Jack Daw, The Great Avenger

Prolog- The Avenger

"Long ago, Jack Daw, the great Avenger, rode the land like a demon from the fiery pits of hell." The old man's deep, rusty voice rumbled through the room, riveting and hypnotic, holding his young audience enthralled.

The five children sat in a semicircle around his rocking chair, elbows on knees, chins in hand, eyes wide with rapt fascination. The eldest held his little sister in his lap and absently ran his fingers through her baby-fine strawberry blonde hair. She was as wide-eyed as all the rest, although she had one pudgy thumb stuck in her tiny mouth. As he watched, she slumped back against her brother's chest, and those big blue eyes fluttered with fatigue, making the old man smile fondly. She reminded him of his late wife, and it gave his old heart a pang of longing. His one true love had been gone for more than a year now, and yet there were times when he swore he could feel her standing right beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

"Now, Dah, don't be scaring the wee ones with those old tales."

His rhuemy blue eyes slid across to the woman seated in the opposite rocking chair, her fingers flying, needles clacking away as she worked at her knitting. His eldest daughter had inherited his wife's beautiful, softly rounded features and chocolate brown eyes, but the dark hair she got from him. Even now, peppered with grey, her neatly quaffed tresses retained a good deal of that dark color. Unlike his own, which had gone white as the driven snow.

"Seems to me I recall your Mam saying much the same to me when you were just a babe, and you don't seem to have suffered any from listening to my stories." He gruffly reminded her, his eyes twinkling merrily as he clamped his blackened bone pipe between his jaws.

"He has you there, Mam." Her son chortled as he strolled around the little group to drop an armload of split wood into the woodbox.

He was a huge man like his father. A hulking farmer's son who dared to court his lovely eldest daughter. He had allowed the match. He was fond of the lad. After all, he had been there the night that same lad was born. His first night in the area. Had, in fact, assisted in the birthing. And he was there to comfort his daughter the night that same young man had breathed his last.

Too many loved ones had passed on into the here-after, leaving him behind, helpless to do more than morn their loss. Good friends, family, young and old alike, until he was certain the unbearable pain of their loss would finish him off. Yet he survived and time marched on. There was nothing for it but to continue existing. But here lately, he'd begun to feel his soul was stretched thin. His time was coming.

Not many men lived into their nineties. Even fewer lived to such a great age with their minds intact. He was slowing down, his bones creaking more, his muscles frequently stiff and uncooperative, but he was still here.

The things he'd seen and experienced over the near-century he'd lived on this earth. Three monarchs had inherited and then shed the crown. A new age of factories and machines had replaced the simple home industry of his early years. His family had grown, too. Three beautiful daughters and four strapping sons. All gone now but two, taking a huge part of his heart with them. Grandchildren filled the huge old manor house. And then great-grandchildren came along to further expand his proud paternal heart.

He did what he could to help his remaining family negotiate the day-to-day struggles. But each day, it was becoming more and more difficult to function. More and more he found himself losing track of time. He slept more than he was awake. Conversations were more difficult to follow. He was living on borrowed time, and he knew it. He had long accepted the truth of his own mortality. Soon, his reckoning would come.

"You just want to hear the story as much as your children." She admonished her son.

"Well, of course." The lad readily agreed as he tossed a log into the crackling fireplace and settled himself down on the nearby bench.

The woman huffed a reluctant chortle, shaking her head in rueful exasperation as she returned to her knitting.

"Who was he, Dah? Who was Jack Daw?" Piped the precocious six year old girl at his feet, bringing the old man's attention back to the little audience surrounding his chair. She wriggled in her place on the rug, scratching at a scab on her bare knee.

He bit back a chuckle. This little one closely resembled her mother's family with her fair blond locks and slight, fey-like features, but her rough-and-tumble attitude came straight down from his own beloved wife. Even the slight tilt to her head was a reminder of his lost love.

He lowered his pipe and widened his eyes with exaggerated surprise.

"Who was Jack Daw?" He repeated with pretended aghast. "Have you never heard of the great Avenger, little bit?"

The child denied any knowledge of the gentleman with a slow shake of her head, leaning closer in keen anticipation for the promised story.

"Well, let me tell you about the daring escapades of the Legendary Jack Daw." The old man paused, purposely drawing out the suspense as he lifted his pipe to his mouth again. He shifted in his seat, trying to ease the ache in his hip and find a more comfortable position. Then, he removed the pipe and cradled its warm barrel in his gnarled hand as he continued with the tale. "It all began in the reign of King George, third of that name and the outrageously high taxes demanded of the people."

Not one child blinked as the story continued. A petite little woman entered, blonde, blue-eyed, and heavily pregnant. Her fond gaze flowed over the children as she waddled by and joined her husband on the bench seat. The two held hands and shared an intimate smile. More family members entered and took various seats about the room to listen. Another son with his two teenaged boys. A granddaughter, gently rocking a slumbering toddler over her shoulder. A grandson-in-law carrying a wee infant with his bride trailing in his wake.

As he wove the story, his old eyes flit over their beloved faces, recognizing features passed down through the generations. Some were his own, some his late wife's and some from friends long gone from this world. These were his family, and to them, he passed the family legacy, the legend of the great Avenger, Jack Daw.

- James -

The masked man rode hard along the narrow track. Thank the Lord, his mount was sure-footed and fast. Exactly what he needed this night. The dampness flooding down his side told him he didn't have much time. His luck had finally run out. This time, he had not escaped the Marquess' men unscathed.

If only he could have gotten closer, he might have obtained the proof that he needed that Marquess Sumter was corrupt, in deep with smugglers, murderers and criminals of every kind. Not only was he swindling the King and dealing in illegal trade. His tainted empire was built on the blood, sweat, and tears of hard-working, innocent people. They slaved away in the fields and in the mines to line his fat pockets. If they were injured or died in the course of their work, they were easily replaced. Labor was cheap and plentiful.

A wave of dizziness suddenly hit, and he slumped forward in the saddle. Numbness was spreading up his legs. He could no longer feel his feet in the stirrups. His strength was fading fast. He had to get to shelter before he collapsed. With this thought in mind, he drew his arms close about his horse's neck and whispered a soft prayer in its ear. The wound was fatal. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. But he couldn't die without ensuring justice was done. He couldn't allow the legend to die with him. But who could be strong enough, clever enough, brave enough to take up the mantle of the Avenger?

If only he had married and had a son to pass the torch to, just as his father had done. But he was not his father and never could be. The one he loved was dead and gone, and his heart had died also. And so he had no son, no family to speak of, except one. Only one surviving family member who could achieve the ultimate goal and continue the quest to triumph over injustice.

With this in mind, he urged his stallion to greater speed and held on for dear life. He must get home. He needed to explain and prayed he would arrive before death claimed him. It was as the church steeple came into view that his strength began to fail him.

He did not even notice the coach and four in the road. He did not hear the driver cursing fluently and loudly as he yanked his teams to the side. He did not see the carriage slide as the wheels lost their purchase. He didn't see the coach tip over into the soft muddy ditch. He barely managed to slow his mount as it rounded the church. He was nearly insensible when strong arms caught him just before the ground rushed up to meet him.

"Jewel." He whispered on a soft exhale, and then he tumbled headlong into darkness.