08 Escape from the Pirates

Far across the seas, under the brooding shadow of Mount Aboyo, a pirate ship came to rest at the bustling quay of Irukandji. The crew, weary from weeks at sea, moved quickly to replenish their stores, loading barrels of water, sacks of grain, and crates of fresh fruit onto the ship.

Among them was Little Two-Paws.

Once a child of the forest, raised by wolves and cradled by the rhythms of the wild, he was now a captive among ruthless men. Though he worked obediently, his spirit remained unbroken. Behind his quiet gaze, he nurtured a secret—one born of longing, memory, and resolve. He was planning his escape.

As the pirates shouted and grumbled, distracted with the chaos of resupply, Little Two-Paws noticed a wooden crate resting on the dock. It was filled to the brim with ripe oranges, their sweet scent hanging in the salty air. The crate was sturdy, nailed loosely enough to offer a chance.

Without hesitation, he glanced around, then ducked inside, slipping beneath the fruit. With practiced quiet, he pulled the lid closed above him, leaving only silence behind.

The pirates never saw him go.

When they counted their crew and searched the surrounding alleys, there was no sign of the boy. Time pressed forward, and with sails to raise and no answers found, the ship departed once more—without him. For the first time in a long while, Little Two-Paws was no longer a prisoner.

Freedom came in darkness, in silence, in citrus and wood.

Inside the crate, time passed slowly. Days blurred together in a haze of cramped limbs and orange juice. He survived on the fruit around him, its moisture enough to keep him alive. He slept in fits and starts, dreaming of wolves and starlit skies, his heart beating in rhythm with memory.

Eventually, hands pried open the crate.

Light flooded in, blinding at first, and standing above him was a man in uniform—tall, serious, with a weathered face and wise eyes. This was Lemuel, chief of police in Irukandji. The man stared down in surprise at the small, dirt-covered boy curled among the fruit.

The boy gave a faint smile. He was exhausted, but alive.

Lemuel, moved by the child’s silent resilience, took him in. He offered food, water, and a place to rest. And when the boy asked for no reward—just a name—Lemuel gave him one. He called him Joose, in honor of the crate that had delivered him to freedom.

Joose grew strong under Lemuel’s care.

He learned the ways of the town, its people, and the sea beyond. Yet even with a roof over his head and kindness in his daily life, something remained unfinished. Each night, under the watchful gaze of the moon, he would look to the stars and remember the forest.

He would think of the wolves.

Of Bigger Two-Paws.

Of the wind moving through ancient trees and the sound of paws beside him in the underbrush.

Though Joose was safe, his heart had never left the wild.

And in the quiet moments, when the world was still, he could almost hear the call of the pack echoing across the distance—reminding him that home still waited, and that the journey back was not yet over.