by J. Thorn
“Maybe I am. Maybe you would if ya knew what I knew.”
“And what would that be, most honorable man of the Commonwealth?”
“You can ridicule all ya like, but it ain’t gonna change what’s happenin’ and what I know to be takin’ place.”
Aiden rocked back in his chair and folded his hands on the table. His eyes squinted closed and his nose wrinkled to one side. “Have at it,” he said to Toman.
“Sir Burton Ford ain’t nuthin’ but a charlatan, a fake.”
Aiden remained stoic, unmoved.
“Every scabble that steps off the vessels is a fake. They all chase something they don’t have or are running from something that don’t have them. Every one’s got a story to tell.”
“That’s relatin’ to the company?” Aiden’s eyes opened and he leaned forward.
“Now I see I got somethin’ you wanna be knowin’ about,” Toman said.
Aiden shrugged. “Delivering for the good of the Ways? Out of pure kindness?”
Toman laughed and signaled the man tending the makeshift bar for another round of ale. The overturned cart would serve the need until the company recruited enough scabble to start building real structures, both residential and commercial.
“What kinda man of commerce would divulge trade secrets without his fair share? Why, that’d be downright foolish.”
“We’re following the Ways, Toman. You can laugh and ridicule all you like, but we don’t’ have anything you or the scabble will want.”
A woman rolled to the table with two mugs and a cloud of feminine odor strong enough to make Aiden’s eyes water.
“Gotsum furry fer ya if the drink don’t do you righteous,” she said, pulling up her skirt to reveal shins covered with hair and black grime.
“Leave us be, Mabel. We gots important things to talk about.”
“You didn’t care much ‘bout talkin’ last night.”
Toman’s face turned the color of the summer rose. Aiden smirked, shook his head, and drew the mug to his lips. He could not figure out how the scabble got the tavern together so quickly or how they managed to find barrels of ale so soon after landfall. Different priorities, he thought.
“Why, Mabel, if ya keep tellin’ those tall tales, I’m gonna have to have you disciplined on yer rump,” replied Toman, hooking one eye on Aiden to judge his response.
“Please excuse us, fair madam, as we finish tellin’ each other news of family folk ‘cross the Great Sea.”
Mabel curtsied at Aiden and turned to walk away. Before she did so, she bent at the waist to whisper into Toman’s ear. Aiden watched her massive breasts tumble low under her garments. He could see the bright white of her cleavage and looked towards the door.
“A suitor of hers?” asked Aiden.
“Of sorts,” replied Toman.
A scuffle broke out in the opposite corner. Three men stood around an upturned table, shouting at each other and pointing fingers like they were loaded with the burning powder.
“Maybe this ain’t the time to continue.”
Toman shook his head quickly and slammed a mug to the table. “All the more reason to believe our talk’ll stay private. Nothin’ gonna be heard over that racket.”
“Ford?”
“Yeah, Sir Burton Ford.”
Aiden waited for Toman to set his mug down. It sat empty and he turned towards the bar once again. Aiden placed his hand on Toman’s elbow and lowered his arm.
“Ford?”
“The ale helps to loosen my lips, make sure ya got all the info you so require.”
“It helps to loosen my bowels, listening to you carrying on about this and that.”
Toman gave up and leveled his face to Aiden’s. “He’s with the company. On a private payroll.”
“One you’re privy to?”
“Of sorts.”
“What sort?”
“The sorta payroll that funnels money from the King to whomever he damn well pleases. That sort.”
Aiden sat, waiting for Toman to continue. His fingers grasped the mug with white knuckles.
“If I tell you what I know, I want a cut.”
“Of what?”
“C’mon, Aiden! I ain’t no fool. You know exactly what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”
“The rumors of gold?”
“Yeah, rumors.”
“More wishful thinking by the first arrivals in the Commonwealth. If taking the land of the Naturals wasn’t enough justification, the greedy bastards concocted stories of horded wealth.”
Toman grinned while Aiden spoke.
“The scabble been sayin’ that your Jaithe hid it all. They sayin’ he was the only one of the ‘pales’ that the werowance would trust, and that the heathen king was sendin’ his tribe’s stash into the mountain where him and Jaithe would protect it. Keep it hidden from both constituencies, shall you prefer.”
Toman wiped his mouth with the back of a sleeve and signaled for another mug of ale before Aiden could stop him.
“You know it’s there,” Aiden said.
“Course I do! Me, the captain, most of the scabble. Ain’t the if they fussin’ over, it’s the where.”
“If it did exist, and you knew where, you wouldn’t be sitting here wasting time on me.”
“True ’nuff. But I got me a way of findin’ it from Jaithe himself, when the time presents it.”
Aiden coughed and stood. He pushed a chair in. “We’re done.”
“Sit down and have another with me,” replied Toman
Aiden dropped slowly into the chair, never removing his eyes from Toman’s.
“Here’s where Ford comes in, as I know ya still been thinkin’ on that one. He works the double side, appearin’ to be alignin’ with the Commonwealth, and the King, while all the time be workin’ for the company. He’s aimin’ for that stash, just like the rest of the scabbleheads. If he gets in tight with your Master Jaithe, he gonna do just that.”
“And then you get none.”
Toman laughed and slapped the rear of the woman that brought his mug. He saw Mabel’s furrowed brow from the corner. “Settin’ the ladies against one ‘nother means more for me.”
“And then you get none, ain’t that right, Toman?”
“Or much less, Aiden. Either way, I ain’t fixin’ to settle for either.”
“If it does exist, and I’m not saying it does, what’s your cut for keeping Ford and the company out of it?”
“Three of ten.”
Aiden laughed. “Sure. I know there’s nothing there. If you want three of nothing, you’re welcome to it.”
Toman licked his palm and held the hand out to Aiden. He waited for Aiden to do the same. The men shook hands across the table and over the steins of ale.
“Be checkin’ on yer Ways soon enough. Now I gots to attend to my ladies ‘fore the drink drops me notcher.”
Aiden stared at Toman as he stumbled towards Mabel with his arms outstretched.
***
Captain Russell hated the cabin. He had spent countless nights being tossed around it while the voluptuous siren of the sea teased him with mortality. He stood and knocked an inkwell from a desk crammed into the corner. His eyes moved across floorboards stained with the blood of those who had run afoul of him. The captain tasted the oily sweat of whores that lingered on his bedding.
“It’s Sicklemore,” said the voice from the other side.
The captain turned the iron bolt, and the door swung inwards on creaky hinges, battered by years of use and salty sea air.
“Bought maps from one of the originals. Maps they say they pilfered from the Naturals.”
“You took them at their word?”
“Not ‘til I checked ’em over with my own eyes. The hand is shaky, but true.”
“Can you survey, verify the chartings?”
“Already have.”
The captain smiled and offered Sicklemore a pipe. “Do we need a party? Horses?”
Sicklemore shook his head.
“For the protection of the resources, I might suggest we go it alone, just you and me.”
The captain shook off a momentary shudder before replying. “Then we oughta quit standin’ around here, yappin’ in the cabin.”
The two men left the captain’s ship and took a rowboat to the beachhead. The scabble had mixed in with the originals until it became difficult to tell them apart. After an awkward orientation, the two groups of colonists explored the other. Most of the originals favored the growing village over their refuge in the mountains. Single-room structures had appeared around the well, with four more erected in a matter of days. The scabble had named the village center “the avenue.” The makeshift tavern sat in the middle with a trading post straddling each side.
Russell led Sicklemore through the frenzied activity of local commerce. The scabble sold wares of the vessel, items brought on the voyage or those scavenged from the holds of the ships. The originals peddled resources gained through trade with the Naturals. Given their scarcity, the crafts of the Naturals brought the highest price.
“The originals struggled here, under blessin’ of the King and company. Can’t find nuthin’ better than layin’ a head on the floor of a cave, much like a bear. And now, we arrive with the commerce, and the place blows up. So much for the Ways, eh, Sicklemore?”
Sicklemore nodded as he dodged a dirt-faced boy holding the headless carcass of a rabbit. He could not tell which odor offended him more, that of the dead animal or the unwashed boy.
“Yes, sir,” Sicklemore replied. “We gots civilization now.”
They stopped to converse with those who still owed the captain for the crossing of the Great Sea. He gathered two bed rolls, an iron pot, two firing irons, and two flasks. Sicklemore packed everything but the firing irons into a satchel and secured it to his back.
“We gonna keep these packed, and on person?”
“Yep. Unless you wanna give the beasts the first crack at ya.”
The men followed the trail past the valley of the caves. They looked up and saw movement on the hills, the few originals remaining to search for the Ways.
Once out of the Commonwealth, Sicklemore took the lead. He pushed ahead of the captain, replacing his firing iron with a map. They followed deer trails that ran along the river, pushing further into the wilds beyond the Commonwealth. At midday, the captain halted progress in favor of a meal.
“The cave?” asked Sicklemore.
“What about it?” replied the Captain.
“Does Jaithe have it stashed in there or not?”
“I reckon he does.”
“Then why we trudgin’ ourselves out here, making nice targets for the Naturals?”
The captain stopped stirring the porridge in the pot. He glared at Sicklemore and then shrugged his shoulders. “The cave ain’t much but a dally of it all. The beasts be hidin’ the rest in their own lands. No king of the heathens gonna trust a pale with that.”
“You’re sure we gonna find it?”
“Sure as hell. You think I brought ya for yer conversin’ skills? Once you map it, I’ll send it off to the company and we’ll get a part without so much as slayin’ one of the heathens. No blood on our hands.”
“I like yer business sense, Captain.”
“Stay close, apprentice. Ya gots lots of learnin’ to do.”
The men passed the remainder of the day in silence. The fire burned with frozen wood, pieces that they had salvaged from the grips of the snowy wilds. The moisture within the logs sizzled underneath bowls of plain porridge and watery tea.
Night fell with the dropping of the Sun God. Sicklemore let the embers cool as he pulled the bedroll to his chin. He heard the ragged, nasal breathing of the captain and thought of laying a cloth across his face. One simple murder for a good night’s sleep, he thought.
Long after the fire died, with the Moon Goddess hanging over the southern horizon, a snap of twigs awoke Michael Sicklemore from his shallow sleep. His hand clutched the firing iron underneath the pillow, and he opened his eyes to see the form of the captain in his bedroll, still serenading the wilds with his abysmal snoring. As Sicklemore closed his eyes, he heard it again. He turned in the bedroll and faced away from the fire. He put a hand over one eye in hopes of adjusting to the darkness as quickly as possible. The noise repeated, this time from the outskirts of their camp.
Sicklemore slid out of the back end of the bedroll and rolled through the snow until he reached a boulder overlooking the camp. The sudden jolt of the snow on his bare skin forced a hushed cry from his lips. He held the firing iron out and scanned the area. The barren trees appeared as animated bones, bobbing and swaying to the whims of the cold gusts. Shadows flickered from the paltry fire left to burn until morning. He waited and shivered.
A cold hand clamped across Sicklemore’s mouth, stifling a scream.
“If you yell when I remove my hand, I will slice your throat in the name of Okine. Nod once if you understand and submit.”
Sicklemore nodded, shedding three tears from his face. The frozen blade sat on his neck, replacing the foreign hand. Sicklemore turned to face the voice when a blackness took his vision.
“It will be necessary for us to conceal the way, given that you are one that tracks.”
The blindfold was held snuggly on his face and tied in the back.
“Are you going to kill me?” asked Sicklemore.
“Not yet,” replied the voice.
***
The captain awoke to a gray haze sitting on the valley, like the heady smell of rotten eggs. He was massaging the aches one acquires after a night on the ground when he noticed that Sicklemore had not stirred.
“Git up, ya lazy woman.”
The man did not move.
“I said git up.” He spoke louder this time.
Without waiting for a reply, Russell walked to Sicklemore’s bedroll and lifted his boot, ready to deliver the morning call. He turned his head sideways and bent down to examine the rocks that had taken the place of Michael Sicklemore. The captain froze and spun around in a circle, his senses alert and taught. He stepped back to his own bedroll and removed the firing iron from its cloth wrap. He stood, unsure of what to do.
I’m fine on the sea, but got no hope out here, he thought.
He looked again and noticed that Sicklemore’s personal effects remained in the camp, including the maps they had used the previous day. The captain stepped through the slush and past the remains of the fire. With one hand on the firing iron, he plucked the rolled parchment from Sicklemore’s satchel. Russell shoved the necessary items into his pack and stretched.
“Sicklemore,” he yelled. Got not use for subterfuge, they know we’re here. “Michael Sicklemore,” he yelled again.
Satisfied that the apprentice mapmaker was not present, the captain packed the rest of the camp and continued on the deer trail they had followed the previous day.
“You’d better be broken and bloodied, son. If you ain’t, you can trust that I’ll be doin’ it for ya.”
Chapter 23
Kelsun struggled to care whether or not he was awake or sleeping. The pain in his limbs radiated to his core. He hoped for death, even a violent one, that would spare the constant ache levied upon his soul. The voice in the cell came and went. At times, it would converse and lift his spirits. At other times, it berated him with a tongue like a rapier.
Kelsun screamed, and the reverberations died through the cavern’s channels.
“It’s almost time,” said the voice.
“For what?” Kelsun replied.
“The reckonin’.”
Kelsun giggled and cried, happy that his miserable existence was coming to closure, one way or the other. “For who?”
“All of us.”
He squirmed and pulled on the chains. They did not feel any lighter or looser around his wrists.
“Gonna hafta do one more thing first,” said the voice.
Kelsun thought the tone had changed. The words came with m
ore emotion, like passionate promises made in the embrace of a lover.
“How?” he asked.
“Wait. You’ll know soon enough.”
Hours passed, possibly days, maybe even months. He no longer measured time in familiar units. The cisterns and satchels had not moved for an eternity. Kelsun could not remember the last time he awoke without a void in his stomach. His tongue caressed his lips like sand blown by an angry desert.
“Will you accept the truth, as it sits up on high?”
Kelsun’s head lolled from one shoulder to the other. Her words are more refined, elegant, he thought. “What choice is presented to me under my current circumstances? Shall I refuse your offer and suffer to hang longer? Shall I accept your offer, dooming my soul to times far worse than the ones I’ve lived in this hole?”
“The truth does not discriminate against the meek or the mighty. It shines like the Sun God, always present, whether obscured by clouds or hidden by the darkness of night.”
“And too much of it can burn, like the red-tinged skin of one left to smolder in it.”
The voice paused and sighed. A gust of cold, moist air blew through the cavern. Kelsun looked up at the pinpoint of light that returned. He laughed, imagining that he sat under a great eye, the pupil being tiny and hidden by the dilated iris of blackness.
“Death is not an end, but a passing, the manner of which can determine your next phase of existence. Do not assume that a denial of the truth will end your misery, your suffering.”
“Then I should not assume that an acceptance of it will, either.” Kelsun thought about the words he spoke and tried to care about their interpretation.
“Very well. I shall leave you to the chains, the cold wind, and the darkness.”
“No, wait!” he yelled, suddenly fearful of being alone. Kelsun believe he could tolerate the pain, the wasting, the dying. It was the loneliness he could not bear. There was no reply from the voice. “If the search for truth be the reason for the existence of the thinking mind, then I am prepared to receive it.”
“It cannot be undone, as the rain cannot be raised to the heavens once it washes the earth.”
Is she sounding desperate, afraid I may deny the offer? “I understand the terms.”
