The Ledberg Runestone

by Patrick Donovan

  My future employer had already commandeered one of the small tables that sat outside. She’d already ordered, and two mugs sat billowing steam in the center of the table, next to a small plate of pastries and a little carafe that I guessed held more coffee. She saw me and gestured to the seat across from her.

  I made my way over and sat down, setting my cane on the edge of the table. She eyed the bruises on my face.

  And the stitches.

  And the bandage that covered the majority of the right side of my face.

  “I see you had an eventful evening,” she said, nodding towards the cup. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks,” I said, picking up one of the cups and taking a slow, cautious sip. The coffee was delicious and just shy of being the same temperature as molten rock.

  “I ordered some Danishes as well, if you’d like one.”

  I answered by picking one up, taking a bite that was large enough to be considered rude in most polite social circles, and washed it down with another mouthful of coffee. I kept this up with a silent satisfaction and more than a bit of gluttonous joy, until both the coffee and the Danish were gone.

  “So, job’s still on the table then?” I asked.

  “It is.”

  “Twenty thousand?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “What the hell do you mean, no?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair.

  “I mean that the terms of the offer no longer involve a payment of twenty thousand dollars,” she said, picking her own coffee cup up and taking a small sip. “That was yesterday’s offer. Today’s offer is five thousand.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said. I picked up the coffee cup, noticed it was empty, and dropped it back on the table a little harder than I intended.

  “Actually, I’m not,” she said.

  I turned my options over in my head, tracing my thumb over the rim of the coffee cup in front of me. To be fair, there wasn’t a whole lot in the way of options to be considered. I either found a way to come up with some of the cash to pay off Waylon and his brother, or I receive another ass kicking of epic, and quite possibly fatal, proportions. Worse, they’d go after my old man. Which was a situation that wouldn’t go well for one, or both, of the parties involved.

  “Fine,” I said finally. “But I want half up front.”

  The woman kept her eyes locked on me and plucked a small piece off of one of the Danishes. She put it in her mouth, chewing it slowly.

  “That’s acceptable,” she said, finally. “If you give me your word.”

  “My word? Seriously?”

  “An oath, actually.”

  “Right. And how does that work, per se?”

  “Simple. You lick the palm of your hand. I will do the same. We’ll shake hands, and you will swear by the blood of your kin that you will retrieve the stone. When that is done, I will tell you everything you need to know to retrieve the stone.”

  “You’re serious?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Very.”

  I watched her for a moment, wondering if maybe this was all some sort of prank or joke.

  “Fine. I’ll bite,” I said.

  The woman nodded.

  “Go on,” she said.

  So I did as she asked. In the middle of the cafe, in front of God and everyone, I licked my hand from palm to fingertips and stuck it out across the table. She did the same, and took my hand in hers. It was a little gross and all kinds of strange, but a guy’s got to eat.

  “Repeat after me,” she said. “On my kin, I make this oath, and bind myself to it.”

  I repeated the words, and for the briefest of instances, my entire body was hit by a wave of arctic-like cold. It came and went so fast that, even now, still shivering, I wasn’t sure it had actually happened.

  “It’s done,” she said.

  “Well, now that we’ve officially traded spit, mind telling me your name?” I asked.

  “My name is Abigail Lysone.”

  “What is that? French?” I asked.

  “I suppose that’s close enough.”

  “Alright,” I said. “Give me the deets.”

  “Deets?”

  “Details,” I said, refilling my cup. “Tell me about this, what was it again?”

  “Ledberg Runestone.”

  “Right, tell me about the stone,” I said, sitting back and sipping at my coffee.

  “The Ledberg Runestone was discovered—”

  I held up a hand, cutting her off.

  “The things I need to know if I’m going to acquire said stone for you. That’s what I need, not a history lesson,” I said. Maybe it was the repeated blows to the head, the lack of sleep, or the fact that I was here roughly four hours before I’m usually even awake, but I was feeling a little punchier than usual.

  “Very well, straight to the point, then,” she said. If she was put off by my tone, she didn’t show it. “The fragment of the stone was stolen from my husband some time ago. Fortunately, it has recently resurfaced, here, in Asheville.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “Of that, I am unsure. I simply have it from a reliable source that it is within the city. Besides, if I knew where it was, I wouldn’t have to pay you to find it.”

  “Touché.”

  “May I continue?”

  I took another sip of coffee and kept my mouth shut.

  “The fragment is roughly the size of a large, hardcover book and, much like its parent, displays a pictorial carving of the battle of Ragnarok,” she said, her accent giving an odd inflection to the traditional name for the Norse apocalypse. “It also has certain, shall we say, inherent properties.”

  “Inherent properties? How about we elaborate on that,” I said.

  “Well, like anything which has had centuries of belief heaped upon it, it is an object of power. Perhaps not as substantial as the Ark of the Covenant, or the Shroud of Turin, but power nonetheless.”

  I turned that over in my noodle for a minute. Everything in the world has at least some measure of innate power, call it magic, chi, energy, whatever, it was a universal constant. Certain people, like myself, can tap into that power. Granted, there are limits on what people with the necessary talent can derive that power from. In my case, I was what most people would call a shaman or medicine man. I tapped into the energy inherent in nature, primarily plants, herbs, and stones. It was only one of my many talents.

  Power though, power comes with a price.

  For example, witches dealt in fate. They could manipulate it, twist it, the works. I’d never actually met one, but the scuttlebutt was that witches could see how fate worked, and in some cases, manipulate those threads to their own ends. In the end, or so I’m told, that sort of power drove most of them about nine different kinds of stark raving mad. In my case, I had to use my blood as a catalyst. There are other parts to my powers, sure, but in the end, it all comes down to the blood.

  The power of faith—that was a different animal altogether. I didn’t really have any idea how it worked and only the truly devout could really put it to use anyway. However, when someone could tap into it, the results ranged from miraculous to absolutely terrifying. Couple that sort of potential with an item that has, over time, become a sort of battery for the power religious devotion generates, and you get an item that’s the magical equivalent of a nuclear warhead. Sure, you could do a lot of good with something like that. You could also level a city with that much mojo. It was why the church was so big on hanging onto bits and pieces of dead saints.

  “Alright, that begs my next question,” I said, finally.

  “Go ahead.”

  “What exactly are you planning on doing with said stone?” I asked.

  “Am I asking you what you’re planning on doing with the money I pay you?”

  “Be that as it may, the question still warrants asking.”

  “Perhaps,” she said with a slight shrug. “Mister Heywood, I’m paying yo
u to find and retrieve this item for me. Not ask me stupid questions. What I’m doing with it isn’t your concern. Judging from the state of your face and the fact that you called me not more than twenty-four hours after I made my initial offer, I’m assuming we wouldn’t be having this conversation unless you desperately needed the money. Now, I’m going to go on the assumption that your already shaky moral compass isn’t going to be a problem and you can get to work,” she said, her words clipped with irritation.

  I glared at her over the rim of my coffee cup. She met my gaze with eyes that were the color of glacial ice and just as cold. Something about this whole deal had me on edge. She was right, however. I was desperate.

  I set the cup on the table, pushing it slowly to the center.

  “I guess I’m on the clock,” I said.

  Lysone offered me a chilly smile and reached into her coat, withdrawing a white envelope, stretched thick with cash. She set it on the table and slid it over to me. I picked it up and peeked inside long enough to see a stack of bills, before sliding it into my jacket pocket. I stood up, grabbing my cane off of the table.

  “Mister Heywood?” she asked as I was turning to leave.

  “Yeah?”

  “You are aware that if you try to renege on this deal, or screw me over, I’ll see to it that your leg and the beating you took last night are the least of your worries, correct?”

  I stared at her for a long moment. It wasn’t so much what she said, it was how she said it. There wasn’t the slightest bit of hesitation in her voice. As far as she was concerned, this was a universal truth on par with Newtonian law.

  “I suppose I am now,” I said.

  “Very good. I expect to hear from you tomorrow with an update.”

  I took my flask out of my pocket, opened it and took a sip, then tipped it towards her.

  “Cheers.”

  I finished off the last of the booze once I’d gotten back in my truck. I put the empty flask in the glove box and pulled the envelope out of my pocket. Counting the money in front of Lysone would have been rude, but I was damn sure going to check that she paid me what she’d agreed to. It was all there, two grand in hundreds and another five hundred in twenties. I put the twenties into the pocket of my jeans and set the rest of the money on the seat beside me, started the truck, and threw it into gear.

  First stop, refill. After that, pay the Carvers and get them off my ass.

  Once those two things were done, it was time to go work.

  Life, after all, was all about priorities.

  Chapter 5

  The Carvers owned a bar called The Poor Confederate in Black Mountain, a small suburb about twenty minutes outside of Asheville. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall dive bars. Like Cheers, but with a lot more Merle Haggard and violence. The building itself was nothing more than a red brick cube with grimy windows and neon beer signs, offset by a gravel lot and located next to a strip of shops and a grocery store. There were a few trucks parked outside, mostly old beaters and work trucks laden down with everything from lumber to scrap metal to baying hunting dogs in metal boxes. I parked as close to the door as I could get and got out of the truck. Overhead, storm clouds were starting to gather and a steady wind was starting to kick up, dust and trash dancing across the little gravel lot.

  The inside of the Poor Confederate wasn’t much better looking than the exterior. If anything, the outside was a touch of class compared to the squalor inside. The lighting was dim and the entire place smelled of spilled beer, sweat, and shame. The floor was marred and stained wood. If I had to guess, I’d say the majority of the stains were either puke or blood, probably both. Centerfolds from porn magazines lined the wall behind the bar. Given the amount and size of the hair on the models, I put them as being from sometime between Woodstock and the birth of disco. A ratty pool table sat in a back corner. A few tables with mismatched chairs lined the wall opposite the bar. The jukebox, which was old enough to still play records, was next to the door and featured the likes of George Jones, all three Hanks, Skynyrd, and of course, David Allan Coe.

  A few locals were sitting at the bar. They were mostly working-class types who, much like yours truly, preferred to drink their breakfast. They gave me a cursory glance as I came in, then turned their attention back to their beers. I made my way over to the bar, finding a spot as far from them as I could, and slid up onto a stool.

  Melly, the bartender, came over and set a beer down in front of me. I have to admit, I had a touch of a thing for Melly. She had the slim, toned build one usually saw on a dancer, all dainty and perfect, built for graceful motion. She wore her hair, which almost touched the small of her back, loose and covering one side of her face, the dark chestnut of her natural color mixing with the dyed in streaks of blood red and a green like old money.

  “You look like you need this,” she said.

  I nodded and reached for my pocket.

  “This one’s on the house,” she added.

  Did I mention she had a saint-like sense of charity?

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. So far, the whiskey was doing a good job of keeping the multitude of aches and pains at bay, but I wasn’t opposed to giving it a bit of backup. “Cash or Waylon in?”

  “Not yet. Should be here before noon,” she said and set about wiping down the bar top. “They do that to your face?”

  I looked down into my beer and didn’t answer. Maybe it was my ego, but I didn’t have it in me to tell her that I’d gotten my ass kicked by her bosses. She gave me a long look, sighed, and opted to let it go.

  Like I said, saintly.

  “How’s your dad?” she asked.

  “Better actually,” I said. “The new shop is up and running, he’s turning decent business.”

  “Good to hear,” she said.

  “Yeah, he’s out of the red and into the black. Can’t ask for much more than that.”

  “He fixed my transmission a few weeks ago. That damn car runs better than it has in years,” she said.

  “Sounds like him,” I said.

  We spent the next hour or so involved in idle chitchat, talking about family, friends, jobs, love life, the works. Turns out, Melly was single, which I filed away into my little mental notebook of things to investigate further when her bosses didn’t want to kill me.

  “You sure they’re coming today, Melly?” I asked.

  She looked at the clock over the bar, and shrugged.

  “They said they were.”

  “Well, I don’t have all day,” I said, standing up. “Got a pen?”

  She snatched a pen out of a small can next to the register and slid it over to me. I jotted my number down on a napkin and handed it, along with the pen, back to her.

  “Give me a buzz when they show up?” I asked.

  She nodded, slipping the napkin into her pocket.

  “Will do.”

  “You’re a peach,” I said.

  “I know,” she said and smiled. Suddenly the inside of this little hole looked a lot less bleak.

  I was on my way to the door when it opened, bathing the bar in pale light. The rain had started outside, and even with the cloud cover and rainfall, it was so dim in the Poor Confederate that the little bit of light that slipped through the door was enough to make me shield my eyes. I looked back up in time to see Waylon and Cash saunter in, and like a couple of hungry sharks, they instantly set in on me.

  “Well, shit the bed! What have we here? Jonah Heywood, as I live and breathe,” Waylon said, clapping a ginormous hand on my shoulder.

  Cash, on the other hand, just cleared his throat and licked his lips.

  “So what can we do you for, Jonah?” Waylon said.

  “Can we talk?” I asked.

  “Of course, we’re all friends here. Melly, bring us a round. We’ll be in the office.”

  “Whatever you say, Waylon,” Melly said, barely concealing the note of disgust in her voice.

  I learned something in the body language that occurred b
etween Melly and Waylon in that second or two that followed their exchange. First, Melly hated him. She hated him with a visceral intensity that was almost palpable. Waylon, on the other hand, viewed her as nothing more than property. The moment passed just as quickly as it had come, and Waylon plastered that big chummy grin back on his face.

  “Jonah, follow me. Let’s chat,” Waylon said, throwing an arm over my shoulder and all but dragging me towards the booths at the back of the bar. Cash fell in step behind us. I could feel his gaze on the back of my neck and had to suppress a shudder.

  Waylon led me to a booth in the back. I slid into the bench-style seat and he slid in beside me, blocking me off. Cash sat across from me, his eyes never leaving my face. Melly came over a moment later, carrying three frosted beer mugs in one hand and a pitcher of beer in the other. She set a mug in front of each of us, the pitcher in the center of the table, and then turned to retake her position at the bar.

  Waylon watched her go back behind the bar with the same consideration he gave the bar stools, the tables, damn near everything inside of these four walls. If she knew he was staring, she didn’t give any indication. She just took up her post behind the bar and went about with the business of polishing glasses before the afternoon crowd showed up.

  “So, what is it you’re wanting to talk about?” Waylon asked.

  I took the envelope with the two grand out of my jacket and dropped it on the table, next to the pitcher. He picked it up and passed it to Cash, who counted it and handed it back.

  “Two thousand,” Cash said.

  Waylon whistled.

  “That’s impressive, Heywood. Damned impressive. Not even a day’s time and you show up on my doorstep with an envelope full of money. That’s some motivation, I have to admit.”

  Waylon looked at his brother and an unspoken communication passed between them. Whatever it was, it made me nervous. Scratch that, it made me really, really nervous.

  “Problem is, Jonah, that doesn’t entirely bring you up to date.”

  I blinked.

  “I’m sorry, come again?”

  “You owe us ten thousand. Two missed payments and you know as well as I do, the interest gets tacked onto the principal. So, according to my calculations you owe us…how much is it again, Cash?”