Rebelmind Rising

Renegade

White sails filled the busy harbor and Prince Regulus studied the ships and flags with eager interest. This was not part of his Latin lesson, but his teacher, reclining in a nearby wicker chair did not seem to notice. The bright-eyed lad perched on the rock banister, balancing precariously among the petunias which graced the ramparts of Nevermore Castle. The castle perched like a graceful feline atop the 900-foot sheer cliff into the harbor below. Banners streamed from its turrets and the cold stone shone proud in the afternoon sun.

A stream of nobles and merchants from sea towns and Woolyback Forest, to the farthest reaches of the earth, steadily wended their way through the castle gates, under the dragon gargoyles, and up the green marble steps of the castle antechamber. Here, Queen Hermione, tenth in a long, proud lineage of Nevermore monarchs, ran her kingdom with a steady and determined hand. Her husband, Gregory, a somewhat unprincipled and weak-willed ex-monk (among other failed ambitions), always maintained that his greatest fear was poverty, and allowed Hermione full reign of the realm. He also left the rearing of Regulus completely to her as well, who by some stroke of luck had inherited none of his father's malicious and unprincipled qualities, while exemplifying all his mother's strong qualities. It was Hermione's fondest desire to train her son in the affairs of the kingdom. And the ruddy lad had all the qualities of being a great leader.

Regulus turned back to his drunken school master who was now snoring loudly, the glass shards of a wine glass staining the paving stones beside him.

"One will never know I've slipped away since he sleeps until moonrise," whispered the lad as he lowered himself to the narrow footholds in the cliff face below. Little more than a crack in the rock and a tuft of grass here and there above the dizzying drop, the path quickened his heartrate.

Slipping down the cliff to a narrow track cut between trees clinging to the steep mountainside, Regulus paused to catch his breath. The wharves seemed closer now, and he knew his friends, Jesse and Sam, would be trying to barter off their daily catch of sea food to passing merchants. It was a sorry, wet way to earn a pittance, but at least it was money they had squarely earned. The waterfront was a hubbub of sailors and merchants weaving their way through the common rabble. A thousand odors blew on the wind, some tangy like the creosote-soaked boards that made up the wharf, others putrid like the piles of useless sea life sorted from the giant, squirming heaps of quick gold, discarded and left to rot on the wet sand.

The bracing sea wind tousled his hair and ruffled his shirt, whipping it against his chest as he ran. The wet sand ground cold and coarse beneath his feet and the crashing surf broke into a thousand diamonds in the sun. It was a beautiful day to be alive.

A little way down the beach, two lads strained against the waves as they hauled in a net loaded with squirming sea life. Business must have been good today, or they would still be hawking their wares up the beach with the rest of the mottle crowd. Regulus splashed through the cold water and added his weight to the line. Their feet dug into the wet sand, and they heaved together as each crashing wave brought bounty closer to shore. Soon, a netful of flopping fish, sea stars, and urchins littered the shore and the boys fell to sorting the delicacies from the poisonous, leaving the useless pile for the gulls and the incoming tides.

With sacks of wriggling profits that reeked of salt water, the boys trudged back toward the wharves.

"You boys must have landed a bargain with one of the vendors to be fishing so late," observed Regulus when he could be heard over the surf.

"We did," answered Jesse. "One of the captains wanted a fancy dinner, I guess, and paid us a handsome bag of Spanish gold for our trouble to bring him something from the shops."