by Doug Kelly
Aton had thought correctly. Trahan was going to squeeze more money for himself from the local businesses. Trahan had noticed all of the grain in the twelve horse-drawn carts as they passed. Therefore, the granary was his first stop, and he wanted to arrive well before Chafney had time to hide the proceeds from his sale of the grain.
Although Trahan knew a big sale of grain could fatten his pockets with tax revenue, it was the place in town where he least desired to go. Other establishments, like the inns or taverns, would always offer Trahan and his enforcers gratuitous bribes of good food and drink, but a man that owned a storehouse of grain could do no such thing. All he had to offer was a musty odor and dust. Not expecting a granary visit to see Chafney today, Trahan had worn very nice clothes, colorfully embroidered linen garments and a felt jacket. He had even curled his hair, as he was occasionally known to do before going into town.
Before entering through the open doorway, into the room where Chafney conducted his business, Trahan took a deep breath of air, placed an intricately embroidered handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and held it there with a very limp wrist. He hated the odor around Chafney’s storehouse. Some scents were so repulsive to his delicate nose that he would always have a handkerchief smothered with mint leaves in the pocket of his jacket to attenuate any offensive aroma. To Trahan, this storehouse was the worst. After covering his nose and mouth with the scented cloth, he rushed inside, wanting to hurry the encounter. His two enforcers followed close behind him.
“Chafney,” said Trahan through the handkerchief over his mouth. “I think business was good for you today. Am I wrong?”
The pile of silver coins on the desk behind the counter had hypnotized Chafney. In his elated trance, he did not realize that he had left the door open, and the silver coins in plain view. His fingers were poking through the glittering mound when Trahan barged into the room. The tax collector’s entrance had startled him, which made him bump the pile of money. The sound of precious metal resonated through the room as the coins landed on the dusty floor. Trahan heard the jingle of silver, and he leaned forward on the dusty countertop to get a better view of how much money was waiting for him. The number of coins astonished him so profoundly that his hand holding the scented cloth dropped, causing him to breathe unfiltered air. He gagged, and then frowned when he saw a horizontal line of dirt across his clean felt jacket, which had appeared after he had leaned onto the dirty countertop. The stink in the air had choked him, but the delightful pile of coins abated his urge to vomit.
With his free hand, Trahan removed a parchment from his jacket, quickly scribbled some calculations on it, and read Chafney his tax bill, including what he owed for an assortment of business-related fines. Chafney offered him a large handful of silver, but Trahan shook his head and said, “I’ll take all of it.”
“But you can’t take everything,” he pleaded.
“I’m afraid so,” said Trahan, with a condescending tone.
Chafney frowned. He knew there was nothing he could do about it. He was powerless against the tyrant.
“Don’t be so gloomy. Just sell more grain. All profits are yours after you meet your tax burden.”
“Not at these prices. They’re too high. You should let me lower the prices that I have to charge people.”
“Nonsense. Who just purchased all this grain?”
“They were from Tarply. I’ve never seen them before today.”
“Tarply? I thought they were having some difficulties,” said Trahan, rhetorically, not expecting a reply.
Trahan had extended them credit under Olar’s name, and they had used it all. It was time to call the loan before they could pay it back. He wanted to add excessive interest and an assortment of fines that they would never be able to afford. He wanted to use that as leverage to claim Tarply and the area around it under the warlord’s name, to expand Olar’s domain, which he hoped the warlord would bequeath to his son.
“They weren’t happy about the price,” confessed Chafney. “I almost lost the sale.”
“They weren’t happy?” asked Trahan facetiously, just before he went to the open doorway, escaping to fresher air, mumbling, “Maybe I need to cheer them up.”
From outside the door, Trahan pointed to the interior floor and commanded his two helpers to make sure that they found all the spilled coins. When his enforcers returned outside, leaving the owner broke and alone in the room, Trahan announced that they were going to commence a trip tomorrow morning and visit the village of Tarply.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
While Aton, Larn, and the others travelled to Oberlin to purchase grain for the village and the migrating people of the hill tribes, Hauk was busy doing his part to prepare for the wedding ceremony, which would not be extravagant, but would share a combination of simple customs from the rituals of the clansmen and people of Greenhill. The local clans’ marriage tradition put two burdens on Hauk, and one of these tasks had an element of danger associated with it. First, he had to find a white matrimonial orchid in the bayou. Secondly, to prove his bravery, he had to kill an alligator. Roasted alligator tail, cooked by the groom, was the traditional dish served to the wedding party. The clansmen’s wedding custom also required the fiancé to place a matrimonial orchid in the bride’s hair during the wedding ceremony to signify the union. This flower would be adjacent to the orchid her parents would have already placed in her hair prior to the groom’s arrival for the nuptial services. Any adult male, with a good reputation in the community, could officiate the wedding and declare the couple as husband and wife. Aniku wanted her father to preside over the ceremony, and Hauk agreed.
The Greenhill tribe’s matrimonial ritual was simple and not dangerous. Hauk merely needed to acquire a long, thin strip of leather for the wedding ceremony. To use the thong of ceremonial goatskin, the happy couple would stand next to each other, shoulder to shoulder facing the bride’s parents, and hold each other’s closest hand. With his free arm, Hauk must bind their clasped hands together at the wrists with the ritual leather strap. To the hill tribes, when a couple displayed their bound wrists to the community during the ceremony, they had wed.
The day after Aton returned from Oberlin, the wedding occurred. The weather was fair on the day of the ceremony, so they planned to conduct the ritual and all of its festivities outside. At noon, the betrothed couple met at their new home. Aniku arrived with her father and mother. Aniku’s mother had made the most beautiful wedding dress, woven from the whitest cotton and embroidered with colorful thread. Hauk was wearing black linen pants and a ruffled white cotton shirt, with extra-long sleeves. He was still self-conscious about the scars circling his wrists, but the wide cuffs concealed them well. Aniku’s parents had already placed the first orchid in her braided hair.
She stood next to Hauk on their porch; her parents stood in front of them, and the ceremony was ready to begin. Hauk inserted the long stem of a beautiful white orchid to Aniku’s hair, next to the one already woven securely into her braids, and with the narrow strip of matrimonial goatskin, he bound his right wrist to her left. Aniku’s father raised his arms, expressed his happiness for the couple, and declared them as one, bound in holy matrimony. He kissed his daughter on the forehead and hugged his new son-in-law. The crowd cheered. While surrounded by joyous onlookers, who followed close behind, the wedding party began walking to the opposite end of town. They marched down the town’s main street, filling the wide road. According to the Greenhill wedding tradition, as they passed people of the village who had lined the road to watch the procession, the couple proudly raised their bound wrists, smiled, and proclaimed the strength of their union and their love for each other. The bride and groom’s attendants encircled them as they went to the wedding reception.
The procession ended near Tarply’s open front gates. The town had repaired the wall, and they had usually kept the front entry shut now that the villagers had fixed the burned section of barricade. Today, the gates into the village were wide open to
allow the free flow of people from the hill tribes who wanted to participate in the post-matrimonial feast. If there were an approaching threat, the guards would signal caution with an ox horn, close the gate, and ring the warning bell. The village did not expect any trouble, not with a swarm of people from the hill tribes inhabiting the region.
The procession stopped by Larn’s house, which also doubled as the official meeting place for matters of village governance and large social gatherings. A few years ago, he renovated his home by adding a room that he had built for the sole purpose of formal meetings to discuss matters of great importance to the community. Beside Larn’s house, volunteers had brought tables of food for the bustling crowd, and chairs to sit on during the feast. Aton and his bride sat at the center table.
The aroma of roasting meat filled the air as they drank ale and sang happy songs. While Hauk and his wife danced on a tabletop to a chorus of flutes, stringed instruments, and a drum to keep the beat, they were the last to notice the crowd parting for the arrival of some uninvited guests. When the music suddenly stopped, Hauk curiously looked at the band, because the song was not over. That is when he saw everyone staring at the seven strangers on horseback. First, he looked at Aton. He saw his friend flip the deep hood of his cloak onto his head and disappear into the gathering. That was not a good sign. Then Hauk turned to find Larn’s face in the crowd, and when he found that face, he saw a combined expression of bitter sadness and confusion. Hauk helped his wife off the table and watched Larn approach the man on the lead horse. It was Trahan; he had come to get payment for the debt. If the citizens of Tarply could not pay, he would initiate annexation of the village.
Trahan rode on the lead horse, and all the mounts in his entourage were very tall, muscular beasts with braided manes. The stallions were as black as the darkest night. As usual, Trahan wore flamboyantly colored clothes. A sword with a scabbard of shiny, highly polished metal hung from his belt, but its function was mostly ceremonial. Designed for aesthetics, this kind of weapon was typically for show and not as dangerous as one intended for battle, especially in Trahan’s old hands. Plucked from an exotic bird, a brightly colored feather protruded upward through the leather band circling the rim of his hat. He was wearing black gloves over his dainty hands. On the middle finger of his right hand, over the leather glove, he wore a large, silver ring with Olar’s insignia, which indicated his significance. He displayed the ring as if it were a warning for others to blindly obey his every command, or else face the wrath of the warlord.
Larn stood in front of Trahan’s horse to keep him from getting any closer to the wedding reception. While Larn had made his way through the crowd to greet Trahan, Aton had stealthily slithered his way through the gathering, nearer to the front gate, to be close to Larn as he greeted the tax collector.
“Greetings,” said Larn, without a happy inflection in his voice.
“And greetings to you,” said Trahan. Then he asked, with a very facetious tone, “Is all of this for me?” Bending it at the wrist, he extended his gloved hand and moved it in a semi-circular arc, indicating the large gathering of people as the object of his curiosity.
Larn shook his head and tried to smile. “No. It’s a wedding reception.”
“One of your girls, perhaps?”
“No. Of course not. They’re too young.” He took a quick glance back at the crowd and found his oldest daughter, Sevi, chaperoning his other children.
“I love weddings,” said Trahan. “I hope you don’t mind if we stay.”
“It’s about over…I don’t think there’s much left to see.”
“What a shame. If you had told me, I could have been here sooner.”
“Told you?”
“Yes. You went all the way to Oberlin, and you never tried to find me. Are you trying to avoid me? I thought we were friends. Aren’t we friends?”
Larn choked on the answer, and then he swallowed it. He did not want to tell Trahan how he really felt, so he did not say anything.
“If you had visited me at Oberlin, I would have invited you to my son’s wedding,” said Trahan. “That’s something friends do. He is getting married on the last day of the spring festival, right after the final event, archery.” Trahan leaned forward in the saddle, and grinned. “Do you know what else friends do? Don’t answer…Let me tell you…They pay each other back when a debt is owed. Larn, are we friends?”
The charade of pleasantries was over.
“We should talk,” said Larn. He pointed at his house. “Meet me over there. I’ll bring my advisers with me.”
Trahan spurred his horse, and Larn stumbled backward. As the tax collector went past Larn, Trahan said, “Gold would be nice, but I’ll take silver, too.”
Larn closed his eyes and cringed. There was no way to pay back the debt, not yet at least. The village needed more time. When he opened his eyes, he saw Aton and the wild expression on his face.
“I’m going with you!” Aton demanded.
“He’ll recognize you. Then what?”
“Maybe he won’t. I’ll meet you in the council room.” Aton turned to dash for his cabin, but abruptly stopped and spun around. “Larn, I have an idea. Whatever I say at the meeting with Trahan, agree with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have time to explain. Do you trust me?”
“Do I have any options?”
“No. You must agree to everything I say.”
“Yes, I promise. What do I have to lose?”
“Tarply,” snapped Aton, then he sprinted to his cabin.
While Aton was at his cottage rummaging through his possessions and honing his devious plan, the meeting with Trahan in the council room attached to Larn’s home had already started. Larn was stalling, making up excuses, and trying to change the subject of discussion. During the initial moments of the meeting, Trahan had already begun to lose his temper.
Aton left his cabin and sprinted to the council room as fast as he could. He did not want to miss a precious moment of the discourse. With the hood over his head, his bearded face concealed in shadow, he quietly entered the meeting room during a vigorous debate concerning the terms of the debt and repayment. Trahan was at the end of the long table in the middle of the room. Larn was at the opposite end, surrounded by his advisers and some of the village’s more prominent business owners.
Aton lurked in a dim corner, like a spider in its web waiting for the right moment to strike at its prey. Still wearing the hood to conceal his identity, he emerged from the shadows during a tense moment of discussion when Trahan began to pound the table with his gloved fists. Under his cloak, Aton already had his knife tightly gripped. If Trahan even flinched awkwardly, Aton was ready to pounce and stab. After Aton stepped into the flickering yellow light of an oil lamp that was brightly burning on the center of the table, he announced, “There has been a misunderstanding. We agree to all of your demands.”
“Who are you?” asked Trahan, slightly surprised at the hooded shadow that had emerged from behind Tarply’s group of men.
“He’s a trusted adviser,” answered Larn. “When he speaks, he speaks for me.”
Aton took another step closer. He wrapped his fingers tighter around the handle of his hidden blade and angrily squeezed it. He could feel his fingernails digging into the palm of his hand as he clenched his fist. He was close enough to Trahan that he could have pounced like a cougar and quickly stabbed his hated enemy in the chest. There would have been no time for his opponent to react; Aton’s reflexes were too quick. If Trahan made one false move, uttered one insult, he was a dead man. With his free hand, Aton pushed back his hood. It fell behind his head and onto his shoulders, revealing his face to the hated man, the father of a murderer. At first, Trahan’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, and then his expression changed to that of confusion. His eyebrows pushed together so tightly that they seemed to meet as one over the bridge of his nose, but he did not recognize Aton. The only other time the two of them had be
en this close was inside the stockade of Aton’s ancestral home. On that day, Trahan had given Aton and his cousin, Briand, one American penny each, thinking they were mere servants who were walking home with a basket of tools after a long day’s work at Davin Matin’s estate. Finally, Trahan’s expression changed to a blank stare as he looked into Aton’s eyes, and he tried to discern if he had ever seen the stranger before today. Trahan still did not recognize the bearded man standing at the edge of the table. Aton relaxed, and for the moment, he pardoned Trahan from execution. He was ready to continue with his plan to save Tarply, so rather than harvest vengeance with the tip of his knife, he planted seeds of revenge instead. Under his cloak, he sheathed the blade, and then wielded his clever intellect.
“Go ahead. Explain yourself,” ordered Trahan. He put his elbows on the table, wove his fingers together, and then leaned forward, resting his chin on his laced digits, as if they were a hammock.
“You want Tarply to pay its debt,” Aton flatly stated.
“Yes, of course,” replied Trahan, with an expression of cautious optimism materializing on his face. He relaxed, reclining onto the back his hard wooden chair.
Aton continued, “If it can’t, Tarply will be assimilated into Olar’s domain.”
“Of course it will. I thought I was going to speak with a reasonable man, but instead a parrot is mimicking everything that I’ve already stated.” Trahan’s entourage laughed.
“You can have it all,” said Aton. “The money and the village are yours.” He bowed his head submissively.
A gasp came from Larn’s entourage. The clan leader shook his head at them scornfully, and when they saw the look in his eyes, his men understood the glare and silenced themselves. The village trusted his judgment, and the gathering of Tarply’s council members relaxed.
“Finally, a reasonable man,” said Trahan, wringing his hands like a greedy beggar. “Let’s discuss the terms of payment. I don’t feel comfortable transporting anything of great value with me on my return home. I’ll expect representatives of Tarply to bring what is owed to the tax collector’s office in Oberlin.” He pushed a sheet of parchment across the table. Using ink as dark as his personality, he had scrawled a long series of numbers on the paper. It was the original amount owed by Tarply, increased by excessive interest and malicious penalties.
