Wicked Runaway: A Mark Cannidor Adventure

Chapter Two (Part One)

A bright light shone down on young Mark Cannidor. As a hot burning sun struck him as he lay inside a tiny old rescue boat, Mark felt drained and exhausted. He was weak. He was quite simply unwell. Malnourished, in fact. Tired. He made every effort possible to block out his emotions. Sea rats cawed wildly above him. He was bobbing up and down inside a battered old stolen rescue boat. Mark could not remember how he had got there. It was almost like his memories had drifted away, fading into nothingness. He had no recollection of how long he had been there, either. All Mark knew was that he was lost at sea, stuck inside this rotten old boat. Waiting. Just waiting…

He was getting hotter and hotter by the second, and he was sweating. He was experiencing heart palpitations, and he was dizzy, shaking with anguish. He wasn’t sure when it would happen, but he was close to death.

Mark was struggling.

He didn’t know how much longer he could survive. He had to hold on. He just had to cling on somehow...

Then there was a splash of ice-cold water. Mark sat upright. He found himself in his own bed.

‘Rise and shine, lazy bones!’

‘Dad!’ Mark yelled furiously, now drenched in water, and shivering from the cold. ‘It’s not even sunrise yet. What are you doing?’

‘Waking you up, of course!’ Edward responded, tossing his son a worn-out rag which had various holes in it. ‘Get a move on, son. We need to be at the Docklands before eight. This delivery will be of utmost importance to us. These are highly valued clients. If we’re successful, we may be seeing these people more often. That means continued business for many years to come. Come on, then! Get a move on then, you lazy sod’.

Edward cackled like a hyena as he went downstairs.

Mark scoffed. He could not have been more frustrated. The only bed linen he owned was soaked, so he would need to air them dry before he returned home later. Hopefully, his mother would hang them outside to dry for him. The Cannidors never used the fire during the warmer months. Although the summer nights were unusually cold as well, the family preserved their stock for the winter. Maybe she would make an exception just this once? A fire would certainly dry his sheets a lot quicker. Mark could never begin to predict what mood she was going to be in today. Sometimes, she was nice. At other times, she was foul and wicked, and it took Mark a lot of courage to speak up to her.

Yet, something seemed off with her last night. It was almost as though she could see the worst of what was to happen to her son. It was an ugly sight to see her in that state. Perhaps it was because he had gone swimming in the lake. Yes, that was it. Perhaps she didn’t trust her son. Then again, that didn’t seem fair. He wasn’t going to get into any trouble, unless you counted writing a couple of poems as trouble. Mark truly was looking forward to a day out at the Docklands with his father, seeing the city and helping his dad with these new clients. Although he did not seem too certain about this.

Was joining his father really the right decision to make?

Mark was also upset about the dream he had just had. As he got dressed into a yellowed shirt and brown overalls, he couldn’t help but feel that maybe the dream he had the night before was a glimpse of what was to come. An insight into the future. It all felt so…real? Was he dreaming of some alternative universe where he was lost at sea? It just couldn’t be. No. Of course not. Mark was safe at Battalion Manor, the place he called his home. He worked hard and had everything he could possibly want. It couldn’t be true. Or could it?

Was Mark destined for a life beyond the farm?

There was little point in thinking about it. Mark was wrong, and he knew it. It was just a dream. Sometimes dreams felt all too real.

But was that seriously the truth for Mark?

Could he really see into his future?

It was a ridiculous thought, Mark realised as he washed his face in a barrel outside of the house. No one could see into the future. Except for Fortune Tellers, that is. Mark had encountered those types of people who tried to force the truth onto him about his future. Seers with crystal balls who unfolded the truth about what was to come. But Mark always thought those visions were all jokes, a nasty trick to persuade people to spend money. They were all lies as far as Mark was concerned. All for the sake of making money. That’s what this was. Preposterous.

He decided to just shrug it off as a bad dream. It must have been normal at that age to dream about the sublime. Perhaps Mark should prepare to get used to this. After all, he was officially a teenager now.

He had no idea that the worst was yet to come.

Edward had buttered some bread for Mark by the time he reached the kitchen. Even though it was the middle of July, there was still a cool chill in the kitchen coming through the open grate of the fire. During the winter, the Cannidors would never usually heat a fire until the evening when it was time to rest. However, this was the summer. No matter how cold it was, the fires would never be lit. Therefore, they had to wear as many layers as possible if they needed to keep warm. Hazel was known for wearing a shawl around the house throughout the year. Edward often wore his coat in and out of the house, whereas Mark normally wrapped himself up in his duvet whenever he hid inside his room.

‘Got everything you need?’ Edward asked.

‘Just about,’ Mark replied whilst eating a slice of bread and butter.

Edward tossed a small package over to Mark. It was covered in a green cloth and tied with string.

‘We got this for you from the market in town,’ Edward explained. ‘We know it’s not much, but hopefully it will help with your writing. Happy birthday’.

Mark eagerly opened the little parcel to find a purple notebook and a feather quill. It was a nice surprise for Mark. He could use this to write poems and short stories. Although, as grateful as he was for the kind gift, it did have one fault. There was no ink to go with the quill. How was Mark supposed to write with it?

‘Thank you?’ Mark said, forming a question more than a statement.

‘Well, you’re a teenager now,’ Edward said. ‘You’re probably eager to write down your thoughts, aren’t you? Anyway - I don’t suppose you spoke to your mum yesterday, did you?’

Mark shook his head. Then he had a thought.

‘How much money do we have at the moment?’

‘Hmm?’ Edward asked, confused. His mouth was still full of bread, and he held a mug of hot cocoa in his hands.

‘Well, you know…’ Mark continued. ‘I things difficult for us at the moment. And this is such a thoughtful gift. I mean, you didn’t have to…really…’

Mark was referring to the notebook and the quill which was provided without any ink. It looked so expensive, and such a thoughtful gift. Yet maybe his parents couldn’t afford the ink to go alongside them? Perhaps Mark should take some of his written novel down to the city and find a publisher? Find some work for a newspaper, perhaps, or offer to write in shorthand for someone writing their own memoirs. Maybe then he might be able to get some more money for his family. After all, Charles Dickens sold many copies of his work through monthly editorials. Perhaps Mark could do the same thing? Publish his works in monthly instalments, then publish an entire novel once the final part had been released to the world.

Edward chuckled.

‘We’ll know when things are difficult,’ Edward responded, standing up and putting his plate in the sink. ‘The order we received last night should see us through until the Autumn. After then, we can still find a way to manage on what we have. Just like we always do’.

Mark cast his mind back to the bizarre old cookbook he found in his father’s study the night before. He really wanted to ask about that. He so desperately wanted to know what it was inside and, more importantly, if he was different to anyone else.

Sadly, the opportunity never came about. He was worried about his father’s reaction if he told him. Edward might ban him from entering his study if he knew that Mark was rummaging around. It was probably better not to ask. Especially because there were more important things to ask him today.

His father had requested that Mark load the cart with sacks of potatoes, carrots, onions, cabbage, and apples. All the things that were grown on the farm. There were crates filled with eggs, flour, yeast, and cannisters filled with milk from the cows. Mark was surprised that his father’s customers had bought so much. Clearly, this was the stock required for a smaller crew of people. Who would need to buy so much stock? Mark was surprised to learn that they hadn’t sold any of their livestock for meat. Perhaps they were vegetarian. Mark did not know who these people were, but guessed they were in urgent need of these supplies.

‘Finally,’ Edward sighed as the stock was finally tied down with some old rope. ‘Ready for the off?’

‘Just a moment’.

Mark quickly ran back upstairs to his room, where he grabbed his satchel. He filled this with his new notebook and quill. He had saved some money, so he would find a*****e which sold ink whilst he was at the Docklands. He also packed a hat, his beloved teddy bear, and a blanket. Mark had every intention of sitting down by the docks, exploring some scenery, and writing down some ideas for his novels. His teddy bear would also bring some inspiration to him. It didn’t have a name, but Mark liked the mystery of something where its identity was unknown.

Finally, Mark was ready.

‘We need to be there as soon as we can,’ Edward explained, watching some of the sunlight rise through the horizon. ‘We’re running behind as it is. Got everything you need? Are you ready for the long journey?’

‘Of course,’ Mark responded, looking out at the road ahead of them.

Battalion Manor was led by a trail road which ran through a small forest, and this was their only way to reach the main roads heading into the Docklands and the city centre.

Mark stepped outside of the house. As he did so, he noticed two large, brown horses harnessed to the cart. The cart was loaded and ready with the supplies they would be delivering that day. Mark paced slowly towards the cart, nervously watching the horses. For as long as he could remember, he never felt comfortable around any of these equine creatures. It may seem completely irrational to most people, but Mark thought he might have a phobia for them. As glorious and proud as they looked, Mark figured they looked somewhat dangerous.

As Mark approached the cart, one of the horses gave a snort and Mark stepped backwards, panicking.

‘Easy, boy, easy!’ Edward instructed the horse, patting its mane. ‘Are you okay, squire?’

Mark nodded nervously. It was ridiculous, really, that Mark would stop himself getting onto the cart because of an irrational, silly little fear. He couldn’t help himself, but Mark approached the cart cautiously, being careful not to startle himself once more.

He had to keep reminding himself that the horses were going to do no harm. They were working animals. They were there to take them down to the Docklands. His father was there in any case. If they were in any danger, he was in safe hands.

He started to feel much calmer.

‘There you are,’ Edward said, pushing Mark carefully onto his seat. ‘It’s going to be a long journey, but we’ll be there in next to no time. Would you like a try?’

Mark was offered the reins, but he simply refused. He just wanted to get down to the Docklands.

Edward may have said this would be a long journey, but the trip down to the Docklands didn’t all that long. Perhaps the trip took a little longer than usual because Edward prolonged the journey in order to spend some much-needed quality time with his son. Mark was thrilled as he watched the rising sun. It was the best time of day to be out of the house. For his first day as a teenager, this wasn’t so bad.

The children from the village could not say they had this experience. It was all incredibly breath-taking. The best thing for Mark was being able to witness the finer details of the journey. The flowers and grass growing on the side of the track. The smell of damp from the previous night’s rainfall. The deer crossing the tracks and hiding in the forest, protecting their young fawns and seeking shelter. Everything amazed Mark. It could be the start of an exciting new chapter.

‘How do you feel about today?’ Edward asked as they were passing through some woodland.

Mark was distracted by the scenery. It all seemed so peaceful and so comforting. He was in a world of his own when his father attracted his attention.

‘Son?’ Edward asked again. Mark managed to break out of his daydream.

‘Err…fine, I suppose,’ Mark replied, still not sure of himself. He was starting to feel rather queasy. It must have been the bumps on the track they were travelling down, but Mark felt sick to the pit of his stomach. He felt as though he was losing consciousness, and the smell of leaves made him feel somewhat nauseated. He had never experienced travel sickness up until now. So, what could be happening to him? He just felt as though they needed to stop before he threw up.

Edward chuckled, not paying attention to how ill his son looked.

‘I remember the day when I turned thirteen. We were with your grandma Irene, we sang songs, ate pies, and just had a good laugh. Not a care in the world. It was much easier to celebrate birthdays back then. Then, of course…’

Mark’s grandma Irene was a distant relative. He had never met her, yet he had heard such strange and remarkable stories about her. It was assumed that she lived somewhere in Germany. However, that was never proven. She had, of course, written letters, poems, and short stories to Mark. Mark had written samples of his writing in return. He hoped that, perhaps, some day, he would have a lucky opportunity to meet his grandmother. Whenever that day would be, he could not tell. Mark’s parents didn’t have a lot of money to travel. His father only left the farm on business, or if they were to attend the church in the nearby village. It was such a shame. Mark had ambitions and he wanted to, more than anything else in the world, make his grandmother happy.

At that moment, the horses and cart were diverted.

An approaching driver with a horse and carriage almost collided with them. In shock, the two horses pulling Mark and Edward diverted into the left-hand side of the track. The oncoming horse fell to the ground on the right, bringing the driver and carriage down with it. Mark had held on for dear life. His chest felt tight, his breathing much more difficult than it was earlier when he stepped onto the carriage. Edward had landed on the ground too. He was swearing, brushing himself off, looking around for the other carriage.

‘Hey - you there!’ Edward shouted as Mark tried to compose himself. ‘Scum! What do you think you’re playing at, eh?’

The oncoming driver stood up on his feet. He was a skinny lad, wearing nothing but black – a black cloak, black boots, and a black hat. He had red hair and blue eyes with freckles across his face. He wasn’t much older than Mark.

Mark recognised the boy instantly.

‘Oh, it’s you Jack,’ Edward continued, startled. ‘I hadn’t recognised you. Are you quite alright?’

‘Bit shaken up, like,’ Jack responded, shaking Edwards hand, and then brushing himself off. He seemed oblivious to the situation, but he spoke in a broad accent that Mark did not recognise. He spoke quite rapidly, almost as if he was in a hurry to be somewhere. ‘I’m extremely sorry, sir. I thought I was going down the wrong side of the path, so I was going to stop you and ask for directions. Then my horse almost tripped over a rock and…’

‘You don’t need to explain yourself, son,’ Edward interrupted, smiling. ‘Just as long as you are okay. I suggest we offer you some assistance’.

‘Yes please, Mr Cannidor’.

Mark came around from the back of their cart. He was still frightened but had managed to control his fear at the very least. He felt much more relaxed than he did moments before and wanted to see Jack for himself.

‘Is there anything I can do to help, father?’ Mark asked.

Edward turned round and noticed Mark was stood behind him. He seemed rather surprised to see his son there.

‘Alas!’ Edward exclaimed, clapping a hand on Mark’s back. ‘I sure hope you remember my son, Mark? Mark – this is Jack Mulhorn. His father owns a funeral service in town’.

‘Owned, actually,’ Jack said, shaking Mark’s hand and smiling down at him. ‘He signed the business off to my uncle last week. Early retirement, poor man. It was only a matter of time, as a matter of fact. The old geezer has had enough, hasn’t he? The services, the paperwork. It was all too much for him. So, he quit. I’m still working there, though. I was promoted to vice chair financier. I deliver the bodies to the cemeteries, too’.

‘Good on you!’ Edward replied happily. ‘You were always clever with money; I can tell you that much. My goodness! The stories your father would tell me about you. He was always so proud of you’.

Jack blushed.

‘Well, I suggest we bring your cart up on its wheels,’ Edward continued. ‘You wait here and calm the horses down, Mark’.

‘But I wanted to help,’ Mark moaned.

‘I’m sure we’ll manage, thank you son,’ Edward said. ‘Go back to the cart. We’ll be leaving shortly’.

As Edward went off to help Jack bring the carriage to an upright position, Mark decided he wasn’t interested in watching after all. He was left to calm the horses down. He took a handful of carrots from a sack, and nervously walked round the attend to the two horses. Mark felt extremely uncomfortable. As he gazed into the horse’s longing eyes, he felt bad for being afraid of such beautiful creatures. He knew that horses felt fear if humans felt fear. Yet the horses were much calmer than Mark was. What could this have meant for Mark?

Perhaps Mark was imagining things.

Horses took a lot of getting used too. They may seem intimidating at first. However, Mark realised that the more time he spent with these creatures, the more he grew fond of them. He wondered whether he should learn to ride a horse. If he did, then he could look after some of the horses kept on the farm. The stables usually needed cleaning, and Mark could volunteer his time to do just that for the people in his village who owned the horses.

He had to remind himself that there was no reason to be alarmed.

In next to no time, Edward returned.

‘Right – let’s get on with our journey, young lad’.

‘Is Jack going to be all right?’ Mark asked, trying to get a clear view of him.

‘He’s been in many different situations like this before,’ Edward explained. ‘You need not worry about him. He will be completely fine’.

Mark jumped back onto the cart, feeling much calmer than he did when they were leaving Battalion Manor. Mark looked around his shoulder to watch Jack travelling into the horizon. It was so weird. Jack’s hearse looked almost brand new. There was not a single bit of damage from what Mark could see. Then again, it was quite far away. Maybe some of the parts were dented or scratched. It wasn’t easy to see something so far away. Mark was positive that Jack would have the cart repaired in next to no time. He seemed to be a savvy lad. Just how was he able to manage the cart in the state it was?

Mark and his father were getting closer to the Docklands. It was gradually becoming much busier as they strolled through more populated areas of the city. More drivers with horses were attending to their daily duties, some entering and leaving the city. Buildings were open for business as usual. There were fisheries, factories, tea houses and government buildings preparing for another day of business. People were chatting merrily, either shopping or enjoying a good morning breakfast. Children were in the streets playing games and laughing. Then there were the smells of the salty sea beyond them. Sea food, sea gulls, and a hot sun made the whole place seem lively.

Just as Mark had expected.

‘This is amazing,’ Mark told his father as he studied the area.

‘I told you,’ Edward responded. ‘I appreciate it has been a long time since you have been here. But the Docklands never change’.

It wasn’t too long until Mark and Edward reached St Mary’s Port, one of the biggest ports in northern England.

‘This is us,’ Edward announced, stepping off the cart.

As Mark jumped off the cart too, the sights and sounds around him were simply breath-taking. There were ships of all sizes. Cargo ships, passenger ships, emergency rescue boats…it was everything Mark could ever imagine. Mark dreamed of sailing away to a new island or another part of the world. There were ships that must be preparing to sail to America, Europe, Asia. It would be a wonderful experience, every detail from clearing customs to setting sail for the first time ever was beyond his wildest dreams. Mark could only hope.

‘Ahem!’

Mark turned and noticed his father unloading the cart.

‘I know it’s your birthday, young sir, but a helping hand would be nice’.

It looked as though Edward was trying to load some of the supplies onto a wheelbarrow. Mark tried his best to help his father, yet his mind was somewhere else. Edward helped with some of the heavier sacks of food, whereas Mark managed to lift some of the canisters off the cart. However, the place was full of distractions. He was eager to sit down under a tree and draw the sights which surrounded him. He would note down some of the conversations he heard and use those to tell his own stories in his own words. The place was full of inspiration.

‘Mr Cannidor!’

Mark turned and saw an admiral wearing a royal blue jacket with white trousers and black boots strutting towards them. His hair was tied back, and he carried a sword in his belt.

‘That’s me,’ Edward responded. ‘You must be from the ship?’

‘The Lady Sinatra, yes,’ said the admiral. ‘I take it you have brought everything we need?’

‘I have indeed,’ Edward confirmed. Mark stared at the admiral with amazement. He was surprised by the elegance of the man, the way the man was well groomed despite travelling at sea. Mark could never imagine himself in such a pristine uniform. He only cared about the adventure, no matter how tardy or ragged he appeared.

‘I’ll send some of my crew down straight away,’ the admiral continued. Before he walked away, he looked down his nose at Mark. It was an ugly look. It felt so weird, but Mark sensed a sudden and pure hatred from the admiral. The admiral didn’t seem too impressed to see Mark. What was the problem? They had only just met.

The admiral returned a few moments later with three crew members. They were rather gangly, with shaggy beards, long hair, and leather coats. Mark was almost reminded of pirates he had read about in some of the books he owned back at home. Was the Lady Sinatra a pirate ship?

‘I think it best if you come with me,’ Edward whispered into Mark’s ear. ‘I don’t think I like the look of these people. Bit shifty if you ask me. Usually the case with these pirate types. Stay by my side. Try not run off, will you?’

‘Of course not, father,’ Mark responded, not entirely certain if he could adhere to his father’s promise. He may have agreed with Edward, but there was something not quite right about the admiral and his crew members. They were the sort of people who seemed…how could Mark put this? They looked like criminals. Men who were untidy and unkempt were not ones who Mark could trust. Mark had read about that in Great Expectations. The escaped convict who asked Pip to bring him some files so he could rid himself from those chains. That was what they looked like. Yet, the admiral. Surely, the admiral could not be. Unless he had more money than they did. Yes, that was it. He was rich, he was in charge, therefore the admiral had the opportunity to dress better. This, of course, was inspiration for a novel.

How exciting.