That night, I greeted Scotland early; the winter sun had barely begun to alight, and the sky was not yet tinged with the deep purples of dusk. It was a rare occurrence that I, the moon, could see the sun. But I was more interested in watching the people. 

I loved watching the sailors, bustling around the tiny port of the Scottish town of Smithton. I loved watching the children, playing in the barn by the hickory trees. I loved watching the lovers meeting secretly in the cove where the waves crash against jagged rocks. But most of all, I loved watching Jean, the boy painting in the backyard of his aunt’s home.

Jean was named after his father, a soldier who died before Jean’s birth. Jean had a mother, too; she intrigued the villagers, who spoke in whispers as she click-clacked down the streets in those faded black boots she loved. People used to joke that she loved those boots more than she loved her own child.

Perhaps they were right, because, when Jean was seven, his mother abandoned him, but not her boots, and Jean went to live with his aunt, Lydia, and Lydia’s husband, Jack.

Smithton, the town Jean came to live in, was rather small, which made Jean’s job easier. Jean helped his Uncle Jack, the local post manager, deliver mail. Because of this, he quickly met everyone in the neighborhood.

Jean knew nobody ever left town, and nobody ever entered. So, on his tenth birthday, Jean was surprised to find a tall man with jet black hair standing on his neighbor’s lawn.

"Hello!" Jean exclaimed cordially, waving with the pile of mail he held in his hand. "Are you a burglar?"

He had always wanted to meet a burglar. The man laughed, and his coat, which was blue with white lining, shook."I prefer to be called Will," the man said. He walked briskly to the fence and shook Jean's hand firmly. “I’m his son,” Will said, gesturing to Jean’s neighbor, Mr. Brown, who was particularly fond of Jean. Mr. Brown frequently gushed to anyone who would listen about his son Will, who was, according to the painter, the bravest man you could ever meet. “Will volunteered to be in the Royal Navy, did you know?” Mr. Brown would always say.

Mr. Brown and I shared something in common. We loved children, and we both loved to listen to the brilliant stories that a child named Ross told to anyone who would listen. I remember one particular storytime when I was full, when the town was hiding from the stars under a thick sheet of gray cloud.

In front of Ross, a rare bird with a thin, unique cry was perched.

The bird was rare, and most of the village children had never seen one. But Ross knew it was a Crossbill, the namesake of the great pirate Captain Crossbill.

Ross grinned as he continued telling Crossbill’s story. “Grown-ups will tell you the captain doesn’t exist. But that’s because, by some miracle, or, as some say, dark magic,” the boy said, wiggling his fingers, “Crossbill has never been caught, only appearing to make outrageous heists. He once stole the crown off of a king's head!

“But that’s not to say Crossbill is completely invisible,” Ross corrected himself. “People notice when he’s gone. He settled down once, and made a home for himself. People knew. Everybody knew. They say the villagers burned his home and he fled. He’s been on the move ever since.”

From the front yard, Uncle Jack gazed thoughtfully at Jean, who was intrigued as Ross detailed Crossbill’s adventures. Jack wondered if he should tell Jean about the letter he’d received. Jean’s mother Annie had written to Lydia. It was the first time she had talked to her family in ten years.

“I want to come visit my son,” she had detailed in her letter. “But I understand that you and Jack can’t house another person. I would stay at the inn.
“If you would like me to come, could you please send me money to pay for the inn? I’ve run into a spot of financial trouble.”

Jack hesitated to tell Jean about the letter. After all, Lydia was furious when she first read it. “To think, my sister who hasn’t spoken to me in ten years,” Aunt Lydia fumed, “writes to me just to ask for money?”

Jack was quick to respond. “I really don’t think—”

“Honestly Jack, what you think doesn’t matter. I’ve known Annie longer, and I know she wants nothing to do with her — with our Jean.”

Jack didn’t tell Jean. Perhaps it was the right choice. Not because Annie didn’t come to Scotland. In fact, to everyone's surprise, Annie did show up, boots and all.

No, perhaps it was right that Jack didn’t tell Jean, because Annie’s visit certainly didn’t help Jean. She had been absent all Jean’s life; she was a sister first and spent most of her days deep in conversation with Lydia.

In fact, Annie’s visit seemed only to make Jean lonelier. He would spend long hours in silence, staring at me from the backyard. That was the night that I greeted Scotland so early. It was lucky that I did so, because a lot would happen that night.

“You were fired?” Lydia was furious, but the real fire would cost her more. “You’re the best post manager the town’s ever seen. Why were you fired?”

“I tried to burn a letter.”

“About what?” Lydia struggled to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

“Crossbill,” Jack explained. “You know, it isn’t a coincidence that Will came to town right when the rumors started circulating.”
“Rumors?”
“Rumors that Crossbill had settled down in Scotland. Will’s in the navy, you know.”
She knew. The whole town knew, Mr. Brown made sure of that. Lydia sighed. “I guess we’ll just have to tighten our belts.”

“Jean! Come here,” Lydia called from the kitchen.

“JEAN!” She yelled again.

“Wait until I find that boy,” she muttered.

She headed for the door, but in that moment, the room grew suddenly hot. Lydia never reached the door, for at that moment they heard a crackle, and, turning, found the kitchen in flames.

Jean, too, saw the fire, and started to run toward the house.

But the neighbor’s son, Will, stopped him.

“It isn’t safe, Jean,” he said. “Let’s go find your mother. The villagers will put out the fire.” The villagers did not put out the fire. In fact, they were the ones who set the fire.

When Will and Jean arrived at the inn, they found it empty.

“Perhaps she went to help,” Jean said, and they went back to the house.

But there was no house to return to: Jack and Lydia’s house, as well as part of the old painter’s house, had burned down. There was also no family to return to. Underneath a pair of old sheets lay Jack and Lydia.

“Don’t be frightened,” Will said to Jean, a few hours later. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll find a way.”

Will negotiated himself and Jean onto the crew of a fishing boat (without much pay, of course). Jean had always wanted to sail, but not like this. Jean had imagined more rowing, less scrubbing, and definitely less vomiting.

He also didn’t imagine Will’s secret assignment. A week ago, the Royal Navy had written Will to let him know that they had found Crossbill’s ship near the port of Smithton. They had asked him to find the ship and sneak onboard.

A week after they joined the crew, Will had wheedled the fishing boat’s captain into sailing right into Crossbill’s path.

“I’m sorry to leave you alone like this,” Will told Jean, “but the Scottish Navy can’t let Crossbill go one more time. He’s humiliated us enough.”
Jean nodded, listening as Will explained his plan.

"I’ll say I’m a pirate who was captured. They’ll ask me about my coat,” he said, gesturing to the brilliant blue coat he had on. “The uniform of a navy officer. I’ll say the navy had been holding me captive on one of their boats, and that I stole an extra uniform in order to go on deck unnoticed. Then, I’ll say the navy boat had stopped this fishing boat to ask for food.

“I’ll tell them I was a stowaway on the fishing boat, and that I had seen their pirate flag and found my way onto their boat.

“In two weeks' time,  I need to get the captain to steer the ship to this location," he said, pointing at a map that he had laid out on the floor. "The Scotland Navy will be waiting for me there."

At daybreak, Crossbill boarded the fishing ship. The pirate crew did a routine robbery of their ship, and they left, with one piece of unwanted cargo.

Will was in the crate for a third of an hour before a woman ripped it open and pulled him out.

“Will?” The woman looked confused. “Why are you here?”

“You’re Jean’s mother, aren’t you? Is that why you were gone from the inn? Did Crossbill capture you?”

“More or less,” Annie explained. “How’s my family?”

“I’m sorry,” Will said, looking down. “They died, in a fire.”

“The villagers,” Annie said, furious. “What about my son?”
“He’s alright,” said Will.

“That fire was meant for me,” Annie said.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she laughed. “Didn’t you ever find it funny that I came to town right when Crossbill’s crew was said to have docked there?”
Annie helped a stunned Will up. “Look at the feather in my hat. See anything special?”
He shook his head, too puzzled for words.

“It’s a crossbill feather,” she explained. “I’m Captain Crossbill.”

“Walk with me,” she said, putting a gun on Will’s back and shoving him through the trapdoor and onto the deck.

“The moon looks so nice,” she sighed. “What a beautiful time to die.”
She shoved the gun further in between Will’s shoulder blades. “Of course, I’ll give you a choice.”

“How about,” she said, from behind him, “instead of bringing me to the navy’s little rendezvous point, you take me to my son?”
Will complied. Crossbill had hurt many people, but Jean deserved to see his mother one last time, before she was arrested, and to learn the truth about her.

I was a crescent when Crossbill’s ship found its way back to the small fishing vessel. When I rose, they were standing in Annie’s ship, and I could tell from Jean’s face that he was utterly betrayed.

“Let’s do this the right way, Jean,” Will said, a hand on Jean’s shoulder.

Jean pushed his arm off. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew all this time who my mother really was, and you never turned her in?”

Will tried to defend himself, but Jean quickly cut him off. “She’s a murderer,” he said, glaring defiantly at Annie. Swiftly, he grabbed a gun from one of Annie’s shelves.

“There’s no need for that,” said Will, alarmed. “Your mother has hurt many people, Jean. She’ll be hanged for her crimes.”

Jean blinked back a tear saltier than sea foam. It made his vision blurry, and the gun in his hand out of focus.

“That’s true,” Jean said. “But she’s the only family I have left.”
Jean pointed the gun at his target and shot.