Draden's Whale

Chapter 1

The rescue had been Blair's idea. But Draden had come, full of vim and vigour, for a chance to be a hero like his late pa. The pair had waited for the monks to ring the lanterns-out bell, and when the other orphans' breathing had steadied into slumber, they'd slunk down the dorm's creaky central stairs. Fears of punishment flared with every crunching step on the gravel path that led to the front courtyard. Scrubbing. Latrine duty. Floggings.

"I know Maggie will die, but she'll make a great roast," Draden whispered from the shadows of the archway, trying to calm himself as much as to calm his friend.

"Draden! This is serious," Blair snapped, not taking his eyes from the courtyard. The distant torchlight stained the taller lad's ebony skin silver. Draden was quickly beginning to realise that playing at hero was one part noble cause, ninety-nine parts jangling nerves.

Shadows oinked and snuffled, mooed and squawked; however, it was the bleating from the furthest pen that dried Draden's mouth. He knew something the cheerful animals did not. The whales were beginning to migrate. Whales meant whalers. Whalers needed blessing, and blessings required feasts.

In the courtyard, a pale, auburn-haired monk, gaunt in his grey robes, was feeding grass to the lambs. It wasn't much as last meals went, but it was all in the aid of the Feast of the Hunt. Draden hoped the animals enjoyed the food, content and peaceful with full bellies. Maggie deserved that, if nothing else.

This had seemed like a great lark, discussed with earnest whispers from their warm cots. But now, looking at the well-lit courtyard, with monks still about doing chores, Draden thought it seemed... different. Blair had to see reason; they'd had their merry adventure and thrill. Cozy cots and a sprawling feast beckoned.

"We can't do anything." Draden grabbed his friend's wrist, his cocoa skin light against Blair's hand. "The new matron decreed any deviants caught during the Feast will be flogged."

"She's bluffing, there hasn't been a flogging in my lifetime."

"Fifteen years isn't a big lifetime, and I'd like to live to see sixteen." The pair only had one year to go on the isle orphanage.

They ducked into the shadows. Draden frowned, finding himself gripping his necklace. His pa had won the medal for bravery, yet he clutched it out of fear.

Draden tried to imagine himself in the jade-coloured marines jacket, in those high, polished, tan boots... but who was he kidding? He wasn't a heroic marine, just an unwanted orphan, and a petrified one from the tremor in his legs. His daydreams were perfect and pure, but daydreams wouldn't stop a lash or heal its mark. Blair had to understand—lambs came and went, but scars were forever.

The auburn-headed monk strolled through the archway, humming a timeless hymn, and monk and hymn faded into the night.

"Now's our chance," Blair said, dragging his friend into the light. They were both in their grey, hooded robes, pulled tight at the waist by black cord. Their prearranged lie was they'd sneaked out of bed to see the whalers arrive. They pulled up their hoods over their dark, curly, close-cropped hair, hoping they'd get mistaken for monks bracing themselves against the chill while doing their last round of chores.

A web of nerves ensnared Draden. What if the Matron decided to take a stroll after her evening rum?

"What do you mean 'our' chance?" he said. Pa's tales had never mentioned shaking knees, jagged swallowing, or tummies that rolled like a stormy sea. He squeezed his pa's medal until it dug into his palm, but it didn't help.

"I thought I told you to hide that thing until we know what the new matron is like?"

"I've always worn it, people know I wear it, they'll be suspicious if I don't."