Savior

The Drunk Man's Tale

One bottle. Two bottles. Three bottles. They lay scattered along the shoreline, coating small patches of sand in the dark shadows and fiery colors of the setting sun. Great white torrents of water crashed onto the beach, bathing the desolate area in cold and frothy salt water. Desolate it would have been anyway, were it not for the one lone man straggling along the sand, his clothes grimy and straining against his bulging stomach.

Collapsing from his weight, he fell upon the land with a loud "Yeoww" and brought his bottle to his chapped lips once again. A smile played along his haggard features and his beard danced in the fierce wind as the halo of the setting sun glistened in the many rings forced onto his chubby fingers. Somewhere in the distance behind him, the people of the town that was perched on that very shore ran about, hurrying to finish their work as the sun sank lower still and the clouds threatened a dark and wet evening.

Hours later, when sleep had bewitched the people of the city, the man awoke from his slumber and peered out into the darkness, sober and soaked to the bone. Shivering in the freezing water that reached his knees, he gathered his thoughts and whereabouts and proceeded to lift himself with great effort. “Never drinking meself out of me wits again.” He vowed, his voice coarse and stuffy from the excess of cold water and spirits. And all would have been good and well had he proceeded home that moment. But as fate would have it, he didn’t.

Determined to have lost a ring that he had so proudly claimed to come from the most menacing pirate of these waters, Nigel Scabb, he sauntered across the beach, cursing his luck. “Perhaps them town boys have stolen me ring. Ahh I’ll make them pay, them unworthy peasants.” He spat, placing his hands on his hips and staring into the distance. And then he saw it. What it was, he wasn’t sure. It seemed so small, barely a speck in the distance. Yet there was something intriguing about, something he’d never seen before. As the volatile waves pushed it closer to the loitered beach, the man’s eyes widened in surprise and a twinge of fear. This was no speck. This was a boat. Well, a life boat to be sure. No wider than a wide man’s arm span and about five feet long, it came closer and closer. And there seemed to be no passenger.

Or so it seemed until the boat was about twenty feet away and he could make out a figure perched upon the creaking piece of wood, cloaked in red. Out of his wits now, he began to scream, after all, there was so much a man could take. Waking up from a drunken sleep on a lone beach in the dead of the night and the middle of a storm to lose a possession and find a person would unnerve the best of men.

Being so close to the sea provided the small town with many advantages. The island was set between England and Iceland, allowing efficient trade, a skilled though however small navy, and the constant vigilance for attacks from the formidable pirates. The only blemish on the perfect island was its proximity to the water and barely any troops from protection. Sure, they could protect themselves from small bands of amateur “pirates” but it was still the real ones they had to worry about. No amount of protection or prior warning had protected the small city ten years ago when Scabb had himself paid it a visit. Plundering, looting, and kidnapping in glee, the pirates had stolen everything from the town, forcing it to start from scratch, this time, its history a warning of the tragedy that could occur if they were not watchful.

“What happened?” they yelled, fear replaced in their mind by the will to fight. “Is he back?” they questioned as a group as they dragged their weapons down to the beach.  They might have looked comical in their pajamas and hats yet the murderous rage in their eyes shattered any humor.

They had expected a full fleet of pirates swarming their small island by now but all the people could see was an empty, though littered beach, a small wooden boat washing up to shore, and a blushing and slightly obese man trying to come up with a worthy excuse for his late night banshee calls.

"Demme. I dinne think the whole town would show up." he muttered, feeling awkward amongst his riled and armed neighbors. "Umm, tis nothing everyone. It's just, I just recently awoke from an... induced slumber and was frightened out of me wits."

"Bernard," a sickly looking man inquired from the midst of the crowd "There ain't much that should scare of your... proportions. Why in the name of all that is holy did you awake me from mah beauty sleep wiff you banshee calls? See your food running away?" he mocked, the anger at being awoken in the dead of the night so evident on his twisted face.

"Shut your trap Jenning!" Bernard screeched, furious at the mock and judgement in his neighbors' faces. "See that boat down 'dere? Got somebody in it, I don't know who. Enough to spook even Scabb himself. " he shot back, ignoring the disgust that filled their eyes at the name Scabb.

"I bet there ain't even nothing in it. Big ol' ape of a man and yet screams like a girl in braids." Jenning muttered back, swiftly moving closer to the boat that had washed up to the beach during the argument. Poking it, he looked inside. Just as quickly, he jumped back, frightened of what he had seen. The people of the town looked amongst themselves in angst. "Dere be a girl." Jenning's shrill voice piped. "She's wrapped in red and fast asleep." A collective gasp was heard round from this astounding news. Where had she come from? No one knew. And everyone wanted to know.