by Aaron Bunce
They exchanged pleasantries, talking about crops, and news from the road. On invitation, Frenin made his way up the wooden stairs and deposited his old frame in the chair next to Roman. He traced the wolf head cut out of his cane absently with his thumbnail.
“By the way, uh…where is your dog?” Frenin asked, looking around nervously.
“He’s inside, probably still sleeping,” Roman said. Frenin visibly relaxed.
“Good, good. He is so…full of energy!” Frenin offered with a chuckle. Roman knew his apprehension stemmed from Tusk trying to bowl the old man over every time he saw him.
“There was another reason for my visit out to you this morn,” Frenin said, after settling back in his chair. His face turned down into a frown, the heavy wrinkles around his sparkling blue eyes made him look even older than usual.
“I hear you have just returned from a successful hunting trip.” Frenin motioned to the pelts drying on the rack.
Roman nodded and sipped his drink.
“I think the weather will turn cold for good soon, I can feel it in my joints. This warm weather has made everyone lazy,” Frenin said, gazing wistfully into the trees. He shook his head and tapped his cane against the ground.
“Whole town is cutting fields now! Mill has been running non-stop for days trying to keep up. Earl Thatcher’s caravan will be here anytime so….busy times, busy times,” Frenin continued, but Roman could tell the old man had something he was trying to say.
Roman shifted as a twinge caught in his stomach. The troubling pain, which first manifested right after his father’s death, had grown steadily worse since.
“Are you well?” Frenin asked.
“Yes, I have felt much better lately,” Roman lied. Frenin eyed him for a long moment, before finally breaking eye contact. Roman knew that his pain was part of the reason the Elder had become so protective.
“I need to ask a favor of you, Roman. I think you are the only person I can ask of this particular errand,” Frenin said, continuing to worry over the intricate head of his cane.
“Now, before you answer, I ask only that you hear me out first. Several young men went out to help Garon Olfson finish his harvest a few days back, but he rebuffed them, sharply. He hasn’t even touched his fields yet,” Frenin said quickly.
Roman scowled, his gaze dropping to his feet. Garon Olfson was perhaps his least favorite topic.
“He is foul-tempered and rubs everyone the wrong way,” Roman said as diplomatically as possible.
After his father’s death, Roman went to live with Garon and his wife Greta, their two boys, Arrin and Devlin, and their daughter, Alina.
Greta had been as close to a mother as Roman had ever known. She was nurturing, loving, and supportive, but Garon was a completely different story. When he was not drinking, he was surly and bad tempered. And when he was drinking, he was worse.
Try as he might, Roman failed to connect with Arrin and Devlin. The boys took too much after their father and bullied Roman every chance they got. Alina was different, however. She was younger but showed no interest in fighting. She didn’t talk much but had a genuine smile. She was much like her mother.
Roman didn’t leave Garon’s farm on good terms. After growing tired of the bullying, he finally fought back. Garon broke up the fight, but it had been a brutal affair.
The brothers had outnumbered him, but Roman gave as well as he got. There was cursing, red faces, split lips, blackened eyes, and bloodied noses. His scrapes and bruises didn’t bother him nearly as much as the sting from the back of Garon’s hand. He had reeked of warm wine, and stale pipe weed, and insisted on doing what his boys could not.
Roman limped away from the farm. Greta’s tear streaked was the last thing he saw. He didn’t even get to say goodbye, a fact that still ate away at his insides.
He had been on his own ever since, and that suited him just fine. In truth, Roman struggled connecting with people in Bardstown, even when his father was alive. He felt like he didn’t belong, that he was different somehow.
Frenin’s request would force him to confront emotions he had, up to this point, left behind. Truthfully, it didn’t appeal to him much.
“Send the town guard. Surely Max and his sword are better suited to dealing with Garon and the twins,” Roman said bitterly.
“You know Garon better than that. That would only start an incident, and we don’t need that kind of trouble with the Earl’s men soon to arrive.” Frenin rubbed his eyes wearily.
“Do you remember the scene he made last thaw with the tax collector? It doesn’t take much to get him spun up, and the last thing we need is a bunch of the Earl’s men poking around his farm and setting him off. Greta is the only person that can talk reason to him, and I know that she loves you like a son. You don’t even have to talk to Garon, or the boys, just tell Greta I would appreciate her help. So, can I count on you to do this one, little thing for me?” Frenin asked uncomfortably.
Roman shook his head and rubbed away the sleep lingering in his eyes. He tried to come up with any excuse not to go.
“I can see the prospect troubles you, Roman. Please understand, if there were anyone else I could send, I would. You have a connection with Greta few others have. She will listen to you, and Garon will listen to her. I will forever be in your debt if you do this for me,” Frenin said.
The prospect of facing Garon’s red nose and perpetually poor mood, after all this time, held little appeal, although he couldn’t say the same for Greta. He sorely missed her company.
What keeps such a loving, kind-hearted woman with that insufferable ass? he thought.
“I’ll do it.” In the end, Roman’s desire to see Greta again won out.
Frenin patted him on the knee, letting out a captured breath.
“Oh Roman, you do me such kindness. Everyone in town shares in my appreciation, trust me!” Frenin offered with a smile. He used his cane to stand.
Roman watched as the old man shuffled back down the dirt road and laughed. Even Frenin, who had been town elder for thaws beyond Roman’s count, feared confronting Garon. Proven by the fact that the hobbled old man chose the longer walk to Roman’s house to ask him then do it himself.
Roman planned on heading into town for a few errands anyway. He could pick up his meat from the butcher, and try and earn a few copper selling the rest of his pelts. He pulled his bow off the rack by the front door and laid it on the table with a sling of goose feather arrows.
Concealed beneath the table, Tusk snorted and rolled over in search of a cooler spot. All Roman could see of the dog was two furry paws staring up at him from the floor. He bent over and grasped the dog’s feet and pulled him out from under the table. Tusk growled lazily and gave a quick wag of his tail, not even bothering to roll off of his back.
Roman had happened upon Tusk the spring after his father passed. He had been boar hunting in the woods, half a day’s walk to the north. He had tracked several wild pigs to a small clearing.
Roman leaned out from behind a tree with an arrow knocked and ready. In the middle of the clearing, a large mangy brown dog tussled with a pair of sizable wild pigs. Behind the tusked male were a female and a clutch of rather small furry piglets.
The dog was bloodied and dirty. Apparently, he had bitten off more than he could chew. Roman’s arrow pierced the closest pig’s heart. The animal staggered and fought for several moments, before finally collapsing in a heap. The female and younglings scattered into the woods. The dog circled the dead boar, biting it for good measure.
The dog watched him gut the boar. His shaggy head held high and his tail wagging proudly in the dirt. Roman strapped the boar carcass to long sticks.
“You’re a brave one?” he remembered saying. “Not many dogs will take on a full grown boar like that. You’re lucky those razor sharp tusks didn’t cut you to ribbons.” The dog cocked his head excitedly, on one side his jowl caught on his gum, exposing his teeth in comical fashion.
Roman laughed a
t the memory.
“I’ll call you Fang,” but stopped, and looked down at the long yellowed tusks protruding from the dead pig’s lower lip. “Tusk, Tusk the Brave.” The dog watched him curiously.
“Well then, Tusk, furry hunter and bane of wild pigs, might you be hungry, my shaggy friend?” Roman fetched jerky from his pack and held it out invitingly. Dog crawled over slowly and took the proffered food, eating it only after he had retreated to a safe distance. After finishing, Tusk licked his chops and pawed the ground expectantly.
“Oh why not, you look like you could use it more than me.” He gave Tusk the last few pieces of salted meat.
Roman shouldered his pack and gave the dog a goodbye pat, before hoisting his sling and heading for home. It was days later before he realized Tusk had followed him. He had walked out of the front door and found him sleeping on his porch. Tusk had not left his side since.
Roman affectionately scratched the dog on his belly. Although he was graying around the muzzle, his eyes still retained a bit of a puppy sparkle.
“We have a little errand to run. You can dream about chasing bunnies later,” Roman said absently, as he tousled Tusk’s furry ears. The dog gave only a single wag of his tail, and then rolled over and stretched before standing. Tusk walked over to his bowl and messily lapped up some water.
Roman sheathed his hunting knife on his belt and grabbed his canvas pack from a hook by the door. He packed a loaf of bread, some cheese, and salted pork. He shouldered his pack and slung his quiver of arrows and his bow. It never hurt to be prepared.
Tusk followed him through the door and bolted towards the trees, eager to relieve himself, while reinforcing his territory at the same time.
The cabin was tucked away, sheltered from the road by a large grove of birch trees. Their white papery bark littered the ground, crunching softly underfoot. His home stood the furthest from town, but Roman preferred it that way. He had privacy from the busy bodies, and it was quiet, gloriously quiet.
Tusk trotted back out of the trees, happily barking as Roman pulled the pelts off the rack. He laid them out in a neat pile, and then rolled them up and bound them with a thick leather strap.
Roman set off towards town, walking between the deep ruts worn into the ground by the comings and goings of wagons and carriages. The trees branched high overhead, sprawling in a thick canopy of twigs and leaves.
The road was dry, and the air fee of biting, pestering flies. Despite the chill from the previous night, the sun was rising and felt warm on his face.
Tusk bounded in and out of the scrubby plants framing the road, barking and upsetting the birds. His tongue flopped out of the side of his mouth as he frolicked, sending globs of slobber in all direction. Before long he was panting at Roman’s side. Gone was the unending energy known in his youth.
After cresting several hills, rooftops and chimneys came into view. A gentle haze blued the air, and Roman smelled hickory, oak, and Applewood smoke. There was no wall or moat protecting Bardstown, only a ring of old stone guard’s towers. But even those weren’t used anymore.
The bulk of Bardstown sat neatly on a gentle bend of the Amelda River. At its heart was the mill. Its large, algae-stained waterwheel constituted the bulk of the community’s livelihood.
Roman approached Marna’s tavern. It wasn’t Bardstown’s only drinking establishment, but it was the nicest. Marna had inherited the building when her husband died. He had been killed by highwaymen while traveling.
Marna, who had always been a lively soul, was forever changed. She didn’t linger in conversation anymore, instead keeping to the solitude of her kitchen. One could find her at the tavern day or night, dispensing fine ales and food with her son Bale.
The delicious aroma of baking bread settled over Roman, no doubt from Marna’s soapstone oven. Even with food in his stomach it took a considerable amount of will power to continue walking.
The buildings grew closer together and were built like its people, simple yet strong. Heavy beams were cut from strong trees, forming thick walls and strong roofs to keep out the harsh, cold wind of winter and tumultuous rain of summer.
As Roman walked on, he passed several men tossing fresh straw onto the roadway from the back of a horse-drawn wagon. One of the men stopped to bid Roman good day as he wiped his brow.
Roman passed the blacksmith’s shop. The wide-shouldered figure of Berg stood tempering steel in a large oaken barrel under his covered forge. His head snapped up, and a toothy grin split his bushy beard.
“Stew sometime, Roman? Gladitha says don’t be a stranger,” he called, waving with his free hand.
Roman smiled and returned the wave. “Thanks,” he shouted back but Roman understood the truth of it. Berg was simply being polite. He was an honest man, like many of the people in Bardstown. They all meant well, but their offers were usually just that, offers. Aside from Frenin and the Hopbarrows, most people kept him comfortably at arms-length. Like an outsider.
Tusk barked happily from the middle of the road, nearly bowling Roman over. The dog knew where they were going. He followed Tusk around a corner and up a small flight of stairs. A small bronze bell jingled cheerfully as he pushed through the door.
The air in the small shop smelled heavily of dried herbs and smoked meats. It was more than enough to confuse the senses. He could hear a couple arguing at the back of the store.
Roman passed heaping baskets of dried flowers and garlic. Cured and smoked meats hung from large hooks in the ceiling, along with stringers of Noble’s famous sausages. Tusk trotted along at his side. He was well behaved, although just barely. He had learned his lesson well enough by now.
Roman walked up to the counter, and the source of the commotion. The couple arguing had their backs to him and didn’t immediately notice him.
Roman waited quietly for the shop owners to finish. Tusk, however, had a different idea. Before Roman could stop him, the brown dog ducked between his legs and threw himself fully into the conversation.
“Oh my goodness!” shouted the pale-faced woman. “Tusk, you scared some life right out of me.”
“Hey Ro, sorry. We didn’t hear you come in,” the man said as he spun around on his stool. He had a narrow nose and wide, salt and pepper mustache. His thinning hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and despite the cool air in the store, he had to wipe his forehead with a kerchief.
“Good morn, Noble, Lucilla. How are you today?” Roman asked.
Noble and Lucilla Hopbarrow were not originally from Bardstown but had moved south from Pinehall, before Roman had been born. They brought a large wagon full of exotic goods and herbal remedies with them and set up shop.
Noble served as the town’s butcher. His love for meat was rivaled only by his affinity for drink and boisterous song. When he was not carving and curing meats, he was usually spinning songs and tales at Marna’s tavern.
His wife Lucilla was a bit more eccentric. She dabbled in herbal remedies and tonics and spent most of her time collecting ingredients or dabbling with new recipes. She was rather short and round, with flyaway sandy colored hair and friendly brown eyes.
Three winter thaws past, fever ran rampant through Bardstown. Their elderly cleric had fallen ill during the worst of it and eventually succumbed. The church sent no immediate replacement, aside from young clerical students occasionally traveling through on pilgrimage.
Without a church healer, Lucilla flourished. Her knowledge of curative liveners and salves were put to use more often than she would ever admit. She would also midwife the birth of children, treat headaches and rashes, and harp on anyone willing to listen about the evils of horned toads and smoking pipes. She was sometimes crass, often ill-tempered, and usually pressed for time, but she was always there when she was needed.
“What can we do for you today, Roman? Aside from some food for this starving animal of yours, he’s all skin and bones!” Lucilla chuckled, snatching treats for Tusk out of her apron.
“He’d like you to
think that!” Roman laughed. “He eats more than I do.”
Tusk took the treats gently from Lucilla’s outstretched hand, and proceeded to swallow them whole, then licked his lips and nudged her leg for more.
“Well goodness, did you even taste that?” Lucilla asked with a snort.
“He tastes it with his stomach,” Noble added, his hands resting on his belly.
“I have these pelts,” Roman offered as he heaved the pile up onto the counter. “Some good ones in here too,” he added as Noble dropped a pair of spectacles onto his nose.
“Fox, badger, rabbit,” Noble mumbled. “What we need is elk! Heaven knows moose or bear would go for a heavy pile of silver right now.”
“Herds have moved on. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of even a deer lately. Had to make good with the small critters mostly,” Roman said. His worry returned. He needed the money.
“Not just you, Roman, old Blatch came in after he was out for a full turn. All he had to show for it was a pile of rabbit furs and a sore back from sleeping on the ground,” Noble said nodding. “Oh, that reminds me, I have that butchering done for you. Marna said she would buy the bulk of it from you if you’re willing.”
“Certainly,” Roman replied, and tried to hide his relief. “I’ll take just a small amount for myself and the furry pig here. Marna can have the rest.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Noble mumbled and pulled some of the furs out of the pile and stacked them off to the side. Roman’s stomach clenched up as he watched Noble pass on the majority of his nicer pelts. He felt it turn sour as the pain cut in. It always got worse when he was nervous.
“I’ll take these off you, Ro,” Noble offered, hefting the smaller of the two piles. “Think…ten copper a piece sounds good.”
Roman’s stomach turned sour. He figured he needed three to four times that for the whole lot, and he was buying less than half. Lucilla watched Roman closely.
“Oh, I think we could use the whole lot of em, Noble. People need to stay warm this winter! Besides, Frenin was saying the city guards could use new furs,” Lucilla cut in, grabbing the rest of Roman’s furs and forcing them into Noble’s hands.
