Pirates of the North/Chapter One

 

This is just a short story that I may never finish, but I found 

it on the computer (I wrote it awhile ago) and I thought 

maybe I should just post it 'cause after all, my blog is for

stories.

So, here you go!

PI  R  A  T  E  S   Of    T H E   

                                                     NO  R  T  H

    Chapter One

—Windy Night—

The icy rain poured down from the sky and sloshed along the roads and splashed when the carriages or wagons came by with their fancy black horses or just filthy work mules waiting to get into shelter. 

The cold wind smacked against Arcelia Wittimore’s face as she ran, while holding her cloak around part of her face hoping she wouldn’t catch a cold. She held her basket of newly bought eggs and freshly baked bread, now cold and soaked by the rain. 

Almost there, she kept reassuring herself. After about half a mile of running and falling a few times too, she finally reached home.

Home. Arcelia had a beautiful home. Though the house was small and the food was scarce, Arcelia felt her home was her favorite place in all the world. 

Arcelia though, had no siblings to greet her when she walked in. Only her cat Rusty who hardly took notice of her at all. 

When Arcelia walked in the narrow doorway, her mother was cooking stew above a fire in the kitchen. She looked up and smiled, and motioned her head toward the wash basin. Arcelia smiled back and first hung up her cloak and took off her dusty brown boots. 

Arcelia washed her face and hands and walked over to Elenor, her mother. 

“Mother,” she said leaning forward. “Do tell me more. About Papa and Author.” Her voice sounded anxious. 

Her mother sighed and stepped back from the steam coming from the pot, and sat down on the old rocking chair. She wiped her face with her apron and answered Arcelia, saying, “there’s not much left to tell you dear. Your father disappeared. Along with your brother when he was just a baby. Six months old, in fact.” 

“But Mama—” Arcelia began. “At least tell me when Papa first called me Artie. How old was I?” 

“You were just a few weeks old or so. He loved calling you that. I remember the names he called Author. And the names he’d call me. One day day, we decided to make a secret name for both of us. But then there was Author. Author was so wild, so free spirited as a baby, he—” Mother stopped and wiped away a tear that had streamed down her cheek as she talked. “Artie. Sometimes it’s good to forget. And move on. And that time is now. You never knew your brother. He is dead, along with your father, from a storm that hit while they were at sea.” 

Arcelia looked down disappointed. Arcelia always knew how her father and brother had died at sea, but for some reason, it had never grieved her the way it did now. 

After a few moments of silence, Arcelia asked, “Mama. How old was I when Papa left?” 

Mother hesitated. “Six months old.” There was another silence. 

“What? You mean Author—he was my twin?” 

“Yes dear. Your father left and to make it fair, we each took a child.”

Arcelia helped finish supper and then went to bed early, and soon drifted off to sleep.