by LeRoy Clary
They ate hard bread and strips of venison; a meal Shell was getting tired of eating every day, but Henry devoured it. Shell settled on the hard floor after using the flat end of a board to scrape away most of the accumulated dirt and whatever else covered it.
He said, “Henry, you know you won’t last here much longer.”
“Nowhere to go, and besides, I’m not giving it up to those two.”
“There might be another way.”
“I’m listening.”
“They’re taking advantage because you’re young and they can get away with it.”
“I know that. I think they killed my mom and dad, too.”
Shell allowed a cruel smile to form. “Understand me. I don’t want your farm. I’m moving on when the weather clears but a delay of a day or two won’t hurt. Suppose we tell people we’re related. I now own the farm and am thinking about bringing in my family.”
“That would just make them madder.”
“Yes, it would. But I can also decide to sell your place use the proceeds to buy another, larger one near my home. That’s the story I’ll spin.”
“How will that help me?”
“Farms don’t have to actually touch each other, Henry. Have you ever spoken to the farmer across the road or the next one about buying your place?”
“No. Smithson wouldn’t let them.”
“When the rain quits, I’m going to go visiting. You should stay here and watch the place. You’ll have to trust me, but from what I see you don’t have much to lose.”
It was quiet in the room, but for the drips and the crackle of burning wood. Henry said, “I almost died in here last winter.”
“No food?”
“And too cold. I had already burned almost everything but that chair. I was going to start on the floorboards next.”
“We still might,” Shell said. “Did you have a barn or shed?”
“Burned the shed for firewood. The barn caught fire by itself right after.”
“I’ll bet it did,” Shell said, his determination to not sell to either of the two bordering farms suddenly solidified. At any price.
He fell asleep and managed to stay asleep until the door thumped a few times. Henry leaped up and swung the door open, and squealed in delight. “Someone left us part of a deer.”
Shell felt the wolf trotting up the side of the hill again and sent his thanks to it. He helped butcher the leg and left Henry to cut it into strips and cook them on the stove. A single glance up at the roof revealed the water didn’t drip anymore and a patch of blue sky could be seen.
He left the house and walked to the road. He ignored the farms on either side, both of which were prosperous and large. There was not a house directly across the road, but open pastures and fields of hay indicated another farm. The valley held at least fifteen farms on either side of the road.
Shell passed the nearest farm on his left and found a woman hanging laundry at the next. He stopped and talked, giving her the short history he and Henry had agreed upon. She called her husband, who acted interested, but didn’t have any money, nor did he make an offer.
He quickly moved on to the next farm. And the next. The lack of gold kept one buyer after another from being interested. Hard currency was hard to come by on farms. When he reached the last farm on the left, he crossed the road and spoke with three more on the other side, briefly. Then he came to a farm where a man of about forty invited him to eat with his family. Shell sat at a large table, with ten others who were quickly introduced and as quickly forgotten.
But the farmer who invited him said little and observed Shell. Shell noticed he watched everything. Shell had the impression the man wanted to speak in private after the meal. He glanced at the people at the table again and noticed two younger pairs, newlyweds by his guess. The farmhouse was small and crowded with so many people inside.
When they finished eating, the farmer asked Shell to walk with him. They went to a rail fence where three cows grazed, both placed a foot on the bottom rail and watched. Shell decided to wait him out. The person who initiated a negotiation is the one most ready to make a deal. The farmer finally said, “I know the farm you’re speaking about. It is good land, it’s nearby, and my family has recently grown and I suspect it will grow again, soon.”
“There can’t be many farms nearby with such good soil that are for sale.”
“I have little money.”
Shell said, “But you would like to make an offer.” It was not a question.
The farmer smiled without looking at Shell. “You don’t waste words.”
“I have only talked to the first third of the farms in this valley, and none in the next. I hope to make an honest deal.”
“I don’t waste words either. I believe you’re a good person trying to help Pudding and keep his neighbors from burning him out, or worse.”
Shell couldn’t help but react to the name, and the accusation. He nodded for the farmer to continue.
“I met his parents when they first moved here. Good people, and you wouldn’t know it now, but they built that house and had a nice little farm for themselves before the accident. Funny thing about accidents, you don’t see all that many that take both parents at the same time, do you?”
Shell said, “I don’t know much about it but suspect you’re right.”
“On a farm, men have their work. Women theirs. But one timber in an otherwise sturdy barn fell and killed the two of them. That was a couple of years before the barn burned. I’m not making accusations, but the men on either side of that farm want to expand.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“If Pudding were to leave, or die, they’d fight over the farm and probably end up splitting it between them. That’s the way most in this valley think. Then you come along and want to sell. I’d have loved to have seen the expressions on some faces around here when you offered it to them.”
“I didn’t offer it to either of the farms beside him.”
“They might have gold to spend. Both of those farms are as successful as any in the valley, or the next.”
Shell watched a cow watch him. He reached down and pulled a hand full of green grass and held it out. The cow eyed it, then came closer. “At home, I’m a herder. Sheep and goats. I’ve talked to them my whole life.”
“What do they say?”
“Mostly nothing, but they don’t ever trust dishonest people. If I took their gold, I’d probably lose it to bandits before I traveled a day. You were about to make an offer, I think.”
“I have no gold. I do have five large silver rounds, twelve small silver nips, and a few coppers.”
The sum was more than Shell hoped to get for a farm with no house or barn, but he waited.
“Do you know what sharecropping is?”
“I’ve heard the word.”
“In short, I could add to the coins I offer. I will split the crop value in half for seven years before owning the land. Each year, good or poor crops, half would be sent to Fleming and Pudding.”
“His name is now Henry. You are offering half the crops for seven years in addition to the silver and copper?”
“As you saw at dinner, my house is overflowing, but they are my family, and I want them to live nearby, but it is all I can afford. There are no other farms close by that are for sale at that price or any other.”
“What about Henry’s two neighbors? They won’t be happy.”
“My existing farm is larger than theirs, my family much larger, and my standing in the community well known. If they pull any of their tricks on us, we will return the favors with pitchforks and the Sheriff. I’ll understand if you continue to try and find a better offer.”
Shell turned to him. “As you said, I don’t waste words. Your offer is more than fair. I will accept if with a slight change. Your family needs to build a new house and barn. That will be hard with the deal you offered. I will accept the coin, but only a quarter of the crops for ten years, or half for five.”
They discussed details, how to contact Henry in Fleming to deliver his share, and they went to another farm where a man with a white beard listened to each side and drew up a contract. Shell signed and accepted the coins in a small leather bag.
If Henry’s family couldn’t be located, or if they wouldn’t take him in, he had enough to buy a small place, and he could find a job in Fleming. He could grow a garden and have a good life. Shell whistled all the way back to what had been Henry’s farm.
The mind of the wolf touched him. Come fast.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shell ran all the rest of the way. Henry lay motionless in the mud in his front yard. Shell sprinted to his side, falling to his knees. The boy breathed, but he’d been beaten. His eye was already turning color, blood ran from two places on his forehead, as if he’d been struck with a club.
The boy weighed almost nothing as Shell carried him into the house. His left arm seemed to be hurt, and as he squinted to open his right eyes, he smiled. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
“Who did this?”
Henry pointed to the north. The words came forth slow and slurred. “Smithson and his sons.”
Shell spun and walked outside to where he’d found the boy. Footprints left and headed north. Shell followed them, a cold anger growing with every step until he was filled with rage.
A man stood ahead, hands on hips. “Want something boy? Maybe sell me a farm for nothing?”
Four others stood behind him, all bearing similar features, and smiling false smiles. They held clubs, shovels, and one a pitchfork. Shell should have taken the time to grab his staff. But fighting five farmers were a task few would accept. His fists balled.
Run. The thought came from the wolf. But Shell didn’t feel like running. He felt like fighting. Then he felt another sensation. A tingling grew on his back. His eyes flicked to the sky. A small red dot approached from behind the men.
He shouted, “You beat the boy. I’m here to avenge that beating, and all of the rest that you did to him, and to his parents.”
The older man strode confidently ahead, a sneer on his lips. “You’re going to end up dead, just like them.”
“Pudding isn’t dead. Not yet. But I am going to even things up. Pay him for all the damage and I’ll let you go. All of you.
“You’ll let us go?” the man chuckled, as the others laughed. One moved ahead; his hay-rake lifted high.
“This is your last chance,” Shell said, feeling the small red dragon’s anger on his back and refusing to retreat a single step.
The hay-rake swung and missed as Shell ducked. The red dragon screamed as it attacked unseen by the farmers, knocking down one man, slashing open the stomach of a second, and landing long enough to tear at the arm of another with a mouthful of teeth. It leaped into the air and flew higher, then spun and attacked them again. On the third pass, all five men lay in the mud, broken but alive.
Shell reached out and felt for the mind of the wolf, and pulled back in shock and loathing. It raged red, as Shell’s had a few minutes earlier, as it attacked and tore the throats from every farm animal it encountered in the Smithson farm. Cows, sheep, chickens, horses, and goats all lay dead. The wolf snarled in anger and searched for anything else alive to kill.
The dragon flew higher into the sky and circled the farmhouse where smoke rose from the chimney. It turned and flew closer, spitting balls of acid that burst into fireballs when they touched an open flame. If not, they ate their way through wood roofs in minutes, leaving oval shaped holes.
When nothing else happened for a few long seconds, and the five men were struggling to stand and help each other, as they eyed Shell again readying themselves to attack him, three women ran from the house, screaming in terror. The screams drew their attention. The dragon was heading back, falling from the sky as it spit again and again. One of the acid balls touched a candle or fireplace. Flames erupted from the door and windows as if from an explosion, and in seconds the entire house was on fire.
Shell was sickened by what they had done. He knew he was responsible and it was things like this that made the Dragon Clan hated by all. The men before him didn’t know what he was, but the talk would start before he left the valley. They’d ask why a dragon chose that time to attack, and only to attack one farm. The fingers would point.
In this valley, he believed most people would appreciate what happened, more than condemn, but the tales would still have effects. Good people had banded together to burn Dragon Clan villages in the past, more to hunt them down and kill them.
Shell stumbled across the farm to the small house where Henry lay on the floor, eyes closed, bruises already darker than before. One of his eyes had swelled totally shut. A pool of blood spread from his head. “Come on; we have to get out of here.”
Henry moaned but tried to stand and failed. Shell helped him up and grabbed two of the filthy blankets. He filled cooked venison into his backpack with his spare hand and placed Henry’s arm over his shoulder to help him remain upright. He headed for the hillside and the concealing tangles of brush and low trees.
A glance over his shoulder showed the Smithson farmhouse still burning, and no sign of the small red dragon. The tingle on his back was absent. He paused long enough to take a second look. There were no wagons filled with people rushing in the burning farm’s direction, no men and women on foot racing to offer help.
The smoke rose high enough to be a beacon for the entire valley, yet not a single neighbor was in sight. Shell thought that perhaps there hadn’t been time for them to react, but knew that was wrong. There had been plenty of time for any who wished to help the Smithson family. His eyes found people at the next farm standing and watching, an unthinkable action in most communities when others needed help.
The people Shell had spoken with on the farms were reserved in their expressed opinions, but solid, as was usual for most rural communities. Sharing dirty laundry with strangers was frowned upon. They must hold more hate for the Smithson family than I knew. That family must have gone out of their way to bully everyone else in the area. Standing and watching their house burn helped them get even.
Maybe I’m reading it all wrong. Henry sagged, and Shell lifted him higher and pulled him ahead. The wolf waited ahead, protective but angry. No, angry was not the right word, and neither was protective but somewhere between. The wolf had killed, but not to protect. It killed the farm animals in retribution, and it had done so when all Shell could think of was avenging the wrongs done to Henry and his family.
Did I cause the wolf to kill? The thought discerned him. He thought back to the wolf attacking the farm animals. The sheep and cows hadn’t threatened him, only their owners. Then there was the same small red dragon that came from nowhere to attack the men and spit acid at the house. Why had it come at that time? And why did it attack them?
Shell reached an area where the hill leveled out and ran parallel to the valley floor. He turned west and started walking as the rain began to fall again. It would cover some of their tracks if anyone were stupid enough to chase after them.
Henry seemed to be doing better, almost standing on his own. He said, “Are we leaving for good?”
“I don’t know if for good is the right choice of words, but yes. We’re going to find a place to build a fire, and we’ll go to sleep and in the morning, we’re going away from here as fast as we can.”
“I can still walk,” Henry lied.
Instead, Shell half-carried him, searching for shelter, and after a while, he found a saddle that led over the hill they were climbing, into whatever lay beyond. He went that way, hoping to travel far enough that he couldn’t see the valley behind and below. If he couldn’t see it, the residents there couldn’t see a fire he’d build.
The wolf swept the area in front of them, and a small game trail leading in the same direction made travel easier, although the ground again absorbed
so much water that they were more wading in mud than walking. A glance behind showed only muddier water where they had walked, and that would soon clear again to match the rest. They left no tracks.
Once across the saddle, walking was easier as they moved down on a long incline. When they reached a rock shelf where they didn’t sink into the soft mud, Shell lowered Henry and covered him with both sopping wet blankets. The bare rock was not as comfortable, but it was drier. The mud and water had already leached their body-heat. Both shivered.
A dead pine trunk drew Shell’s attention. It stood stark and almost limbless. Shell shuffled to it and found around the base dozens of fallen branches of every size. The outside bark was wet, but the rain hadn’t had time to soak into the inner wood. He selected several hefty branches and grabbed them by the large end to pull them free. He dragged them to where Henry lay.
The wood inside the bark was dry as expected, but with rain still falling by the time he skinned the bark and shaved dry wood to spark to flame, it had already absorbed enough dampness to resist. He needed the fire. Henry needed it, worse.
Reluctantly, Shell removed the two blankets from Henry and twisted them until most of the water squeezed out. Then he pulled them over his head, making a small tent while he ignored the foul stench of them. He again scraped slivers of dry wood and reached for his flint. After only a few strikes, one spark took hold and spread. He gently blew until the flame erupted. He fed it more dry slivers until the fire grew so large it threatened to burn the blankets.
He placed larger twigs on top, and once the fire burned well, he spread the blankets over Henry again and gathered more dead branches. The pine caught fire quickly, the sap popped and snapped. But pine is a soft wood and burns quickly. It is also full of pitch that is not affected by damp. Pitch burns hot, quickly drying any dampness from the wood with hisses and sizzles as the water turned to steam. He would need most of what lay at the bottom of the dead trunk to last through the night. Even that might not be enough.
