The Boy Who Stories

By Peter Foye

A collection of short stories written for a variety of reasons, some as competition entries, newspaper fillers or simply to mark a family occasion. The boys in them are mainly drawn from my imagination, some are in a historical setting and others in the far future; but there is also my own childhood and that of my sons involved in them too. This is a delightfully varied and gentle read to help pass tedious hours of travel time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Foye
• Release date: Jun 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301939923

Peter Foye

Peter Foye is now happily retired after a career in engineering spanning 42 years, now living in Oxfordshire and Cornwall. He has written over 30 short stories mostly for the enjoyment of friends and family, some have been, published in local newspapers, excerps read on radio and a few have won competitions. He has also written novels under the pen-name 'Peter Wallace'.

Book preview

I was dreaming.

I knew I was dreaming because… it couldn’t be real… could it?

I remember climbing onto my bed, my bed - the smallest one, with the mattress filled with the freshest straw and fine dry soft sphagnum moss. It even had a sack stuffed with downy, duck breast feathers that served as the best ever pillow. And it was in the driest corner of our little hov, the walls made whole with new clay pressed firmly into the wattle by my older brothers, Jed and Sam only last Osterfest. During the long days of summer the clay dried hard to become water-tight, sealing all the draughty cracks. That sleep place was my best-ever, it even trapped the last of the warm dry air that came from the dying embers of the fire-pit; I slept well there.

Now I was awake and… I was somewhere else, somewhere beyond imagining. My feet - my own feet, were standing firm on strange gritty wet land that gave off a tangy smell of salt, the smell of the sea. I wiggled my toes, first one foot then the other; I saw them move and the ‘earth’ moved around them… I wiggled again enjoying the new sensation and giggled like a young girl.

‘It’s sand,’ the voice said.

Looking up, I saw him for the first time and I would never forget him.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘this is definitely sand and this is the sea, the domain of Ran the goddess of the deep who claims all who die upon her waves to feed her many subjects.’ My head turned to see a sparkling sea that came towards me at an alarming speed and before I could re-act, the cold water that frothed and bubbled with white foam came splashing across my feet tingling my naked skinny legs. I yelped, but quickly realised that I enjoyed it.

The boy standing facing me laughed and I laughed with him, first of relief and then for the pure simple joy of it. He was older than me I guessed, as he stood higher than my own head, perhaps nearly as tall as Sam… perhaps not - but then when I looked again he seemed not much taller than me. How strange, I remember thinking but only for the briefest of moments. He was dressed simply as any boy of our time would, no fancy clothes or head covering, not even a band of cloth around his tanned smooth skinned forehead. He wore a loose fitting blouse, roughly tucked into the waist of a pair of breeks that did not reach his knees. Across his upper body he wore a wide leather belt that held a scabbard to his back. Oh yes, definitely a scabbard because the one thing about him I remember most at that first meeting was the sword… the sword.

He held it firmly by the grip, a double handed sort that the great warriors use, so my old uncle told in the sagas of yore. With one hand he held the great broadsword point down with its tip and a double hand’s breadth of blade buried in the wet sand.

‘Ah, you have noticed… this I am never without, it is called ‘DragonBane’ and some call me by that name also… but ‘Bane’ will be enough I think, don’t you?’ he paused as a pleasant friendly smile curved his boyish lips. And you young friend, you must have a name too.’

My poor throat suddenly felt as dry as dust and yet my tongue had swollen so much as to become tangled with my teeth. I gargled and choked as I desperately tried to form an intelligent reply to a gentle question.

‘I have always been called Cal… when I have been called by name,’ I replied honestly while my wide eyes never left that awesome blade that glistened with a cold sheen reflecting the morning light from two… yes two suns!

‘Cal, a fine strong name and one to weave adventures around and tales of…’

‘I’m not sure I’m allowed…’ I began but Bane had already drawn the huge sword from the wet sand that surrendered its grip with a curious sucking sound and was walking away along the beach. DragonBane was held casually by one hand with its long rune-marked blade resting behind his neck across his opposite shoulder.

‘Come on Cal, we have adventuring to do and before lunch too.’

●●●

My new friend Bane walked with a confident stride and a lightness in his step, his quick feet easily skipping past the rippling seawater as it swept onto the sand making it glisten like wet leather. I tried to keep up but I found no matter how fast I quickened my pace I could not match his jaunty manner. We continued for a while, him making no further conversation but allowing a whistle sound escape his lips in a melody strange to my ears. At last we reached an opening in the jumbled rocks at the foot of some sheer walled cliffs. The rocks were mainly rounded and the lower smaller ones were green with fronds of sea growth that sprouted brown bulbous pods and the smell… ugh, horrible. I looked at Bane while wrinkling my offended nose but he seemed not to be concerned.

Bane moved over the rocks, slippery with sea-hair that had been washed and teased by many wave surges, without a pause or missed footing. While I was struggling to stay upright choosing what I thought looked like the easiest path and wishing with every false step that I had paid closer attention to him. The face of the pale stoned cliff split apart where it reached the beach in front of us forming a natural opening. My new friend waved a hand indicating that I should follow and disappeared into the dark beyond. What was he searching for in this dark place; a cave like this could hide many dangers? I did not dare to ask but there would be a reason that much was certain, so I contented myself to watch and learn.

‘Ah, here it is. Cal over here and watch where you step please, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’

It was so dark at the back of this smelly cave, the early morning sunlight from two suns hardly penetrated this far away from where we entered. The light itself seemed to slow and scatter among the smaller rocks and crevices and be swallowed by the darkness itself. Bane had all but been cloaked from my straining eyes, his voice only giving me direction to his location. He made no noise thus he was motionless, waiting for me I guessed. Sensing him, rather than seeing his form, I suddenly realised that I had almost stumbled into him. He laughed at my clumsiness.

‘We’re here and now we must climb, so stay close and please don’t get lost or fall off the path. If you feel that you have lost me, stay still and clearly say my name, just once. Here we go…’

‘I will Bane,’ I said with as much confidence as I could muster but in truth I am as scared as it is possible to be for a boy of my age. As he turned away there was some daylight filtering down from above, enough for me to see that we were about to climb steps that had been rough-cut out of the rock. My mysterious companion must have known the steps were there and he climbed them like a mountain goat heading for lush grazing. The mighty sword in the ornate scabbard on his back was of no hindrance at all, where I was having difficulty staying close to him. The stair twisted as it rose through the rock strata with the light growing stronger at every turn. To steady myself I used my hands pressed against the vertical walls on either side of the narrow stair, for I was fearful of slipping back down those steps to that horrible cave and that was probably full of seawater by now. The sides were cold, wet, slime streaked with something organic that I didn’t want to think about; time to grit my teeth and keep going.

‘Hey Cal what are you doing down there, come on there’s plenty of fresh air up here and we have far to travel.’

‘I’m not used to…’ I protested.

But I was nearly there… one more turn and I was there. The sudden emergence into bright daylight shocked my eyes and I almost fell. Bane was to me as my knees buckled and his outstretched hand caught me, holding me in a grip so firm and yet did not bruise me or cause discomfort. A smile on his face gave me confidence to continue and be brave like him, in a strange way easing my anxiety and calming my fears of the unknown. I really took notice of face his then as he held me close and kindly steadied me on that grassy cliff top.

His lips had barely any colour in them and gave a natural soft smile to his face, the nose small rounded as any young boy with a slight dusting of impish freckles at the bridge between his eyes; eyes that were summer-sky blue and flecked with gold sparkles. They were kind, caring eyes though remarkable to look at and I wondered if other folk stared at him as I was doing now. Oh yes, the hair, not over long, the colour of ripened corn, with soft curls that fluffed at the ends like thistle down. My mother would have used the word ‘angelic’ to describe his countenance.

‘You feeling better, you almost fell then, can’t have that can we? Now we really must push on before…’ Then he looks skyward, I do too but there’s nothing just a pink tinged fair-weather morning sky with a few scudding wispy white clouds.

The ground before us looked mostly level and covered with an even lush green grass stretching into the distance to a line of trees that stood like palace guards at the foot of a range of low hills. Bane pointed that way now and said… ‘Run!’

He ran straight, as swift as a deer and I also, not as fast but as fast as I could. My lungs heaved with the effort, daring not to look back for fear it would slow me and of what I might see on my heels. Beyond Bane there was only the open grassland but the trees were getting closer. I was catching up, my heart thumping in my chest and I was demanding my legs to run faster away from whatever terror threatened at my flying heels. He has stopped… but we are not there… what is he doing?’

‘Bane…?’

‘Here,’ he said when I had reached him and handed me something.

It was a sling shot, a simple weapon that I was familiar with. A length of leather thong with a scrap of softer leather sewn into the centre; all it needed was a smooth roundish pebble of reasonable weight and in the practised hand it was deadly. I have used such a thing often when I was given the duty of stock herdsman, it proving useful against marauding wolves or even some larger birds that would try to take lambs or young goats.

‘Take it and this,’ he said, handing a small pouch, which I guessed was the ammunition. ‘Cover me while I do battle.’

I gave him a strange look and then as my mouth formed a reply a huge shadow passed over and I felt the air beat down upon my boyish shoulders and a terrible cry shrieked out above me. Bane passed me, his hand sweeping the great blade in one fluid motion from its scabbard with a rasp of metal against metal. Another hellish squawk and a beat of great dusted wings and it came at us straight and low, beak open and huge bared talons raised to rip and kill.

At first I thought it an eagle, a bird of prey that lived high up in the mountains of home, but it was more than that. It did have a feathered head, sharp piercing bird eyes and that curving hooked beak, but its breast and underneath seemed scaled with overlapping plates. It tried to pass close overhead but a mighty sweep of Bane’s broadsword, DragonBane, sang through the air and would have cleaved his slashing claws had it not angled away at the last second. Instinctively I ducked having closed my eyes fearing the worst though I felt the rush of air as its wings beat frantically to get away.

‘Make ready Cal, they will attack again.’

‘They…?’ I couldn’t think what… then I saw them stooping in a sharp dive right on our position. Two… three, no, four of them, much smaller than the other but the same breed and equally as deadly if they attack together. I saw Bane’s strategy now and we backed away carefully, watching where we placed our feet. If we reached the tree line, only a hundred paces to our rear, we should be able to form a better defence with only our front open to attack from them. But could we make it? We must…

The sling was ready, I had chosen a medium sized pebble that was as hard as iron and adopted a sideways stance. I waited my moment to be sure of my strike. The first bird creature panicked and veered away, but the second was braver and banked avoiding the arc of Bane’s sword and seeing me it spread its wings, breaking its momentum then lifting its head threw out its chest to present its talons. I swung and released in my much-practised way, the smooth action producing precise target accuracy. The stone flew straighter than any arrow striking and shattering the breastbone over the heart. It died in that moment clattering into the trees at our backs.

‘Gorrah!’ screamed Bane in a war cry and as a tribute to my skill and then in a sudden move, dropped to one knee swinging his sword in a scything motion decapitating two of the beasts swooping down on him, their mutilated headless bodies passing on either side of him.

There was no time to triumph, a great thump to the ground at our front warned of the big daddy returning to his troublesome ‘meal’ and he was extremely maddened by our success. He meant business and the business was killing. This time it was to be a ground assault and it would be to the death. We separated to stand at each other’s shoulder, which I thought was a good idea to divide his attention and then Bane did a surprising thing. He stepped across me squaring his stance directly in front of me, so that I had no shot at the oncoming beast.

‘Wait,’ was all he said and started to circle the beast of the air.

Those beady raptor eyes fastened on Bane’s movement and locked on to that awesome blade which reflected the light that was now so much stronger and getting stronger with each passing minute as the smaller hot bright sun rose higher above its duller but so much larger blood red sister. Slowly with each measured step, Bane began his strategy of combat, his weight was balanced on the balls of his feet placed a shoulder’s width apart, his knees slightly bent. This crouching stance was the most effective for close combat using hand weapons, combining with the ability to think fast and be able in a split second, adjust to parry or strike. His circling motion continued but I sensed that as the bird-thing manoeuvred to face him he was gradually reducing the strike distance between them. Sensing that the tension must break soon I readied myself without knowing really what my role was… and then… I did.

Bane was a skilful master of his craft and had a plan that would win him the day and I now saw the essence of it. That smaller, blindingly bright sun was now above and behind Bane and he was close, deadly close. The great beast was slower thinking than its prey and that would be its undoing. The harsh brilliant light hammered its optic nerves causing its multiple eyelids to flutter at speed protecting its valuable bird sight. It disturbed him and he shuffled his feet to slash in anger with that evil beak at the human head before him. I took careful aim and released a heavier missile this time but the head of the thing was twisting and turning to recover its sight. Only a strike to the head would stun it but my shot was off and only struck that horny beak. It seemed surprised and blinked at me, a fatal mistake. It tried to re-focus at Bane…

Too late, the blade took him then, slicing deep at the end of a long arc and at full force, missing the head but going deep, burying into the muscle, sinew and bone of the shoulder. It took great strength to withdraw it from the torn flesh but Bane pulled it free with a deft twist. I saw it flash once more in the straight thrust of an expert swordsman belying his immature appearance, spearing the heart and continuing on into the cavity beyond. The dying beast collapsed, rolling first onto its side then its back, tearing the sword grip from Bane’s hand.

The screams of that dying beast were dire and horrible and they will haunt my dreams for a long time but now they were stilled and Bane stood on its chest, bending over to grip the double length handle in both of his ridiculously small hands to wield such a weapon, to pull it free. First it seemed firm wedged fast between bone and gristle then it moved and another heave saw it freed with a thick ugly sucking noise. Standing by and watchful for further attacks I saw the pleased look on Bane’s face as he jumped down, landing as light as a sparrow on a twig despite the bloodied heavy sword he held.

Swiftly he straightened fully alert for more danger but there was none. DragonBane was first carefully wiped with a scrap of fine muslin cloth to remove all of the viscous blood and then he held it aloft before him, twisting it to give a brief inspection. He was happy and giving me brief nod, slid it back into the scabbard that I could now see was delicately worked with runes and fine silver scroll work, its throat trimmed with lamb’s wool to smooth the blade in its passage.

‘There, that’s done and done well I say and furthermore, you played your part superbly young Cal. You have many talents, that is certain and we shall explore them together. So let us set our direction once more and put our backs to Cronos and his big sister Herra and find a path up over these hills.’

He then saw the look on my bemused face with my brow furrowed with the thought of many questions that I needed to ask of him, some I would but there were others that I dare not; at least not for now. So I simply smiled.

Our adventures together had only just begun and I just knew there would be more, so many more. Bane turned, looked up to the hilltops above us and we were again moving towards… what?

* * * * *

Author’s Note:

I wrote this tale at seeing the great rendering for my front cover produced by my son Kevin. The story itself was prompted by an idea I had talking about the project with a friend over drinks; then after realising that not one of my included stories for the book could claim the depicted scene I had to return to my keyboard and I wrote…

The Boy Who… Shot the Rainbow

Ontario Territory 1736

It was always the river, it had no name for me then it was just 'The River' and along with a few tributaries and creeks it was the only one that I knew. I was born on its banks and nurtured by the bounties that it brought to our settlement. A council of elders had named our settlement Clayborne in honour of those who came originally from the high moorlands of Cornwall and were the main of the first group to make permanent dwellings here, it sort of stuck and people were pleased to call it that.

The pastor of the Brethren preached every Sunday of the works of the Lord and it was His grace that brought this water of life we called The River to us and I remember well those innocent sunny days of my tender years when I fished its eddy pools and helped to trap the beaver that also built its lodges there. The abundance of deer and other wild game that came from the forest to drink its clear waters ensured that our people had a ready supply of fresh meat that could also be dried and stored for the long hard winter days when the deep snows came with the bitter icy winds from the frozen Northlands and game was scarce.

My given name is Ethan and I was baptised as such in the shallows of this very river; my father proudly telling everyone that it was a fine God-fearing name from the pages of the Good Book. I was not my parents firstborn but the first of this union, which was my mother's second and my father's third, a marriage which has been blessed with my older half-brothers and Mary Ruth, my half-sister. We were worked hard each day, except the Lord's Day as there were ever tasks allotted to us all. We have to work for the good of all, Mother says and that everybody does so willingly for our community. My father has a river boat, properly clinker built by himself and my uncle who was a shipwright once back in Cornwall. That was launched three summers ago now and he uses it to trade along the river. When the harvest is rich we trade corn and bread both to the Frenchies that are friendly toward us, for powder and shot and with local Indians for beaver pelts and elk skins.

The gaff rigged sail and shallow draft was ideal for the wide river, allowing us to enter creeks to search out the villages of the dark-skinned River People who used only bark canoes and had no need of anything larger. For the main they were friendly brown-skinned souls that spoke only in their own strange tongue and sign language but sign was enough to barter we found. The weather had turned and the languid breath of autumn had been blown away by the first chill draughts of the coming winter. My father said that we would need the glossy water-proof pelts of fine beaver skins for our women-folk to make into warm clothes and those we needed to trade for, far down river from here.

‘Take the prow Ethan and sing out clear if you see an obstacle in our path. We can't be holed here boy,’ his voice came clear and proud this bright morning as we had changed our course from the relative safety of the central current to sail closer to the western bank, where the brooding forest came right to the water's edge with a dangerous tangle of roots beneath the dark water. I stared at the tall olive green trees whose names I knew not and tried hard to see movement beneath their lower, vine festooned branches but there was none.

Father was at the helm, his weathered eyes keened to see dangers that lurked close. The sail was part reefed and we were being taken on a gentle current ever closer to whatever waited there at our destination. Until this expedition I had only been a mile from home and then we were going to Fort Henry for supplies and a picnic. I was pleased to be chosen to act as proper crew for once, but then my brothers were up north hunting meat for the larder and little me was the only choice. All grown men were busy seeking to their own kith and kin and preparing as best as they could, everyone knew that we would not all survive the Winter. Last year old Missus Jane Stebbins slipped and fell on the ice, some saying unkindly that she had the demon drink in her and poor Jed Archer was attacked by a wolverine in the wood store; tore his leg off it did and he bled to death.

I skipped forward in a spritely manner showing my boat skills off and crouched at the bowsprit, hanging over to get a good look along our path for part submerged stumps and branches. Even a mud bank could hamper us if we left the channel, for it would suck down on our hull and wedge the keel fast.

Father gave another yell, ‘Look yonder boy, there's our landfall on that shelf.’

Standing tall at the tiller he was pointing away to my right and now I could see the break in the tree line where there was a mud flat that was the feeding ground of two long-legged white birds dragging their curved bills through the soft surface. They saw our approach and flapped away squawking their protests as they disappeared over the trees.

Nimbly I cleared the rail and landed squarely into the shallows, my naked feet sinking fast into the river bed. Pulling myself free I waded ashore holding the coils of the bow rope with a firm grip. The boat passed on my left side and slid hard onto the shelving mud where it stuck fast. The rope I held would be a precaution to hold the boat head in if a change in current strength or weather freed us the braided rope would hold fast. Finding a mature spruce that would suit I made good the mooring around its girth, the rope biting hard into the mossy trunk. A wind caught the partially furled canvas pulling the boat round tightening the rope with a sharp jolt but the knot held good giving me a sense of pride. I looked to my father, for praise I guess, but he had paid me no heed and was busying himself with collecting his needs. He met me at the water's edge handing me his second musket, a powder horn and a bag of shot and then he pulled a pistol from his belt and after a second of thought handed that into my care as well. I was not a good shot but on a quiet Summer Sunday afternoon he had instructed me on its use and a lecture on the wanton slaying of God's creatures. I was never allowed to practice with it but I didn't mind that, its power sort of frightened me.

I had never been entrusted with it like this before and looked hard at it as if it was a demonic artefact before stuffing it into my own belt. The long musket I knew well and I had been drilled in its use and also in the mechanics of the priming, loading and firing of such a weapon, but the pistol… that was something else, something that could kill an enemy at close range in the heat of battle. It was a thought that bothered my young mind. Father carried a sack of our finest corn that had been harvested only a month or so back and with our store house full it seemed sensible to seek a trade for its worth. The native Indians of the Iroquois nation had no skills or prepared ground to grow their own but knew its worth in trade. We moved silently inland, me directly behind my father my head twisting right and left to catch any sign that we were being tracked. It was well known that the Indian could blend with the forest like no other and even the creatures that dwelt within it did not often