by LeRoy Clary
That drew a chuckle from all in hearing range, and Shell blushed. But the old man was right. Shell practiced his fighting moves daily, and the heavy staff moved like liquid fire in his hands. Herding the sheep provided unlimited time to practice. He twirled, spun, jabbed, and parried while moving gracefully from one move to another. His strong chest and arms concealed power and speed, a deadly combination with a staff, the traditional weapon of the Dragon Clan.
All that practice with his staff, year after year, but he’d never been in an actual fight. His eyes shifted to the other two in his immediate family, and then to the rest who attended the council meeting. Few of them were now watching him; most had already moved on. A wave of disappointment filled his being. They were going on about their own business, concerned with their personal lives, not with what he planned to do, but how it might affect them, if at all. Children still played tag, women talked to other women, men downed ale and told tall tales, and the dogs watched the flocks this night. None cared. The meeting was over.
The sense of friendship and family dissolved into a new understanding of reality. Some would think of him in the morning, and fewer the next. Oh, his mother would miss him, and Jammer would curse him forever for leaving the herding to him, but as Shell remembered others who had left their village, he’d reacted much the same. His sheep had needed tending, his shoe mending, his thoughts too crowded with other concerns to think of the ones who moved on.
He turned back to the old man still chewing on apple slices, the apple held in one hand and the knife in his other. “Too much preplanning is bad, huh?”
“Tomorrow’s departure would suit you best, Shell. Go home tonight. Pack your things and make your goodbyes short and sweet.” Alba finished his ale and set the mug on a small table too hard. The table almost tipped, but he had made the point.
Shell nodded and stuck out his hand to shake the gnarled and grizzled hand of the old man. “Maybe you’re right, Alba. You might not see me in the morning.”
Turning away, he noticed a few of the group still watched him, but no others raced to his side to wish him well or tried to talk him out of going. As he moved past them, a few gave limp but encouraging smiles or a pat on the shoulder. Shell nodded to them and strolled away to enter his hut, his mind focused on what to pack for his trip.
CHAPTER TWO
The following morning, well before the sun rose, Shell woke and eased off his sleeping pad. He had barely slept all night because of the fire of excitement burning hot in his veins, let alone the call of dragons whispering to him. Each waking hour filled his mind with more concerns, ideas, and plans. Things he should have said and plans that he should have made. But in the end, he couldn’t think of anything else to say or do.
“You were going to stay long enough to say goodbye to me, weren’t you?” The soft voice came from within the dimness of the far side of the hut. It came from his mother. She sat in her favorite chair, a blanket over her shoulders as if she had known he would attempt to sneak out.
“Of course, I was,” he lied, speaking softly to avoid waking Jammer. She had probably had as little sleep as him, maybe less. A son leaving home for the first time affects a mother more than the son, he realized.
She said, “Jammer will miss you too, you know. He’s already complaining about watching the flock, and he has yet to do it on his own.”
“He’ll learn. The animals can become his friends. Maybe the responsibility will help him grow up.”
“Oh, I doubt that. I love Jammer, but I know him well. I’ve already spoken to Cramer. His oldest boy is just two years younger than Jammer and already more suited for herding. He may soon take over Jammer’s duties for a share of the flock.”
A flash of jealous anger filled Shell. “Then what will Jammer do?”
His mother was already on her feet quietly gathering vegetables, fruit, and meat to pack in a cloth sack for his journey. “Oh, I suspect he’ll be off and following you into the wilds in a year, or two. Look for him while you’re out there. He’ll be chasing adventure right on your heels.”
“I plan to home when this is finished. I’ll talk some sense to Jammer then.”
“You say that now, but I suspect that will never happen. Not because you don’t want to return, but because there’s a great world out there just waiting for you to explore it. You need this. I should have pushed you out the door years ago, but I grew complacent.”
“Mom, I’m not a conqueror or a hero. I’m just going to see what I’m missing and try to do my part in the coming war.”
She didn’t answer, but gave him a close hug that told more than words. Before he had time to reconsider, she handed him the small cloth sack and urged him to slip quietly out the door without waking Jammer. A quick kiss on his forehead and she pulled the door closed behind him, leaving him standing in the chill of the predawn morning.
As he’d learned in the last ten years, life is often about choices. Usually two of them. His choices today were two. Stay or leave. Other people would be waking soon, and each would demand his time and delay his departure longer as they talked and said their good-byes.
A yellow dog he called Max approached sleepily and spread out near his feet. Max had helped him guard the sheep until growing too old. After giving the old dog a few strokes, Shell slipped on his homemade backpack, tossed the bag of food over his shoulder and lifted his staff from beside the door. He turned his back to all he knew to face his future.
He strode confidently up the first rise Old Man Alba had spoken of, but near the top, his pace slowed. What is over that hill? Still moving slowly, he felt the first rays of the sun warm his back. At the top, he considered taking one last look behind as he came to a full halt. Then, he drew in a full breath to steel himself and crossed over the first hill, looking for snakes, highwaymen, and beautiful women, all without looking over his shoulder once.
He carried a backpack filled mostly with clothing. Strings kept a warm blanket rolled tightly and tied in a roll above the pack. The bag of food was in his right hand, the staff in his left. He paused and removed the backpack. The food went inside, so both of his hands were free to work with the staff.
The sun flooded the day as he walked with exaggerated swings of his arms, the staff spinning, thumping the ground, timing his pace, and defending him from any imaginary enemies. Bear Mountain lay due west, so he’d warm his back with the sun in the morning and face it in the afternoon. Going down the hillside, he lengthened his stride, and his pace picked up. The staff became a walking stick, each strike on the ground a measurement of time and distance.
As he walked, his hands and arms moved to the freedom of practicing with the staff, repeating the moves other warriors of the Dragon Clan had taught him over the years. Usually, one or two new moves provided by each. But Shell remembered them all and had performed the same actions so many times he needn’t think about them. They were as natural as breathing. His staff came parallel to the ground as he held it before him to stop an imaginary sword from descending. Then it moved to either side to stop the next blow. A strong swordsman would tire long before he managed to cut Shell.
But Shell would do more than defend himself and that was the beauty of a staff in trained hands. As the thrust of a blade was thwarted with one end of the staff, the other end was clear for attacking. Made from a stout branch of a hickory tree, his staff was strong, heavy, and his thumb and forefinger couldn’t encircle it. An enemy struck by his staff would suffer. With the force of his arms, back, and shoulders provided, a single blow would drop a man.
It didn’t matter where it struck. Shin, knee, thigh, hip, chest, elbow, or head would put an enemy on the ground. A solid strike with the staff ended a fight. But Shell had not practiced making a single blow with his exercises. No, he’d learned to attack in patterns of six, eight, or even ten strikes, each powerful and so fast the eye could not follow the slashing ends of the staff.
By midmorning, he sat at the top of another hill covered in waving su
mmer grasses. Shell looked about and decided he was now farther from his home than he’d ever been in his life, even farther than Springtown, a half day's walk from home in another direction. A deer eased out of the brush to his right, not thirty paces away. He wouldn’t have killed the deer if he could, but its presence told of the single weakness of his staff. Distance. For it to be effective, an enemy had to be close.
The deer, as close as it was, chewed brown grass without fear. Standing only thirty paces away, it was perfectly safe. Without hurrying, the deer trotted off a few steps, then as if to insult him, casually leaped into the air and disappeared as only a white rump and tail told where it went.
I need a bow. And to learn to use it. Along with a hundred other things.
Shell pulled the knife from the scabbard at his waist. Longer than his hand, with a slight curve to the tip of the blade, it felt awkward and unbalanced. The knife had been cheap to buy, and those were some of the reasons why the cost had been but a single rabbit pelt. The blade held pits from rust where his father hadn’t kept it properly greased. The bone handle twisted to one side, making it feel odd in his right hand, but it fit better in his left hand, the awkward one he couldn’t use.
The knife was not given to him as a weapon, but a tool, if a poor one. The soft iron of the blade wouldn’t hold an edge no matter how many times he stroked it on a stone. He’d worn and used it since he first took over the flocks more than a dozen years ago, a gift from his father. A gift for a ten-year-old boy.
He replaced the knife in the scabbard and walked on. By evening the Raging Mountains rose directly ahead, clearer and closer than he’d ever seen them. Instead of a faint purplish ripple on the horizon, they stood sharply defined against the orange sky, and a few had white peaks gleaming brightly.
His thoughts turned to more immediate problems. People can see a campfire on the prairie as if it is the only star in the evening sky. Anyone, friend or enemy could follow that firelight leading directly to him. He ate his meal of dried food cold; his blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he huddled beside a ledge of rock to break the wind, without a fire.
The morning of the second day arrived to find him already on his feet and walking to warm up. The blanket had not kept the chill off during the night, and he had slept restlessly, waking with a start whenever cold crept beneath the blanket and the night whisperer of a dragon called to him.
The hills he traveled became higher, the valleys lower, and the vegetation greener. A few willows and cottonwoods lined a creek bed. He still did his exercises with his staff as he walked, but his mind betrayed him, and his thinking returned to the home he’d left and the people he might never see again. Yesterday had been exhilarating to leave, but this day the feelings turned to sadness and regret.
He walked steadily, but he continued to think about all he should have said at the council meeting, what he should have done, and what he might have done if he had remained home. In some ways, he felt a failure for wanting to leave his family and village. In others, he doubted himself and the decision he’d made.
Off to become a hero. Instead of cursing himself silently he talked out loud, sometimes argued with himself, or shouted at others who were not present. Shell thought hard about returning home as he increased his pace. His mind portrayed how they would receive him, some welcoming him back with open arms. Others with snarls or sad smiles, a few with glee at his failure.
But returning home wouldn’t happen. He had now allowed himself the luxury of being sad about leaving, but his thoughts welcomed what would come with the venture ahead and his blood stirred. Later, he broke out in song, his mood shifting like a bee flitting from one spring flower to another. The second night was as cold as the first, again without a fire. During the early morning of the third day, a rare rainstorm blew in. Drenched, he sat with the blanket over his head and waited it out. Rainstorms usually passed quickly.
The rains seldom came to the grasslands in summer, and when they did, shallow depressions became lakes, gullies filled with raging streams. As the ground soaked up the water, the topsoil turned into thick, sticky mud. They said a man grew taller as he walked in it, and each foot collected clay until it grew so heavy he couldn’t lift it.
The sound of a roaring river brought him to attention just after daylight as the rain still fell. A river? Here? He hadn’t heard it before. He stood and gathered his belongings. A few hundred steps west brought him up short. A river far too wild and wide prevented him from continuing. He felt sure it wasn’t there when he stopped for the night.
Even in the dim light, he saw tree trunks bouncing and surging with the murky currents, along with sticks, branches, leaves, all moving in a mud-colored morass churned with frothy, dirty, brown water. As he stood and watched, a section of ground ten steps ahead of him cracked and fell away as it washed downriver. Cracks in the ground just in front of his toes told him more of the bank would soon go.
He moved back up the side of the hill again, near where he’d stopped at sundown. He sat in the muck, under a rain and mud covered blanket. Lightning cracked, and thunder rolled as more torrential rain fell.
Shell shivered with cold and tried to remain optimistic. As the Old Man Alba had said, he couldn’t plan for this. Somewhere near mid-day, the rain slowed, then stopped. He stood, looked over the hillside to the wide river and sat again. Even if there had been wood for a fire, it would be too wet. He could walk the riverbank and wait, but there would be no crossing the river until the following day.
The temperature increased, and while the sun didn’t come out, a warm wind started to dry the landscape. He fell asleep and woke near dusk. The first thing he noticed was a clear sky and the lack of the roar of the river. He looked over the hill again and found the river half the size it had been that morning, though still flowing too swift and deep to cross.
He wrung some of the water out of the blanket and tossed it over a shrub to dry in the wind. It wouldn’t totally dry before he used it to sleep under, but it would be drier than last night. He went to the bank of the river and watched whole trees stranded along the shore, against a bank that had steadily eroded all day.
There were floating deer, desert sheep, and smaller animals, all dead, all looking as if someone had beat them for hours. Their fur was wet, torn, and matted. Sticks, branches, and even whole bushes piled against logjams. Directly across the river, a black bear wandered from carcass to carcass, sniffing and choosing the best meal. Its tiny eyes found Shell.
The bear didn’t worry him excessively. Tomorrow it would probably sleep all day after a feast tonight. He checked the river again and found the level had dropped while he watched. By morning he could cross without a problem.
He turned to go back to his camp and pulled to a stop. Two men stood between him and the camp. One stood with his legs apart and hands on hips, a snarl on his lips. He was heavyset, his hair dark and limp. The other stood taller and thin, also wearing a sneer, but a pale imitation of the first. Both were dressed in filthy cheap canvas pants and simple shirts with holes cut so they’d fit over their heads. They pulled knives and held them at their sides while exchanging satisfied grins.
Shell looked past them to his staff propped against the bush that held his blanket to dry. He said in what he hoped was a friendly tone, “Hello, my name’s Shell. Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can help us,” the tall one said, imitating Shell’s tone, however, with an evil sounding twist as his smile increased. “You can give us all your food, clothes, money, and weapons. And anything else we want.”
“You want everything?” Shell asked.
The tone of the robber shifted to one harder, more intense. “You heard me. Now, move.”
Shell slowly circled them, giving the two a wide berth as he crabbed sideways to his camp, but always keeping his eyes on them, always ready to spin and sprint away. Two against one. They controlled the situation. They let him move to his camp, obviously believing they were the superior fighters and held wea
pons, and Shell was meekly doing as told. Seeing the first man, the leader, was about to speak again, and Shell was almost half way to his staff. He spoke first, to misdirect them and give himself time to reach his camp. “I don’t want to give you my things, but I can see I have no choice. My backpack is right over here, and I’ll give it to you. There’s not much in it. But then you’re going to let me go free, right?”
He’d spoken slowly, moved slower, so he didn’t alert them, but as they’d listened to his long-winded speech, he reached the bush where his blanket dried. His staff was within easy reach, but there was no sense in fighting if it could be avoided.
“Hurry it up, we don’t have all day,” one said in a whining tone, waving his knife in a threatening way to tell Shell to hurry. “And get out of them clothes, too. I think they’ll fit me.”
Shell said, “I don’t have any money, only a little food, and nothing of value. Why don’t you just go find someone else to rob?”
“See anybody else around here? You’re a stupid cow, ain’t you?” It was the angry skinny one speaking this time. He had maybe been clean shaven a month ago, and his beard grew back in sporadic patches, making his face appear dirty, even if it hadn’t dried mud hadn’t covered it. His face was tinged red, and he took an aggressive step in Shell’s direction.
Shell didn’t react or retreat, and still didn’t reach for his staff, only an arm’s length away. He said, “Listen, I don’t want to hurt you. You can leave now, and we’ll forget this whole thing.”
They looked at each other, and the heavyset man nodded once. They charged, knives leading the way, slashing and swinging.
