A Failed Story

by Obi in London

This is a story I was writing for a competition but I abandened it.

Villa~Voyage

Faber had now lost track of how long and far he had been roving through nameless these landscapes, however he felt in the depths his depressed thoughts it could be his last league unless he should happen upon some food and a water well before the next dusk. He was definitely not in England anymore, he had paid his life’s meagre earnings to be ferried across the channel to France. To his disappointment and dismay, he was not in Calais, or in Paris or Normandy for that matter. Though if this was France, he had been cruelly mislead and shamelessly deceived. He was walking through a sun-bleached field of honey-gold wheat, he had been eating of the crop for ages and the few refreshing spells of rain had kept him barely thirst quench. He was most certainly on one of those queer little islands he had read about in the tiny volumes he had found in his masters bookshelf. Back in London, he had been a carpenters apprentice and had nearly made it to the more lucrative statues of a journeyman. However, his master was run into bankruptcy when he couldn’t fill a large order of redwood planks he had promised to be delivered to a foreign construction site. He was nearing the middle of the untended golden crop field and the light was beginning to fade into dusky greys and the air starting to chill to into nightly bitterness. Faber had adaptively acquired an amazing sixth sense, to be able smell and distinguish water and luckily he could smell some sort of pond up ahead, oddly mingled with the briny scent of the sea. He raced ahead excitedly and came eventually to a grubby, scrubby oasis in the middle of the grassy desert. Faber beheld a fleet of ponds, dotted side by side in the rain dented depressions in the sun-baked gold earth. A family of peculiar turquoise frogs nestled wetly in one and the other was infested with writhing water creatures. He spied quickly a drinkable, clear pool of rainwater and cupped his hands before submerging them in the water. He lifted them out once filled, still dripping with water and did not hesitate in shovelling the water into his parched mouth (if there is such motion you can perform with water).
He rested for a while, with relief and comfort he had not felt in fortnights. He took his knife and dug up some worms, and tied an end of parcel string to a hardened wheat stalk. He used his improvised fishing rod, to try his luck fishing in one of the larger puddle-ponds. After fifteen boring minutes, a disgusting little sliver of a fish nipped the line and held fast trying to claim the worm. Faber, realised that his rod was cracking under the strenuous pulling of the little ‘sliver fish’. Realising fast this was a golden opportunity for some meat he dived in to catch the fish. He felt the scaly sliminess of the fish in his hands and tightened his grip, lest it wriggle through his fingers. Picked it out from the murky waters and slapped it forcefully upon a large shiny pebble, and the fish ceased it’s incessant wriggling and expired. He had two more matches in his tinderbox, and it would last him long. So he gathered some feeble kindling struck the match and let it consume the ‘nest’ of deadened twigs. Soon it was a warm, glowing bundle of flame upon the floor, but based only on kindling which wouldn’t last for more than half an hour. So he skewered the fish on his knife and toasted it on the fire carefully, so not to accidentally scorch it and be left with no supper again. Soon it was cooked and ready, so he took it off the sharp wood carvers-knife and onto a sharpened stick and bit into the succulent white meat. It was the best thing he’d tasted since leaving the comfort of his master’s manor in London. It was juicy, warm and crispy like a fried cloud smothered in brittle, juicy batter. Later in the evening, he happened across a tuft of cress by a moist pond-bank and took a sprig and had it as afters. It was a delicious ending to his meal. So for once he drifted off to sleep on a wondrously full stomach.
As if to ruin that one moment of triumph and fullness, he woke up the next morning hungry and starving again. He began again to walk through the now identical and generic, desert jungle of the wheat field. His handsome chestnut-brown mane was prickled and spiked with sweat, and his Athena grey eyes were solemn, stern grey instead of their usual adventurous silver like the pommel of a pirates sabre. The tantalisingly zingy waft of briny sea salt was drawing ever closer and ever nearer, and to his delight and most equally to his horror he heard a variety of merry voices in the distance. At least one hundred men mingled with a few female voices and the idle chatter of young boys, there was many, many types and tones. He ran forward through the prickly crop and the bramble that barbed the last few yards of the seemingly endless wheat field. He burst out of the bushes and felt the his feet lift from the ground as something swept under his ragged once noble-stated boots and trip him into the sand. And by the briny taste of the sand he realised he was on a beach, and from the fact the that the sand was in his mouth he realised he had been tripped. He looked up to find himself looking down the barrel of a musket, a young man with sweat spiked black hair and a cutlass by his side was carrying it.
“It’s okay, I won’t harm ye,” said the young man, he raised an eyebrow, “if you don’t hurt us of course.”
“Who are you?” asked Faber looking him sternly in the eye.
“Until I get to know you, there’s only so much I can tell you,” winked the black haired man mysteriously.
“And how much can you tell me?” asked Faber, eyeing the now lowered musket suspiciously.
“Nothing, “ he said bluntly, “but what I will do is let you have an interview with our capt- I mean boss.” He helped him up and prodded him over to a tent in the shade of an odd tree. It was a magnificent lemon yellow. Inside was a group of men in their prime all sitting in a circle around a fire, most of them were smoking. Some of the men were of different colours and races, Faber instantly recognised the ‘boss’ as the silver bearded muscular man wearing a green tricorn hat.
“Gary Smith, what young misfit have you here, he looks new,” said the ‘boss’.
“Yes Captain Franklin sir, he came out of the bush sir,” replied Gary Smith.
“Well, ye know the routine. Get him fed, watered, briefed, settled and to work. That’s if he wants to work here,” Captain Franklin was directing that speech his way.
“Yes sir, I would like to work here,” said Faber.
“You sure? It’s a long termed job,” warned the captain.
“Yes sir, I’m very sure,” said Faber, glancing at the plump roast chicken on the little table-baord. The captain ripped a hunk of chicken and tossed it to him which he caught and accepted with much gratitude. He found he was liking this place already. He was lead out of the tent back into the heat of the of the sun-kissed beach. Gary Smith, led him down the last hill of sand and finally he could see what they were doing, at the edge of the beach. They were constructing a huge ship, as big as a castle the likes of which he’d never seen, made of huge redwood planks and enormous granite towers and at least four floors. The name was painted large and vibrant in gold ink on the side in italics, it said ‘The Villa~Voyage’.
“nice ship isn’t it,” said Gary as he began to lead him away to a tent.
“It’s colossal, could it even sail?” asked Faber curiously.
Gary answered bluntly, “it could sail for eternity f you wanted it to.”

Faber was shown into a large green tent at the top of the beach. Inside was about twenty young boys from every race you could imagine, their was French Negro to Mandarin and Moroccan to Irish, and even Eskimo to Australian and American. The French Negro boy, named Jeanne Louis walked to his side and shook his hand in greeting.
“Thanks,” said Faber, he had just noticed that all of the workers were wearing tropical yellow cravats and sashes round their necks. The American boy, named Tommy Wilcox came up to him a with a fresh sash and put it around Faber’s neck.
“Err, thank you,” said Faber again. Then last of all the Eskimo in the corner waddled up to him and bestowed him with a light, perfect and bran-new sabre. It even had a handsome silver pommel, shaped like rearing thresher shark. Tommy explained that it was work time now, and even though he was new he had to start work immediately. He trudged out onto the beach after a swig of water.
“What’s my first job?” asked Faber, looking around.
The Negro replied, “First, since you’re a carpenter yes?” Faber nodded, “you need to go and work on the ship head, it’s a huge wooden fretwork statue of the Cretan Bull.” Faber nodded again and walked towards the port.