to look closely at them you would see tiny perfectly spaced marks, making it appear to be not just hand carved but as if it had been nibbled out by small teeth. On the front  of the trunk just below the lock there was a brass name plate  it read “Horatio T. Rat, Carpenter and Surgeon”. Leaning  in to the chest  he shuffled around the mass of unusual objects, there were papers, books, jars and boxes which seemed to go on forever. The chest was crammed with the chronicles of more than a single lifetime. Lifting a heavy book he finds what he was seeking  a crispy bundle of old papers and letters bound with a once red silk ribbon. Leaving the lid open he sat back with the papers and carefully untied the ribbon which held them together, revealing the neat deliberate copperplate writing of his own hand. As he began to carefully check through the pile a scrap of paper fell and fluttered to the ground. It was darker than the others and time had eaten away at its edges; upon it‘s yellowed surface the once black ink had faded to a pale brown. When looking closer you could see that the paper was covered in old drawings and the kind of writing you found on ancient sailing maps, it read-

I've won in battles bold

An' Sailed upon the seven seas,

To obtain me treasure an' gold.

For I am Captain Dag

Of the SS LibeRATion,

Feared Pi-Rat of Cornwall.

 It was a poem, or at least the start of one. It was a poem that all Cornish rats are taught. A poem about a famous rat, one who existed as legend and saviour. Underneath the verse in older almost gothic script was scrawled a hurried footnote.

Never Forget

Horatio picked up the fallen scrap before carefully placing it on top of the pile. He settled back in to his seat and lovingly turned the scrap over revealing the rest of the poem,

I was born of vermin and underfoot,

Of my masters, freedom I took.

I swore an oath to all rat kind,

To free us all from life’s bind.

I will come in times of strife,

And take you to a new life.

And when your time is done

I promise, for you I will come.

For I am here to set you free,

To thine own land I’ll take thee.

He mouthed the words as if he were reciting a prayer. For a moment he sat in reverend silence until the hall clock struck the hour shaking him out of his contemplation. He pulled a face and harrumphed, annoyed at being taken away from his memories. For just a moment he wished that he could hold back the flow time for a bit longer.

  'Come on Horatio fella don't got much time, better get on wi' it. '   He said trying to spur himself on.  

He deliberately continued checking through his papers before placing them on the  table by the window. On the top he places an envelope addressed to a distant relative; his great great great nephew four times removed;  before returning  to the trunk. From within between the jars and strange boxes, he retrieves a small old compass and spy glass. Smiling he pats the compass as he places it in his pocket and opens out the spy glass to look through it.  His smile widens as he folds it away placing it on the table beside the papers. Next from under a pile of leather bound note books he pulls out an ancient bag. The leather was cracked and worn. The brass fastenings and handle were spotted and dull with age. Shaking his head  he tuts at its condition before he carefully opens it. The bag is filled with an old medical kit made up strange instruments, racks of small carefully labelled vials, leather pouches, a mortar and pestle, and a folding scale. From a pocket within he removed a leather pouch filled with strange golden coins and a silver hip flask. He leaves the pouch on the table but hesitates when it came to the flask he gives it a shake opens the top and sniffs.

'Aqua vitae top notch rum.'

He sniffs it again before taking a quick swig. Its sharp fiery taste, a combination of  being made of 169 proof rum and bitter spices, make him pull a face until the sweet sugar soothes the warmth. He struggled to speak his voice hoarse from the alcohol.

'S still good.....Never goes off that stuff....amazing.... Best be tak'n he wi'me wouldn' want you in the wrong paws.'  

He slips the flask in to his jacket pocket patting it gently as if to ask it not to wander too far or into another pocket or worse still in to someone else's pocket. just like any sailor Horatio loved to know where his rum is at all times. Turning back towards the trunk to resume his work he starts to shake and cough. It was the cough of an old man, dry, hacking and relentless  it stopped him from continuing his work.  Wincing he lifts his paw to his collar and loosens it, still short of breath he leans against the table. Determinedly he takes his bag and hurriedly makes his way through the contents, speaking to them in short broken pants as if the object he is seeking were capable of answering.

'I.... knows..... you're..... in...... ere.'

Knocking over a rack of vials he has his eureka moment and removes a small leather pouch. As his stiff old fingers worked at the knot he uttered curses under his breath, for the few seconds it took seemed like forever to him. From within he took  a small clear yellowy brown rock, a piece of amber.  The surface of the amber is chipped and scratched on all sides, you could see it was once much much bigger.  Holding it between thumb and forefinger Horatio places it in his mouth and bites down, breaking a piece off which he chews and swallows. Breathing more steadily he sits back in to the chair closing his eyes. He begins to twitch and grips the arm of the chair, something is happening. one paw rushes to his stomach as he is taken by a spasm. Groaning  he pulls himself up right and blinks to adjust his eyes,

 'Well that ain't getin' no easier.'

As he gets up he seems to move more easily and as he places the rock back in his bag the light from the window makes him appear younger as if the colour has returned to his fur . Sniffing he continues working thought he contents of the chest filled with the curiosities of his life's journeys. He looks at an intricate old wooden spoon,  it was the one his  father made for his mother aboard the ship he was born on, as he like may rats was born at sea.

From among the jars  he pulls out one  it contains a dull brown feather which as he examines it, just for a moment, it  begins to shimmer and glow as if it were a light. There is a brown paper label attached to the jar and it reads phoenix feather.

'They'd never believe what I did when I were young'

Placing it back in to the chest he continues though its curiosities remembering he checks his watch before closing the trunks lid. Locking it tight He places the ornate key it the envelope addressed to his nephew and seals before putting it in his pocket. Standing  he looks around the room as if to make sure all is in place before heading to the kitchen. On his return he's holding an old shopping bag containing a thermos and sandwiches ready for his afternoon walk.

Horatio walked from his house in Long Rock along the sea front just as he did for lunch every day until he reached Penzance. He loved this walk and place but  it had changed many times over the years. Once a long long time ago when he first made land here it was fields, but over the years things changed. Now there are  shops great big supermarkets, fast food restaurants, more and more houses and roads. Sometimes he doesn't recognise the place himself, this place, the place he chose as his home, it feels alien to him. However on this walk  he could take in the never changing constants the view of St Michaels mount  and of course the sea. he liked the sea to be ever present, it was  an old friend.  The path he took followed  the train tracks which had been there since 1852 well past the station car park and shops along the road past the dry docks and down along the harbour wall close to the where the Scillonian docks.  There he made for his favourite spot on the wall and sat where he could watch the boats pass in and out and eat his lunch. Surrounded by the  familiar sounds of the sea and the constant  rhythmic clang of rigging he felt at peace and found himself reminiscing the adventures of his youth. He always felt at home when he could hear those sounds feel the salt in his whiskers and taste its tang in the air he began to drift off carried into a gentle sleep. His eyes fluttered open and close as he watched the horizon. Through heavy lids he thought he saw a tall ship heading to the harbour before he dozed off.

The cool evening breeze stirred the air and something woke Horatio woke with a start, he felt a warm paw resting on his shoulder. With His eyes wide open he could see that the evening was drawing in he'd slept for a long time. Without turning he asked,

'Is that you old friend?'

'Aye' came the reply from behind.

'You came for me?'

'As I promised to do for all.'

'It's time then.'

'Aye.'

'You'd better be taking me home.'

As Horatio stepped forward he looked down at himself to find  he was wearing his old sailing coat, shirt and birches. In his belt sat his trusty old short dagger just as it had in his youth. Everything was newer and somehow brighter than he remembered.  Confused he looked at his paws they were no longer stiff and bunched, his arms were now covered with ginger fur. His paws rushed to feel his face to discover it was no longer a map of wrinkles. Before he could ask how this could be  the owner of the paw on his shoulder stepped forward in to view. The ratty figure was dressed in his full regalia, on his head sat a brown tri-corn hat with a flourish of ostrich feathers denoting his position. A smile filled his soft brown face which was framed by his pink ears, one of which had a notch taken out of it, as he looked Horatio straight in the eye and said...

'Are you ready old friend?'

'Aye....' he replied in a voice filled with energy and youth  'Aye Aye Captain!'

As he sets off for one final journey  Horatio left his old self behind him its empty form slumped where he'd sat.

Prologue part two

The letter

My dearest Great, Great,Great, Great

My dearest Nephew Steve,

As you read this  you will have no doubt been informed of my passing.

Although we have met but a few times when you were naught but a wee nibbler it was you alone out of all of your brothers and sisters who were generous enough to listen to an old man's tall tales; just as your mother Heather did. I hope you remember our chats as fondly as I did. The looks upon your face when I told you me stories made this old man very happy.

It is for this reason I bequeath to you my chest, and its contents on the condition they are never to be sold nor separate and my memoir and journals. the first of which my solicitor should have presented to you with this letter.

My house is to be sold off and the profits are to be split between your siblings and yourself as my only surviving relatives (of whom I am aware) you are my heirs.

 In reading my memoir and journals I hope you revisit some of those tall tales just remember that everything is not how things can fist appear for the very best stories are not made up but are based on fact.

Yours Fondly

Uncle Ratio

P.S. Please find enclosed a photo from our last meeting.