There was another bang from the top of the cliff, and another hole appeared in the side of the Argentine helicopter. Oil spurted from this wound like dark blood. Pushed by the rotor wash, the vital oil ran in streaks down the side of the engine cowling. More red lights flashed on the Huey’s cockpit panels. The men who pulled its strings knew when to save themselves; when enough was enough. The Argentine helicopter banked and raced off along the cliff. As it retreated over the black sea and above the din of waves and the whip of wind, Albert heard a scream of victory. The voice that delivered it was of a higher pitch. It belonged to a woman. When the gusts subsided for a moment, Albert heard the voice again.
“You can come out now,” she shouted.
Wiggling his jammed ankle free, Albert crawled from his hide. He moved out on a small ledge and saw the silhouette of his savior. She was petite and had long hair that tossed about in the air that rushed up the cliff. The curls shifted left and then right as the breeze changed direction. Her rifle — a .303 British by the look of it — was almost as long as she was tall. Holstering his sidearm and slinging his rucksack over his shoulder, Albert began the climb to meet his savior. He pulled himself over the cliff’s lip and stood up straight before her.
“Aethelinda Jones. You can call me Linda,” she said. Then Linda squinted. Her flashlight blinded Albert as it moved about his face. It paused at his eyes and mouth. Both had a shape she recognized. “Do I know you?” she questioned, but she already knew the answer. Then her mouth opened in amazement. “My Goodness,” she said, shocked. She knelt.
“Please,” Albert pleaded. He took her hand and tugged her back up.
“Were…were you in that helicopter that went down?” she stuttered. Albert caught a glimpse of Linda’s freckled pale skin and big green eyes in the flickering flashlight.
“Yes,” Albert said. “I think we should turn this off for now.” He felt her shaking hand and clicked off the flashlight. “Thank you. You saved my life. You could have been killed, you know?” he said.
Linda shrugged.
Albert looked out to the water and the silhouette of the retreating helicopter. He was thankful they had ceased firing on a woman, even one blasting away with a big bore hunting rifle. Albert touched her gun’s long, blued barrel, and admitted: “Nice.”
“I have had it since I was a little girl. My father taught me to shoot as soon as I was strong enough. You must be hungry. And tired. Come. Let’s go,” Linda Jones insisted.
At the small family farm, the sheep enjoyed more living space than the people did. Albert saw a cottage that beckoned with a rope of smoke, rising from its chimney pipe, but the weathered barn was at least three times its size. The cottage had smallish windows that glowed yellow and warm, and a moss-covered stone roof that would keep those within dry and cozy. Albert and Linda walked along a mud path by a short stone wall. They passed the barn and the sheep that bleated within.
They rounded a hillock blanketed by a fragrant flowerbed. Like the flowers, the cottage’s walls seemed to sprout from the very earth; growing as living rock reaching up for the stars. They moved on to the cottage’s heavy oaken door and the heavy wrought-iron knocker that hung at its center. The door flew open. Albert flinched, and his hand instinctively went to the butt of his holstered pistol. However, when he saw the old man with the shotgun, he managed to stay his hand. The old man inquired gruffly, “Who goes there?”
“Easy, Dad. We have a special guest,” Linda proclaimed. A herding dog — marbled black and white — ran from the house, barking wildly at Albert.
“Eight ball…” Hearing Linda say his name, the dog stopped barking, flapped his tongue out, and panted with a seeming smile. Then, with a halo of light about her, a little girl stepped into the cottage’s doorframe. She clung shyly to her grandfather’s leg. Albert froze. He shifted his weight as he examined the familiar vision. His feet seemed caught in the suction of the muddy ground. I know you, he thought. He had seen this little one before. The scene had been a vague fleeting image that hid in the folds of his memory. But now it had suddenly sprung to his conscious mind like a bolt of electricity.
“Hello,” the child whispered shyly.
“Prince Albert, this is Anne, my daughter,” Linda said. “And this is my father, Henry.
“Prince?” Henry questioned. “Yeah. And I’m the bleeding Pope.”
“Dad, try not to be so rude always.” She turned back to Albert and her face softened. Then back to her daughter and father. “Anne. Father. This is Prince Albert.” Linda performed an exaggerated curtsy with a crooked smile upon her face. Anne batted her eyes and blushed.
Linda recognized her daughter’s instant fondness. The glow in her daughter’s eyes spoke of the tales of knights, towers, and dragons. It was, after all, not every day that a sheep shearer’s daughter met a real live Prince.
“How do you do?” Albert greeted the old man. Then he crouched and looked at the little girl who squirmed at her grandfather’s side. “Good evening, Lady Anne,” Albert said to Anne.
“Please, Prince Albert, do come in,” Linda signaled.
“Albert. Please, just call me Albert.”
“Albert,” Linda giggled as if the privilege of familiarity tickled her. “Please,” she added, and gestured for the open door. “Dad.” Linda’s bossy tone got her father to lower the twin barrels of his shotgun. This petite farm girl was obviously in charge.
Albert entered the small cottage, feeling like he had travelled to some parallel universe. The cottage was far more spacious than its modest exterior had implied, and, he saw, the decorations were traditional English. The first thing he noticed was the hutch that displayed blue and white plates. Although not the finest of China, each plate, nevertheless, showed off attractions of Great Britain.
The images were a tourist’s menagerie; A mail-order variety of places. Each reminded someone of the place where they belonged. A place beyond sheep pastures, endless empty grasslands, and cold unforgiving seas. Albert took in the collection: There was the Iron Bridge of Shropshire, Hadrian’s Wall, Stonehenge, Kings College, and the Blackpool Tower. Finally, on an oval serving plate, framed by three panels, were Buckingham Palace, Balmoral, and Windsor Castles. Albert grinned and looked over the furniture.
The chairs and sofa, all shrouded by blankets, were brightly-colored and hand-knitted with local wool. They likely hid the furniture’s tatters and holes that came from years of comfortable use. One of the chairs was draped in a grey and white blanket. However, this particular blanket opened one yellow eye, and turned out to be a very fat, very old cat named Grey Bear. Awakened, Grey Bear gave a quivered stretch. With half-closed eyes, he ‘sussed up’ Albert, and decided it was not worth moving. He circled in place and collapsed again. Absorbing heat from the small fireplace, Grey Bear drifted off to sleep again. Albert smiled and continued to look around.
The sitting room’s wallpaper was faded and busy, and most of the paintings that hung there could have been done by the numbers. Albert rubbed his eyes. Then he spotted one piece in the collection that caught his interest. It had sail boats moored off a grass marsh, and, on a beach, a couple shared a picnic beneath an umbrella as a child made castles in the sand. Albert leaned in to get a closer look. He saw from the signature that Linda was the artist.
“This is quite good,” he said. “I can see you’re a fan of impressionism.”
Linda smiled gratefully. Had she been born elsewhere — away from the farm, perhaps in a city like London — Linda would have been an artist. Her attic was crammed full of pieces she felt unworthy of display. Although many were gems that could populate an exhibit, they had long been banished to collect dust and cobwebs, reminders of a life that could have been, but never came to be. Linda looked to her dry callused hands, and thought: Not the hands of a painter. Albert rubbed his tired itchy eyes again.