Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Onward to Blackfrost

Onward to Blackfrost:

(1911 A.D., Siren’s Shore, the Inner-Wilds of the Neverlands, the Realm of Ishrakie)

After a few hours, the storm passes, heading further out to sea. The blazing Neverlandian Sun finally sets behind the frozen summits of the Snow-Tomb Mountains. Hook treks along the coast in search of his crew for hours. The cool soothing gaze of the Moon draws a grateful grin from Hook’s lips. Pain pulsates through the ebony lattice covering his lower right arm.

“Captain... captain…” searches a voice from the nearby shadows. Hook pivots towards the direction of the voice, his sword drawn. To Hook’s relief, Mr. Smee materialises from a dark shroud of nearby bushes. Relieved to see the face of his beloved first mate and not fully recovered from his brush with death, Hook’s knees buckle. He slumps into Smee’s supportive embrace.

“Sir! We thought you were dead! Relax a moment, catch your breath...”

Smee helps Hook to a nearby log. Hook leans forward onto his knees as Smee takes off his coat and drapes it over his captain.

“We cannot have the crew seeing their captain in his longwear,” continues Smee with a tender chuckle.

“Good form, Mr. Smee, good form.”

Hook painstakingly works his arms into the coat. He rubs his eyes and blinks. The edges of his vision sharpen once more, allowing him to get a better look at his friend and first mate. Smee kneels before him, garbed in his usual worn and faded white and blue robes with tattered silver waist-sash.

“How did you find me?” inquires Hook.

“The storm broke the Jolly Roger to pieces. Me and part of the crew made a quick dash for one of the dinghies and ended up washed up on the same beach as you about a league down current. When I awoke, I decided on a ranging and the winds of fortune brought me to you. Truly extraordinary good luck.”

“Truly, indeed. Who came ashore with you?” inquires Hook.

“Bill Jukes, Murphy, Cookson, Noodler, and Cecco. A few more have washed up, but they were in no shape, if you get my meaning, sir,” explains Smee with a grimace.

“Is the dingy still seaworthy?”

“Yes, sir. We will need to make new oars, but I can put the men on it, have it done by tea-time,” answers Smee as he leads Hook back to their makeshift camp.

He lays Hook down next to the fire surrounded by his comrades, all of whom are sleeping noisily except for the ever-vigilant Noodler who sits staring out to sea. As Smee pulls away, Hook turns to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Smee. Tonight we sleep and prepare for portage,” mutters Hook, before resting his head and letting some much-needed sleep claim him.

The other men are in sunken and sour spirits when Hook awakens, judging by their frustrated and dismayed grumblings as they go about their morning activities. ‘Bleedin’ Pan. Dirty coward makin’ crocs fight his battles. Why hasn’t any rum come ashore? Or a barrel of salt pork.’ Captain Hook’s awakening slices through their chagrin, igniting an explosion of movement. Broad-leafed bushes shake, sand flies up. The men tuck torn shirts into sagging britches, lining up side-by-side, their backs straight at-attention as Hook begins walking down the line before them.

Hook grins, chuckling to himself as he inspects his men in order to take stock of their current condition. Murphy is still bleeding slightly from a long gash on his chest. Noodler has tied the remnants of his shirt around a wound on his thigh. Cecco is so pale he might as well have been dunked in milk but appeared unhurt otherwise. Minor cuts cover Bill Jukes and Cookson but one has to look closely to notice due to the vast amount of ink covering Jukes, and the ebony-colored skin of Cookson.

“You are all strong and fearsome men. A little worse for wear, sure, but this is not the first time you have endured much hardship in service to me, nor will it be the last. Your sacrifice does not go unnoticed. I am grateful to have a crew as loyal and brave as you lot. However, now is not the time for sunken spirits or pointless dallying for there is still much to do and great glory is waiting for all of us at the end. Now to the matter at hand! Our mistress requires oars…” Hook gestures to the oarless dinghy the men brought ashore, “so who’s going to give them to her?” asks Hook firmly.

“AAAhhh Hooooo!” cry out the pirates in affirmation, scattering into action.

Despite their injuries and the loss of the Jolly Roger, Captain Hook’s resurrection summons up inside them a new and powerful vigour. Several lemurs and a Graxx scurry from the vicinity, dashing between the busy pirates chasing after a rather quick Furetalla that cunningly takes refuge in a nearby tree.

“Mr. Smee, we have a new destination,” proclaims Hook, turning to Smee and pulling him aside firmly.

“Where is that, sir?” asks Smee attentively.

“The Pale Waters” responds Hook resolutely as Smee stares at his captain, bleary-eyed, plagued with sparse stubble.

The skin of his face sucks in and tightens for a moment as battered, sore shoulders pull themselves back and go rigid. Smee’s eyes dart nervously as an icy touch of fear grips his spine.

“Aye, Captain.”

Hook strides off toward the beach rubbing his thumb over the Piper’s clam in his pocket.

“Begging your pardon, Captain, but I’s don’t see the good in lugging our boat over the land. Boats is made for water,” chimes in Cecco meekly.

“I’m once again reminded how that mug of yours hides a dizzying intellect. But you see Cecco, what we are about to undertake will not be like a raid on a village where we get the choice cuts of meat and women. It won’t even be like boarding a high-class merchant ship filled with silks and caviar. No, no, no. We are going to take the very heart of the Neverlands. I will be its king and you all will be my noble lords,” replies Hook, casting his eyes to Cecco with an amused grin.

“Lord Noodler. I likes me da sound a dat,” muses Noodler as he passes by them with an amused grin.

“You see, Cecco,'' Hook pulls Cecco in close, wrapping an arm around his shoulder,“ our portage through the hills will allow us to infiltrate the Capital City of Blackfrost Port undetected by the Port Guard in Raven Cove. Surprise, my good man, will be our greatest weapon in this endeavour.”

Hook lets go of Cecco, stepping away from him and moving a few paces closer to the water, staring out to sea. Murphy uproots some small nearby trees that the men shape into crude oars with stones shattered sharp.

The crew hoists the dinghy onto their shoulders, their arms curled tight around oar bundles as Mr. Smee conducts their efforts. Hook stomps forth ahead of them, hacking a path through the underbrush with his sword. With mostly empty bellies, the men stop every hour or so to rest.

Upon reaching the mountain passes, Smee shows them how to lay the oars down and slide the boat over the top with two men picking up the back oar after they passed it and putting it in front until the terrain made such methods of portage impractical. Once in the mountains, it was decided that, due to the increased possibility of encountering dangerous wildlife, Noodler should climb into the trees and scout out ahead of them through the dense jungle canopy, scampering from tree limb to tree limb with his bizarre hands.

Moving deeper into the darkening jungle, the remaining small trees thin, giving way to ancient towering trees and flowering green prickly spires crawling with massive super-colonies of toxic Dreadria Ants. Monstrous leaves and thick vines weave overhead into a rapidly thickening canopy. Travelling quickly grows even more difficult for Hook and his men as the light becomes more scarce. Smee joins Hook in the role of hacking a path through the Shade Shrubs, Nightmare Orchids, Jungle Fang Lilies and clumps of Faery Ferns, sometimes unnesting groups of the latter’s flying namesakes.

The more he swings his blade, the more normal Hook feels. He relaxes, thinking back to when he first arrived in Neverland. Much of that time had been spent in the Neverwoods to the west chasing the native Indian girls, or lounging on the rough grey shell of a boulder tortoise. Sometimes he would go on an occasional expedition into this very jungle, plucking nuts and fruits from the slowly passing Walker Trees as they trudged along their ancestral routes. Many years and ten scores that many pints of Nectar Rum had since dulled those once cherished and vivid memories. All he knew now was head-up and push forward.

Hours pass as they continue their tedious march through the jungle. Whenever the men are not hauling the ship, they are scurrying about, gathering food. Some collect seeds, roots, and nuts while others spear wild Koalas and Keejos. Hook loved the magnificent taste of Keejos Legs when prepared properly, just put ‘em in the fire, Monkey fur and all, makes ‘em crispy on the outside. Their bat-like wings can even be sewn into temporary makeshift water skins. Hook really loved the Neverlands. In many ways, they are the best thing that ever happened to him.

Wild Fairies tickle the men carrying the boat. Hook looks back at his men, this group of salt-infused killers squirming around like filthy children. The wretched high-pitched giggling of the fairies causes Hook’s teeth to ache and his fire to rage.

“Mr. Smee! Show these putrid creatures what we think of their games,” demands Hook.

His tone carries his deep disdain for all things whimsical.

“Aye Captain,” replies Smee as he swivels with his elegantly curved blade.

The cutlass whizzes, striking out quick as a viper. Two fluorescent wings disconnect from their tiny owner. Luminescent blood spews from its back. The faerie’s glow flickers as the tiny creature spirals to the ground.

The fairies try frantically to escape as the terrifying and powerful aura radiating from Smee shakes them to their core. Smee strikes out again with rapid, unforgiving precision. Seconds later, the remaining fairies litter the ground, dead or on their way to it. Smee casts his blood-thirsty stare at the men, reminding them why this slight, mild-mannered man holds the position of First Mate. The crew trembles and hefts the boat resolutely. Smee then turns to Hook. Hook’s nonchalance extinguishes the intensity of Smee’s gaze.

Hook walks over to Smee and places an affirming arm around him. The two look down at the fairy Smee had just de-winged as it flops around on the ground writhing in its blood. Hook smiles at Smee wickedly. Back in control of himself, Smee gives only a subtle nod, and all is understood between the two old friends. Hook brings down his barefoot hard on the wingless fairy, grinding it into the ground. The sound of tiny breaking bones and bursting arteries brings them both to a mutual state of momentary euphoria.

“Right, men carry on, chop-chop,” shouts Hook as he and Smee turn their eyes back to the men.

A deep calm washes over both men. After a few more hours of marching, night finally descends upon the Neverlands. Hook decides the men should make camp among the Shatter Stone Ruins to protect them from the bitter cold of the mountain’s western side. Gathered around the campfire, they rest, hoping tomorrow’s travels would bring them closer to finding some spring waters they can follow to the banks of Blood Creek proper.

Cookson succumbs to sleep first, just an hour after they make camp for the night. Feeling the need for mischief, Bill Jukes catches a yellow-spotted Ambush Spider and places it on Cookson’s chest. The arachnid’s legs neatly sprawl outward, spanning his belly with its two forelegs lifted in warning.

“Avast! We’ve run aground! All hands!” bellows Bill Jukes with a voice spiced with panic, waking Cookson abruptly.

Cookson’s eyes flutter open as he sits up onto his elbows, looking around. After a second, his vision clears and his eyes swell with fear as he realises he is face to face with the spider on his chest.

“Eee yee yee yaaah!” shrieks Cookson as he wriggles back to get away, but the spider clings to his rags and flares its fangs.

He attempts to swat the spider away aggressively with his right arm to no avail, but then using his thumb and forefinger, he plucks a leg of the spider, tossing it off. The Spider lands on Noodler who swipes down at it several times before fully dislodging it from his thigh. The Spider falls to the ground, hissing at them menacingly before turning and scurrying away into the brush. The entire company laughs, Captain Hook the loudest of all.

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“Bloody good show! Bravo!” exclaims Hook accompanied by Smee who whistles and cheers as well.

Cookson pouts, putting his back to a nearby pillar. He rubs nervously at his neck and arms, still feeling the legs of the spider crawling on him. Cookson, glimpsing Bill Jukes grinning like a smartass schoolboy a few paces away, becomes certain of who put the spider on him.

“Ya Bastard! What' if it ‘ad bit me? Dem are poisonous ya know...” barks Cookson to Jukes.

“Puttin a nasty thing like ‘at on a man unawares, and a fellow crewmate ta boot. Special ‘ell reserved fer dem types.”

The rest of the crew had stopped listening already. Jukes stretches out beneath a large nearby fir tree, eating some nuts and berries from out of his hat.

Hook takes the first watch despite Smee’s protest. Hook has never felt more awake, more vigorous and more alert than he does at this moment. His muscles are crying out for action, singing a deep excitement inside him. Hook cannot believe how warm and alive the worn leather of this sword handle felt against the palm of his hand. His stub throbs with a powerful itching pain. Feeling rather nimble and brave, as if suddenly infused once again with his long-faded youth, Hook decides to have some fun. Hook looks around first to make sure he is not being observed before abruptly turning and making his way up the nearest snow-burdened fir tree strong enough to hold him.

Hook climbs the tree as high as he dares, unphased by the freezing touch of the icy white dust. Carefully balancing himself, he walks gracefully and skillfully out on one of the thicker limbs of the tree. At first, he looks down the mountainside for any sign of movement but soon he resigns himself to simply lay back on the branch and watch the Glacier-Light Flies dancing around him, carried high on the updrafts rising along the side of the mountain. Throughout the white glistening slopes are loose pillars of blinking insects, flashing dazzling red, yellow, blue, and purple.

Brilliant waves of light glisten like a steady celestial tide in the heavens above. Suddenly tired, he lets his head fall back, feeling soothed by all the breathtaking beauty surrounding him. He was not looking at the sky to find his way through the markerless sea; he was merely looking. Once again he is infused with nostalgia for those first simple years.

He has never felt so powerful, so aware of his surroundings. An overwhelming sense of certainty and clarity consumes his mind. He can see the entirety of his path laid out before him. In his mind’s eye, he can see beyond the forests, beyond his arrival at the Pale Waters, beyond him claiming his rightful place as god of the Neverlands.

He can see all the way to the moment he desires most. The moment when Pan’s lifeless body dangles like a bloodied rag-doll at the end of this sword, his heart and nether regions removed with his entrails strewn out, spewing streams of red, as his men have their wicked fun with Pan’s pathetic and ever-petulant Lost Boys. It is all so clear in his mind, and soon he will make it a reality. With a heart full of new promise and certainty about the future, Hook smiles.

Moments bleed away as Hook sits high on the branch, watching for any signs of trouble. He pulls out the ornate handmade pipe Smee gave him and puffs away, enjoying the brisk minty taste of the Neverland Frost-Hemp. He knows he does not need to worry much, after all the only thing that can cause him or his men any trouble in the Neverwoods would be a band of stray Indian braves and he doubts they would wander this far from their overly defended spit of land. Hook runs his finger over the black marks on his stump. To his surprise, it is hot to the touch, almost searingly so. When Smee calls up to him saying he would take over the watch, Hook dismisses him with a wrist flick.

“Very well, Mr. Smee, put your eyes to the bush. I’ll take a nice spell of sleep where I am,” responds Hook, giving into Smee’s insistence.

After all, a nice sleep sounded rather good to Hook right now.

“But Captain, if you turn over in the night, you’ll…” persists Smee in a concerned voice.

“I’m well aware of the danger, Mr. Smee, as you are aware of how much I detest being questioned. Now off with you!” interrupts Hook with a tone of obvious irritation.

Hook continues to replay the magnificent moment yet to come of him killing Peadar Pan over and over in his mind, letting the sound of Peadar’s tormented screams lullaby him to sleep.

Hook awoke at Cecco’s touch, hand on his sword hilt. The still pale Cecco twists the end of his moustache and grins before swinging nimbly down to the ground. A thick unsalted and thus unpleasant film of dew water covers Hook. The thick head of hair that had grown back slick and healthy from the Piper’s magic had gone to tangles in his sleep.

The crew, unaccustomed to the earthy chill of the forest, wake up, groggy and out-of-sorts. Hook barks orders and in a short time a fire is built and a pile of savoury nuts, fragrant berries and tart mushrooms are gathered. Murphy skewers a rather large wild pig and a delightful luminescent Neverlandian Peacock. These birds spread impressive tail feathers that glow different colours to denote a threat or a mating call. In death, they make a truly fine meal.

After breakfast, the crew puts the boat back onto their shoulders. Trudging on for about two hours, Hook orders the men to take a minor break during which a small family of Cherub Monkeys fly by trailing gold traces of Pixie Dust. They push on for a few more hours, passing more wild pigs and Zekra-Cats, some of which had gotten caught in the horizontal Tornado-Webs of some local Ambush-Spiders. By mid-afternoon, they find the spring waters of Blood Creek.

Up goes whoops and ahoys from the crew. Cookson and Murphy dance a merry foxtrot around the boat. Cecco tries to do the same with Noodler whose backward hands make it awkward. Everyone gathers water into their hands and drinks their fill.

“Very good men! Now it’s only a matter of following the old girl down the mountain until she can handle our vessel,” Hook gestures to Smee to get the men back under the boat.

Before he relays the order, Cecco nudges Smee, “I always did have a problem with others handling my vessel.”

Smee grimaces at the remark and points Cecco toward the boat.

Two hours down the mountain and the trickle of water they follow swells into shallow rapids. The temperature increases quickly as they descend, shifting the forest back into a humid sweat-box. They follow the river downstream for a few hours but are brought to an abrupt stop by the sight of a large Phantom Stag. The creature stands ten feet tall with dappled green and brown fur. It is coloured in such a way that it is nearly invisible in the thick of the forest. The creature wields massive and powerful moss-covered antlers. The beast has its head down, lapping up water from the river. Hook lifts his stump as a signal to stop as Smee sidles up to him silently.

“It still hasn’t seen us, Captain. I advise we stay put and wait for it to move on,” whispers Smee.

The stag steps deeper into the river, disturbing a Keejo that was hiding below the surface. The amphibious bat jumps from the water, spraying the stag’s face before flying towards the pirates. The magnificent stag’s gaze follows the fleeing Keejo to the crew’s current position.

“Shit,” growls Hook as the beast locks its eyes on them.

Years of hard living gave the pirates a threatening aura, but it was nothing to this behemoth. Phantom Stags are deeply territorial creatures and the pirates know they are most certainly in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The stag snorts at them, signalling its aggressive intent before letting out a low, echoing bellow. The mighty beast paws the ground, shaking its horns, causing the moss hanging from them to dance. It takes a step forward and dips its head menacingly, then lifts and shakes its horns again. Two warnings.

“No avoiding this one, Mr. Smee. We’re deep in his rutting ground.” Hook moves forward cautiously, his eyes concealing violence coiled tight.

Hook’s feet carry him up a fallen tree protruding out of the centre of the shallow river. The stag rears, stomping the ground once more. The protruding log brings Hook level with the beast’s lowered twisting complex of organic spikes. The giant stag churns its front hooves menacingly, appearing like Nature’s wrath incarnate. The black lattice surrounding Hook’s stump rapidly shifts and twists, forming into a savage and deadly-looking double-clawed ebony Hook.

“Come and get a blade in your belly, you oversized pony!” he snarls.

The beast charges, streaking towards Hook with a ramming mass of horns. Hook draws his sword then uses his position on the log combined with expert timing to front flip over the stag. Hook lands with a loud splash behind the stag, slicing deep behind the creature’s knee. The creature roars with pain and rage. The stag turns back to Hook as he swipes with a half-hearted jab towards the stag’s chest. It flails, its hooves swatting the blade. Turning its head, it aims one set of horns at the soaked Captain. Hook leaps to the side as the stag lunges forward. He reaches out with his new ebony hook and catches the stag’s horns. With a tight swing, he mounts the stag.

The stag bucks. Hook holds on to the antlers hard with his bad hand as he plunges his hook firmly into the base of the stag’s skull. The stag rages, jumping and bucking, spraying water from the stream. Dirt and fern fronds fly about. Small logs crack under the beast’s great weight. Hook digs his heels into the beast’s sides and buries his black double-bladed hook deeper into the place where the stag’s skull meets its spine.

The stag jolts forward, spasming. Hook face plants into the creature’s neck. When the stag recovers, Hook pulls back out his rapier, but it gets caught in the creature’s horns, pulling it out of Hook’s grasp. The sword disappears into the underbrush.

Hook loses his focus as the stag thrashes and spins like a tornado of fur and antlers. As the beast bounces chaotically, Hook gets his feet up on the stag’s back, attempting to reposition. The stag rotates and hurls Hook forward between its horns. His hook is still at the base of the stag’s skull. Hook dangles down the creature’s forehead.

Square teeth like splitting mauls dig into the crotch of Hook’s pants. Hook squirms as the teeth catch the flesh of his stomach, hips, and buttocks. With every bite, he feels the eyes of his crew watching him being flung about like a rag doll. That’s when Hook feels it. The frigid rage, his old friend is there, but there is something else. Something hot deep inside him jags from the end of his stump to his chest, catching his heart like searing rough tentacles that slam blood throughout his body and infusing every tendon, muscle and membrane with ecstasy. Hook suddenly knows what this feeling is... power. It is the sensation of pointing one finger and watching a legion march in that direction. This time, the feeling is weaponized.

Screaming, gone maniac, Hook heaves himself further up onto the stag’s head. He pulls his hook free from the beast’s flesh and lifts it high. The black curved carapace catches the beams of light coming through the canopy of the trees. Hook brings it down hard. The uncanny appendage sinks into the stag’s neck at the base of the skull, driving deeper than before. The beast bellows. The sound goes out to touch every leaf and beetle in the forest. Smee and the crew shudder as the forest gasps. The ground twitches and tree limbs curl like toes.

Hook yanks back, his hook cleaving bone and spinal tissue. The stag’s legs seize as it finally falls. As it drops, one of the beast’s horns jabs into Hook’s right arm, another antler-point stabs into his right calf. Hook roars, thrusting his ebony weapon even further into the creature’s cranium. At last, the stag’s spinal cord severs completely from the skull, spraying Hook bloody red. Hook’s inner-fire blazes hotter, turning his carapace hook red-hot. He screams even louder as he drags his now-searing hook forward, burning a path down the centre of the stag’s skull. Structurally compromised, the stag’s skull splits completely under the weight of the creature’s great antlers. Brains, skin, and cartilage fly into Hook’s hair and beard.

With the battle finally over, Hook lets his body relax on the bank of the river. Hook curses under his breath, his wounds bleeding. Still fueled by the Piper’s gift of power, he climbs to his feet, yanking the antlers from the beast’s flesh. The Captain reaches down, applying pressure to his wounds as they smoke with strange ephemeral mist instead of blood. Hook stares with momentary bewilderment as a black carapace lattice emerges from out of his flesh and covers his wounds.

“Good form,” Hook mutters to himself, retrieving his sword.

As he rejoins the crew, Bill Jukes removes his soiled cap. Dumbstruck, they fidget and feel a new level of fear and respect blanket their loyalty centres.

“Pick up your jaws, men! What are you? Lost Boys in ladies’ knickers? I will not have it! Smee!” Hook makes vague gestures.

Smee interprets, turning to the men. They are moving again in moments.

Another hard day burdened by the boat on their shoulders. The crew sets it down with a communal grunt. While Blood Creek has indeed widened into a river, it was still not deep enough for their vessel. Last night, they heard the far-off toll of the Blackfrost Bells. When they first heard the baritone voice of the Bells, Hook’s grin was playful.

“Cap’in… you’re dead,” declares Murphy amused.

Everyone laughs but Smee. Tonight they will ring it again.

As the first two bullfrogs sputter above the cook fire, Noodler barrels into camp. He pants. In his right backwards hand are two fish strung on a line. There are blood streaks on his shirt and forearms.

“I… found… where… where the river deepens,” explains Noodler, breathing heavily.

Hook stands and approaches him. His regrown good hand of shining black carapace itches to lash out and rip Noodler’s flesh. Hook controls it.

“We’ve been following the river for some time now, Mr. Noodler. Take a breath and speak properly,” orders Hook.

“Yes Cap’in,” he straightens himself up and spits. “Not half a mile ahead is a waterfall. Below it, Blood Creek gets deep enough for our vessel. A fisherman told me dem folks down in Blackfrost Port thinks you croc food. The Bells is calling the Council to replace you.”

Smee steps up to Hook’s side, “Sir, from that waterfall, it is only a two hours journey to the port. If we leave now, we can sneak in when the night is darkest.”

“And by then the contenders for my rank will have arrived, Mr. Noodler! That fisherman isn’t by chance rowing back to port to tell tales of strange men coming from the forest?” inquires Hook.

“No sir, he said he would meet us at the bottom of the falls and point us in the right direction,” Noodler flashes a crooked-toothed grin and winks. He raises the fish, “and he said we can enjoy his fish as he knew we must be starving.”

“Good form, Mr. Noodler. Good form” continues Hook.

He grants Noodler a congratulatory slap on the shoulder.

Finally, Hook and his company of fellow pirates make the last leg of their portage, setting their boat into the waters of Blood Creek proper. The sun hides behind the trees, only peeking above their tops with a radiant amber. The fisherman lies by the bank. His throat has a wide red smile and one arm extends downstream toward their destination. Murphy hurls the body into the forest. Cecco and Cookson smash the fisherman’s boat and scatter the pieces.

“Alright, men, get her in the water and let’s get this show on the road. I want Cecco on point with his flintlock at the ready, and Smee you shall watch our rear. Cookson, Jukes, Cecco, and Murphy, you are on rowing duty. Noodler, you shall be our Spotter and for bloody sake keep your eyes open. They don’t call it Blood Creek for nothing,” declares Hook to his loyal followers.

At midnight comes a second tolling of the Bells. The men row even harder. They churn the water, flinging spray into the bushes on the bank. Luminescent beetles take flight. After a long curve, the lights of Blackfrost port come blazing into view. Among the dim street lamps and the glow from tavern windows, ship masts sway lazily in the distance.

“Alright men, breathe lightly and don’t show your eyes to the moon,” warns Hook.

Years of experience slow the crew’s breathing. They blow into the town like a silent wind. Their faces turn wicked with excitement. Action and the sea beckon them. The sweet salt-air of the ocean pulls them forward as on strings. For Hook, there is something else, a blurry vision that promises to become clear. He squints into the darkness and smiles.