The Plan

Chapter 1:

The Plan

 

 Cyrus crouched in the tall grass, the gazelle in front of his eyes grazed silently oblivious to the hunter’s presence. Cyrus held his spear tight, his foot lightly pressed in the hard dirt, small stones and dead grass got caught up between his toes and pained the souls of his feet, but he crouched, still. His breath calm, quiet, a small bead of sweat inched its way down Cyrus’ brow.

 The sun beat down on Cyrus’ neck; his cloth around his waist covered little of his small frame. A small black painting scarred his back. The paintings were traditional in Winch culture, they were thick spirals with thorns protruding the outside, the spiral represents Cyrus’ life, and the thorns represent the kills he has made during his time as a warrior. But Cyrus was a boy, he had just turned ten, and so his spiral was smaller than the rest with no thorns, someday, he hoped, his body would be consumed by his bravery. The hunt he was on was a mission of survival. Brought up in the Winch village, this mission was tradition, to make it to the Wey Cove, across the plains, over the Pinch Mountain Range to the shore. This was a solo mission. He set out with nothing more than the cloth around his waist. The spear he held was one made of natural resources he scavenged from a rhinoceros’ horn and a branch taken from a common beech tree.

 The gazelle still grazed, Cyrus had gotten close enough, he reared the spear back and waited. His dark eyes fixed on the gazelle’s. Cyrus slowly stood, each inch Cyrus rose was a slow one, the muscles in his thighs tensed. He didn’t want to frighten his prey, he was getting thin and he needed his strength if he was to climb over the mountain’s rise.

 Cyrus fired, the spear left his grip with pinpoint accuracy and at a high speed. The spear cut through the air like a Winch dagger would slice through bread. Before the gazelle had realised the spear lay embedded between its ribs. It collapsed, flailing wildly in the long grass. Cyrus calmly made his way over to his food; he pulled the spear out before stabbing at the gazelle’s throat.

 Tearing the meat the gazelle’s hide tiring and time consuming work but it had to be done. He took the cloth from around his waist, bearing all to the elements before piling the meat up and hoisting the makeshift sling over his shoulder. He picked up his spear and continued his journey. The sun was setting, and the heat cooled. Soon he found a cave in which to settle, he started a fire from dry grass, wood and two stones. He impaled the meat of the gazelle on the end of his spear and held it over the fire.

 Cyrus knew the heat from the fire and smell of the blood would attract predators of the night. He sat, nestled into the cave wall with the view of the horizon in plain sight. His eyes drifted up to the sky, the stars sparkled against the black shadow casted by the sun’s departure. He smiled as he saw animals shaped by the stars. Cyrus saw a lion, a crocodile, a bear, with each animal picture seen connected the twinkling fires.

 As the sun rose, red paint splashed across the sky above the landscape. Cyrus woke, his spear hugged tightly against his body. He looked to the skies and saw the red; blood had been spilt during the night.

 

 

 The water splashed upon the dirty face of Jonah. His sister, Rex stood over him holding an empty pail. Her green eyes looked angry; Jonah mumbled curse words before stumbling to his feet.

 “Why’d ya do that?” He wiped the water from his brow and ringed the rest from his stained tunic.

 “’Cos we need to sail, suns up and we need to be moving before the guards find us.”

 “Aye, fair point sis’,” Jonah blinked hard, his bloodshot eyes just as green as his sisters, he made his way to the door of his cabin, feeling the walls as he moved. Rex rolled her eyes and sighed.

 “Come on ya drunk,” she kicked his backside.

 “Hey, I’m not a drunk, jus’ because I appreciate the taste of rum doesn’t make me a -” he gagged, “oh, I jus’ threw up in my mouth a bit.”

 “Charmin’,” Rex pushed her way passed her brother; she climbed the wooden stairs to the deck where her crew worked tirelessly to get the ship ready for their journey, Jonah followed soon after.

 “Avast ye scum, we are bound for the mountainous Vic Isle, Rex and I have heard o’ some gold our dirty hands must be grabbin’.” An almighty cry of ‘Hooray’ erupted from the dirty crew.

 “See sis’, I have a plan.”

 “A plan?” Rex followed him to the wheel. Here they could see the whole of their ship, long and narrow, the Harte’s Sun’s sails were black, hung from the tall mast topped with a black flag, a red sun stitched into its fabric. The hull held a statue of a woman, poised and young; a single cloth wrapped her wooden skin. The deck stained from years of wearing, the banisters running along the edges were splintered and the black colour worn and burnt, this ship had seen many invasions and fights, through Jonah and Rex’s adventures and their father’s. Jonah smoothed the wooden wheel at the helm before spinning it to the right.

 The wind dried Jonah’s face as well as caught their sails. The ship veered to the right, the old wooden joints creaked under the stress of high wind.

 “Well?”

 “Well what?” Jonah stared into the distance.

 “The plan?”

 “Oh yeah, sorry Rex, the plan is to go to Vic Isle, a credible source has informed me of a castle bearing mountains of that shiny stuff we love so much,” Jonah smiled a big grin.

 “A credible source?” Rex raised an eyebrow.

 “Aye.”

 “And where did ya find this credible source?”

 Jonah Mumbled under his breath turning away from his sister.

 “What?”

 “The tavern.”

 “So he’s a drunk too,” Rex folded her arms.

 “No, aye, maybe, hey I’m not a drunk.”

 “Ya hard work Jonah,” Rex stormed off back to her quarters. A man came and stood next to Jonah at the wheel, he was tall and broad, dark skinned and dark eyed. His hair dreadlocked and tied back.

 “Cap’n Rex not happy?” His low voice asked Jonah.

 “When’s she ever?” Jonah replied with a sigh.

 “Somethin’ ya said?”

 “Aye Turnbull.”

 “I see, Cap’n Jonah, we ran into some trouble fightin’ the guards this morn’. ‘parently Rat is injured but he won’t let Doc look at it.”

 “Rat?” Jonah called out to the crew.

 “Aye Cap’n?” Rat’s balding head popped out of the crow’s nest, his gaunt face held his small beady eyes.

 “See Doc about ya wound.”

 “Aye Cap’n,” Rat slithered out of the crow’s nest and jumped down the booms to the deck, where he hunched over to the kitchens.

 Harte’s Sun crashed against the waves, the sea splashed onto the deck. The crew held to the ropes and rafters for their lives. A storm was brewing; Captain Jonah braced the harsh wind and smiled at the raging sea. He loved the sea, especially when it thrashed so violently in front of his eyes. It was the only time he was sober when at the helm. The woman bound to the hull cut through the current as Jonah and Rex made headed for Vic Isle, the gold they would find would be enough for retirement.