Otto and the Hunt for Mal Goue

By Greg Blok

You’re commanding a tall ship on the ocean, with the greatest naval captain in the fleet hot on your tail. He has a bigger ship, which is faster, with more guns and a seasoned pirate crew. They’re closing fast! He has been sailing the high seas for over thirty years, more than twice your age, your men are staring at you, waiting for you to tell them what to do next. What do you do?
This is but one of the dilemmas facing young Otto DeGraff in Otto and the Hunt for Mal Goue, the story of a young boy from humble beginnings, who escapes an arranged marriage, becomes a stowaway on a battleship and unknowingly stumbles into the biggest act of treason in the history of the Dutch East India Company. The novel is set during the grand era of the high seas, at the height of the Dutch East India Company, when tall ships sailed the ocean, men made their living on the high seas and pirates terrified even the bravest of souls.
Otto faces insurmountable obstacles in his quest to find Mal Goue, the mythical artifact that turns dirt into gold and will ultimately save his family. Along the way Otto has to use his cunning, strength and nerve to overcome the cast of scoundrels including Mr. Landseer, the corrupt magistrate, the Pirate King and the treasonous Captain Vanderzee. In the exciting climax, Otto has to face his fears and his toughest adversary in a stunning sword dual to save his life and the lives of his crew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Blok
• Release date: Mar 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988004801

Greg Blok

Born and raised in Canada, Greg began writing shortly after graduating from Lakehead University and teaching a class of exceptional children. The first time the writing bug caught was when he composed a complete play for his grade six class in 2 hours to the amazement of his students.A few years later, Greg began the manuscript that became "Otto and the Hunt for Mal Goue". It was put on the back burner for 5 years as Greg pursued his career and had 3 wonderful children with his wonderful wife.A chance meeting with a friend pushed Greg to re-read Napoleon Hill's classic "Think and Grow Rich". He realised the first time he read the book, he didn't understand the messaging and immediately picked back up the book and began to re-write. A more mature and more focused manscript appeared, like magic.With the support and love of his wife, Greg took the leap and decided to publish his book on Smashbooks after reading a twitter article on Amanda Hocking.The story "Otto and the Hunt for Mal Goue" is the culimination of dreams and hard work. I hope you enjoy it!

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Otto and the Hunt for Mal Goue

Greg Blok

Copyright © 2012 by Greg Blok

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Chapter One – SOLD

Chapter Two – WALKABOUT

Chapter Three – OPULANCE

Chapter Four – FREEDOM

Chapter Five – ON THE RUN

Chapter Six – FLOATING ALONG

Chapter Seven – PORT

Chapter Eight – VANDERZEE

Chapter Nine – SNEAKING ABOARD

Chapter Ten – FISHBOWL

Chapter Eleven – SECRET APARTMENT

Chapter Twelve – STOWAWAY

Chapter Thirteen – JABARI

Chapter Fourteen – TRAITOR

Chapter Fifteen – TOPSIDE

Chapter Sixteen – THE KING

Chapter Seventeen – OPEN YOUR PRESENT

Chapter Eighteen – COFFEE TIME

Chapter Nineteen – CODE OF THE SEA

Chapter Twenty - REDEMPTION

Chapter One - SOLD

I sneaked out of my bed and quietly laid down at the top of the stairs near the railing for my nightly session of eavesdropping on my parents’ adult talk. Since I am only fourteen years old, my parents think I am too young for adult talk. What a crock; one minute I am too young, then they harp on me the next minute about how they were married at my age. What a double standard!

I have no idea what tonight might bring. In sessions gone by, when my uncle was in town or a social call from the Reverend, my parents would order me to bed, as the rest of them needed to talk about adult things. I always sneaked out of my room, careful to be soundless like a mouse and listen to the conversations. Mostly they talked of community affairs, family, friends and farming. A couple of times I had heard them discussing town gossip, but the most frequent conversations always revolved around money.

Money, money, money - that seemed to be my parents’ favourite topic for discussion. How much they owed, how little they made, things like that. I found I easily tired of the constant discussion. It was always the same, my uncle trying to tell my parents better ways to conduct their business or the Reverend trying to get my father to accept a handout from the Parish in our time of need. He would almost beg my parents to take a helping hand, but my father would have nothing to do with it. My parents were always the first to help if someone else needed a hand.

I can still remember the last time my uncle visited. It was about a year ago and I overheard my uncle call my father a pig-headed fool. Since then, my uncle is not spoken of; I guess that is for the best though. Every time anyone mentions his name, my mother shoots one of those looks that burn a hole through your body. The wise, drop the subject immediately, once though, my sister pushed it and asked about my uncle. It was a rough two weeks for her, until my mother forgave her for questioning her.

But tonight was not like every other night. A lot was familiar; my mother was sitting in the same rocking chair, holding the same knitting needles, making the same creaking sound as she swayed back and forth. Tonight though, the first question was not about money, but rather about an unexpected visitor. Harm, Mr. Landseer came by today when you were out.

What did he want, Janna? my father said as he slowly looked up from his readings.

The creaking intensified, What do you think he wanted, Harm? We owe him money! He wants his money, our farm, or …. My mom’s voice started off forceful then trailed off into the heavy night air.

I will not even consider that! We will pay the debts off.

How, Harm? How? It has been two years since you made the initial deal. The Landseers are not going to wait any longer. Mr. Landseer told me we have until end of the week to produce the money or the farm; he wants what is his!

I will go to him tomorrow and negotiate. There must be something that can be done. My father’s voice wavered, sounding neither confident nor overly convincing.

We have negotiated and renegotiated and so on. He is not going to buy any more of our excuses. Face the facts, our farm is not virile. We are poor farmers. Your father sent you to school to become a professor. Unfortunately, he died and you had to move home to take over the farm. I wish that he would have taught you how to work the land rather than work your mind. Your father’s decision to try and provide you with a better life has done the exact opposite. Now we have no money and it seems as of today we have also run out of time.

Janna, it is not my father’s fault we are in the position we are in now. His unexpected death was unfortunate to say the least, but we cannot use his demise as an excuse for us to fail. When facing a split in the road, the road less travelled often becomes the most rewarding path. I refuse to think this is the end of the path for our family farm, as he placed the book he was reading on the creaky old side table beside him.

Then you are a fool, Harm! These people are going to collect their money. Legally, they have claim to the land. Remember our last agreement? That ‘one more season’ extension ended last week. We are living on borrowed time right now. We have nothing to give them. Nothing! I could just imagine my mother’s eyes would be piercing my father’s weathered skin right now, boring a hole right through him. She had used this expression many times on me when I would forget to close the livestock gate

or be slow in returning from the market. That look was enough to turn a man into a mouse.

My father’s head bowed down to the floor and my mother’s hands intensified their pace, as she feverishly melded wool together to make mittens for the upcoming winter. The rocking chair had gone from a rhythmic squeak, to an overtly aggressive scream. Neither was saying anything, but both were thinking it. An ominous black cloud hung in the room. What are we going to do Harm? We cannot farm, we have no money, what solutions do we have? And I don’t want to hear some nonsense about Mal Goue. We need real answers. Real answers, really quick Harm!

Silence hung in the room, except that infernal chair. Neither of my parents spoke. I couldn’t hear their breathing, just the squawking of the chair, back and forth. As time passed, seconds, minutes, maybe more the chair finally began to come under control, quieting enough for the conversation to continue. Harm, my mother began again, with a much more subdued, almost whispered voice. There is something we can do to avoid having to pay them back… Her voice trailed off into the background.

The room went silent. But what you are suggesting is immoral, inhumane and he is so young… My father said.

Interrupting mid-sentence, my mother shot back, Harm, the boy is old enough! We did it at twelve, he is now fourteen. It is time; he is wasting his life here. What for? What for?

Janna, keep your voice down. He might hear. I don’t think we can. He has so much left to learn. So much more growing to do…

And we have bills to pay and more mouths to feed. Harm, I love our son, but as a parent, we have to realize we have many children. Another year of poor crops and bad weather, this has been five straight years. Do you know how much money we owe them? Do you? They are going to take our farm, then what? We move to the city, like all the others? You know how hard life in the city is; long hours, low pay, dangerous conditions, high rents. Tell me how we are going to make it in the city? He will be working a factory, as will the younger ones. Do you want that? Do you want to have all our children working fourteen plus hour days, coming home missing fingers, hands or worse? A chance for him to have that family’s resource behind him is way better than ending up in an early unmarked grave in some city back lot. Just imagine what he could accomplish with their backing.

But that Landseer family is atrocious. They are bloodsucking creatures. They are the vilest people in the county. I cannot do that to our son. He detests them.

They are awful, I admit, but they hold the deed to our land, to our farm and this is the only way to get out of it. He will have to make the best of a bad situation. You know Harm; the cream always rises to the top. Maybe he can change those people; maybe he can create some good from so much evil. You have always said that he was destined for greatness. I believe he will achieve that greatness, one way or another.

Janna, do you not feel like the judge passing out a sentence to an accused that you really know isn’t guilty? I feel like I am sending him to the gallows, when I know in my heart he is innocent.

Harm, that is an awful way to talk about something as beautiful as marriage, my mom said.

As the words came out of her mouth, I finally realized that they were talking about me. Talking about me marrying into that family, married to that girl. Me traded for their debts; me sacrificed like a virgin lamb to the God of money. I was now a commodity, not a son, not a person; I was just a commodity, just a possession.

My mind was rolling and turning like the branches of a tree in a hurricane. My mind was numb. I could not breathe. My body seemed to be shutting down. How could they do this?

In my shock, I turned over. My mind was blank. I did not realize how hard I fell over. I landed on my back with a loud thump. At first, I wasn’t really sure if I had made the sound or if I had just thought the sound. I tried to turn back over and make a move back to my bedroom, just in case the sound was a loud as it seemed. My mind was still in a cloudy state. I accidentally put my hand down to push myself back over onto my stomach, when I hit the squeaky spot on the floor. It emits a sound like a seagull being tortured.

What was that? my dad questioned, as I heard the distinct creak of his aged rocking chair jump to life. Then his weathered and broken shoes hit the floor. Footsteps exploded up the stairs. I couldn’t even stand up in a feeble attempt to slink back to my bedroom by the time he was upon me. And just what are you doing young man? my father demanded in his most authoritative, yet whispered voice, as to not wake the other children.

Nothing, I was just on my way to the outhouse and I, I, I fell. I landed here on the floor. I guess, I was only half awake and tripped on that, that thing right there, I turned to point at something, but unfortunately my neat freak mother never allowed anything to be on the floor to trip on. I stood there like an idiot, pointing at the flat, clean floor, hoping, dreaming that something would appear. Anything, a shoe, a fishing rod, maybe a large crack would just open across the bedroom floor. At this point, the crack seemed most appealing, as maybe it would swallow me whole.

I guess you were listening to what we were speaking of? my father’s voice trailed off. It was like he was speaking to me while running away. The further the person got away, the quieter his voice became, until it faded into the background and disappeared forever. I think you need to come downstairs. It is time we have a talk.

With that he turned, then walked down the stairs. His walk was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was defeat personalized. His shoulders were slouching forward and his chin was almost touching his chest. Looking at him, I imagined this must be what a man looks like walking towards the gallows.

I crept down the stairs, half scared and part excited. My stomach was doing somersaults, dancing with anticipation; after all it was sort of exciting; this was the first time I had been invited down to talk with the adults. In my gut, I knew that tonight’s adult talk would not be a very positive experience. I made my way down the stairs and into the main room. It was so different by night, a subdued fire, so subdued that it was more like glowing embers, that made the room seem even smaller and more intense.

The room, which was always poorly lit, seem to be extra dingy, because the heavy woollen drapes were drawn. They hung on the walls like the unkempt hair of a vagrant. For the first time, I looked at our meagre home with unclouded eyes and realized it for what it really was - a chicken coup.

Our house was originally the barn for the livestock. It was built about three or four hundred years ago, when my great, great, great grandfather bought this land. Our ancestors lived in tents in the beginning, then upgraded to differing versions of mud huts. They lived in a mud hut while completing this small building. Upon completion, the small building became the barn and the family, well, the family stayed in their mud hut for a few more years.

Can you believe it, the cows and chickens and horses lived in luxury, whilst the family lived in the mud hut? As the farm grew, a new barn was built to accommodate the growing herd of livestock and the older barn became the chicken coup or the pig pen or whatever. Then, over time, as the farm expanded, the oldest and smallest building became the family home.

Years and generations later, this was still our home. Farming is such an involved occupation, that there was never anytime available for fixing or improving the house. All of our time was spent fixing the barn, servicing the livestock or working the fields. After four hundred years and many different uses, this place had become really decrepit.

From the stairs, I could see the murky windows, from which cold air poured in. The former chicken coup had a poorly sealed exterior, hardly upgraded in centuries. The rugged exposed stone walls are devoid of bonding material in many places, looking moments from eroding into the house. It was not uncommon to awake in the morning to find a bit of a wall collapsed the evening prior. This house was a dilapidated heap. Each season, each year, it continued to get worse and worse.

Farms grow by adding buildings and reinventing the existing buildings with new uses. Over time, herds grow, so they need more space and the easiest way to create space is to build a bigger barn and reuse the older barn for another purpose. The last thing most families built was a home, since the only value that a large home contributed to the farm was cosmetic, not practical. Adding additional chores like cleaning, gathering wood for heat and construction time were not practical decisions. These were practical times, times where survival was outweighed by beauty, where functionality was far more important that style.

The herd and the farm was life; it was a family’s livelihood. The herd lived in the penthouse, while the family lived in the outhouse. Such was the case in my home; we had a large barn for the cattle and horses, a nice coup for the chicken and a separate pen for our pigs. We had a great set up for a farm. Our lands had been carefully cultivated for hundreds of years; our buildings were structurally solid and functionally superior. We had the most desired plot of land in the county, with a fresh water stream, a forested area and many acres of cleared fields.

Unfortunately, due to my father’s black thumb and the drought of the last five years, we had very few pigs or cows or chickens to inhabit these impressive buildings. As our barns became more and more vacant and our fields remained fallow, our debts continually rose. My father’s entire book-learned education could not increase our crop yields, which lead to having to borrow money to make ends meet.

This is how we ended up accepting the Landseer family’s proposal to help my parents out. My uncle tried to dissuade my parents from turning to them and the reverend tried to offer the Parish’s help, but my father being proud and stubborn, refused their charity, preferring to make his own way and not be a ‘ward of the state’, as he called it.

Some plan that turned out to be! My parents alienated their friends and allies by refusing to accept their help, driving a stake between themselves and the community. Coupled with the continued poor weather conditions and my father’s inability to grow anything, my parents now owed everything we had to them, the evil empire, the Landseer family.

Sit down son, my father’s voice commanded and awoke me from my daydream. His tone had changed back, similar to what it had been at the top of the stairs. It was like an icicle placed on the bare skin of your neck while you are sleeping. It sent chills up and down my spine. The tone of his voice was stern, yet respectful, a manner that I had never heard my father use before. I guess this is the voice he reserves for business and matters of a serious nature.

My parents were both sitting in their chairs, rocking slowly. They looked like mummies from ancient Egypt, their faces hidden by the shadows and darkness. Their bodies wrapped in the warmth of their wool blankets. The whole scene was spooky, yet somehow strangely calming.

I looked at both of my parents and finally saw them as real people, not some mythical creatures of power. Seeing them, they seemed frail and weak, human, just like me. For some odd reason, I was not afraid or frightened by them. Strangely, I felt the opposite; I felt they seemed to be intimidated of me.

My father began speaking, Sometimes in life, we have to do things that are not, well, there not … he stumbled trying to reach for the proper words to make his point clearly. His book-learned education was straining to find the proper words to express his feelings.

Not being one to mince words, I felt I should just throw it out there. So you want to trade me off to the Landseer family in return for clearing all your debts.

It is not like that son, my mom interjected.

Then what is it like? I demanded. I could feel a well of fury building inside of me. "It’s obvious I am merely some possession to you. I am just like the cattle or the farm. All these years of this family nonsense, all these years of educating, learning, coaching to make solid decisions, has come down to this moment and look at the decision you are making. Taking the easy route out! What about this nonsense of the road less travelled is the