by Ron Sexsmith
“So what was it that caused such a tumble as that?” asked Maggie, not finding any of it amusing at all.
“Well, it was a kind of a sleigh-ish contraption, with wheels and a handle for pulling,” Crad replied, checking Maggie’s face for any sign of recognition. “There’s an inscription on the side that reads P. Hedlight, which I’m assuming is …”
“My husband!” Maggie spoke up excitedly. “You found his hunting cart!”
“Yes, and what I believe to be his rifle, as well. I have them back at the inn.”
“But no sign of Deryn?” she asked with hands folded in prayer.
“I’m afraid not,” he replied, though with considerable guilt. He had debated telling her about the grave but decided against it at the last minute. “If you like, I can drop off his things tomorrow,” he said to no response, for her mind had just now drifted off somewhere.
“Maggie?” He gently talked her back to the present.
“Oh! I’m sorry Mr. Grim — I mean Crad,” she responded, slightly embarrassed. “My mind, it tends to wander these days.” After which she took a long sip of tea before continuing. “But yes, you can bring it all over in the morning. I’ll be here.”
Only now it was Grimsby’s turn, for his mind had wandered off, too! It wandered over all the parallels between his sister’s disappearance and that of Maggie’s missing boy, though he couldn’t decide if telling her about Mertha would be a help or a hindrance. He thought, as well, of the witch and even the unusual deer in Maggie’s living room. But not knowing how to broach any of these subjects, he decided instead on raising a whole other one.
“I wonder if I might ask you about your late husband?” he delicately inquired.
“Yes, of course,” said Maggie. “What would you like to know?”
“I’m just curious to know when and possibly how he passed away,” he replied.
“Well, it’s going on two years now,” she recalled and glanced toward the front door, where a black bowler hat hung on a rusty nail. “That hat there’s what killed him,” she said, to his amazement.
Crad scanned the hat curiously before bringing his eyes back to her. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said, looking once more at the hat, which seemed innocent enough.
“Well, you see, he had just returned home from visiting a friend in Hixenbaugh.”
“Why, that’s my hometown!” Crad interrupted excitedly.
“Is that so?” replied Maggie. “Well, come to think of it, Pearson did say he had stayed at your charming inn once on his way home.” This added greatly to Grimsby’s gobsmacked expression.
“He did?” Crad wondered aloud while placing both hands on his head as if to pull out what little hair he had left. “Why, this gets stranger by the minute!” he then declared and shook his head in relative disbelief.
“Do you remember him, by any chance?” she inquired. Crad’s smile faded to give his mind a moment to tackle this question.
“Hmm.” His thoughts went rummaging ’round in his brain before finally arriving at the definitive word on the subject. “No,” he said. “I can’t place him. I meet so many people, you see. But please continue.”
“Well, as I was saying, he’ d just returned home from Hixenbaugh and was all excited about this new hat he had just bought,” she went on to explain and pointed her teacup accusingly toward the door. “That hat! He told me he’ d purchased it from a lady with purple eyes! Can you believe it?”
But Grimsby, who was in mid-swig as this information was being relayed, began to choke immediately, before spraying an impressive tea geyser out both nostrils like a whale.
“My word, Mr. Grimsby! Are you all right?” she asked, now thoroughly dripping with second-hand tea.
“Yes, Maggie, go on, I’m listening,” he said and pulled himself together as best he could as Maggie watched him curiously for a moment before continuing.
“So anyway, Pearson was all a-flutter about this new hat, which I found quite unusual. He was never one to get excited about things in general. He was very even-keeled, you see?” Then she nodded at Grimsby, who wondered if he himself could ever be described as even-keeled. “Apparently she told him this sort of hat would not blow off in the wind!” she scoffed and rolled her eyes dismissively. “Well, it was not long after that, he and Deryn were out picking up a few things from the market, when from out of nowhere a gusty wind kicked up and blew the hat clear off his head!” Grimsby sat on the edge of his seat as she went on to explain what happened next. “Now, I wasn’t there, but according to Deryn, the hat blew on to the street and around the corner, forcing my Pearson to go chasing after it like a stubborn fool,” Maggie explained, now shaking her head at the indignity of it.
“Is there anything sadder than a man chasing his own hat down the street?” Grimsby wondered aloud while raising a philosophical question for which he assumed there was no answer.
“Well, sadly,” said Maggie, “there is.… You see, he chased that ridiculous hat right into the path of an oncoming carriage!”
“No!” gasped Crad, already dreading the answer. “Trampled?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Maggie. “The only bit of good news is that Deryn never actually saw it happen. Although he did see the aftermath,” she ended on a solemn note and then finished off her tale of woe by looking back over at the hat. “That’s all I have left of him now,” Maggie sighed. “Heaven knows why I bother keeping it around.”
“Oh, Maggie, I don’t know what to say,” offered Grimsby, whose mind had grown heavy from so many different thoughts, and all of a disturbing nature! He was beginning to feel a little queasy, as well, and felt it might do him some good to have a lie down. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time today,” he said, quite shaken by all he’ d been made privy to. “I s’pose I should be off,” he said before adding at least somewhat cheerfully, “I’ll be back, though, in the morning with those things I mentioned.”
Maggie was feeling a little overwhelmed herself from the retelling of her husband’s death. Not to mention all the emotions that are bound up with the receiving of guests and the relinquishing of them. So many hellos and goodbyes to speak of in a life of opening and closing doors. And as they rose to give each other a comforting embrace, words seemed unnecessary in the presence of their two hearts pounding. For it’s times like these when a sigh will often more than suffice.
Soon Grimsby was back out in the fresh air and marching back to the stale air of The Fist and Firkin with more trouble on his mind than he could ever recall. A whole sea of humanity passed by him, though all went completely unnoticed. That is, until he reached the entrance of the tavern, where he came into contact with another man who was at that very moment exiting with great haste.
This unforeseen bodycheck sent Crad hurtling backward to the street below as he looked up and saw for the first time the steaming girth of one Jacques Tourtière, who scowled and then snarled at him. “Watch where you’re going, idiot!”
If thunder be the drum roll for lightning, then Hinterlund farm had existed in a state of perpetual anticipation ever since Eleanoir showed up. You’d think the clouds had bought up all the sky real estate and built their own subdivision. Meteorologists and theologians alike could not recall such peculiar weather in all their days. And doomsayers were quite literally having a field day! So much thunder yet no rain or lightning.… No one quite knew what to make of it. If only they knew that this curious “anti-storm” had been brewing, at least figuratively, from within the very farmhouse itself. It had been just over five months since Magnus first met Eleanoir. Whether by some unlucky coincidence or by cruel design is uncertain. (Although my money’s on cruel design!) It is now known that she’ d been living there for some time doing God knows what and basically lying low.
At any rate, if love is blind, then Magnus Hinterlund’s heart was now in total darkness. And as for Claira, Lucky, a
nd Tressa? Well, each one of them felt quite helpless in the face of these dark changes. This once happy home, it seemed, had become veiled in shadow. A shadow only three could see through, for Magnus was too much in love to see what havoc this relationship had wrought.
In the first two months, for example, Eleanoir had persuaded him that since she’ d be living there now, Tressa’s services would no longer be needed. So after sixteen faithful years, she was unceremoniously let go.
Alongside the gaping wound her absence created, this once tidy and efficient household soon fell into disrepair. (And don’t get me started about the cooking!) Tressa, though, felt strangely relieved by the sudden firing. For she had been in love with Magnus, and not so secretly, for years. But then oblivion knows no bounds, and she could no longer bear to be in that house any longer, though she missed them all terribly. The whole atmosphere, in fact, had begun to feel more like atmos-fear, especially for Deryn, who knew but couldn’t say who or what they were dealing with.
Since Eleanoir had moved in, he was forced to sleep out in the barn due to her supposed allergies, which Claira didn’t buy for a second. Eleanoir even recommended having him stuffed and mounted, and took great pleasure in frightening him at every turn with threats and knowing glances. And to make things infinitely worse, hasty wedding plans had just been announced to take place on the first day of September. Just two days away by my calendar! As you might’ve guessed, this unexpected development upset Claira to no end, and so on this very occasion … she told her father as much.
“I can’t understand why you’d ever marry such a horrible person!” She confronted him in the front yard and without even knowing the half of it! “It’s like she’s got you under her spell or something.”
“Now, Claira,” said Magnus. “You’re not being fair. You want me to be happy, don’t you?” he implored, now holding her face in his hands.
“Yes, of course I do, but with her?” she despaired, pulling away from him. “She’s awful! She frightens Lucky terribly, and I can’t believe you would ever let Tressa go!” Claira scolded while searching his eyes to see if he was still in there somewhere. “She was my best friend!”
“Is that what this is all about?” asked Magnus, glancing curiously at the clouds before continuing.
“Look,” he sighed. “Tressa’s a big girl, and she understood why we had to let her go. She was my friend, too, you know,” he explained, though to the back of her head as he fumbled for the right words. “For the first time since Mother died, I’m happy, can’t you see?”
“You don’t know anything about her!” Claira shot back at him. “You don’t even know her last name!” she said and burst into tears.
Magnus held her awkwardly for a moment as he struggled to express his feelings, which was never his forte. “When we’re married,” his tongue tiptoed cautiously, “her last name will be Hinterlund, and that’s all that matters.”
But Claira was in no mood to hear such things, and so violently pushed her father away, screaming, “I HATE YOU!” before running off in tears to fetch Lucky. Poor Magnus was helpless to do anything but watch as his daughter came bounding out of the barn atop the best friend she ever had as she galloped off in the direction of town.
A moment later, Eleanoir, who, as usual, had been secretly listening in to the whole exchange, came floating up behind Magnus and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Let her go, Mags,” she soothingly spoke. “It’s a lot for her to take in, but she’ll come around. Trust me.”
But Magnus was in no mood, either, to hear such things. “Leave me alone,” he snapped, peeling her arms away and storming into the house as the door slammed even more angrily behind him. This outburst, however, did little to rattle Eleanoir as she stood in the yard watching daughter and deer grew smaller in the distance. She was tired of running from town to town, from a small-minded world that had never, nor would ever, accept her kind. Whatever bad things she may have done along the way seemed almost justified in her twisted mind. Especially after witnessing first-hand her mother’s relentless struggle to fit in, which brought only heartbreak, madness, and death. But that’s another story, meant for another time.… You see, Eleanoir was a survivor, and at last she could see a light at the end of a very long tunnel. By marrying Magnus, she wouldn’t have to run anymore. By wearing his name, she would someday be the owner of his entire estate.
But then Eleanoir wasn’t the sort of person who waited around for “someday.” And once these two troublemakers were out of the picture, she could finally be rid of Magnus, as well. “Or wait, perhaps the other way around?” she pondered and then nodded in agreement with herself.
For a new and ever more sinister plan was at that moment being hatched in her fertile mind. The very thought of it made an almost childlike grin break out across her face. Well, almost.… If you didn’t know it, you’d think she was like any other blushing bride looking forward to her big day, and I suppose in her own way she was. Poison apple? she thought and chuckled deeply in her throat. No, that’s been done. “Oh well, I’m sure you’ll think of something when the time comes.”
Despite the gloomy efforts of the sky, there was really nothing that could dampen the spirits or get in the way of the annual August Festival, or “Augustafest” as it was widely known. On the last three nights of August, the Hinthovians would celebrate the transition from summer into autumn with food, music, and, of course, vast quantities of beer. But since the mood at Hinterlund farm had not exactly been festive of late, both Deryn and Claira had completely forgotten all about it. The outgoing mélange of oompahpah music created a surreal soundtrack that was at odds, to the say the least, with their decidedly less than oompahpah spirits.
“Augustafest!” said Claira. “Is it the end of August already?” This question she posed to Lucky, who responded with an uncertain shrug. “Oh right,” she said upon remembering her father’s fast-approaching wedding date and then bristled at the thought. But as they moved slowly through the crowd of revellers, Deryn’s thoughts returned to a much happier time. He could see his mother and father dancing to a bright waltz as he clapped along on the sidelines. He could taste the apple cider, the cinnamon buns, and smell the smoke of the bonfire all over again. Come to think of it, he could smell it all now, even as we speak!
“Look!” said Claira. “It’s Mrs. Hedlight and Mr. Grimsby!” Deryn peered through the smoke to where scores of happy couples danced with wild abandon, and sure enough there they were. Never had the phrase mixed emotions ever seemed more appropriate than at this moment. For just the sight of his mother prancing around with another man filled him with much confusion. At the same time, a whole other feeling had begun to shed light on his wounded heart. A feeling he would later come to recognize as acceptance. This Grimsby character seemed harmless enough, and besides, it had seemed like forever since he’ d seen his mother looking so happy. How could that be wrong? For unbeknownst to even yours truly, Crad had been making biweekly trips to Hinthoven for the sole purpose of courting Maggie Hedlight. Their friendship, or so it seemed, had blossomed like an awkward flower into a sweet companionship. It appeared they had much in common, even though he had yet to tell her about Merthaloy, the witch, or even her dog.
Nor had he mentioned the forest grave he’ d happened upon. “Why break a heart that life’s already broken?” was the question he forever posed to himself. While in town, he could often be seen accompanying her to the Hinthoven sign, along with Griff and Gruff, of course. (Although he wished they would just stay home from time to time.) And much to Maggie’s unending disapproval, he continued renting the same room at The Fist and Firkin. “I’m a creature of habit,” he would say. “Too late to change me now!”
Watching Mrs. Hedlight and Mr. Grimsby dance brought a smile to Claira’s sulking heart, in turn helping her to forget her troubles for awhile, and in doing so, went a long way in easing Deryn’s troubled mind, as well! It was in the midst of all
this spinning, in fact, that Maggie looked over and saw Claira and Lucky standing on the outskirts of the crowd and enthusiastically waved them over. Before long, they were swept up in the swirling joyfulness of the dance as the crowd formed a wide circle around them and clapped along to the rare spectacle of a dancing deer. (Though to call it “dancing” might be a bit generous of me; he was definitely hopping around a fair bit!)
Well, after a few energetic polkas, our four unlikely friends decided to take a stroll away from all the noise and they cut through the cemetery that rolled on down to the peaceful river. Along the way, they even stopped at the gravesite of Pearson Hedlight for a moment of silence. After which Maggie remarked to the small congregation, “You know, it’s strange! I always have trouble finding the stone, but not Lucky! He led us right to it! Didn’t ya?” She shook her head in disbelief. Grimsby, who was now more certain than ever that this was no ordinary deer but rather a boy in deer’s clothing, winked at Lucky, who as expected winked right back!
And as they reached the far side of the cemetery, Maggie and Crad took a seat on a thoughtfully placed bench overlooking the river while Claira and Lucky sat under a tree looking up at the sky. It was getting close to suppertime, but she had no intention of going home now, if ever. The wedding was just two days off, and since she had seemingly no power to stop it, all she could think of was running away. But where could she go?
“I thought I’d see your father there tonight,” said Maggie, unaware of any family strife at home. “I used to love watching him dance with your mother. Poor thing, she was so beautiful! You’re so much like her, you know!” she remarked before looking back at Claira, only to find her eyes now overflowing with tears. “Claira? What’s wrong?”
Grimsby rushed to her side and held her as she deeply sobbed. (Deryn, for his part, could only nuzzle the back of her arm reassuringly.)
