But that was past. He had eaten his fill for the last several days. Before that, he could not remember when his belly had been full. It had been spring when he had run for his life. It was now winter. Probably not since he had left the strange mountain people that he had so briefly met had he had a decent meal. He remembered that Abel seemed to place significance on that part of his story. But he was not sure why, exactly. But it was clear that these new friends were not just a simple group of traders selling their wares.
The lore-man, Donald, was more than he seemed. Philip’s old teacher, Benjamin, was the only other lore-man that he had ever actually met. Donald did not resemble him, not really. He had heard Donald and Abel exchange some words in the old tongue. Donald did not look like a soldier, but there was something about those gray eyes that did not seem to go with a man of books. He did not have the deep tan and weathered look of someone who had spent his life out of doors. He was not a particularly large man. But he clearly had sword scars on his right arm, and his horse was a beautiful, large chestnut sorrel that looked more like a war horse anything else.
Bobby, on the other hand, looked like a guard should look. He was well over six feet tall and big. He wore a sword like he knew how to use it. Philip could tell that Bobby understood horses, and he was a good rider—somewhat surprising for a big man. At least, Philip was surprised. It seemed to him that most really big people sat a horse like a sack of potatoes.
Eric did not seem complicated. He was also a large man, but not as big as Bobby. His brown hair and blue eyes were not unusual. He kept his hair and beard close-cropped. He said that he had been a teamster all his life, but yet he was soft-spoken and pleasant. He was also a good rider, mounting his horse with the grace of a cat. He seemed placid and pleasant, yet he seemed to notice small things.
“Still water runs deep,” said Philip to himself. “That’s what Dad always said, anyway. There is more to all of them than meets the eye, that’s sure. Donald seems to be the strangest of the lot. An unbeliever, yet more like a believer than most.”
And then there was Abel. Clearly a man in charge. It was not hard to see that Abel was the key to the mystery of the group. Philip had no doubt that he was the organizer. But what did it matter? Clearly none of these were friends of the Prophet, and they had treated him like a human being. Why did he need to know more?
Lunch was simple—bread and honey, a glass of cool buttermilk, and a bowl of beef stew. It still seemed like a waking dream somehow. The thought that he could have as much to eat as he wanted had an air of fantasy. But when he had asked for a second helping, the innkeeper’s wife had refilled his bowl with a kind smile.
He struck up a conversation with the elderly stable hands. It seemed to be a bit strange that there were no young men to be seen. Philip did not comment about that, though, but asked about entertainment. The older men found the question amusing and told him about a restaurant known for its chilled chokecherry juice, including special jars that had loosened lids. “Best chokecherry juice in five counties,” said the tall one. His companion laughed, “Kicks like a mule, that juice does, but no one complains.”
Philip asked if the Prophet held with that kind of beverage. They shrugged and said that there were many things that the Prophet might not know about. Then he asked about work farms.
“Don’t worry, youngster,” said the short man. “You won’t go there for drinking chokecherry juice. Work farms are for troublemakers and criminals.”
“Are there many of these farms nearby?” asked Philip.
The two conferred. The tall one finally answered. “Hard to say. We know of two, but there might be more. There is one to the west of town that seems to be for troublemakers. People who don’t pay their taxes and such like. The one south of town is for thieves and such.”
“What about murderers?” asked Philip. “They would be in the one to the south?”
“Hardly,” chuckled Andy. “Killers have their throats cut. That is so their blood can help wash their sin away. So don’t even think about getting in trouble. Things may be lax upcountry, but not down here.”
With that, the two drained that last of their drinks and returned to the stable, leaving Philip alone. Remembering that he was supposed to keep an eye on things, he returned to the yard and crawled up into the back of the wagon in the shade of the canvas top. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so. He lay down on a pile of bedrolls and promptly fell asleep.
†
Philip dreamed about his parents. He could see their faces, dominated by haunting eyes. But they were hidden by swirling mists. He called out to them, and he could see their lips moving, calling his name. But he could hear no sound. They reached their arms out to him, but as they did, they seemed to be receding away as the mists grew thicker. Then they were gone, and he was left alone, calling to them.
He awoke, covered with sweat. It had seemed so real. Once again, as he had done a hundred times, he searched his mind for something that he could do. But nothing came to mind. There were voices. He looked out to see Don and Eric dismounting. He was in no mood for conversation, but he stepped down from the rear of the wagon and greeted them.
It was not until Abel and Bobby returned that there was news. Abel had met with one of his informants who thought he could find out where Philip’s parents had been taken.
“I gave him a few mills of silver and that seemed to be enough,” said Abel. “Can’t mention any names, but he has a friend in the enforcer’s office. So we will see what we shall see.”
Philip stammered his thanks. “I will pay you back,” he promised.
Abel laughed and tousled his hair. “Don’t worry about the money. We will get that much work out of you. You can be sure about that.”
†
The next day was market day. They drove both wagons down and set up their stands. Philip helped arrange the merchandise and waited on shoppers. The air was heavy with an uneasy mood, and sales were brisk. The foodstuffs sold right away, as though housewives were stocking their pantries. Farmers were interested in tools and seemed glad to find rakes, shovels and hoes for sale.
Philip asked a slender, white-bearded man why he seemed so glad to find a hoe for sale. “Haven’t been able to find one for months, youngster,” he commented. “Can’t even get a smith to repair my broken one. All too busy.”
Just then a Grey Pilgrim came by on a large black mule with another mule behind. The second animal had a pack. The Pilgrim wore the usual grey tunic with a red cross over his left breast. He proceeded to set up a booth next to the two stands that Philip had helped put together.
Philip noticed a quick start from the medical man when he noticed Abel. He seemed to be about to cry out a greeting, when a quick motion of Abel’s hand silenced him. It was so quick that no one would have noticed unless they were watching very closely.
“You look like you have come a long way,” offered Philip. “Can I help you?”
“Thanks, lad,” replied the Pilgrim. “You can hold this mule while I unsaddle her. She does not like these crowds.”
Philip did as he was bidden and watched as the mule was efficiently unloaded and a folding table set up. The Pilgrim threw a white cloth, marked with a red cross, over the table and covered it with small brown bottles, jars of pills and a stack of small paper envelopes. Philip led the mules behind the booths and tied them to the rear of one of the wagons.
When he returned, a crowd had already gathered and formed a queue in front of the table. Philip was also busy waiting on customers, but the Grey Pilgrim had little rest until the crowd began to thin out at lunchtime. Nearly every person went away with a bottle or envelope filled with medicine. Some of the more difficult cases had been set aside for last. One man had a large red bump on the side of his neck, and the healer looked at it closely.
Abel stepped up. “Perhaps I can be of assistance
,” he said. “I can at least help hold him steady while you lance that.”
The Pilgrim looked closely at him, then nodded. Philip watched as the healer heated a small knife in the flame of an alcohol lamp, then rubbed an ointment onto the shiny, crimson lump. He then opened it with a quick slice of the knife, allowing white matter to spurt out. It was good that Abel was holding the patient, a grizzled man of middle age, because he had flinched when he saw the knife approaching. The healer then applied a purple liquid to the open wound, which stained the side of the man’s neck. He gave him an envelope with some tablets and instructed him in the correct dose.
Abel helped apply a dressing with a bandage from the healer’s store. As he was doing so, a couple of armed men walked up. The wore no helmets, but were covered with broad-brimmed hats. They had mail coats, swords, and cudgels in their hands. Both wore full black beards and were burly and muscular, as big as Bobby.
“Nice job of bandaging, trader!” one said, looking straight at Abel. “Where did you learn to do that?”
Philip noticed Abel swallow, involuntarily. But he looked the man straight in the eye. “I live near the House of Healing. Picked up a few tricks,” he answered, shortly.
“These Pilgrims are always traveling around—snooping, I say,” said the other man. “Now you traders show up. Looks funny to me.”
“Junction folks seem mighty glad to buy what we have for sale,” answered Abel. “People are always glad to see the Pilgrims, too. Makes me wonder why we are not welcome, all of a sudden.”
“Oh, a smart mouth. Maybe we need to take you in—ask some questions.”
The other armed man chuckled. “Yeah, and maybe confiscate this lot. ‘Course, maybe we could be persuaded to overlook things …”
Abel sighed and looked over at Don. Philip could see Don nod, and Abel turned back to the men. He reached into his purse, pulled out two gold coins, and gave one to each of the men. “Here,” he said. “Maybe this will show our good faith.”
The men took the coins and bit them to see if they were genuine. The coins vanished into their purses. Then one spoke up. “We’ll take a Bethuel ham—each. We have t’ make sure that the food’s not rotten.”
The other man nodded with a grin. Abel shrugged and took two of the few remaining hams and gave them out. With a satisfied laugh, the two went on their way. One said over his shoulder, “Watch your step, trader. I’ve got my eyes on you! You too, Pilgrim!”
The noon sun was warm, surprisingly warm for January, but there were dark clouds to the west and north. Business that afternoon was slow, as the market crowds thinned out. Philip learned that the healer’s name was Clement and that he had made a big circle and was on the way back to the House of Healing to replenish his supplies. He had been to the land of the Diné and then through Dixie, Benson and now Junction. Philip had asked him why he traveled like that, since it was surely a hard life.
“It’s a year for a year, lad,” answered Clement. “I am paying off my debt, you might say.”
“What do you mean?” asked Philip.
“I agreed to spend a year as a Pilgrim for every year that I spent in training at the House of Healing,” he answered. “I still have another year to go.”
“Then what will you do?”
“Probably go back to my home in the northland. I will start a surgery in my home town, I suppose.”
Philip thought that over for a few minutes. “One more thing,” he said hesitantly. “Do you know anything about these work camps? Can you go into them to—well, heal the sick?”
Clement shook his head, sadly. “Not a chance of that,” he answered. “The Prophet cares not at all for the health of those sad folks. I wish I could help them, but there is no way.”
By the time they had packed up their remaining goods, Clement had already gone. He had said nothing more to Abel, but Philip had caught a pointed exchange of glances between the two. The air became chill. As they were hitching up the teams, it had begun to snow: first a few flakes, then heavier, with strong gusts of wind. They buttoned their coats and covered their ears as they pointed their wagons toward Clarion and their inn.
Philip’s nose and fingers were numb by the time the horses drew to a stop by the stable. The snow was already six inches deep, and the storm showed no signs of letting up. Some drifts were already obvious, and the daylight was fading fast. So Philip was greatly surprised when he saw Abel leading a saddle horse to the first wagon,
As Philip helped Bobby and Eric unhitch the team, he became even more puzzled. Donald and Abel saddled the two riding horses. Then they put a pack saddle on one of the draft horses and began loading a large canvas bundle. Abel tied it down in a diamond hitch with a pack rope and cinch. This was no night to be leaving a warm inn, but they seemed to be planning to do exactly that.
At just that time, Clement appeared from the stable leading his two mules. He greeted Abel and said, “I think I should leave. Those two bullies were a bit too suspicious. So I’m off for the House of Healing.”
Abel shook Clement’s hand. “I was about to suggest the same thing. Something is stirring, and you had best be off before the storm strikes,” he said. “And I’m not talking about this blizzard—though it should help cover your tracks.”
“Right you are. I left most of what medicine I had in the stable. Perhaps you could give it to one of the others.”
“We will,” answered Abel. “Some of them will no doubt want to stay out a bit longer. That is why we need to talk. Well … God go with you.”
“And also with you,” came the answer as Clement mounted and rode out into the swirling clouds of snowflakes. At the gate he looked back, raised his arm in salute, and was gone.
“This is when we need a good watch-dog,” commented Bobby. “I don’t care to sleep in a wagon tonight.”
“That’s why you came along,” commented Abel. “You need to watch the stuff, but Eric can take part of the night shift.”
“Where are you going?” asked Philip.
“Best that you don’t know,” returned Abel. “We will be out all night. I want you to go to the innkeeper. Order five meals and have them sent to the room. Bobby and Eric can take turns eating. We don’t want it to be obvious that Donald and I are spending the night elsewhere.”
Abel handed Philip several coins. “Here. That should pay for the meals. When they deliver the food, eat all you want. We want the rooms to look completely occupied.”
“When will you be back?” Philip could not help asking.
“We should be back before dawn.”
Donald finished packing. After a huddled conversation with Eric and Bobby, which Philip could not hear, they mounted and left.
Philip bought the meals, just as he was told. Bobby and Eric took turns eating, and Philip ate heartily. When they were finished, the mostly empty dishes looked like four people had supped. He had left the plates on the step next to the door then fell gladly into bed, a comfort he was still not used to.
When he awoke, there was the stomping of boots in the foyer. He saw that Donald and Abel had returned. They said little and insisted on a quick departure. By the time Philip and the younger men had harnessed the team, the wagon was packed and they were ready to depart. The snow had stopped falling, but the sky was still leaden when they came to the crossroads and departed, taking the road leading upcountry. The road was pristine white before them. Behind, wagon wheels left parallel tracks in the snow.
Then Philip remembered his parents. How could he have forgotten them? Were they freezing in this cold? What should he do? He had been nursing an idea that perhaps he could help them escape. He could not simply board a wagon and allow himself to be carted away.
“Wait,” he said to Abel. “I can’t leave. I have to help my parents!”
“What do you mean?” asked Abel, shortly. “Y
ou could not help them. In fact, you are the last person that could help them. The minute anyone suspected that you were their son, you would be arrested and killed. Believe me, they would give you the same sympathy that they would give a mad dog!”
“I don’t care,” insisted Philip. “I have to try.” He stood up as though to jump off the wagon.
Don put his hand on Philip’s arm. “Wait, Philip,” he said. Then he said to Abel. “We have to tell him. He has a right to know.”
Abel sighed and looked away. “You are probably right,” he said. “I thought we could as well wait for a better time.”
“Tell me what?” asked Philip. He could feel a lump in his throat. It was hard to talk.
“Look at me, Philip,” said Donald. Philip complied. He sat back down.
Don continued: “We found out some things last night. We met with some people who had been gathering information. One thing we learned was that a smith and his wife from upriver, who had been arrested by the tax police, had both died.”
Philip heart stopped. He sat frozen for a full minute as the full meaning began to sink in. My parents—dead? How could my mother be dead? I still remember how her hair smelled. Then he began sobbing. He could not help it. Finally he was able to take several deep breaths and stop the heaving of his chest. But he could not stop the tears. He could feel them running hot down his cheeks. He finally found his voice.
“But how do you know they were my parents?” Philip demanded. “Did they know their names?”
“They knew that this couple’s son had attacked the tax collectors and escaped,” Don answered. “I think you are going to have to accept it. Your parents are dead.”
The Stonegate Sword Page 37
