“A trio of bald-as-the-sun Luddites entered Yora’s shop this morning. Wanted to ask her if she’d heard anything about a cache of first-age books and scrolls.”
“A good guess,” the second woman said, sipping at her drink. “Yora is a scribe for Imuny’s wealthiest. If anyone would know about it, she would.”
“Shh,” the first woman hissed. “Don’t say that out loud. Bad enough we have to deal with Luddite harassment about this. Last thing I need is a Silentorian showing up to torture information out of him.”
“It’s okay. It’s just me. Plus, it’s crowded. No one is listening.”
“Between those two groups, I don’t know who listens more,” she said. “Just be mindful of what you say. I don’t want either of them knocking on our door.”
◆◆◆
People continued filling into the inn’s dining hall. It brimmed to the point that standing room became scarce. Gnochi put down his empty cup of tea and was about to begin when he heard a loud crash of pewter plates and cutlery against the hardwood floor. A scream echoed the crash, the voice obviously young and feminine. Scanning the room, Gnochi spotted its source, Cleo.
A sailor’s meaty hand gripped her small wrist as though he meant to snap it. She cried out for help as she apologized.
Before he could even contemplate his own actions, Gnochi had removed his hat, perching it on the neck of his chair. He then set his guitar down and leapt off the stage over a table and the three patrons sitting around it. As he pushed through the tight crowd, he glanced the inn mistress making her way over, but neither arrived before the sailor acted, pushing Cleo toward a nearby table, toppling it over and sending the drinks flying. Something in Gnochi’s mind flicked off as he barreled through the crowd.
As Gnochi closed the distance between himself and the raging sailor, he heard someone shout: “Ease up, Rook, that’s enough.”
The sailor, Rook, looked up as Gnochi slid to a halt not five feet in front of the spill. The already crowded hall created a bubble of space around Gnochi, Rook, and Cleo.
“Come to be the knight in shining armor, Jester?”
“You’re a lowly pot-valiant,” Gnochi said. “So, let’s take this outside, lest you vomit on the floor.”
“I knew you were going to be my entertainment tonight. I didn’t think I’d have to maul you to get it.” The brawny sailor backed out the entrance to the inn, keeping his eyes locked on Gnochi’s.
“Keep talking, Rook. We’ll see who’s standing in the end.” Gnochi charged out of the inn running towards Rook, though he failed to forsee Rook raising his knee up in a first strike.
Gnochi doubled over, the wind fleeing his chest. As he backed up, supporting his lungs in their plight to regain lost air, he experienced a moment of clarity where he questioned why he had signed up for a brawl. He grimaced, thinking of the sword and his other weapons that sat under a foot of dirt nigh a mile outside of the city. But he knew that the guards would have confiscated them upon his entering. Plus, a complete search may have netted them the blade that Gnochi had smuggled in that now rested in the hollow of his guitar. He looked up to see the sailor sneering at him. Some from the crowd encircled the pair with other passersby stopping to watch the show. “Haven’t got all night,” Gnochi grunted, hoping to stoke the sailor’s rage. He panted, “I’ve got a crowd to please.”
Gnochi’s plan to aggravate the sailor worked. He leaned over and limped a few paces away, clutching his stomach. Rook charged at Gnochi, who, at the last possible second, jumped to the side and jeered: “Toro! Toro!”
“What are you saying, you crazy old man?” Rook bellowed as he stopped and turned for another pass.
“I’m noting how uncultured a swine you are.”
Rook’s face reddened and he charged again. This time he slowed the instant before he reached Gnochi in an effort to catch the feint.
Seeing the hesitation, Gnochi fell to the wet cobblestone streets and stuck his legs out to trip the bull-headed sailor. Rook tumbled into a puddle of mud on the street. Playing to the crowd that had grouped around them, Gnochi turned to his fallen opponent and jeered. “My lad, leave. I don’t want to have to embarrass you any more than I have.”
Rook pried a loose cobble from the street and chucked it at Gnochi’s head.
Despite stepping out of the way, a rough edge of the rock managed to nick his temple. The cut trickled blood through the dark stubble on his chin and dripped onto the poncho, which he reflexively pulled from his head and handed to one of the spectating patrons.
“You’re dead, entertainer.” Rook surged forward again.
Gnochi also charged forward. He stopped before the two would clash, which surprised the sailor. Rook faltered, giving Gnochi enough time to land one swift punch to the sailor’s nose. Blood sprouted immediately.
Rook’s mind folded in on itself; he flopped to the ground, unconscious.
“He is going to have one helluva headache when he wakes up. Best not to be around when that happens.” Gnochi prodded the nick on his temple. It pulsated in a stinging pain, but the blood had clotted. He accepted his poncho back from the crowd and headed inside, realizing that he would have to leave earlier than he had originally thought.
Gnochi noticed that the staff had picked up the tables and were cleaning the floors when he came back in. He spotted Mirage at the bar. She gave him a nod at a job well done as she sipped her steaming ale. The inn mistress came out bearing fresh drinks replacing those that had tipped over during the scuffle. “Since when do you fight for your crowds, Gleeman?” The mistress asked.
“I’m not sure what came over me,” he admitted. Glancing around, he did not see Cleo, so he asked the mistress, “How is she?”
“I put her to bed. She’s got some bad bruises but nothing’s broken, thankfully.”
“Good to hear,” Gnochi said. “But you folks didn’t come here to watch me beat up a drunkard did you?” A chorus of ‘no’ echoed through the hall. “Okay, good. Now before any of you decide to pick a fight, I’ll begin,” Gnochi said, mounting his stage and hunkering onto a stool. Strumming a low chord, he dove into his story.
Chapter 5
Julia and the Fox
“I’m telling ya, Jethro! This trap’s got potential. Spent damn near a fortune on some special poison from that creepy witch, Mel. She assured me that it’s a pure-grade opiate poison. Same stuff that the migrants brought inta town with ‘em when they were working on the railroad. ‘Cept it’s tweaked a bit for our purposes.” Looking up from his crudely drawn map, Cliff noticed Jethro solemnly nod his head and scan the trees as if he anticipated ambush. “It’s not much further along the creek here.” Smiling, Cliff added, “I set the trap up right under this tree that looks like a lady’s backside.” Cliff caught Jethro rolling his eyes. The two young boys continued their arduous trek through the mud. “Jeth, make sure your gun’s loaded and ready. Reckon I won’t have time to unsling and load my rifle if we trapped us a cranky grizzly.”
The boys inched along the creek until Cliff slammed his dirty palm into Jethro’s torn jacket. “Wait!” Cliff hissed. “You smell that?” Cliff inquired without expecting an answer. Crouching, he stuck his finger deep into a wet puddle and swirled it in the mud. Examining his muddy finger, Cliff inhaled the aroma and proceeded to stick his finger into his mouth. He then immediately pulled it out and spat out a dollop of mud and saliva. “Shit. That’s what that is. Probably deer shit. Quick Jeth, the trap is just on the other side of this hill. I betcha my first chest hair that I got me a nice buck. Maybe a meaty whistlepig. Be ready on that trigger, the poison’s not lethal.”
Cliff and Jethro sprinted up to the top of the hill kicking down stones and leaves. Cresting the hill and holding their hats against the morning sun, the boys squinted to see the distant trap. Cliff watched Jethro survey the valley below, pistol cocked, fingers itching. Jethro edged down the hill jumping from boulder to upturned tree branch with the grace of a hare as Cliff, with a little less patie
nce and finesse, ran down the hill shouting swears and cries of disbelief.
“Ahhh what’n the Hell!” Cliff shouted as he slid on his overalls three feet before the trap, entombing his knees in two cold muddy trenches. “No! No! Nooo!” Jethro approached. A bold smile adorned his face as he stood over his friend’s shoulder, studying the snare trap. “There’s Goddamn blood on here.” Cliff dragged his finger along the jagged edge of the trap, then, licking his finger, spat with disgust. “Poison’s still on there, but not as strong. We definitely got something. But where the fuck it is, I don’t know. Look, there’s a tuft of hair here in the mud. Looks like it’s red, but Hell, it could’ve been white for all I know, caked in mud.”
Having calmed down, Cliff picked himself up, scraped off the excess mud from his overalls and looked to Jethro whose rare smile still decorated his rough face. “I reckon we had better be heading home. We’re already gunna be late for lunch. Don’t want to make my Granz angry.” Cliff looked to his friend for acknowledgment and, in finding Jethro beaming brighter than the noonday sun, he blushed, then said, “Hey, just because you ain’t blood don’t mean you’d escape the switch, so don’t give me none of that bootlicking crap. And by the way: I haven’t lost this bet yet so don’t be jumping on any scissors when we get in.”
Cliff and Jethro approached the quaint cabin just past noon. It was unseasonably hot for a fall day, and as such, the two boys were drenched in sweat by the time they climbed the rickety porch steps.
Attempting to sneak in through the back, they undid their boots and were tiptoeing inside when they heard Cliff’s grandmother yell: “Clifford! Don’t you bring your dirty boots and clothes in here and muddle up the house after I just spent all morning cleaning! Not to mention that Ms. Peggy’ll be here this evening for lessons with Julia. Your chow’ll be here when you tidy up. Now git!”
Cliff turned to Jethro who suppressed a grin with his dirty hand. “Yes’um, Granz.” Pausing, Cliff continued, “Wash basin’s only big enough for one set of overalls. Reckon you’d better head on back to the creek to wash yours.” Cliff’s smile budded as Jethro retreated into the woods once again. Stripping down to his drawers, and leaning his rifle against the banister, Cliff began washing his muddy overalls in the washbasin on the porch. He sloshed the water around and spun the water in circles creating a whirlpool.
“Clifford!” yelled the grandmother from within the house, making Cliff jump. “You’d best be washing those clothes and not just splashing water!”
“I am, Granz!” Cliff whined. With a renewed, fear-driven vigor and extra elbow grease, Cliff scrubbed the muddy stains from his overalls. Spotting something in the water, Cliff fished with his finger and hooked a tuft of red hair. Puzzled, he yelled out to the house: “Julia! Did you go and wash one of your dolls in the basin again? There’s red hair in the water.”
After a moment’s pause, a small girl emerged from the house looking nervous. Clutched tightly to her chest was a book decorated with mythological beings and heroes. Smoothing her simple tan dress, she asked “What, Cliff?”
Looking up from his chore, red in the face, Cliff asked, “Girl! Ain’t you got ears that hear and a brain that thinks? I asked you if you gone and washed your doll in the water. You know you ain’t allowed to do that ‘cause the hair clogs up the washboard.”
“Sorry. I forgot. Won’t happen again, Cliff. I promise,” Julia responded as she ran back inside.
Cliff heard her door close shut. “What in the Hell was the point in sending her to that school if she ain’t learned nothing? ‘Cept maybe how ta be a Yankee,” Cliff huffed to himself as he finished washing his overalls and hung them on the clothesline. He spotted Jethro walking back up to the farmhouse and Cliff waved him over. The two boys entered the house, wearing nothing but their underwear. “Thanks for the chow, Granz Looks delightful.” Cliff said as they sat down at the worn table.
Jethro nodded his head in approval when the grandmother entered the kitchen decked to the nines. Her dress, decorated with sunflowers, struggled to hold in her massive girth. A parasol that might have been big enough to shade her face alone, twirled in between her pudgy fingers.
“I’m off to a wedding outta town. Won’t be back until the morn. Clifford, you take care of your sister now! And Jethro, you take care of Clifford. You might not be family, but I’ll put a hurtin’ on you if Clifford gets inta trouble. And boys,” the grandmother continued as she looked them over. “Get some clothes on. Don’t y’all know what time of the year it is?”
The boys, busy cooling the hellish slurry with their breath, both nodded and waved her out. A carriage was waiting in front of the house. They chuckled as Cliff’s grandmother squeezed onto the carriage.
Without paying attention, Cliff, feeling for his spoon on the table, knocked his hand against the piping hot bowl of gravy which bathed his hand in a wave of hellish slurry. Cliff released a shriek of pain. Jethro lunged across the room to grab the tin that housed the bandage roll and the antiseptic cream, but he turned back to Cliff, motioning an empty tin.
“Julia! Where’s the antiseptic and bandages?”
“One moment please,” came Julia’s quiet response from elsewhere in the house.
“No problem, I’m not in pain over here.” Cliff sat, clutching his burnt palm to his bare chest.
◆◆◆
Julia opened and closed her door, running to give Jethro the bandages and cream.
Turning back, she froze in the middle of the hallway when Cliff inquired, “What’re you doing in there with the bandages and such anyway?”
A bead of sweat inched down her forehead. Two small hands gripped her dress, wrinkling the soft cotton. Her knuckles, white from tension. “I was just fixin’ up my doll. You see, it got hurt from the washboard.” Julia inched along the dark hallway to her room, fearful of further interrogation. She eased the door shut and leaned against it, letting out a small sigh of relief.
◆◆◆
Cliff winced as Jethro applied the cream and wrapped the bandage around his hand. He noticed a deep red stain at the torn edge of the bandage. He furrowed his brows and shot a nasty look down the hall at his sister’s room.
“What the Hell is that demon up to?” Cliff whispered softly as he beckoned Jethro to follow him. They padded along the creaky floorboards in the hallway. Nailed to her door were cut out pictures from the book she had been attached to and a photograph of their family from many years ago. In the picture, their father was a prim statue in his uniform and their mother was blurred—moving to stop young Cliff from picking up something off the ground while still coddling baby Julia in one arm.
Cliff barged into Julia’s room and his mouth dropped. There, sprawled out on Julia’s bed was a limp fox.
◆◆◆
Julia jumped at the sudden entrance of her brother and Jethro. With a gasp, she picked up the fox and clutched it to her chest. “What’re you doing in here?”
“What in the Hell are you doing with that—what is that a fox? Is it dead? Why ain’t it moving at all?” Cliff asked.
“This ain’t just a fox. This here is Achilles. Hero of—”
Cliff interrupted her with a slight slap to the face. She rubbed her cheek with her hand, tears welling in her eyes.
“It ain’t no hero from your heathen text. It is a dirty, wild animal, and you should know better. Granz’ll skin you when she gets home.” Cliff ran his hands through his hair and wiped his brow with his dirty forearm. Looking up, he asked, “God, why didn’t you protect this girl from taint?” He massaged his temples and looked to Jethro who shook his head. “Jeth, gimme your Smith N’ Wesson. It’s probably got rabies or something. That’s gotta be why it ain’t moving.”
“No!” Julia said, standing quickly. “Uhmm, I mean, it ain’t frothing at the mouth or nothing and it’s got no bite marks either, just a little cut that I bandaged up, see?” She peeled back the wrap and pointed out the small cut on the fox’s leg.
Cliff moved in to ex
amine the cut. He rubbed the cut with his finger and then smelled it. “You little devil!” He said, grabbing her cheeks between his hand. “I know this smell. That’s my opiate poison. Lucky monster musta scraped his leg up against my snare.” Cliff motioned for Jethro to smell the wound, and he nodded in confirmation.
“That’s probably just the antiseptic you’re smelling. I did rub a lot of it on the cut. Wanted Achilles to feel better, ya know?”
“You bring that mongrel out inta the kitchen. I know how to tell for sure.”
Julia relented, picked up the limp animal, and joined the two boys in the long march down the hallway. She set the limp fox down on the floor.
Jethro sat rocking in a frail chair, dissecting his pistol, and pretending to be engrossed.
Cliff returned from the porch after putting on his overalls again. “What I got here,” Cliff said, “are two eucalyptus leaves. See, when I bought this poison from that crazy witch, she gave me a few of these leaves. Just in case. And I know this smell. It’s strong as Hell. This’ll wake the beast up if the thing truly is asleep ’cause of the poison. If it don’t wake up, Jeth over there’s gunna take it out back and shoot it before it starts foaming and biting. Got it?”
Jethro perked his head at his mention.
“Yeah.” Julia resigned.
Cliff stuffed one leaf into each of the fox’s nostrils. In a moment, the fox opened its eyes and its breathing became more pronounced.
“Oh, thank Heavens!” Julia shouted. She grabbed the dazed fox and danced with it in the kitchen. Cliff, boiling in his overalls, took a deep breath, grabbed Julia by the shoulders, halting her celebration.
“You best be praying to the Heavens to accept your penance ‘cause you sinned me, girl. That fox is mine, my hunt, my poison, and it’ll be my dinner. You stole it.” Cliff puffed out his chest as he confiscated the fox and held it out of Julia’s reach as she jumped to grab it.
Gleeman's Tales Page 4
