The captain of the Aletides hit upon the surprisingly original idea of sailing far up the northern coast to find a secret harbor and a safe place to bury treasure. Whether this spoke more of Captain Cleary’s ingenuity, or of the other pirate captains’ good sense, is debatable. The coast was rugged and unwelcoming, the sea bitterly cold, and the area given to vicious storms that made it impassable in the winter.
They discovered a bay that met their captain’s expectations, and managed to do so before the grog ran out. Freshwater springs waited conveniently, on the small stretches of beach that were covered in sand rather than rocks. Not a quarter mile inland, amongst the scrubby trees that stubbornly grew nearly down to the water, lay a hillock nicely suited to burying treasure. Their preliminary inspection of the territory complete, the crew assembled on shore to celebrate their successful voyage with their most precious cargo: grog. The grog, at that point, was watered down so thoroughly that it was, perhaps, best described as rum-scented water, but it nonetheless produced the desired effect of raising morale prior to the hard work ahead.
“Cap’n,” one sailor jerked his thumb between himself and the man lounging at his side, who was vacantly poking the ground with a stick, “we kin go scout edibles, me an’ Sharkbait.” The sailor’s eyes gleamed with something uncomfortably close to the rare, dangerous trait often labeled “intelligence.” Captain Cleary frowned, but then threw his head back, quaffed noisily from the bottle in his hand, grunted, and waved them off dismissively. He swayed away to roar commands at the remainder of his loitering crew. Someone had to take water aboard, dig out their future treasure repository, find wood suitable for making repairs, and transport their booty from the ship, too. Pirating was only occasionally an exciting occupation.
Sharkbait jabbed his stick sullenly into the rocks at his feet. It snapped. “Oi, wotcha go an’ volunteer us for, eh, Keating?”
His shipmate was fishing out the ship’s one serviceable hunting rifle from the firearms jumbled in the longboat. “Dunno ‘bout you, mate, but I reckons it’s a damn sight easier takin’ ourselfs a stroll than slavin’ away ‘ere, see?” Keating winked, turned, and sauntered off inland, shifting the rifle’s carry strap to sit comfortably over his shoulder.
Sharkbait (named for a rather ugly incident some years past, wherein he tumbled overboard in a state of excessive inebriation and was subsequently hauled back out of the water missing part of an arm) stared slack-jawed after him, brain straining valiantly to process Keating’s dazzlingly elaborate logic. “C’mon, then, Sharkbait! Ain’t got all day.”
“Oh. Oh!” Realization at last dawned upon his homely, beetle-browed face. He dropped the stick and rushed after Keating. “Aye!”
—————
Not far through the alternating marshes and stands of increasingly tall trees, the pair toiled up a sudden, steep incline, and found themselves on the side of a moderately worn road. Wheel ruts cut into the dirt, which in places had washed away to reveal great slabs of the same gray granite that littered the beach behind them. “Well, lookit that,” Keating paused to survey their discovery, pleased. “We ain’t gonna ‘ave to pick berries after all.”
“ ‘Ow’s that, then?” Sharkbait queried, perplexed.
“Wot’re roads for, mate?”
There was a stretch of silence as Sharkbait puzzled over this riddle. “Fer goin’ places-?”
Keating was accustomed to carrying the intellectual weight of their conversations. “Right, fer folks as is goin’ places. An’ wot ‘ave folks got as we don’t, eh?” When the silence showed no signs of resolution from Sharkbait’s efforts, Keating slapped him heartily on the back and supplied, “Vittles, mate. They gots vittles.”
At Keating’s discretion, they followed the road west and further inland. Eventually, it led them out of the trees, onto the edge of a field; even Sharkbait knew what this meant. They continued eagerly as the road now ran across farmland that stretched over rolling hills. The year was early yet, but half the field to their right was freshly plowed, and the hayfield at their left was flushed with the first blades of green.
About the same time Keating and Sharkbait spotted the picturesque silhouette of a plow and oxen cresting the nearest hill, the ox driver halted his team to gaze down at the approaching strangers. The sailors, after their long voyage on rough seas, did not have much about their appearance to recommend them, but the farmer waited patiently with his yoke of oxen, affectionately patting the sweaty beasts. He was dressed in simple, mended homespun. He wore no shoes, and his trousers were rolled up to his knees; like the oxen, his shanks were caked with mud. Sweat glistened on his bare arms and dripped onto the field. Keating stopped, keeping to the road, when they were abreast of him, and employed his least threatening tone. “Ahoy there, mate.”
“Hello.” The soft greeting, his posture- everything about the ox driver was meek. He kept his eyes downcast, save for a brief flash of gray up in Keating’s direction, gone in an instant. Perhaps due to the proximity of the massive beasts with whom he toiled in the field, he appeared to be built from long limbs without any inherent strength. He gave the impression of boyish softness rather than bulk or sinew; and the sailors had not the first notion of the sort of powerful body required to drive a plow.
Sharkbait, predator’s instincts aroused, took a step out in front of Keating, thumbs thrust into his belt just behind his weapons on either hip, blatantly displaying his pistol and cutlass. “So y’grows food fer eatin’, do yah?”
“I do,” the ox driver agreed quietly.
Small eyes shifted to the far side of the hill, a brutish calculation sluggishly taking place as Sharkbait surveyed the modest homestead. “Keeps it all stored up in them buil’in’s down there, eh? We’ll be takin’ some o’that, then.”
Before the farmer could make any response, Keating seized Sharkbait’s collar and yanked him back a full yard, half choking him. “Wot my shipmate is tryin’a say, friend, is we’re buyin’ if’n ye’re sellin’, peace’ble-like.”
“Buyin’ peace’ble-like?!” Sharkbait was scandalized. “Wot is we, th’bleedin’ merchant marines?” he hissed.
Keating’s mouth quirked. “We be pirates, right enough, mate,” he addressed the docile farmer, whose hands continued to run over the oxen’s hides fondly, “but reasonabl’uns. My name’s Keating; this stupid cuss is Sharkbait. There’s good ‘arbor ‘ere, th’crew needs t’eat, an’ we’ll be back regular w’ gold t’spend, so long’s our secret don’t get out, if’n y’follow me.”
The ox driver turned from his beasts, head still bowed, and took a few unassertive steps towards the pirates. He halted, arms hanging at his sides and shoulders rolled forward, and offered in a soft voice, “I make wine, too.”
“Wot’d we want wi’ wine?” Sharkbait scoffed.
Grimacing, Keating elbowed him in the ribs. “It’s like rum, yah ninny, jus’ made outta berries. We’re innerested. Powerful innerested, y’might say.”
The grog shortage had been a topic of extensive conversation among the crew for weeks, and it had escaped none of them (Sharkbait included) that they would not have sufficient rations for the return voyage. Sharkbait, however, had never before considered the provenance of rum or its watered-down cousin, grog, and the uncomfortable intrusion of a thought into his normally placid brain vexed him. “Wot’s rum made outta, then?” he demanded.
Keating heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Not berries.” He turned back to the slouching farmer, eager to strike a bargain.
Sharkbait was not so easily satisfied. “Wossa knot berry, then? I ain’t never ‘eard uvva knot berry.” His tone was faintly accusatory.
“Shuddup,” Keating hissed, peeved. “They grows’em in th’ Caribbean.” Returning his attention to the ox driver, he demanded, “Wot’s funny?”
If there had been the hint of a smirk on the man’s downturned face, it vanished at once, and his reply held no trace of it. “Not a thing, my friends. Not a thing.”
Mollified, Keating launched into bargaining over products and quantities and prices with obvious relish. He was faintly disappointed when the farmer guilelessly stated the rates he fetched in a distant town, and accepted a discount without even a counteroffer. The lack of haggling was unsettling to Keating, and positively grating to Sharkbait, who grumbled in the background throughout their negotiations. Still, Keating made haste to close the advantageous deal. “Y’gotta name, mate?” he inquired.
The ox driver diffidently shrugged one bare, sweaty shoulder. “I’m called Icarios in town.”
Keating at last ventured into the field, right hand outstretched. His smile flickered momentarily when Icarios shook his hand with an astonishingly firm, calloused grip. “Then, Icarios, we ‘ave ourselfs an accord.”
—————
This was the beginning of a very satisfactory relationship for the pirates, and their business partner never offered any complaint. Icarios sold them foodstuffs whenever they dropped anchor in their secret harbor, and they bought progressively larger quantities of the wine he made from his unusual northern grapes. The wine- nearly as strong as cheap rum and thrice as palatable- was not only much to their liking, but it fetched such high prices in the southern ports where they ran it that they turned a tidy profit (a reasonable percentage of which Keating silently pocketed).
The agreeable arrangement hit a stumbling block one fine summer day. Finding the sun uncomfortably hot even so far north, when it came to hauling cargo from the road, to the shore, and onto the ship anchored out in the bay, the pirates broke out some of the wine and consumed a considerable amount by mid afternoon. Splashing in the shallows was fast becoming an attractive alternative to laboring in the heat. Soon, convincing the ox driver to cart their purchases down to the shore, rather than just to the point on the road nearest their anchorage, seemed like a fine idea. Captain Cleary gathered volunteers and set off to arrange the matter, without any consideration of the logistics involved in taking a team of oxen through scrub oak and pine, marshes, and treacherous rocks.
A dozen men accompanied the captain, singing and laughing riotously as they trekked to the farmer’s modest homestead, which consisted of a handful of crude but solidly constructed buildings that sat between his apple orchard and vineyard. They found him loading his cart outside one of the barns with Keating, who had accompanied him. Keating habitually stayed close to the farmer and acted as the pirates’ liaison, for the express purpose of preventing his shipmates from abusing the meek creature who so readily supplied them; Sharkbait had already demonstrated the need for such chaperoning. Thus, Keating was none too pleased to see the drunken band arrive, and even less so when the captain stated his demands.
“There’s no road to where you come ashore,” the ox driver objected reasonably, his voice mild as always.
Cleary drew his pistol, deliberately leveled it at the man, cocked it, and sneered. The rest of the crew, not wishing to miss out on a spot of potential violence directed at such a palpably defenseless source of amusement, followed suit with a chorus of unholstering and clicking hammers. “Ye’ll find a way fer’em, then, won’tcha?”
“It would be dangerous for them on the rocks. I won’t do it.” A hint of firmness crept into the farmer’s tone, though he still spoke softly and stood with head bowed.
“Wot’d you say t’me, son?” Cleary demanded.
“I said, I won’t do it.” The words rang out into the air, uttered by a figure suddenly grown as fierce as the trackless northern wilds that surrounded the tamed farmland. The will behind the deep, resonant voice was as unshakable as the ancient mountains that reared up in the far distance. In short, the humble farmer’s transformation was stunning. He seemed to unfurl himself, his limbs no longer loose; bare skin betrayed ripples of flexing muscle that had lain deceptively slack before. He straightened his back, rolled his shoulders square, and raised his head, revealing a noble, fine-featured face. For the first time since the pirates had landed, he let them look at his eyes- eyes the color of the gray rocks that lay everywhere, from the shore to the stone walls of the isolated farm. They well matched his hard expression, and he locked them belligerently on Captain Cleary.
The revelation of this fearsome opponent tickled the captain’s brain, but it drowned in alcohol before it could trigger his survival instincts. He jerked his head at the team yoked to the loaded cart. “Fine. Wilkins, ‘Appy Pete. Grab ‘old o’them beasts. We’ll shoot this blighter if ‘e moves.”
“Cap’n, this ain’t-“ Keating began to protest, stepping sagely out of the line of fire. He snapped his jaw shut as the captain’s pistol briefly tracked towards him.
Wilkins and Happy Pete had hardly taken two steps forward when, in a blur of furious motion, the ox driver seized a pitchfork resting against the barn wall behind him. He gripped it near the tines and swung a left backhand at Wilkins; the blow drove his skull into Happy Pete’s, the wooden haft and their heads all smacking together with sickening sounds. The single-handed strike was so powerful that it threw their limp bodies back into the other pirates, whose wild gunshots, never promising particular accuracy to begin with, all went wide of their mark, save one.
The bullet grazed the farmer’s cheek, carving a shallow stripe into the tanned skin. Rather than blood, though, a small quantity of dark, rich earth spilled from his wound. With the assured fluidity that comes from long hours handling a weapon, he spun the pitchfork, sliding his hand down the haft, and buried its tines completely into the ground beside his bare feet. Chuckling, he reached up to his cheek and brushed the dirt away, revealing unmarred skin underneath.
“Let me reintroduce myself to you gentlemen,” he said, his voice little more than a dark, awful, regal purr that was equal parts amused and annoyed. “I’m Boötes Arctophylax, Guardian of the North, and Bear-keeper.”
Captain Cleary snorted and muttered derisively into his beard, and, ill-judged, let some of his sentiments be audible. With a speed that belied his drunkenness, Cleary holstered his pistol and drew his cutlass. His crew imitated him, but with significantly less enthusiasm than they had shown scant minutes prior. Focused on the forbidding, angered Guardian, none of them sensed the hulking dark shapes melting out of the orchard and vineyard. The moment they realized a half dozen gigantic bears had surrounded them, was the moment the man at their captain’s left shrieked: he was splattered with blood as cavernous jaws clamped around the captain’s skull and neck, closing with a wet crunch.
The pirates watched in mute horror while the bear let his body crumple to the ground, then slowly swung her head from side to side, taking their measure. Boötes’ deep voice startled them terribly. “I don’t think Callisto cared for his tone,” he commented, eyes raking over them icily. They fearfully clutched their cutlasses, trembling. His mouth twisted into a smirk, and he appeared to savor the terror his next words elicited. “And that makes- which one- of you captain? Hmm?”
Both the first mate and bosun were present, but they joined in the general wave of cowering and shuffling that ensued. “ ‘Spect that’ll be me, mate,” Keating said flatly from his place just outside the semicircle of bears.
Some of the frigidity left Boötes’ eyes as he turned to the sole pirate who had not raised a hand against him. “So what will be your first orders, Captain Keating?”
Keating shivered under the Guardian’s gaze of flashing gray granite; then, his natural intelligence came to his rescue, and he rallied. “Put’em away, yah dogs, slow an’ easy-like.”
Boötes nodded approvingly. “Now, go from my lands.” Lip curling, he stepped over the former captain’s mauled body. “Take your trash with you.” He turned to the bear with the bloody muzzle and fondly rubbed her ear as he gazed into her bright eyes.
“Aye,” Keating agreed readily, relief evident on his face. “Well, look lively!” he hissed into the blank faces staring at him. The shaken pirates scrambled to gather up the battered, unconscious forms of Wilkins and Happy Pete. Keating quelled the brief disagreement over who would carry their former captain, by means of two slaps and one furious order.
Boötes, meanwhile, had gone to soothe his oxen, who were none too pleased with recent events. The gentle cooing noises he made as he unhitched them only served to further unnerve the pirates, although the massive bears glaring at them did that well enough already. He turned the oxen loose in their pasture, then strode away, ducking inside his one-room home with all the dignity of a great lord, leaving the bears to oversee the pirates’ hasty retreat. He had a pile of beets that needed peeling for supper, after all.
—————
Not long after, Boötes spun about from his culinary pursuits in surprised shock when a streak of brown and white fur bounded inside and crashed into his knees with a loud bark. “Maira!” he exclaimed delightedly, crouching down to greet the hysterically whining dog with great enthusiasm. He looked up just in time to see a tall shadow loom into the doorway- a traveler, bearing a rucksack and an iron-tipped staff, suitable support for walking over rough terrain. His face broke into a radiant grin. “Erigone! You’re home!”
The woman dropped her pack and staff on the floor, grinning in return and laughing as he sprang up to gather her in his arms. “What kind of trouble have you been up to?” she demanded.
Boötes pulled back slightly, frowning innocently. “Why should I have been up to any trouble at all?”
Erigone made a frustrated noise and pointed in the general direction of the bay. “Dad, there’s a band of- what looks like pirates limping away from here, dead bodies and all.”
A faint smile teased the Guardian’s lips. “And what makes you think I had anything to do with that?”
“Maybe the troupe of bears driving them off,” she countered. Maira barked raucously, dancing about their feet, demanding that Erigone not take all her father’s attention.
Boötes chuckled and released Erigone, kneeling to placate the dog. “All right, all right, you caught me. There were pirates,” he admitted as Maira happily slobbered all over his face.
“Dad!” was Erigone’s scandalized reply as she picked up her rucksack and began to empty its contents onto the rough-hewn table. “I can’t leave you on your own at all!”
“They shot me! Besides, there’s only one dead body, and that was Callisto’s doing….” His attention strayed to a dark blot on his daughter’s walking staff. “What’s this?” He snatched it up and tapped the bloodstain.
“Oh, all right,” she grumbled reluctantly, sitting beside him and Maira. She pushed the staff out of his hands so that she could curl up against his side, from which she had been too long absent. She sighed. “Fine. There may have been highwaymen.”