The Captain’s Trumpets

The massive wooden ship stood silently in its port, tethered to the wharf. Its thick masts rose skyward, casting an ominous shadow on the dock fifty feet below. In the distance, the early morning fog rolled slowly through the Norwegian mountains. The only sound was that of the mossy water licking the sides of the aged, weatherworn ship, rocking it like a cradle. This 1600’s ship was to depart in nearly two hours.

Further up the shore, atop a small, craggy cliff overlooking the harbor, sat four cabins side by side. Six deck hands snored lazily in bunks in each of the first three cabins. In the fourth, slightly bigger cabin, a single sailor slept soundly. His white, billowing mustache rose and fell with each easy breath he took. A table stood beside him with only two items placed delicately atop it: one dented, dull, tattered trumpet and one shiny, unused brass trumpet.

Two hours later, at six o’clock that morning, the captain sounded his tattered horn. The crew sleepily arose from their bunks and sighed, for today was another day that was to be spent on the open sea with their captain. As the crew emerged from their cabins the captain continued to sound his dull, tattered trumpet. Its tone was smooth and echoed off the mountains surrounding him. The crew saluted their captain and stumbled down the dock to await orders to board the ship. The captain stopped playing and looked out at the mountains and the sea with a sharp gaze. Everything stood still and silent for a moment. Then, when his focus was broken by a whistle of a deck hand, he marched with pride down the dock and without a word he saluted not his crew, but his ship.

With the captain at the rear, the crew climbed aboard the colossal ship, attended their positions and awaited orders from the captain. When at last he set foot on the deck, he stood silently, closed his eyes and played his tattered trumpet. His crew watched and waited until he opened his eyes, took a deep breath and yelled, “Alright men, untether this ship! Hoist the sails! Get ready to set sail!” He strode to the entrance of his captain’s quarters and opened the door. But before taking a step inside he swiftly turned around and shouted, “And will someone bring me some RUM!” And with that he went inside and slammed the door behind him. The captain moved his way over to the window looking out over the sea. With his signature sharp gaze he stared, but soon his focus was broken by his own thoughts. With his tattered trumpet in one hand and the unused one in the other he sat on his bed and pondered.

Outside, on the deck, two deck hands were talking about the captain: “Aye, what do ya think abou’ the captain and that brass trumpet he carry aroun’?” one said. The other replied, “No idea, he never laid lip on tha’ one, like he savin’ it for somethin’.” “Like what?” The other stopped swabbing, looked at him, and said comically, “For and afternoo’ tea with the king! How am I suppose’ to know! Ya ask him for yerself, mate! Do I look like an encyclo…uh…somthin’ to you? It’s probably nothin’. Now get back to yer work!”

After two fortnights the winter chill began to take a toll on the crew. Their clothes were sodden and they felt as if their hearts were too. Their very bones were chilled. They could hear the creaking and cracking of the condensing wood beneath their feet. The captain, however, spent most of the days in his quarters. The crew wondered what the captain was doing in there, but dared not to go knocking on his door. Sometimes, in the wee hours of the night while the crew was sleeping below the deck, they would hear the captain’s footsteps pacing on the deck above. The crew cautiously pulled down the ladder, curious to take a peek. They would “hush” each other and whisper softly as one deck hand slowly climbed the ladder. But before he could get to the top, the pacing stopped and so the whispering stopped and they listened intently. After a few seconds of silence the crew feared that the captain had detected the eavesdroppers. But then an all too familiar sound came about their ears. It was his tattered trumpet sounding smooth, soft tones into the night air. So the crew climbed back into their bunks and dozed off, using the melodic tunes as a lullaby.

Days and nights passed and the crew gradually became curious about why the captain never played his attractive, shiny trumpet and why he preferred his beat up, dented trumpet. But soon lost interest and continued to go about their business.

One early morning, when the fog was deep and heavy, a dark shadow was barely visible on the horizon. “Jus’ a dense cloud,” the crew agreed. Then the captain’s door opened and all attention went from the dense cloud to the captain’s emerging figure. He walked stately over to the edge of the ship and looked in the direction of the dense cloud. He stared with his sharp gaze that seemed to pierce the fog before them. The breeze blew his mustache to and fro as the crew squinted in the same direction. He closed his eyes and took a long whiff of the air. When his lungs were full he exhaled, and immediately his eyes bolted open. Without changing his gaze he said confidently, “’Tis no dense cloud, nor chunk of land neither. ‘Tis a ship, whether friend or foe I know not.” “W-what do ya propose we do…c-captain?” someone asked nervously. “We communicate with them, that’s what we do!” “But captain, sir, this ship is at least a league away. No man here has a voice with such a power to be heard from tha’ distance.” The captain turned fiercely to the talking deck hand and came nose to nose with him. His sharp gaze pierced the crewmember’s eyes to such an extent he could not bear it and had to turn away. The captain went back to his quarters and emerged again with his tattered trumpet. He stood at the edge of the deck and gave a single blast of the horn. There was no response. “’Tis a foe, a fiend, an enemy,” the captain said with clenched teeth. However, hearing the call, the enemy ship turned and headed straight for the crew’s ship at full speed. By now the deck hands knew that a battle was inevitable but they had no weapons. The enemy ship approached theirs and what they saw sent them into panic. Cannons emerged from square holes in the side of the ship and was preparing to fire.

Havoc was wreaked as loud explosions came from the enemy ship’s cannons. The crew scrambled on the deck. The ship’s old wooden boards were instantly destroyed, sending splintered wood in every direction. Often, large chunks of wood or steel were sent screaming through the air, colliding and killing the crew mates. Cannon balls gouged holes in the ship’s bow and water flooded the lower barracks. To escape the wrath of exploding cannon balls the few deck hands that were still alive flung themselves overboard into the merciless sea below. The ship was sinking, the enemy had won.

The bow of the ship was now almost fully submerged in the water. Crew mates screamed their final words, cannons exploded, and splintered wood whistled through the air. But the captain’s ears blocked out everything. He calmly sauntered into his quarters. Images flashed through his mind; the crew’s faces, his ship before it was wrecked, the quiet harbor and the shore and the cabins. He stood squarely in the center of his quarters and he reached for his unused, shiny brass trumpet, not his tattered one. And for the first time in the captain’s life he pressed the cold mouthpiece against his chapped lips and he blew. He played a long battle hymn filled with sorrow and defeat as cannon balls shattered his glass window, letting the frigid water rush in. The captain played and played until the salt water had risen to his chin and crept through the pipes of his trumpet and gurgled as he continued to blow. He kept his lips pressed to the cold mouthpiece until finally the water engulfed them both. When the captain’s battle hymn ended, so had his life, and his shining brass trumpet remained forever tight in his last, dying grip.

A Rhyming Poem Written for School

The Black House

Deep in a forest in Scotland, a village was nestled
Where the blue birds whistled and the grizzly bears wrestled.
Fragrant was the flowers and dense was the trees
The fountain grass grew up to one’s knees.
The forest was pretty and the air was perfumed.

Every morning, the early-hour fog began to dwindle
And the married women tended their yarn-spinning spindle
And the men and lads milked the cows and fed the sheep
While the youngest daughter was still asleep.
The villagers were content and merry.

As every household set these daily procedures in motion,
There was one house, however, that showed no commotion.
Its windows were boarded and it was painted black
And it was rickety as though it were built not with nails but with tacks.
The black house was the oldest in the village.

But the villagers paid no attention to that house,
To them it was as insignificant as a mouse.
They believed it to be deserted,
But one day something happened that made them all disconcerted.
For the first time, wisps of smoke billowed from the chimney of the old black house.
Someone was in the black house, but who could it be?
Little did they know, the inhabitant had been there for eternity.
But the villagers were unhappy and soon grew into an angry band
Because the occupant provided no aid in tending the land.
Then the villagers formed a mob and besieged the old black house.

The villagers formed a circle and the house was in a surround
And they pried the wooden planks off the windows and threw them on the ground.
Then each one hurled sticks and stones and watched as the windows broke.
Then instantly they looked up and the chimney no longer billowed any smoke.
And the hounds and collies began to howl.

The angry villagers entered the home,
It was crowded and dusty with no room to roam.
They could not help but take a peak,
Even though what they saw made everyone shriek.
What lay there before them was the body of a man no younger than ninety.

A stone lay next to his head and blood lay strewn across the floor,
But seeing as he was just an old man, the cruel, callous villagers walked right out the door.
The sun set and the hounds and collies continued to howl,
All the while staring at the black house’s chimney cowl.
Something in the air was different and the dogs knew it.


The next morning, the summer sun did not blaze,
For the whole sky was in a haze.
And when the men went out to the farm,
What they saw sent them into immediate alarm.
Something terrible had happened.

The cows, the pigs, the sheep, and the goats lay dead in the mud,
At the sight of this the women fainted to the ground with a thud.
The hounds and collies who had been howling the night before were silenced forever,
The crops turned gray and withered to ash; there was no life in this village whatsoever.
Utter devastation swept through the village and a frigid cold wind blew the hats off their heads as they stared in disbelief.

An eternal winter was brought upon the village,
Because, foolishly, the old man they pillaged.
And their narrow minds were as small as a mouse
Because they never knew their source of life came from the old black house.