Draden's Whale

By Grant Pollerd

On an ocean, where marines hunt pirates who hunt whalers who hunt whales, an animal-loving orphan will find out what it is like to be both predator and prey.

Draden, a fifteen-year-old boy trapped in a brutal island orphanage, finds solace in nurturing Maggie, a motherless lamb. When Draden is caught rescuing Maggie from the feast for the start of whaling season, the matron sentences him to ten lashes. A visiting captain cuts him a deal to escape the lash and the matron forever, on one cruel condition: he helps the captain hunt whales.

After the whaling ship's destination is revealed to be the last untapped whaling grounds, guarded by the man who tore Draden's family apart, the famed pirate Silverbeard, Draden must decide what and who he is willing to kill to gain vengeance.

"Treasure Island" meets "Moby Dick", "Draden's Whale" is a high-seas adventure where the answers to moral questions are deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grant Pollerd
• Release date: Jun 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393470748

Book preview

Draden’s Whale

... he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans. Moby Dick.

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.

Just tell them you’ve lost it, you dolt.

A hopeful bleat echoed from the courtyard.

You know that’s Maggie. We’re all she’s got. We can’t let them roast her, Draden pleaded.

She was the reason he’d come. The reason he’d risked the stairwell, and the cold, lampless trek. Maggie needed him. Tomorrow the merry cook would come yodelling, and the lamb would trot up to the fence hoping for a feeding or a petting. Draden pressed back against the chilly granite wall, and he imagined the hot sting of the lash. Wasn’t that why lambs existed? To be roasted?

How’re we getting her out, anyway? he asked, hoping against hope his friend wouldn’t have an answer.

With this, Blair uncorked a little flask and Draden wrinkled his nose at the biting scent of rum. The shepherd will be at the side gate at the eighth bell. One flask of rum, and Maggie will be grazing in the high pasture for the rest of her life.

Draden didn’t like to think how Blair had come by it or what would happen if the cook noticed it missing. With the preparation for the feast, he hoped it would be overlooked.

Maggie gave a long, wavering bleat. She always cried for company. None of the mothers had taken a liking to her, and they drove her away when she dared huddle too close. That’s why Draden had taken to her; she was like him, unwanted. But whereas Maggie’s mother had died, Draden’s had just left him. He wouldn’t abandon Maggie.

He asked himself what his pa would do. What would a marine do? Chest out, shoulders back, Draden marched out into the courtyard. He could do this. Just one step at a time. A guilty thrill swirled in his chest; he was doing it. His foot crunched on dry leaves and he froze.

Draden bolted back to his hiding spot, Blair on his heels. I’ll keep watch. I’ll hoot if someone comes.

Coward, Blair shook his head, and you want to be a marine.

Heat flushed into Draden’s cheeks. He is right, if I want to be a marine, I have to be brave, not hide in shadows like a cowering little Maggie. He bit his lip and tried to force himself out into the light, but his legs were as stony as the wall.

He worried the pounding of his heart would drown out any footfall and he would fail at being a lookout. At least he was still here, he could still help, and be a coward too. A timid peek revealed Blair nearing the lambs’ pen. He moved with sure, slow strides, a few more and he’d be there, then back to the side gate and Maggie would be away. She’d be safe in the pastures at the top of the hills and they’d be safe in their cots at the top of the dorms.

He’d finally have a story to tell. Like the ones he’d heard at his pa's feet, by a low crackling fire, on autumn nights. The coals warding off the drafts, his pa's raspy voice fading into pleasant dreams.

Blair cradled Maggie in front of the side gate. The pigs squealed and Draden gulped. Nothing, no creak of the monastery’s doors, no cry from the bell tower. On the top floor of the dorms, a candle flickered; Draden inhaled, preparing to hoot. This was it—a Master had noticed their empty cots, and would start a search. The window went dark and Draden controlled himself with a slow, calming breath.

Footfalls crunched on the path. The matron! She must have favoured a stroll over her usual rum nightcap. Draden flinched and fled to the cold embrace of the wall. He felt suddenly breathless, but he had to warn Blair. His tongue was a rasp against the roof of his tinder-dry mouth. He hooted, once, twice, three times, fearing it sounded more like a toad than an owl.

A bleat came from the courtyard, then another. Blair’s dropped Maggie. He hoped his friend could hide despite the torches. The auburn-haired monk stepped into the light, with a bucket of what smelt like slop.

Maggie trotted into the archway.

Little one, how did you get out of your pen? the monk said, sweeping up the lamb.

Draden swore. Maggie was staring directly at him. She gave an almighty bleat. His mouth caught halfway between a swallow and a breath. How many lashes?

The monk clucked at the little lamb and carried her and the bucket into the courtyard.

Draden bit off a gasp and grinned, safe in the darkness. His hands shook and his heart raced, but a giddy lightness filled him. He counted ten steps and dared a glance. Blair was nowhere to be seen; only the monk marching to the lambs’ pen was visible. The slivers of shadows from the doorways offered no cover, and the animals were too mellow for him to be lying amongst them.

By the Creator, where is he? Draden cursed under his breath and ducked out of sight. Now he had to rescue Maggie and find his friend. He wished he was in his cot right now. He heard the thunk of slop hitting mud and the squealing and snorting of feasting pigs.

The grey-robed monk slouched by. His features faded into shadow, his shadow into darkness. Draden had never liked being made to wear the robes, finding them itchy and coarse, but was thankful for how they blended in after dark.

Draden counted his slow, deliberate breaths. The footfalls ceased by twenty; the sounds of the night birds returned at forty. He was safe, for now. Blair’s plan had run amok, like Blair’s plans always did. Now he’d have to sort it out. Or he could just bolt back to the dorms and leave Blair to his grand ‘adventure’.

But he couldn’t leave; he couldn’t abandon Maggie or Blair. Blair was the closest thing to a family he had left, and Draden had hand-reared Maggie and wouldn’t let the cook sing her a lullaby while reaching for a blade. Brave or not, he was going to try to be like his pa.

Blair? he said, daring one tentative step, then another. Blair? he tried again.

What am I doing? His back prickled at the thought of a flogging. His sandalled feet scurried across the courtyard, sprinkling gravel everywhere. Maggie pressed against the fence, eyes dark and curious.

Hush, hush, he cooed. She was light, soft, and warm in his arms. Where is Blair? The peal of the eighth bell drove him to the side gate that swung open before him, revealing a grinning Blair outside, waving him on. Elation and pride surged inside him. His legs were anchors and his heart a drum but he carried Maggie onwards.

How noble of you to join us, Blair exhorted. Draden thrust Maggie at the shepherd. The lean, bearded man reeked of mead-laced sweat. Maggie peered back at them and, with a thud of the gate, was gone. He had done it.

The shepherd hadn’t looked like a hero from a saga and Draden didn’t feel like a marine from his pa's tales, but Maggie was free. He’d get no medal, and no one would know, but she was safe all the same.

Could you be any louder? Draden said.

Yes, Blair smiled, and the shepherd forgot to take his rum.

A key rattled in the main gate. Draden’s head snapped towards it. The gate groaned and begun yawning open.

Quick, the side gate, Blair said, tugging at Draden’s sleeve.

No, they’ll lock it. Draden broke free and bolted for the archway, snatching a look back to see Blair sprinting out the side gate.

Draden spun into the shadows and slammed against the stone. He cursed Blair’s headstrong ways—always the leader, always there to get Draden out of trouble. But this one time, Blair’s confidence might be his downfall. The front gate thudded closed.

Welcome, good Captain, welcome, the Matron’s voice echoed around the courtyard, to the humble Monastery of Furnova, home of the monks and orphans of Isle Tarl. The pigs squealed in response to her high squawk. The Matron must have greeted the whalers at the docks.

And sleepless piglets, a deep, smooth voice answered. Soon to be orphans themselves, after the feast tomorrow.

Draden had seen whalers at every feast since he was young, and he was always surprised at their manners and thoughtfulness. They regaled the orphans with stories of the world beyond the isle and never seemed to tire of the boys’ questions. He especially had pestered them more than most for tales about the marines. Draden was always disappointed when they went away, leaving him with the boring monks. At only one cliff on the isle could you see the hint of other land, vague, hazy blue shapes on the horizon.

The side gate squeaked open.

Unhand me, Blair bristled. Draden’s heart dropped.

Look at my catch, Captain, the voice unfamiliar, rough, and hoarse. Your eyes saw true, someone was at the side gate, found a flask of rum on him too. Your orders, Captain?

It’s the Matron’s orphanage, the captain said.

Draden risked a fearful peek. A corn-haired man half a head shorter than Blair gripped his friend’s arm, but while his friend was lean, the man was broad of chest and neck. The pair stood in front of the bearded captain and the short, square matron. Draden could flee back to the dorms, but that risked being heard. There was no hope to save Blair, but maybe, if he was quick, only one orphan would be found out of bed.

Bring him, the Matron’s voice shrilled, nearly breaking into a squeak. I’ll have a headcount of the dorms and the livestock, immediately. If I find boys trading animals for rum, the feast won’t start with a roast but a flogging.

Draden froze; the world froze. Blair was wrong, she wasn’t bluffing.

Matron, the captain said, I have no end of hard tasks on my ship. Give him to me for a day and he’ll ache in muscles he never knew he had. I've always found free labour is the best labour.

A day unloading the whaler under the captain’s keen watch would set the world right. That captain would make the Matron see.

You’re right, Captain Obed, you’re right, the Matron said, and tension drained from Draden’s every muscle.

The Matron stepped closer and glared up at Obed. "It is my orphanage. Spare the lash, spoil the babe, as the One Book says."

Their footfall grew louder, Draden pressed harder against the wall. The Matron led Blair, wedged between the two whalers, along the path. In her black robes she looked like an executioner, while the whalers had turned out in their best grey trousers and navy jackets.

By the Creator, Draden swore. He knew the routine: a floor-by-floor search from first to fourth. Fortunately, the older boys slept on the top floor. Unfortunately, there was only one stairwell. He’d try the backdoor and the stairs; failing that, he could risk the side-hedge, but the lattice was old and rotten.

Worries wound up his mind. Was Maggie worth a lashing? Would the stairs be guarded? The hedge could break and he’d fall, then no worries over lattice, lambs, or lashes would trouble him ever again. He clutched at his medal and dashed into the darkness.

I am a brave marine.

Draden imagined himself, a young marine, running along deck, chasing a pirate. Each bound through the monastery’s vegetable patch was a leap over a barrel or coil of line. In the distance he heard the front doors of the dorm slammed shut and his phantom pirate disappeared under the quarterdeck.

I am a brave marine... Just sneak in the back door and beat them up the stairs.

Through a bay window, two fingers of light stretched through the dorm, caressing cots and chests, and the other orphans, together, warm, and safe. Tears welled and his head dropped, a stitch biting at his side. All those heroic daydreams, the imagined daring rescues, the fictitious fights against insurmountable odds... they were just child’s toys now, lost in the tide of a desolate ocean. He was alone, cold, and in peril.

I can’t do this. I am nothing but an unwanted little brat and they’ll flog