by Ron Sexsmith
Tressa could best be described as kindness in human form. She was naturally pretty, though plain, for her beauty was of the kind that rose from within and shone outward through her eyes. For nearly sixteen years now she’ d served as both friend and mother figure to Claira while being an enormous help to Magnus in all aspects of domesticity short of being his wife. Time, it seemed, had truly healed all wounds, while in the process somehow managing to extract the sadness from yesteryear, making it almost seem a pleasant memory. Well, almost.…
On this golden autumn day there was much activity as the Hinterlunds prepared for their weekly jaunt into town to buy groceries and other household necessities. Claira very much looked forward to this day, for it often meant stopping by the bakery on their way home to pick up fresh pastries and biscuits. It also meant a change of scene from life in the country, which, as charming as it may very well be, could get a bit dreary at times, let’s not kid ourselves. Even Magnus looked forward to it in his own way. He loved getting the horse and wagon ready and didn’t much seem to mind donning his less comfortable “city clothes” for the day. As for Tressa, well, she just loved to sit up front with him, for he always looked so handsome, and although he wasn’t much of a talker, he was certainly a most excellent listener!
It had rained hard the night before, and so on the road that morning everything seemed new and quite literally dripping with promise. And Tressa, who was in an especially chatty mood, practically overflowed with details of a strange dream involving a hat full of ravens and an enormous tree. Not that anybody minded, for her voice was in no way an unpleasant thing to hear.
Well, it was in the midst of these very dream details when Magnus, who, as always, was half listening (and nodding his head even when he wasn’t), noticed a small figure approaching near the Hinthoven sign at the outskirts of town. Why, if it wasn’t our very own Deryn Hedlight, rifle in hand and pulling a makeshift cart behind him! “Good morning!” he exclaimed while cheerfully hoisting his gun into the air.
“Good morning to you,” replied Magnus with a tight-lipped grin. “You’re Pearson Hedlight’s boy, aren’t you? Deryn, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, smiling proudly at Mr. Hinterlund, then shyly at Claira.
“Did your father make that for you?” asked Tressa, now pointing at the rustic cart.
“Yes, ma’am, well, actually, no. I mean, he made it for himself, truthfully,” he explained and set about shrugging his shoulders and puffing his cheeks awkwardly.
“Why, it’s lovely,” said Tressa, smiling. Claira was smiling, too!
“My father died a year ago yesterday,” he added while looking at the road and thinking it sounded much happier than he’ d intended.
“Yes, we know,” Magnus sighed solemnly before continuing brightly. “I knew your father, he was a genuinely kind and decent man, and well, we’re all very sorry for your loss.”
“It’s kind of you to say so,” said Deryn with equal parts pride and sadness.
After which an uncomfortable silence ensued until Tressa wisely changed the subject. “I believe you’ve met Claira before?” she enthused, recognizing a boyhood crush when she saw one.
“Why, yes, ma’am, although I doubt that she would re —”
“Of course I remember you, silly,” interrupted Claira. “You worked at the fruit stand beside the butcher shop, remember? And I would always come in to buy a basket of —”
“Pears!” Deryn interjected with his brightest smile to date. “I’m honoured, I mean, it’s an honour to be remembered, um, by you,” he said and followed it up with more fidgeting and awkward cheek-puffing.
But Claira, who was gaining an enormous amount of pleasure out of his discomfort, simply laughed and said, “Silly boy!”
Even Deryn couldn’t help but laugh in spite of himself. And as their eyes met on that freshly painted morning, he could’ve sworn he heard a small voice inside say, She’s absolutely lovely. The next voice he heard, however, was that of the not quite as lovely Mr. Hinterlund.
“Well, young man, I s’pose we should be on our way,” he said while exhibiting the same tight-lipped grin as before. “But we wish you all the luck in the world and look forward to seeing you again in the not too distant future,” and gave his head a slight bow, though his face was now obscured by the sun in Deryn’s eyes. And so, with a tip of his hat and a flick of the reins, they were off down the bright road toward town. Deryn watched them for a moment, and as they pulled away, he had but one shining thought in his mind. Look back, he said to himself. And she did!
In all of Hinthoven there was really no one to speak of who spoke French. Nor was there anybody who even spoke of French given the chance to speak of it. But if there were, they would most certainly know that the name Tourtière (roughly translated, at least) meant quite simply … meat pie. And strangely enough, to see him approaching down a narrow street could give one the impression that an actual meat pie was coming toward them. Roundish and pasty looking, he had the appearance of steam rising from his forehead at all times. Nobody knew where he came from, but then he didn’t exactly invite inquiry into these matters. Truth be told, people mostly kept their distance. You might say he was an enigma wrapped in a misery. On one hand Tourtière was widely regarded as the best hunter in all the land, yet he was a strict vegetarian. His pleasure seemed to derive from the killing of animals, but not the devouring of them. He existed, rather, on a steady diet of potatoes, bread, and booze and lived a good staggering distance from The Fist and Firkin, where he dined nightly and always alone.
On this particular morning, Jacques had already reached his personal hunting quota for the day and so was preparing to head back into town when he heard footsteps approaching from up the path. And it wasn’t very long at all before he could see just whom the footsteps belonged to!
“Hedlight? No, it can’t be!” and chuckled menacingly. Now, like most bullies, Tourtière was not without a sense of humour. And like most bullies, this humour would mostly revolve around the humiliation of other, smaller victims. Tourtière hunched down behind a nearby bush and aimed his rifle toward our unsuspecting hunter. “BANG!” said the gun.
Deryn’s heart leapt into his throat as he felt a hot breeze go whizzing past his left ear. Without hesitation, he dove for cover, landing headfirst into the nearest and most convenient mud puddle. Reality became momentarily surreal as he looked down and caught his reflection in said mud puddle. For the branches above had created the illusion of antlers sticking out of his head.
“Well, that’s odd,” said Deryn. “I’m a deer!” And he proceeded to laugh in a most beautiful and childlike way.
This whimsical daydream, however, would have to wait, for he was immediately brought to by the sound of Tourtière trudging up the path and laughing in a most awful and unchildlike way.
“Oh, Hedlight, it’s you!” he said. “I thought you were a raccoon! Come to think of it,” his cruelty continued, “you do sort of look like one with all that crud on your face.” Here he laughed again with the sort of mean-spirited laughter that ricocheted all around the forest and o’er the fields of Hell, presumably.
“You could’ve killed me!” shouted Deryn, his voice quivering with both anger and fear (though mostly fear).
“Now, if I wanted to kill you,” said Tourtière with nary a trace of irony, “believe you me, you’d be dead,” as he took a moment to survey Deryn’s meagre accoutrements. “Just what do you expect to do with that gun and that, that sleigh or whatever you call it over there?” he chided dismissively.
Looking back on his simple tools, Deryn could find only one reason to come to their defense. “My father made that!” His voice broke with wounded pride.
Tourtière gave his head a pitying shake before adding his unsolicited two cents. “Hunting’s for big boys, Hedlight. Maybe you should try fishing, or better yet, ballet!” and laughed cruelly once mor
e before brushing past young Hedlight without even lifting a finger to help him up.
But after kneeling for the duration of this whole unpleasantness, Deryn wanted none of his help, anyway. And so picked himself up, happy in the knowledge that the terrible brute was gone at last. “Someday,” he said under his breath (on the off chance that Tourtière was still within earshot), “he’ll get what’s coming to him.” Then, standing at the edge of this curiously beckoning forest, Deryn gritted his teeth into a most determined scowl. “And with any luck, I’ll be the one bringing it.”
A fter a few hours of stalking the forest to no avail, Deryn was beginning to think maybe, just maybe, Tourtière was right. Perhaps he should take up fishing after all. Even ballet was beginning to look like the more realistic option by then. He wasn’t at all sure if he had the heart or the stomach for hunting. At one point he even had an easy shot at a rather plump-looking hare, but decided against it after seeing she had little ones in tow. And feeling the familiar pangs of failure while still bearing the mud scars of his earlier humiliation, Deryn decided to rest awhile at the foot of an ancient tree. It felt good to lean on something that had withstood all of time’s wrath yet remained standing. From this low place on the ground and from an even lower place in his heart, he began to feel quite small and insignificant. Not only in the eyes of the world, but especially in the belly of this eerily quiet forest. Looking up through the branches, he could see the outline of the moon as it prepared for its grand entrance. The sun, too, had commenced declining as the twilight did some of its finest work with the leaves and shadows.
But after a few moments of taking in all that beauty had to offer, Deryn broke free of nature’s spell only to find that his life was pretty much right where he’ d left it. I guess I had better start heading back, he thought.
It would be dark soon and he did not wish to worry his mother more then she was prone to be. So using the tree for support, he backed himself up and off the ground to gather his things for the defeated hike homeward. T’was in the midst of all this gathering, in fact, when he heard a rustling from a bushy area off to his right. Deryn crouched low behind the same tree as before and reached for his rifle, which, as it turned out, was just slightly out of reach. In an effort to extend his arm further than was humanly possible, he soon found himself tumbling forward in a most ungraceful somersault with his back coming to rest hard on top of it. “Ooof!” he groaned and winced in pain. The pain, thankfully, would be short-lived, as it morphed mercifully into adrenalin. For from his new vantage point he could plainly see that something was indeed moving beyond those bushes! “A deer!” he assumed. “Well, that would certainly get us through the winter.”
Deryn’s mind drifted off momentarily as he imagined himself victoriously smoking his father’s pipe. He could see his mother looking on proudly as she prepared a succulent deer stew for dinner.
Then, giving his thoughts a gentle shake back to the work at hand, he deftly rolled himself off the rifle and into a low firing position with it now pointing in the direction of the mysterious sounds. “How about that?” He smiled inwardly at this tactful manoeuvre. “Maybe I’m not so hopeless after all.” Before long he began to zero in on some vaguely furry movement in the trees, only now it was much closer and ever more tangible than before. His heart was beating so loudly that at first he wondered if perhaps he’ d mistaken IT for the sound of hooves approaching. But no, this was real all right. As real as the rifle that trembled in his hands. As real as the brave finger that set out alone toward the trigger.
“PLEASE,” was about all he could say as he pulled back hard on it. “BANG” was about all the gun could say.…
Time itself seemed to hang suspended for a spell as the forest circled all around him. For in the madness of that split second, the gunshot gave way to a high-pitched yelp followed closely by a milk-curdling scream! The unexpected blowback of the rifle, as well, sent poor Deryn tumbling backward into the muck for a third humiliating time.
And looking even more dishevelled then you would’ve thought possible, Deryn stood up slowly and felt around once more for his gun. As he did so, he did not lift his gaze from the place where the bullet had flown as, with a mad look of mud-caked confusion, he paused to wonder. “What on earth was that?”
Crad Grimsby was born and roughly brought up in the town of Hixenbaugh. It was only a few miles, give or take, from The Willow Tree, where he had worked the better part of his life. Truth be told, all those who frequented the inn would be hard pressed to think of anything even resembling work that he did there — unless greeting travellers and prying into their personal affairs could be considered as such. In fact, there were two others on staff who, by all accounts, had taken on the lion’s share of everything that needed doing while Crad chatted up the customers.
First and foremost was Gerty (a middle-aged woman, also from Hixenbaugh), who prepared the meals and made up the rooms, of which there were ten, and Charlisle the bartender and occasional bouncer who worked six nights a week and took Sundays off for devout reasons. So only on Sundays then, after Gerty had gone home, would Crad be forced to assume any of the aforementioned duties, not to mention the pouring of drinks or the serving of prepared food from a limited menu. (The dishes he’ d always leave for Gerty to wash in the morning.)
Well, on this seemingly unremarkable day, as she arrived at her usual time, she would soon find that the normally cheerful Mr. Grimsby seemed unusually troubled, to say the least.…
He’ d not slept well, if at all, since the arrival of his most recent guests and their departure earlier that morning. And so, as he stared blankly out the kitchen window, it became apparent at a glance that all was NOT well and things were definitely NOT as usual. “Everything all right, sir?” inquired Gerty, to no reply. “Sir?” she gently repeated while setting down her bags and cautiously moving toward him. Still no response. “Mr. Grimsby?” she tried calling out this time while tapping his shoulder, which seemed to do the trick!
“Huh?” he blurted out, startled as if pinched by a ghost. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was literally standing on end. “Oh, Gerty! It’s you!” he gasped with hand over heart. “You know, you really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” he added (though clearly reassured to be seeing a familiar face).
“Is everything all right?” she attempted to ask him again with eyes that searched wildly for explanation.
“Yes, everything’s fine!” he replied, though somewhat unconvincingly. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed it himself! “I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” he further explained. “My mind, it just wouldn’t shut off!” He laughed sheepishly.
“Well, maybe you should go have a lie down, sir,” said Gerty. “I can take care of things down here, as you well know.” Then, laying a motherly hand upon his shoulder, she couldn’t help but notice that his shirt was completely soaked to the skin. “Mr. Grimsby! You’re not well! You really should be in bed! Now you go right this instant and I’ll bring up some tea,” she scolded in the stern yet caring manner that he’ d grown accustomed to.
“I’m going, I’m going,” Crad chuckled groggily. “What would I ever do without you?” he wondered aloud while inching slowly toward the staircase. Gerty’s eyes followed him every step until he arrived safely on the first landing, before she rushed off to fill the kettle. Once upstairs, though, he had barely enough strength to push open his chamber door before collapsing face down on his single bed.
“Those eyes,” he sighed heavily. “Surely this can’t be happening again.” Grimsby rolled on to his back and looked up at the ceiling, which over time had become a virtual road map of cracks, chipped paint, and the occasional cobweb. On this day, however, all that could be seen in it was the face of his kid sister, Merthaloy, forever young and frozen in time, for she never got the chance to grow up. A flood of memories soon came rushing in from early childhood. For all that was too painful to remember had jus
t now arrived to drag him back there kicking and screaming.
He’ d scarcely entered his teen years when his mother died suddenly of a suspicious illness, leaving Crad and Mertha to fend for themselves on the dirty streets of Hixenbaugh. It’s safe to say that no brother and sister were ever closer than these two were during this difficult time. For the double hardship of a father who’d apparently abandoned them, only to lose their mother a year later, was some bitter medicine to swallow. Even so, they managed to survive and, indeed, thrive.
Crad took on odd jobs delivering milk and even digging graves, until before long he was able to afford a suitable room above The Lonely View Tavern for them both to live. (Come to think of it, it was not unlike the room he occupied now.) Merthaloy would wash dishes in exchange for food, which she always kept warm and waiting for him upon his return. You could say things were just starting to look up for our orphaned Grimsbys. But then life can be a cauldron of cruel ironies, and sadly, it doesn’t take much for it to tip over like red wine on a white carpet. You see, Hixenbaugh’s history was rife with folklore of witches and warlocks from a distant past. Tales were forever being told of evil spells and of how the witches were run out of town by the good people there.
