Gold Rush

Chapter 1 - Rats Aboard 1/2

Baran awoke in the swaying dark certain he was being eaten by a rat. A sharp gnawing sensation pinched the skin of his knee. He suppressed a scream, afraid of appearing weak before his shipmates. But in his mind he was terror-struck.

He had always been afraid of rats. In his dream it had been a great sea monster, dragging him into the depths of the water, eating him whole, starting with his toes. But now he was sure he felt the creature working its way up his leg. He wanted to shake it off and kick it away, but his body was as rigid as the planks of wood that made his paltry bed. He was frozen with fear.

Suddenly the rat stopped. All was quiet except for the regular background creak of the ship. Further afield he heard the snores of the other free passengers and slaves. They were savouring sleep and the escape of dreams on this rare evening when the seas were quiet. He couldn't feel anything on his leg anymore. His heart calmed for a moment and he almost chuckled to himself. Perhaps it had been a dream and he was only now awaking.

Down in the dark hold of the ship, it was easy to forget what was real and what was not. The more he thought of the possibility that he had dreamed the rat, the more certain he was that he should go back to sleep while the air was still warm and the hold was quiet. He hadn't slept at all in the two days aboard the ship and most nights the other passengers were either yelling, fighting or singing.

He sighed, laying still on his back. His bunk – if you could call it a bunk – was a crawl space on the floor only wide enough to fit his shoulder-width. There was no mattress, not even a sheet. Back on the farm at home, he had slept on a thick mattress filled with feathers. Now, his bones were aching and his skin bruised and grazed from sleeping on the hard wooden floor. The stench in the hold was the worst he had ever smelled in his life. There was a slop bucket somewhere where free passengers could relieve themselves but it was always falling over – and the slaves didn't get to use the slop bucket at all. The stench was so bad that Baran hadn't eaten since he had boarded the ship for fear of not keeping the food down. The free passengers in the hold shared the same space as the slaves – the only difference was that he was not tied with rope around the wrists and ankles. He often thought of his bad luck – how he had lost his home and all his possessions – but for a moment he decided that he was not so unlucky. Things could always be worse.

Now he remembered that before the rat and before the sea monster, he had been dreaming of Ailidh, his wife. His dream had glistened with Ailidh's dark, straight hair tidily laid upon her shoulders. She had laid on their bed of soft feathers, looking as she did on their wedding night two years ago, before they had been cursed with the bad luck that had led him to this ship – the bad luck that had sent him sailing away from his wife, his family, and the only land he had ever known. Baran sighed again and tried to ease back into sleep, back into the dream that had been his only solace from these dreadful days on the ship.

But before he could get a moment's rest, he felt it again. Suddenly, his whole body stiffened like a dead tree. He was sure this time. It was rushing up his right leg, straight for his manhood, ready to bite it off! It was only when he tried to shout that he realised there was a hand tight around his mouth.

'Be still, boy,' a gravelly voice whispered in his ear, 'unless you want me to make a girl of you.'

Baran, unable to take in the words of the man whose mouth was breathing in his ear, tried to wriggle out of his bunk. There was a flash of pain in his leg.

'Be still, I said,' hissed the man.

Now he knew what it was. It was no rat. What he felt pressed against his inner thigh was the cold, rough blade of a rusted knife. Despite every part of his body willing him to run, he kept his body solid and still, afraid of what might happen if the knife slipped so close to his groin.

'Good,' the man whispered. 'Quick learner. You might just get out of this alive – and with your peno too.'

It felt as though someone was hitting him in the back with a hammer but it was only his heart beating out of control. Baran tried to calm his breath and quieten himself. With every inhale he could taste the dirt on the man's fingers as they cupped his mouth.

'Now, listen,' the man hissed. His breath smelled like sour wine and rotten meat. 'Slowly, with your hands, show me where your coins are.'

If Baran could have spoken, if his mouth had not been forced shut by the man's hands, he would have pleaded. He would have lied and told the man that he had no money, that he was destitute. Or he would have told the man the truth – he would have told him he only had a few iron coins to his name and he needed those to last him until he arrived at the island. He would have begged for his understanding and asked him if he couldn't rob someone else, someone with a few more coins. But his mouth was forced shut. And the knife was firm against the crease of his inner thigh, dangerously close to his manhood.

So, with his left hand, he reached to the small pocket by his left knee and gently tapped it so that the coins made a tinkling sound.

The man grunted. The knife didn't move – it remained pressed sharp against his skin. He could scarcely make anything out in the dark but there was enough moonlight breaking through the gaps in the wood to see a shadow pass over as the man reach to the pocket. He fiddled with it and realised it was sewn shut from the outside.

'Smart boy,' the man chuckled under his breath.

In a heartbeat, the man took his knife and sliced open the pocket. The coins slipped out into his other hand and then the knife was back where it had been a moment before. Now Baran felt the warm liquid of his blood running from his leg. The man, in his swiftness, had sliced him. But the hand was still on his mouth and Baran knew better than to scream.

'Now, the ticket,' the man whispered.

Baran's heart sank. Besides his small handful of iron coins, the ticket was the only possession of value that he carried with him. The little canvas bag next to his left shoulder had a blanket, some socks, a dry piece of bread, and a rain cloak. Now that his money was gone, the ticket was the only thing that would stop him starving to death when the ship docked.

Baran didn't move, even when the man pressed the knife harder against his skin. He clenched his eyelids shut and tried to imagine that he was not in his body – that he was floating in the air away from all the pain and fear.

'Give me the ticket, boy.' the man hissed. 'I know you have it. Give it here. The gold ticket.'

End of Chapter 1 1/2

Note from the author:

Hi dear readers, what did you think of this opening? Do you feel for Baran? Where do you think he's off to? What do you think the gold ticket is?

As always please take a moment to like, add to your reading list and share. It helps so much!

Lots of love,

L.K