Jocki MacTavish and the Refugees: Jocki MacTavish, #2

By Albert Marsolais

"Jocki MacTavish and the Refugees by Albert Marsolais is a story of solidarity in families and communities. The story left me with feelings of warmth and compassion." - Reviewed by Soumya Sreehari for Readers' Favorite

 

A stranger arrives at Torrport threatening to expose the mysterious past of Jocki's father. Meanwhile Genna Barbier has received news from France about her missing brother. Can Jocki defend his family and help Genna rescue her brother? The stakes cannot be higher as they face insurmountable odds and inner turmoil. A page-turning adventure for young readers (9-13).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marsolais & Twigg Publishing
• Release date: Dec 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393916222

Albert Marsolais

Albert is a retired scientist and businessman who worked in the field of genetics and biotechnology. He lives in Ontario, Canada with his wife Laurel.

Book preview

Chapter One

Torrport Scotland, September 1705

My heart stopped when the ugliest man I’d ever seen grabbed my arm in the alley. I tried to free myself from his grip. I couldn’t. My mind seized with fear. I screamed. There was a voice nearby, then another. His grizzled face turned away to see. I yanked my arm away. My feet knew best and I ran and ran till I reached the infirmary and collapsed on the floor. I had never been so frightened, even when facing death. It was his face, familiar yet awful, like meeting the Devil and finding you already know him.

I lay on the floor awhile, admiring the recently dusted ceiling and walls until guilt overcame terror and I set to work on my daily tasks, which along with endless cleaning, included booking the doctor’s appointments, and helping organize his day. It was work, satisfying work, and it paid well.

DOCTOR ANDREW MITCHEL wore sadness rarely. But today he did, watching her leave the Torrport infirmary. Such a shame. ‘Tis tragic, he muttered. The loveliest of girls, but her fair body harbours foul, feminine perfection doomed to fade as autumn comes. He gloomily threw the hand-cleaning cloth he’d been using in the laundry basket. Outward form doth inward truth hide, right Jocki? Andrew mused while scratching the unfortunate diagnosis in his notebook.

Aye, I suppose sometimes.

And sometimes it doesn’t? his chuckle contradicting the grim look on his face.

Sometimes heather is just heather. I too chuckled, but at my poor attempt at wit.

With that, Andrew barked out one of those laughs that made him sound deranged. Then suddenly his eyes dropped from my face to legs. You don’t wear stockings?

Umm, nay. They...they catch on the brambles, you see.

Well at least you are clean. Now let’s get at it. Many more patients to see today.

SHE WAS SITTING ON the dock, legs dangling over the edge, her body leaning on a dock post and tilting forward like she was about to fall in the water. I’d just finished my infirmary chores, when I saw her there limply holding the fishing rod which was wagging her arm to and froe. She is that opinionated, annoying, and all too clever French girl who looks a bit like a squirrel with her protruding front teeth. She often acts like a rodent too with her near constant chirp and chatter. She is Genna Barbier, my good friend and fellow adventurer.

I think you caught something, I said steadying her shoulder, lest she fall.

"Quoi?" she startled as though waking from sleep, then regrettably let go of the rod which immediately fell in the water.

Think you had something there...too bad, I said as we watched the rod being dragged away from the dock by whatever was attached to it. Genna arrived this summer past. Her English is better than my French that’s for sure, but sometimes when she is flustered, she lapses into what she calls Franglish. It often is amusing, but this day not so much.

I hope she lives, she muttered.

I can try to get it with that rowboat.

She shrugged. I took that as a Oui and jumped down to grab the oars and get to the rod before it was too far away. In a few strokes I was close enough and leaned over the gunwale, grabbed the rod, then handlined as fast as I could. Whatever was on the other end had different ideas and bravely fought till I had it inside the boat. It was a lovely plump seatrout. I held it up expecting Genna’s approval but all I got was a look of horror transforming her face.

Let it go! she screamed.

"Pourquoi?" I asked using one of the few French words I’d learned. I used that word a lot with Genna, since her behaviour often confused me, like now.

Look at her face. She doesn’t want to be caught!

I looked down at the fish, flopping in the rowboat. It was gasping as all fish do when out of the water, but I couldn’t see any other expression. I looked back at Genna. Tears were gushing down reddened cheeks.

Alright little fishy, you don’t want to be caught, so I’ll let you go. But please be more careful next time. I held the wriggling fish in the crook of my arm and pried the hook out of its mouth, then plopped it back in the water, all the while wondering what was bothering Genna.

When I got back to the dock, she was hugging the post tightly, her blond hair stuck to the moss and slime. Would’ve made a nice supper, I said.

No, she would have choked me.

She wound the line around the rod I’d retrieved, then locked it in place with the hook. We sat there for several minutes. Me looking at her, waiting, she with lips clamped shut and brows making deep furrows where they almost met. I was worried. She usually fills the air with non-stop noise. Umm...anything wrong? I asked.

"Non, everything she is parfaite."

She obviously didn’t want to speak with me, so I stood and brushed off my new linen breeches, the ones Mother gave me on my twelfth birthday last month. I will be off then. Almost time to open the tavern.

Before she could answer, her uncle, Jean-Bernard Barbier, came out of his framing shop and crossed the dock to us. He’s a massive man with hands so large they seem ill-suited to his trade which requires delicate painting with tiny brushes. He looked at Genna’s fishing rod, then at her, Where is our fish for supper?

Genna let go of the post. I helped her up before she replied, No fish...umm...wanted to be caught today uncle. I am sorry.

I wisely decided to say nothing but farewell.

Chapter Two

Iknew something was troubling Genna and I shouldn’t have left her like that, but I had to get home to my chores at the tavern. I was already late enough as I ran along the docks past the many shops that sold everything from imported furniture to live pigs. The docks are a crowded place and it is fun to see how fast I can run, weaving and dodging, without hitting anyone, or worse yet, falling in the harbour. I’d done that more than a few times, providing merriment to all but myself. But this time I completed it perfectly, even through Aggie’s dangerous laundry with its pots of boiling water, smelly fumes, and hanging clothes hiding washing women who loved to trip me up. I saluted Aggie as I ran past. She shouted in return, Get you next time, Jocki! Aggie is a very nice woman and accomplishes wonders with Andrew’s doctoring clothes which often have disgusting stains.

I hoofed it fast along the path that wound its way past Elspeth’s cottage, evading evil brambles which grab at my clothes and the slippery moss-covered rocks that laugh when they make me fall. This day I beat them all and punched the air in victory as I slowed to a walk at the edge of our fishing village nestled in a shallow bay on the east side of the peninsula that juts out into the Firth of Forth. On the west side of that peninsula is Torrport proper with its deep-water harbour. In between is a dark stone mount with Castle Carraig on one side and Saint Ninian’s Church on the other. It’s about a mile between Torrport and our fishing village, which has no official name.

Our tavern is on the village dock, well placed to look after the many fishermen, sailors, and young soldiers who live nearby. It’s quite old and run-down. The slate roof is encrusted in moss and the walls with lichens. The whole building has the look of being diseased, but perhaps I think that because I work for a physician. But as my dear mother often reminds us, it is entirely ours, but for the land. She inherited it from her father and he from his, and so on for generations going back to the man who built it out of rocks which had slid down the mount after Castle Carraig and the church were built long ago.

I heard Mother’s voice as soon as I reached the dock. It’s amazing how loud she can be when angry, and today she sounded very angry. People on the docks were looking up at our apartment on the second floor, pointing and snickering. I hastened my pace and flew through the main entrance, almost bumping an old man who was making a hasty retreat on his gimpy leg. Inside, at the bottom of the stairs leading to our apartment stood my little sister Leana, with her tiny hand over her mouth and eyes wide as bread plates. Our loyal dog, Jo-jo was beside her looking as though he wanted to flee. He pointed his nose up the stairs, then glanced back at me. Leana pointed up there too, her little index finger making the direction clear. We couldn’t help hearing another flurry of shouting from Mother aimed at my father who is known by all as MacTavish. I held my breath and waited for his response. But from him came nothing but a growl. That usually is a very bad sign, so I grabbed Leana’s hand and whispered, Let’s go for a walk. You come too, Jo-jo.

My parents seldom fight, but when they do, it is best to stay well-clear, so we ambled over to the vendor stalls on the west side of the dock. Some of the ladies were setting up for the day and I could hear them gossiping about us as they went about their work. One even gave me an apple and tousled Leana’s hair. It is like that in a village. People care about each other, but I often wished we had more privacy. Hardly a day went by without an argument or outrage spilling out into the community. I guess today is our turn.

We sat on the dock and ate the apple, waiting for silence to signal peace, or at least an end to the fighting. Jo-jo got the last bite; and Squint, one of our village cats, came over to give me a head butt. He is a one-eyed, brown tabby and so old Mother claims he must be the original owner of the tavern. That may not be quite true, but Squint does act like he owns the place as he goes from table to table greeting customers. He is almost as popular among our patrons as Gilly, our pretty serving girl.

Safe to go back, Squint? I asked. He gave a loud meow which meant Aye in cat language. Leana already was bored and poking in a basket of fish that was being unloaded at a stall. The fishwife scolded her for getting slimy fish smell on her hands and suggested she come for a wipe, which she did with a playful grin.

I need to get to work Leana, I said. I wasn’t sure what we would be facing inside. So, I closed my eyes and willed a happy thought then took Leana’s newly cleansed hand, and said loud enough so everyone nearby could hear, We are lucky to have such a nice family, aren’t we? Leana burped then erupted in silly giggles.

It was quiet. Not a normal thing in a tavern. Seems everyone had fled along with us. There was only the clock ticking on the mantlepiece and the fire hissing and popping. Tending the fire in the morning is one of my first jobs as well as feeding the pets before leaving for work at the infirmary. I parked Leana and Jo-jo where I found them. Then as quietly as I could, went up the stairs, stopping every few seconds to listen. After several creaky steps, Mother said, We can hear you Jocki. Please bring Leana up with you.

Mother was sitting on the sofa holding a pillow to her chest, and MacTavish was standing with his back to us by the window overlooking the dock. No one said anything, then Leana blurted, Who stinks?

That brought a laugh from Mother who set the pillow aside and opened her arms welcoming her baby girl. No one does little darling, Mother said, wrapping Leana in a hug.

A bad man? Leana offered with her innocent wisdom.

Perhaps so, but he is gone now, Mother whispered.

I had no idea what was going on. So, I crossed the room to MacTavish who seemed lost in thought. When I was close enough, I said, Everything alright?

MacTavish grunted in response, then Mother explained, He means we are yet alive.

Oh. I said, my imagination reeling with morbid possibilities. Shall I do my chores then, since we are alive?

Mother chuckled and said, Aye, my son, and thank you.

I’ve discovered after years of studying parents that usually it is best to wait for them to tell you what they want you to know. Nagging and whining seldom works. So, with that in mind I fetched my broom, dustpan and washrag and set to work cleaning