by Sam Ferguson
Still, he wasn’t entirely looked down upon by all within Cherry Brook. Neither was Rux for that matter. The trapper and his companion pushed their way into Jacop’s General Store. The bell jingled above as the door swung into it. Garrin and Rux moved through the open aisle and made their way to the counter. Jacop sat behind the counter upon a tall, wooden stool, reading a well-worn book with edges rounded from age and yellowed pages. He looked up and beamed widely with his blue eyes from behind his silver-rimmed spectacles, and set the book down carefully upon the counter, placing a length of brown ribbon into it to mark his place.
“Pleasure to see you again, Garrin, and you, Rux,” Jacop said. He bent down and pulled a small bit of dried meat from under the counter and then looked to Garrin for permission.
Garrin nodded and smiled.
“I’m sure she’ll take it,” he said.
Jacop’s smile widened and he leaned over the counter, stretching out his hand and offering the bit of meat. Rux carefully reached up and gently took the treat from Jacop, then curled up on the floor in front of the counter.
“You are the only one she takes food from by hand,” Garrin said.
“Yes, well, I have a way with animals,” Jacop said. “I have had many animal friends in my lifetime, but your split-tails are by far my favorite. Where is Kiska, watching the homestead again?”
Garrin nodded and took a look around the store.
“What can I get for you?” Jacop asked.
Garrin eyed the traps, tools, and various cans of dry goods, but he wasn’t really looking for anything to buy specifically. His silence must have given him away, for Jacop smiled and took his spectacles down to polish them on his shirt.
“You know, you could just ask to call on her,” Jacop offered. “It would be cheaper than buying coffee beans every other day just to catch sight of her.”
Garrin balked and looked curiously at Jacop.
“I could use another can of coffee,” he said, trying to change the subject.
Jacop shook his head. “Unless your split-tails are drinking it with you, I doubt you need another one already.”
Garrin slipped his hand down under his coat and reached for his coin purse. He pulled out a few coins and set them on the table whilst Jacop unceremoniously plopped a can of coffee beans on the counter, eyeing him expectantly.
“Thanks,” Garrin said.
“She’s in the pub,” Jacop called out after Garrin as he headed for the door.
Garrin turned and waved, but Jacop was already pulling his book back up and situating himself on his stool.
Garrin and Rux walked down the road past a few large, skeletal almond trees growing on a hefty mound nestled inside the clear, cackling brook that ran through the town for which the almond blossoms had erroneously provided a name. Garrin’s heavy boots thumped along the wooden bridge as Rux trotted over to the brook and took a few quick laps of water with her tongue.
A middle-aged man carrying an armload of firewood nearly fell all over himself on the bridge as Rux rushed by to catch up with Garrin.
“Nearly gave me a heart attack!” he shouted.
Garrin smiled, but he didn’t offer any apologies. Most of the folk living in Cherry Brook now had moved into the area only two or three years ago. Garrin was one of the few that had been living here for a decade, back when Cherry Brook was first getting started. It was little more than a trapping outpost then. Still, the newcomers always gave the best reactions when Rux or Kiska followed Garrin into town.
A heavy line of smoke wafted out of the dual chimneys at the Sockeye Tavern. It was a beastly log building with a roof that looked as though it belonged on a barn. Pine pitch had been slathered on so thickly between the logs when the tavern was being erected that great gobs of dried, amber-colored tears hung frozen over the logs, forever dripping and never able to reach the ground. A gaudy, wooden sign hung over the door, with silver inlay in the letters that stood over a line of painted, red stones that somewhat resembled a flowing creek running to a large depiction of a cherry tree with a trunk made of amber and blossoms of painted pink and red stones.
When the sign had first been hung, only the finest rubies had been used in shades from dark red to a light pink. That was Mr. Grables’ first mistake when he moved in and built the tavern. The first two times the gems were stolen, Mr. Grables had replaced them with like stones. He had even hired a pair of guards to watch the sign in shifts. After the third theft, Mr. Grables packed it in and left Cherry Brook to return to his life in Richwater, the capitol city, and a massive trading port at that. Jinny Perkins had taken over the pub since then, replacing the stolen gems with painted stones found along the brook. She brought a better charm to the place too, replacing the fine vintage wines with sweet mead and pleasant beer.
Yet, despite the fact that Jinny was a long time resident of Cherry Brook, Rux had to remain outside while Garrin went in. She took up her place around the corner of the building where he knew she would wait patiently until he emerged later that evening.
Entering through the red, painted door, he pulled his hood back and began to unfasten his heavy, outer coat. He pried his left mitten off with his teeth and then removed the right with his hand, tucking them into the coat pockets. He moved to a table in the far corner on the left, slinging his coat over the back of a wooden chair and taking a seat.
At the table next to him, a trio of bearded trappers were playing bones. One of them nodded in Garrin’s direction. Garrin returned the greeting. Before long, Jinny Perkins was making her way toward him, weaving through the tables, holding a pitcher high up over her head and sidestepping quickly when a patron leaned back in his chair suddenly and bumped into her side. Despite her best efforts, a bit of amber colored liquid sloshed out and splatted on the man’s head. He turned, grunting and looking mad as a raccoon caught by the tail, but Jinny wasn’t having any of it.
“Watch yourself, Manks, or next time I’ll poor the whole thing in your lap and charge you to boot!” Jinny swung her hips out to push him back and then kept walking. The others at the table laughed as Manks just shook his head and tried to use a handkerchief as best he could to mop his head.
“Hi Jinny,” Garrin said with a smile.
“Mead, Garrin?” she asked as she set a mug down on the table and began to pour before Garrin nodded his head. “Supper too?”
“What’s on for tonight?” Garrin asked.
“Mutton stew.”
Garrin smiled politely and nodded, though he had to wonder if there was ever anything else on the menu. It had been mutton stew the last few times he had come in for dinner. The flavor was nothing to complain about, but the sheep that lived up in Cherry Brook were tough as mountain goats, and that hardiness transferred into the meat and became more of a chore than a pleasant meal no matter how long the stew was in the pot.
“I’ll fetch you a bowl,” Jinny said.
Garrin eyed the room, recognizing almost every face in the pub that night. Mayor Krooks was standing near one of the fireplaces, sucking on a pipe and speaking with Hendo and Paen, two of the three council members. Farmer Grill and his older sons were all seated at a table, busily engaged with a game of cards. Old Mr. Burtle, who was at least in his seventieth year and barely had any of his white hair left atop his liver-spotted head, was nursing a drink at the bar and doing his best to flirt with Jinny every chance he got. Jinny was pretending not to notice as she went about her work. Her husband, on the other hand, was quick to refill Mr. Burtle’s tankard any time he tried to open his mouth and speak to Jinny. If there was one thing Mr. Burtle was good at besides flirting, it was drinking, and he always tipped generously.
Jinny made her way back to Garrin’s table with the stew and set it down in front of him. Garrin slapped a few coins onto the table and then pulled a long, cylindrical canister up from a belt around his waist. He placed the canister onto the table and looked up to Jinny.
“Perhaps some bread as well?” he asked.
Jinny nodded, glanced to his cylinder, and then shook her head, muttering something about crazy trappers. Garrin smiled and looked down to the red and black canister.
“Now, don’t go anywhere,” he told it. One of the trappers at the adjacent table scrunched up his eyebrows, looking between Garrin and the canister, puzzled as to why Garrin might be talking to it. Garrin offered only a wink, and then took his first spoonful of stew. The food had a rich, earthy flavor to it. Onions, potatoes, and garlic swirled around the hunks of brown, thick meat in the reddish stew that was chocked full of peppers and chili powder. He swallowed the first bite and then took a drink of his mead as his eyes wandered out over the room once more.
That’s when he saw her.
Belinda Graye, a woman in her thirties who had moved to Cherry Brook only the summer before. She wasn’t like the other newcomers. She took to the hard lifestyle with a smile and a brightness that was almost impossible to look away from. She wasn’t built terribly stocky, as some of the women in the mountain villages could be, but she was not frail either. She wore dresses with colors and designs usually only found in the cities, but she was just as able to put her hands to an axe or any other tool commonly found in Cherry Brook. She was a rose growing among weeds on the mountainside, and she was the only woman that had managed to catch Garrin’s eye.
At the moment, she was laughing, tugging at the curled lock of reddish-brown hair that fell over her left cheek. Brent Smygl was with her. Brent was something of a notorious bachelor, or at least he passed for one in Cherry Brook, though it was doubtful any women back in Richwater would have looked at him twice. Brent, a handsome, dark-haired man in his late twenties, had spent some time in one of the fancy colleges in one of the southern cities, though Garrin couldn’t recall exactly which one. He had studied the history of magic, and now he used that knowledge to regale any woman willing to listen to him for longer than two minutes. Brent was the only man in all of Cherry Brook who could discuss such things, as all the other men here were either trappers, farmers, woodsmen, or back country traders.
Next to Brent was William Figg, a young widower who ran the lumber mill on the east side of town. What William lacked in knowledge, he made up for in wealth. He was by far the richest man in Cherry Brook, and any of the nearby villages for fifty miles in any direction. Next to either of them, Garrin knew he would not likely stand out to Belinda. Still, he liked to think it could be possible.
As he watched the three of them, Brent moved and whispered to a long-haired gentleman. A moment later, the gentleman pulled a fiddle and began playing. A space was cleared and Brent took Belinda’s hand and walked her out to the center of the clearing. The two of them began dancing a minuet that obviously had its origins in the larger cities. Garrin grinned as he saw the frustration on William Figg’s face. The widower had been out-foxed, and now Brent had Belinda all to himself.
Garrin imagined what Brent’s face would look like if he were to get up and dance with Belinda. He had learned a couple of dances himself, though none of them quite as refined as what Brent and Belinda were doing now.
Garrin’s training came not from any city college, but from a few of the villages and camps he had stayed in during his time in the Frontier Legion. He smiled faintly as he remembered a young, black haired woman who had first taught him to dance. The legion had camped with a nomadic tribe. They spent a week dancing and feasting by firelight. It was one of the few times Garrin had enjoyed his military service. He had hated everything else about the wars and the politics that sent him and the others into the teeth of death.
The trapper wiped his mouth and took courage. If he had lived through ten years on the frontier, he could easily cut in and dance with Belinda. In his mind, he could hear the cheers and hollers that would erupt if he managed to steal Belinda away from Cherry Brook’s most eligible bachelor.
He stood and moved toward the gathering crowd. He gently pushed his way through. His heart pounded in his chest. The music grew louder in his ears, filling him with confidence. He would dance with Belinda the way he had with the black-haired woman.
Brent spun Belinda around and then dipped her slightly. Her eyes caught Garrin’s and the trapper froze. His confident smile vanished as she flashed a bright grin at him. He turned and quickly walked away, heart now beating faster than ever.
Once again, the mighty veteran was defeated by the radiant Belinda Graye.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Garrin whispered to himself. He opened the canister on his table and stuffed the bread inside. “Don’t eat this all at once,” he instructed the canister.
The trappers at the table adjacent were all staring at him now. Garrin knew they likely were still confused by him talking to the cylinder, but now their judging eyes seemed to mock his bashfulness as well. He took another mouthful of stew and then gathered his heavy coat and began the journey home.
Chapter 2
“Time to go,” William Stenton said authoritatively as he kicked the young teenager tucked into a bedroll next to the dying camp fire. “Come on, hurry it up.”
“I’m tired,” the teenager said groggily.
William arched a brow and reached down to rip the covers off.
“Up! Now, Richard!”
“I hate it when you call me that,” Richard said. He pushed up and rubbed his shoulders.
“Mind your tongue,” William said. “I’ve already packed the camp, just get your bedding put away and let’s go.”
“I’m hungry,” Richard complained.
“You can eat on the road, now move.” William kicked dirt over the fire and used a long limb to push the remnants of last night’s logs apart. The fire wasn’t entirely out when he roughly helped Richard onto the second horse, but he doubted whether the fire would spread through a wintry forest anyway. Even if it would, the two of them needed to get moving.
The bright sun was peaking over the mountains to the east and casting its golden rays down upon the frosty forest, but little warmth came with the light. William’s bones ached from the night spent in the open cold. He should have prepared better. Then again, he hoped to be able to find a guide in the next village. He hadn’t found anyone willing to help them in the last two towns, but Cherry Brook was a bit larger, and boasted more rugged folk.
Surely he could find someone there who could help.
“I’m out of food,” Richard announced from atop his horse.
William eyed the small burlap sack in the teenager’s hands and nodded. Richard looked to him with his green eyes, a rare color in these parts of the world, and an expression that said his stomach was killing him.
“We’re almost to the next town. We can resupply there,” William said confidently. In his mind, he was cursing himself. He most definitely should have prepared better for this trip.
Then again, nothing had gone according to plan.
Kidnapping was never a simple game to play.
Richard and William prodded their horses along the snowy, uphill road winding through the trees. They rode in a line, keeping their horses in the narrow tract of dirt where the snow had been worn away by traffic. William kept a constant vigil as they rode. He was almost certain no one in the previous towns had recognized them, but there was always a chance that they were being followed. If he was caught…
William pushed the thought from his mind. Being aware of his surroundings was good, but worrying needlessly about events he couldn’t control did little more than give him heartburn.
They rode for nearly three hours before they came to a small wooden sign staked to the side of the road. Black painted letters spelled out “Cherry Brook” above a founding date that was now illegible. William sighed with relief as he saw the open gates nestled securely within a wooden palisade. His feelings soon turned to dissatisfaction, however, when they rode through the gate and he realized that the “palisade” was nothing more than a long fence that stretched out from either side of the gate and then ended in trees just beyond the buildings. Cherry Brook had
no fence or wall encompassing the town securely. William grunted and kicked his horse into a trot to ride up alongside Richard.
“Remember, keep your mouth shut and let me do all the talking, understand?”
Richard nodded. “Can we at least buy some food first?”
William shook his head. “Patience is a virtue,” William said sternly. “Over here.” William led the two of them out on a town road that led out to the east of Cherry Brook. They crossed over a large bridge spanning a creek, and continued on toward a large mill at the eastern edge of town.
A great waterwheel spun smoothly, water spilling and splashing as the wheel churned.
William and Richard approached the mill and William dismounted, leaving his horse to nibble at the few bits of grass it could find under the snow. He walked around toward a large cart of logs stationed at the base of a long ramp that led up to the sawing track.
A tall man with black hair and a tidy mustache came around the cart just as William did and the two nearly bumped into each other. William’s hand went down toward his belt, but the tall, mustachioed man smiled and put his hands up in the air.
“Sorry, friend, didn’t see you there. What can I do for you?”
William’s muscles relaxed and he took in a calming breath.
“Do you run the mill?”
The man shook his head. “No, I’m Finley, I run the carts. If you want the boss, Mr. Figg is up near the saw. I just brought this load in and he is preparing the saw.”
William nodded and walked up the well-worn ramp. He saw a large, wide-shouldered man with a small can of oil near an assembly of chains and cogs. The man caught sight of William and set the can down, pulling a pair of leather gloves off his hands as he came out to greet William.
“What can I do for you, stranger?” the man asked.
“You run the mill?” William asked.
The large man nodded. “That I do. You need logs?”
