by LeRoy Clary
“I want you to stay for a few days, at least,” the constable said, firmly. “I must get this straightened out, and there will be more questions.”
Index finger poised to jab into his left eye, Camilla snarled, “I’ll draw you a map, but think for a minute to what almost happened to me and how I feel about this evil place. If you want me to stay here, even one more night, you had better get hold of the Earl, and tell him to bring the King’s Army.”
“I am the constable.”
Camilla sprang closer. “And I am one of three who made a choice to come here and report this terrible crime, draw you a picture of the two men, offer a map. We took justice into our hands to solve your problem, and then we handed over all that to your table. We have done our part and more. Maybe we should have just walked down the road, and you would never know what happened back there, so don’t you dare threaten me.”
Shell stepped between them. “Camilla, calm down. I know it was emotional, but I’ll keep my promise and get you safely to Fleming.” He turned to the constable. “I hope you understand, sir. If you need more information from us, but I doubt you will after you investigate, ask at Fleming for the home of Henry.”
Camilla said, “I’ll need a quill and ink. And a sheet of paper or I’ll draw your map on the back of that paper with the faces that I never want to see again.”
The constable hesitated.
Camilla said, “I will be well away from here by dark. You don’t have much time unless you want to try to find the cabin on your own, but you haven’t been too successful with that so far, have you?”
The constable rushed into another room and returned with the paper, quill, and ink. Camilla sat in the other chair and drew a detailed map, describing each landmark. But once the constable found the remains of the old, overgrown road, he couldn’t help but arrive at the cabin.
The sketch completed, Camilla stood, looked at Shell and said, “Henry and I will be waiting outside. We’ll be at the edge of town. Make this quick with the constable, or catch up with us later.”
She spun, shoved a bewildered Henry out the door and left the other two looking at each other. The constable said, “Your wife?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Shell said, “My wife? No, I came west to find Camilla because I wanted a wife, but no, she is not.”
The constable looked as if he wanted to give Shell some friendly advice, but held his tongue on the matter. He said, “We got off on the wrong foot. This used to be a good village, a good place to live and raise a family. Because of the three of you, it will be again. I’ll spread good words about you, and if it takes you twenty years to return, I’m sure people around here will welcome you back.”
Shell shook his hand. “I hope you get all this straightened out.”
“What do I do with the jewelry when we cannot locate the owners?”
“That’s a problem we talked about, too. But it is now your problem to do the right thing. Maybe use the money you sell them for to create a fund to help people in this village that fell on hard times because of this? Or public works like a new water well or a town hall? Some whitewash for the buildings wouldn’t hurt, either.”
The constable said, “You go on; take care of your business, before that woman gets angry at you. If you ever need help, I’ll be here. And a word of advice, if you’ll have it. Don’t make that little woman angry again.”
Shell stepped into the late afternoon, half afraid Camilla and Henry would already be out of sight, but they were standing on the road, waiting. He rushed to catch up, wearing a smile that grew with each step.
Henry said, “I thought we were going to have to stay here.”
Camilla flashed an impish smile and said, “We have hills to climb and roads to travel.”
A laugh escaped Shell. “I never thought to ask for directions to Fleming.”
She shrugged, “If we reach the Endless Sea we went too far. Someone up ahead will point the way, but I want to sleep as far from this terrible place as I can tonight.”
They walked, none of the three looking back. Henry said, “Can we talk again about me coming with you two?”
“No,” they said in unison.
Shell walked on, enjoying the sounds and smells of the forest, much of which was unfamiliar. After a while, he said, “Henry, I will say this to you. None of us knows your family, and if they do not seem to be the sort you wish to live with, we’ll find you another place, like we’ve said. But neither of us is willing to put you in danger or a bad situation. There are good people who would love to take you in.”
“You’re my only friends,” he said, head hanging low.
They met a boy on foot carrying a sling and two dead rabbits. He told them a small town called Jalen, lay ahead. When Camilla asked how small, the boy said it was large enough to have an inn that served good food because he’d eaten there once with his family. The idea of sleeping inside appealed to all of them, good food even more so.
Henry said, “The inn will want money, won’t it.”
Again, Camilla and Shell traded smiles before she said, “We can afford to pay for one night.”
The town of Jalen came into view well before dark, and the inn was easy to find on the single road that passed through town. Shell had expected a larger community, but didn’t complain as they rented two rooms while smelling the stew in the kitchen simmer.
A girl about Henry’s age served them bowls of thick stew and fresh bread. The watered wine was weak with a sour aftertaste, but nobody complained. After eating their fill, they sat and enjoyed the warmth of the fireplace and the soft songs of a minstrel sitting in the corner singing familiar songs while people ate and talked.
Camilla and Shell listened to the conversations of the locals. They talked about the abundance of crops, a prize bull, and the advantages of a house with two stories. Others spoke about hauling firewood and selling it for a fee. Another table laughed at a story of a man who drank too much ale and entered the wrong house, where he slept until found in the morning, then went home to face his angry wife who wanted to know where he’d been.
A man at the next table advised another to travel around the next village because strange things happened there. Shell knew the advice would have been good a few days ago and thought about mentioning the problem no longer existed. But if he did, the man would want to know how Shell knew, and then he would ask a hundred more questions. Better to allow the story to spread after they were gone.
Camilla asked the innkeeper for and received directions to Fleming, which was only a day’s walk away. Henry seemed disappointed at the nearness but said nothing. They went to their rooms early and slept until morning, the cares and troubles of the past seemingly gone forever. Henry’s bruises were still fading, his swelling gone completely, and twice while they dressed in anticipation of the breakfast they smelled drifting into the room, he smiled.
The wolf waited for them near the road, and as Shell wished it a good morning, he felt the touch of the dragon. Or a dragon, since he didn’t know for sure it was the small red, though it probably was. Breakfast consisted of thick gruel made from grains and topped with fresh raspberries. There were also warm biscuits, and thin slices of ham placed between biscuit halves, and milk fresh from the cow at the rear door of the inn.
Camilla joined them at the table, carrying her backpack. As she placed it on the floor beside her, she leaned over and whispered to Shell, as she placed a hand on the small of her back. “Feel it?”
She was talking about the dragon, of course. He nodded. He still hadn’t had the time to tell her about the red one, but would soon, especially if they found a home for Henry. He also needed to ask her opinion about the Breslau Green dragons that attacked any of the Dragon Clan animals. Should he try to send the red away? Could he? He didn’t know, but decided that Fleming might make a choice for him. He wouldn’t allow it to remain if he sensed danger.
As they left the inn, the rolling lay of the land found more farms until th
ere were more of them than forest. Wagons, mules, and pedestrians traveled the road in both directions, all intent on their own business, but almost all wished them well as they passed by.
Henry said, “I like this place.”
“It is pretty,” Camilla said.
“Everywhere is pretty,” Henry said as if he’d traveled far and wide. “I like it because the people are friendly and smiling. It feels good.”
Both laughed at his explanation, but that didn’t make it any less correct. It did feel good. The people did smile. In the grasslands, Shell’s people were friendly to travelers only after they proved they were not a danger. Here it was different.
They reached a wagon hauling a load of corn going in their direction. As they started to slip past, the farmer on the seat lifted his hat in greeting. “You may as well ride on the tailgate unless you want the exercise, or you need to get to Fleming faster than my old mule will get you there.”
“Thank you, sir,” Camilla called, slowing until the wagon rumbled past, then she leaped onto the tailgate, twisting her body as she did, and landing in a sitting position in the middle. She patted each side, telling Shell and Henry where to sit.
Their legs swung in unison with the lurches and sways of the wagon. The sun grew warm and the conversation light. Their laughter drew smiles from other travelers, and a few grins from the driver. Camilla had a surprise. She had paid the cook at the inn for a lunch fit for a king, and the wagon stopped at a stream while the mule rested and got a drink. Camilla pulled the food from her backpack and insisted the driver join them.
In all, it was turning out to be a day to remember for nothing other than good things. However, when they climbed back into the wagon, Henry looked off into the distance to the west. “What’s that?”
They all turned. A gray smudge along the horizon drew their attention. The driver clucked his mule ahead as he called, “Fleming.”
“What’s wrong with the sky?” Henry persisted.
Camilla said, “I think that’s smoke from a hundred chimneys, maybe more. Probably more, now that I think about it.”
Henry’s face twisted in disbelief. “How many people live there?”
“I don’t know,” Camilla said in a hushed tone that drew his attention, “A lot. Maybe thousands.”
Henry turned to Shell. “How many live in my valley?”
“Maybe two hundred? Spread over the whole valley floor.”
Camilla said, “It’s daunting. I have never seen a place where so many people live that the sky turns color. It’s a little scary.”
The driver had been listening. He said, “Nothin’ to be scared of. They’re just people. A lot of them.”
Shell decided that looking from the wagon tailgate, to where they had been, was the best idea, at least until his mind could reconcile what lay ahead. His heart pounded, and his hands developed a small shake, a quiver of nervousness he’d never experienced.
He tried to calm it, telling himself he’d come all this way for what lay ahead, but his inner mind responded that most of his thinking had been fantasy, and thoughts more suited to a ten-year-old, not an adult in his mid-twenties. Shell argued with himself that they were not fantasies, but admitted they were not reality, either.
Whatever his inner thoughts, the destination goal for the quest he’d set for himself lay within sight. Well, that was not totally true. The actual beginning of his quest lay in Fleming, not in departing the grasslands and traveling to the city. Breslau lay across a sea so vast they referred to it as endless.
Camilla said, leaning closer to him and nudged him with her elbow, “Well, that is certainly an encouraging expression.”
His witty response shrank to a single, “Huh?”
Even Henry laughed.
Camilla said, “I’m a little scared, too. No, make that more than a little, but I hope it does not show on my face as it does on yours.”
Henry said, “If you two think you’re scared, you should trade places with me.”
The wagon passed more farms and Shell had a thought that brought him up short. “Henry, didn’t you say that your relatives live near Fleming? Not in Fleming?”
“Yes.”
“A thought just struck me. West of Fleming is the Endless Sea, so they don’t live there. South are mountains so they probably don’t live down there, and north is barren coastline, from what little I know,” Shell said.
The driver turned, obviously listening. “That sounds about right.”
“Thanks,” he nodded to the driver. “Then that means, most of the people who live near Fleming, on farms, are the ones we’re passing. Henry thinks they might be fishermen, but we should check both.”
They exchanged surprised expressions, and Henry spun to look all around. “We need to ask here.”
The wagon slowed and pulled to a stop without anyone asking. The driver was smiling and wished them good luck with a jaunty wave of his hand. Shell hadn’t missed Camilla slipping a mid-size copper fluke between the old wood and a band of iron on the wagon bed, where the farmer would be sure to spot it when he unloaded his crops.
He wouldn’t have accepted payment if offered, so Camilla had made sure of a reward for his kindness. As the wagon rolled away, she said, “Okay, we need to discuss this. Do you know their names?”
“No.”
“What is your family name?”
“Duggar,” Henry said.
“Father and mother’s names?” Camilla sounded like a sergeant in the King’s Army questioning petty thieves.
“Press and Amy.”
“Good, we’re getting somewhere. What is the name of the nearest town or village to your old home?”
Henry faltered. He clearly didn’t know.
Camilla said, “That’s fine. We can just say it is two days travel east of here.”
The enormity of what they were going to try to do, struck Shell. “Maybe we should have stayed on the wagon until we reached an inn. Then we could return each day to speak to farmers. Do you see how many farms are here? It will take a month.”
Camilla said, “You may be right, but how about this? We’ll split up, and you take one side of the road, and I’ll take the other. We make it brief with each farm, but half past noon we walk to the nearest inn and start again tomorrow.”
“That might work, but there are so many to speak with.” Shell estimated it would take most of the afternoon to reach Fleming.
But Camilla was shaking her head. “We don’t have to find them; we just have to find people who know of them. The very first farm where we stop might know the Duggar farm; they often know others, you know.”
They decided Henry could help, and he’d switch sides of the road, working with which one was falling behind. Shell saw no alternative and reluctantly headed to the first farm on the left side of the road while the other two went across the road to the nearest farms. He hadn’t understood how difficult it would be to find Henry’s relatives among the thousands of people in Fleming.
At each farm, the patter of his request became more practiced. “Good day. I’m helping a friend locate his family. They are related to Press and Amy Duggar, farmers who live about two day’s walk east.”
At that point, he’d pause. They would shake their heads, often try to engage him in conversation, or make suggestions of how to locate the family. Shell listened, then quickly moved on to the next farm, his enthusiasm sinking with each farm. He saw Camilla and Henry far ahead, but maintained his steady pace.
At the tenth or eleventh farm, the woman of the house smiled at his question. “I think you’re looking for Edsel Duggar. They live about five farms down the road, closer to Fleming,” she pointed. “It’s the one with two barns.”
Elated, Shell raced out to the road and ran. He passed Camilla, who was speaking to a man in a field, and waved for her to join him. They found Henry waiting on the road, sitting on a stump. He leaped to his feet when he saw them running.
“We may have found them,” Shell shou
ted. “The farm with two barns.”
The three of them ran down the road to the lane leading to the house passed the barns, laughing, joking, and teasing. But when they reached the lane, none took the first step. Shell understood that if this was Henry’s relatives and things worked out well, Henry would stay here. Camilla seemed to have come to the same conclusion.
Henry simply looked scared. The people in the house might be related to him and his parents. They might not. If they were, he would have to inform them of their deaths. They might already have too many mouths to feed, or they might not like him. A hundred thoughts ran through Shell’s mind. But he didn’t feel right in leading the way up the lane. That should be Henry.
Camilla took a single step closer to Shell and waited as if she felt the same. Henry drew a long breath to calm himself and walked ahead, shoulders square. He had almost reached the house when the door opened, and a man stepped onto the porch, watching them. Dressed in typical farmer’s clothing, he wore a beard that concealed his lips and any smile he might wear.
When they were closer, the man said, “Help you?”
When Henry’s tongue failed to form intelligible words, Camilla said, “Is this the Duggar farm?”
“Nope.” His eyebrows furrowed, but he waited for more.
“My name is Henry Duggar. My family lived about two days from here.”
Pride welled in Shell at the strong voice and words. The farmer nodded for Henry to continue speaking.
“My mother often talked about her relatives near here. Her name was Amy. Amy Duggar.”
The farmer hesitated, then turned and called inside, “Susan, you’d better come out here.”
A woman appeared at his side, wearing a gray dress with little white lace trimmings. She had a dishcloth tossed over her shoulder, and her hair was tied into a tight bun. A smile broke out on her. “Hello, what do you folks want?”
“I’m Henry Duggar from east of here.”
“Amy’s boy? My sister’s son?”
“Yes.”
Before any more words could be exchanged, all of them were hustled into the house among smiles and calls for others to join them. Soon there were six other people crowded into the small room, all laughing and asking questions. As they were answered, two more crowded inside and had to catch up.
