I hurt all over, but replied, “I don’t think so.”
Obviously unconvinced, he said, “Let’s go back to the smithy, lad. We’ll have a wee cup of tea and I’ll look you over.”
I didn’t argue. I was furious at myself for how badly this had gone and felt I deserved every bruise forming on my body.
With the excitement at an end, the crowd began to disperse.
We walked the short distance back to the shop where he led me into a small, dark sitting room. It was populated with a few chairs, a small table, and a fireplace with, regrettably, no fire. It lacked the touch of a woman. Mr. Shepherd never married, though I couldn’t figure out why. From my observation, plenty of women fancied him. I sensed a story there and, though tempted to try and find out more, I left it alone. I didn’t like reading people’s souls when it wasn’t absolutely necessary to do so. I had in the past and felt dirty, like I was sneaking around, peeking into windows. What’s more, I wasn’t good at keeping what I had been told separate from what I had harvested—a mistake that sometimes came back to haunt me, when I inadvertently said something that I wasn’t supposed to know. Such a slip is where trouble usually begins for me.
“Sit you down, friend, while I get water heating for tea,” said Mr. Shepherd. He turned and left for the smithery, where the forge still blazed.
I slid into a chair, which was surprisingly more comfortable than it looked, stared at the empty fireplace, and waited in glum silence. After a few moments, Mr. Shepherd returned.
“Now, let’s have a wee look at you.” He poked and prodded. I winced a few times as he touched some tender spots.
I liked Mr. Shepherd; he had a good heart. He had always been friendly and seemed to genuinely care about me. Of course, anyone new to a small town generates some interest at first, but his never died—nor did it waver for any of his friends. However, when it came to his own life, he revealed very little; and none of us knew anything about him beyond what we observed.
Finally, he announced, “Well, it doesn’t look like you’ve broken anything, though I’m sure you’re going to feel like you did in the morning.”
He was wrong. I didn’t have to wait until morning. Things were already stiffening and I felt an increasing soreness set in.
“Why’d you stop me?” I demanded, still angry.
He stroked his beard and, in a fatherly voice, replied, “Well now…I suppose for the same reason that you decided not to fight back.”
It wasn’t the answer I had expected and I tried not to look surprised.
With keen eyes that didn’t miss much, he continued, “I know you could have ducked that fist. I’ve seen you move a wee swifter than that…and I saw it in your eyes. You were right not to fight, though. It would’ve been worse for Mrs. Martin. Moreover, you would’ve been charged for striking a magistrate. If tried in his court, you would have been hung, or at best, severely whipped, thrown in the stockade, and eventually run out of the village with nothing but the clothes you’re wearing. Either way, you would’ve died.”
I knew he was right, but still asked, “And how do you know all this?”
His face grew somber. “You’re not the first to take him on.”
“I gather the other person didn’t succeed,” I said dryly.
Sadly, he said, “No, they didn’t.”
“What happened?”
“Ah, well, they were each one similar; all of them crossed the wrong people and most of them aren’t here to regret it.”
“People? Other than Mr. Martin?”
“Aye, I’m afraid so. You see, there are a number in the community who greatly desire to keep their seat in power; but Martin is the leader and the most dangerous. He is a violent man. And as magistrate, he has the power to execute his injustice. That’s why t’was good you didn’t hit him. He would’ve had the excuse to take you into custody. However, since you didn’t, I think you’ll be safe for a wee bit.”
“And no one can stand up to him…or them?”
“Well now, I wouldn’t say no one.” He leaned back in his chair; it creaked in protest. “I believe you have a fine chance of succeeding.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed, “How am I any different than the ones who’ve tried before?”
A peculiar look crossed his face and he said simply, “I’ve seen it in you.”
“What have you seen in me?” I asked, unbelieving.
“There are a few ways to stay in power: one is to make people believe you’re something you’re not; another is by fear and trickery; the best one is by getting the people to genuinely trust you. Martin and his followers do it through a combination of the first two. You seem to inspire the latter.”
I felt embarrassed and, since I didn’t know what to say, I said nothing.
He continued, “Though Martin is not entirely well liked, he does have support…support that you have been eroding. After today, his status will shrink even more. Others saw what happened out there and news will spread of how he reacted. From what I know, it’s the first time he has publicly struck his wife—that won’t be looked upon favorably.”
Again, I said nothing. I felt uncomfortable with the topic and Shepherd sensed it. So, we sat in silence for a long moment and stared at the nonexistent fire, while my aches increased. I wanted to lie down and calm my sore body.
“Come hunting with us tomorrow,” he offered abruptly.
“What?” I asked.
“Some of us are going hunting.”
I must have looked confused because he explained, “There’s a group of us going out before winter sets in.”
“I know the reason. But why in a group?”
“It’s safer that way. There have been strange beasts in the forest and people have gone missing.”
“I’ve heard the stories,” I said dismissively. “But I don’t really believe them. The forest can play tricks on your eyes. The strange beasts are probably just bears.”
“Perhaps,” he said, unconvinced. I could tell he was holding something back.
I continued, “And most if not all the missing were strangers, right?”
“Aye.”
“People we wouldn’t necessarily see again?”
“True enough,” confessed Mr. Shepherd. “Still, I’d rather not risk it. Will you join us?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I have things that need looking after. I promised Widow Snow I’d come by and help with some repairs.”
He looked at me for a moment; it made me uncomfortable.
“What?” I asked defensively.
“Is that the only reason why?”
“For a blacksmith, you’re awfully perceptive.”
He smiled. “I’ve heard the same thing about you.”
My face flushed.
“Oh yes, I’ve heard all the rumors,” I fumed. “Dark magic indeed! What a foolish notion!”
“Not everyone believes rumors.”
“I suppose not. I just tire of them.”
“It’s understandable. Don’t give them too much thought. Most folks around here know they are started by people who don’t like you—and aren’t much liked themselves, actually.”
“Why do they do it?” I wondered aloud.
He shrugged. “Evil doesn’t need a reason. It is what it is.”
I thought about that for a moment and then asked, “What about the others? Won’t they mind if I go?”
“We’ve already discussed inviting you. They’re all in favor of it.”
“Is there an excuse I can give that will get me out of it?”
He let out a hearty laugh. “You’re a smart enough lad; I’m sure you’ll think of something sooner or later.”
His chuckle made me grin. “Yes, but it’s probably not worth the effort. If I were a betting man, I’d wager you have at least my next three excuses already covered.”
“Aye, at least.”
It sounded good to leave Syre, if only for a short time. Perhaps even strengthen some friendships that I
would desperately need if I were to survive a confrontation with Mr. Martin.
“All right, let me know where you plan on going and I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’m finished at Widow Snow’s.”
He gave me the information and, even though we never got around to tea, I thanked him anyway and left.
Needing supplies, I stopped by the general store and then set off for home. I hadn’t traveled far when I heard someone running up behind me. I turned and noticed a short, squat figure of a man, waving his stubby arms. He tried yelling something; but all that came out was a garbled wheeze. The image of a comical pig floated into my mind.
Eventually, the governor of Syre drew up next to me. He heaved over in exhaustion, bracing his hands on his knees, as sweat trickled down his brow. I paused, allowing him time to catch his breath.
Still breathing hard, he finally panted, “My boy, you walk too fast.”
“What can I do for you, sir?” I asked stiffly.
Even though he had been decent to me, I had never really liked the man. He was only concerned about himself and those who put him in power—many of whom were the same ones starting the rumors about me.
“Get right to the crux of it, don’t you my boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
He drew himself upright and dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief.
“Well then, since you’re in a hurry…I need your expertise with a sick animal.”
Caring for animals and training horses was my bread and butter.
“Today? There’s only a half-hour of good daylight left. It will take longer than that just to get to your farm.”
“No, no, of course not,” he said with a little laugh that was more from habit than humor. “Tomorrow, I think, will be fine.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tomorrow, sir. I promised Mr. Shepherd I’d go hunting with him.”
“Yes, of course you are. I’ve heard all about that and I’ve already stopped by and squared it with him. He understands you’ll be helping me tomorrow and will rendezvous with him the following day.”
I groaned inwardly, irritated that he took it upon himself to arrange my schedule. I started to protest.
“My dear boy,” he interrupted. “I’d consider it a personal favor. I’ll pay you double your usual; and I’ve already worked it out so Thomas Martin can come help you.”
“You did?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes. You see, it’s the pregnant one, and I really can’t afford to lose both the cow and the calf. So, you simply must come.”
You most definitely could afford to lose it, I thought. There was deceit in his eyes. He probably meant to get out of paying me double. Had I taken a moment longer to look into his soul, I would have realized his true intent and what a dire mistake it would be not to leave with the hunting party. But I was too irritated with him to argue and knew, if I turned him down, I’d have to go back and work things out again with Mr. Shepherd. Plus, I’d have to walk all the way over to the Martin’s and tell Thomas he wasn’t needed; this also ran the risk of running into Mr. Martin—an experience best left untried for the time being. Above all, I was sore and tired and just wanted to lie down.
So, I agreed.
“Excellent. See you then, my boy.”
He spun around and waddled off quickly, before I could change my mind.
Chapter Two: Deception
THE sun sank low in the sky, sending long shadows across the ground. Beams of light streamed through the trees and highlighted the occasional insect that buzzed in and out of the radiance. I walked through the village and on, arriving at a small cottage, nestled among a few others, on the outskirts of Syre. I opened the wooden door and a familiar, musty smell washed over me. The cottage consisted of one room, housing a stove, a table, a window at one end, and a straw bed under a small loft at the other. I sat at the table, pulled my boots off, and then ate my meal of dried venison, an apple, and a crust of bread. It wasn’t much, but I really felt more tired than hungry.
I crossed over to the bed and pulled the tie from my hair, letting it fall. I collapsed my aching body on the straw-filled tick, watched the last rays of the fleeting sunlight evaporate into darkness, and then closed my eyes to enjoy the still sound of nothing. When I finally pried them back open, I was surprised to see the first glint of sunrise creeping over the tops of the surrounding hills, bathing the cottage in a welcoming pink and golden light.
It took me a moment to realize that I had drifted off to sleep, still dressed, and in the same position where I’d lain down the previous night. Sighing, and with much determination, I attempted to heave my bruised and stiff body off the bed. Success was achieved on the third attempt.
I walked (if you can call it that) over to the stove and got a fire started. Stripping my shirt off, I grabbed soap and a towel, and reluctantly strode out into the cool morning air. Around the back of the cottage stood a barrel full of water, with a bucket hanging at its side. With an involuntary shiver, and grateful there was no ice floating on the surface, I shoved the bucket into the barrel, heaved it out, and began pouring it over my mostly naked body. The cold water shocked my senses and banished any remaining sleepiness. Shaking profusely, I grabbed the soap, lathered up, and rinsed. If the malevolent barrel had a soul, I was sure it would be enjoying the torture of its subject at the hand of its henchman, the bucket. The steam rose off my body in the morning sun. I admired it only as long as it took me to fumble for the towel and dry myself off. With the torture over, I hurried back into the cottage to warm up by the stove and then get dressed.
After a brief raid of the chicken coop, I made my breakfast consisting of eggs and the rest of the bread. With that complete, I set off to a small, nearby barn that I shared with the Wiggins family. It was actually their barn, but we had agreed that, if I fixed it up, I could add a few stalls and use part of it. In the end, it probably would have been almost as much work to build my own barn; but during the process, we had inadvertently worked our way into another mutually beneficial agreement. I helped care for their horses and livestock and, in return, they kept me supplied with fresh bread, butter, and milk.
“Hello, John.”
Looking up, I saw a gawky, blond-haired boy of fifteen smiling at me.
“Hello, Thomas. Should I be worried when people like Governor Potts automatically arrange for you to come along? If you keep this up, people are going to cut me out and call only on you. I’ll be out of a job before long,” I said with a smile.
He laughed.
“I wouldn’t worry; you’re too gifted with animals,” he said in that awkward voice that was somewhere between boy and man.
“So are you. Why else would I ask you to help me? Well, that and because you’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Not true,” he protested. Then, with a grin, he added, “The grass isn’t going to grow by itself you know, someone has to watch it.”
I chuckled.
Changing the subject, I admitted, “I’m a little surprised your father let you come, even if it was Potts who asked him.”
“He was in a very foul mood,” he said, turning more somber. “At first, he was furious at the idea; but Governor Potts said something to change his mind. Plus, I think he likes keeping track of you through me.” Looking down at his feet, he asked sheepishly, “Are you angry at me for that?”
“No, of course not. I know how your father is. Tell him anything he wants to know…. How is your mother?” I asked hesitantly.
He said nothing.
I sighed. “How severe is it?”
Looking pale, he confessed, “I don’t fully know; he sent me away. But it was bad.”
He seemed reluctant to go on, and I wasn’t going to push the matter. But then, after a moment, he continued brokenly, “I could hear her pleading. She tried not to scream, but he beat her hard, and…I think…he touched her.” His eyes searched mine for understanding.
I nodded once and put an arm around his shoulder.
Desp
ite his outward control, I could feel his hatred boiling under the surface for his father. He relived the emotions felt the night before: the absolute helplessness when sent away; his inability to protect his mother; and the rage he felt afterward when he saw what had happened to her. I was surprised at how calm he seemed on the outside, when inside his anger was so powerful as to transfer over to me without any active thought on my part, or any attempt to harvest the information. This was unusual for me. Normally, when I look upon a soul, it’s like witnessing a storm through a window. I can see it, and imagine what it would be like to be in it, but I can’t feel it. With Thomas, that window flew open and sucked me in to experience the full fury of the wind and rain—causing me to share the tempest of emotions that he felt.
He stared at my clenched and trembling fists with wide eyes.
I withdrew my arm, suddenly aware of how I must look.
In a voice that begged me not to pursue it, he pled, “John, you mustn’t do anything. He’ll destroy you if you try. Trust me; I’ve seen what he’s done to others who have.”
His anger passed quickly, while mine still boiled over.
“You’re probably right,” I said slowly, trying to give the impression I was letting it go, even though I had no intention of letting anything go.
He relaxed.
“Let me saddle up,” I said.
We walked along the rails that enclosed a pasture and lead to the barn. A huge, charcoal-colored horse trotted up and nuzzled me in the back.
“Sorry, not today, Smoke,” I muttered.
He snorted and kept nudging me as if he didn’t understand, although I knew perfectly well that he did. I wanted to keep him rested for the hunt, so, instead, I would use one of my other two horses. Smoke looked on as I chose the mare. Though she didn’t have much spirit, she was a good, calm, obedient horse. However, Smoke wasn’t going to give up so easily and kept pestering me all the way to the barn. By the time I arrived, my shoulder was wet with horse snot. I wished it were him; nothing brought me as much pleasure as riding on his back, hurtling across fields and through woods at a breakneck speed. I knew he loved it, too.
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