The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  He sat back and looked up the bank toward Lilly and Bedford Boy. A circle of standing-stones, weather-beaten and overrun with ivy, rose up regally behind the two chestnut-colored ponies. Beyond that, breaks in the thick pine forests offered up glimpses of the steep, rocky slopes across the canyon and the hundreds of black dots marking the Roahm Mines and their tailings. He had spent the last five years working inside those mines with his master. Always panning streams and toiling in mines. Always swinging an ax at rock and tree, digging pits to snare game with the ax, perfect footwork, left, right, left, hold your stance, grip like this, swing just so, swing from the left, swing from the right, never use your hands to grab at the rock, always rake with the ax, pry the rocks loose with the ax, let the tools do the work for you. Swing. Pull. Swing. Pull. Rake. Even before Shawcroft and Nail had relocated to Gallows Haven, they had worked the mines near Sky Lochs, Nail a mere child, and later, the mines north of Deadwood Gate. He had no memories of Sky Lochs and the huge glaciers rumored to dominate the landscape. Deadwood Gate he remembered well. His master would go off into the mines alone to work, same as now, leaving Nail to pan a stream like this. Or, toward the end of their stay at Deadwood Gate, Shawcroft began to work the mines with a young fellow named Culpa Barra, whilst Nail was set to some other chore, usually involving a pickax and hard stone and the repetition of swings. Nail thought of Culpa and the sleek longsword the young man always wore at his side, how his master continually complimented it and Culpa.

  “Get to work,” Shawcroft, standing on the slope above, leaning on his shovel, grumbled down at him. “Enough woolgathering.”

  Nail stared at the mines in the distance. His master had been keeping him out of the mines a lot lately, preferring to work alone, leaving Nail to pan the streams like this. The man was growing more and more distant as time wore on. “We’re not going into the mines today?”

  “Nope,” Shawcroft answered curtly. The man was shorter than Nail, but stout and broad of chest. He had a thick neck and hard brown eyes that held an air of sturdy self-control. His black hair was shaved to stubble on his scalp.

  “So I can meet up with Stefan later and help him practice the Ember Lighting Prayers?”

  “Seems pointless, but if you’d like.”

  “It’s pointless to sift this stream,” Nail said just loud enough. “Why bother?”

  “We will work all the streams this coming summer. Together.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t question. Just respect my decision. The mines are becoming too dangerous.”

  Too dangerous? Nail did not believe that. There was always something of the mysterious about the man. Shawcroft was the only family he’d ever known. But they were not blood kin. All things considered, beyond the gruffness and ofttimes cruel words, the man had treated him well enough. Though he had never truly felt like a son to Shawcroft, Nail had often wanted to hear that one word from the man. Son. Even the word friend would suffice. Or was that fellow from Deadwood Gate, Culpa Barra, Shawcroft’s son? One thing was certain: Shawcroft had never concerned himself with any of his wants or hopes or dreams, nor acted the least bit curious about his drawings. And perhaps those were the reasons Nail wanted away from him so bad. With Shawcroft it was nothing but mining, hard work, perfection with a pickax, and obey. Gold was Shawcroft’s life. It always had been. And in all the years they had found scant color.

  Just respect my decision. He’d show his master respect, all right. “In town they say you’re naught but a gold digger and a lack-wit.”

  Shawcroft barely looked up, kept working.

  “Jubal Bruk asked about you a while back.”

  “Did he now?” Shawcroft’s stiff brow furrowed as he shoveled.

  Nail continued, chuckling, “Said you might could help us conscripts with some sword training.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Get back to work, boy.”

  Nail knew the taciturn man had scant use for pointless conversation or sarcasm. He also knew Shawcroft would only be pushed so far. As he grew older, Nail liked to see how far he could push. He knew any mention of Baron Jubal Bruk would not sit well with his master. There was a history between the two Nail was not privy to. He figured Shawcroft must already know he’d stowed aboard the Lady Kindly. But the man was silent on the subject. Cruel words and punishment would come at some point, though.

  Better now than later. “I’m sick of digging for riches that we are never gonna find. Never have found.”

  “Patience, Nail.” Shawcroft glanced his way, still shoveling. “Patience.”

  “Patience,” Nail repeated in disgust. “It’s always patience with you. Stand this way when you swing an ax, set your feet just so, turn your hips, shoulders up, grip just so, use the ax to pry away the rock, over and over. Always tedium and patience. All for nothing.”

  Shawcroft stopped working and stared down at him. “The mountains hold music and magic for those who listen. And someday you will learn there are curious things hidden in the dirtier and darker places of this land. So keep sifting.”

  Nail shrugged. “I’d rather do something else with my life.”

  “Like most men, you would prefer a life of leisure. Hard work and precision in all things builds strength, character, and pride. Your mother wanted me to instill those things in you more than any other. She never took things such as hard work for granted, nor should you.”

  Nail’s ears perked at the mention of his mother. “What do you remember of her?”

  “Nothing new since you last asked.” Shawcroft went back to his shoveling.

  “Nothing at all?” Nail hung his head, letting the hair fall into his eyes.

  “She was only fifteen when she bore you and your sister,” Shawcroft said, still working. “She didn’t live long after that. I only knew her a short while.”

  “Before she died in that mining camp, the one the oghul raiders destroyed?”

  Shawcroft shot him a dark look. Nail knew nothing of his mother, aside from the fact that she’d died in a place called Arco, a long-deserted mining camp high in the Sky Lochs, a humble community destroyed by oghuls, or so his master said. In fact, that was the sum total of the information the man had ever offered on the subject.

  “I only want to know my heritage,” Nail said. “What of my father, was he—”

  “I know nothing of your father to answer with any certainty what he was like.”

  “What of my sister?” Shawcroft had answered these questions the same many a time—with silence. Still, Nail charged ahead. “Where is she? We were twins, right?”

  “We’ve gone over this before.” Shawcroft’s voice was strained with impatience. “I know not if your sister even lives. I rue the day I ever mentioned her to you.”

  “There seems to be much you won’t tell me . . . about a great many things.”

  Shawcroft planted his shovel in the dirt and leaned into it and for once looked thoughtful. “I daresay we’re the same then. There are secrets you hold from me.” Nail’s heart hammered. So he does know I went grayken hunting with Baron Bruk.

  “Back to work.” The heavy tone of Shawcroft’s voice brooked no argument. “I’ve had enough questions for one day.” He took his shovel and hiked up the streambed.

  Nail wouldn’t let it be over so easily. “Like what secrets do I keep?”

  Shawcroft turned. “There’s been talk in town of how you saved Zane on that grayken hunt.” A hint of pride seeped into the man’s voice as he spoke. But that only confused Nail. He didn’t understand how the man could be so inconsistent with his emotions. Shawcroft continued, “They claim he would have drowned had you not been on that ship.” His face turned dark. “The problem is, you should not have been on that ship. You were supposed to stay at the Waylands’ after your arms training.”

  “It’s my right to work for Jubal Bruk. He’ll make an offer soon, freeing me from you. He’s a baron.”

  “I’ll refuse his offer. I will inform Jubal Bruk that you will not be al
lowed back aboard the Lady Kindly again.” The man turned and walked away.

  “You’re wrong! I will join the grayken-hunting crew! I will go to sea when they next launch.”

  Shawcroft whirled, fists clenched. “In all these years I’ve never whipped you, boy. But I just might.”

  “Just you try.” Furious, Nail snatched up the pickax, wielding it like a club. Shawcroft was a stout, hardy man. But Nail knew he was big enough to take his master down. After all, he had training with swords, while his master had none. Shawcroft was naught but a dirty gold digger—a stout dirty gold digger—but a gold digger all the same.

  “Lest you forget, I am charged with your safekeeping till the day you die.” Shawcroft’s face was harsh, scowling. “Now drop that ax before I snatch it from you and whip you with it good. A ward can be legally put to death for threatening his master.”

  Nail simmered. The man was right. He dropped the ax. Shawcroft walked up forcefully. Nail backed away. But his master grabbed the leather thong around his neck and pulled Ava’s wood carving out of his shirt. “What’s this?”

  “A gift,” Nail said with as much defiance as he could muster. “It’s mine.”

  “From a girl?”

  Nail said nothing.

  “Don’t grow too attached to any one person.” Shawcroft yanked up the sleeves of Nail’s shirt to his elbows. “Bruises.” The man’s gaze traveled the length of Nail’s black-and-blue forearms, eyes lingering on the thin, crosslike burn on the back of his right hand.

  “I sparred with Jenko Bruk.” Nail brushed the man’s hand away. The cross-shaped burn on his hand was still as red as the day Dokie had been struck by lightning.

  “Looks like Jenko thrashed you good then” was all Shawcroft said.

  Nail felt his face flush. He certainly wasn’t going to show the man his tattoo or the scars on his bicep from the mermaid. He pulled his shirtsleeves over his bruises and stuffed Ava’s carving down the neckline of his shirt.

  “Jubal Bruk never was much of a swordsman,” Shawcroft said. “You will need proper training. I should’ve taken it upon myself to teach you more about swordsmanship long ago.”

  “More about swordsmanship?” Nail laughed hollowly. “You’ve never taught me anything about sword fighting. What do you know of it?”

  Shawcroft motioned for Nail to get back to work. “We’re done talking.”

  “All the chatter about town is of how you saved Zane,” Ava Shay said. “Zane especially mentions it often.” Nail felt pride well up. After his earlier conversation with Shawcroft, it was good to hear anything positive. Far below, the waves in Gallows Bay rolled in from the west. It was near dusk, and Nail and Ava sat next to each other on a flat boulder near the edge of a sloping cliff high up the Autumn Range. She carved a small wooden duck whilst Nail drew the scene below with sharpened charcoal. Stefan Wayland was shooting yellow-fletched arrows into a makeshift target he’d set up along the Roahm Mine Trail, which wound up the mountainside behind them.

  Nail had met Stefan on the trail as they ofttimes did in the evenings with Dokie Liddle. Stefan had brought Ava with him instead. Dokie’s recovery from the lightning strike was going well; he was up and walking some, but not up to hiking steep trails. Nail, Stefan, and Dokie would usually study their Ember Lighting Prayers up here after Nail’s work with Shawcroft was done, or practice with swords or bows.

  Their solitary perch was so high that seagulls circled beneath them. Far under the gulls, the distant, green-tinged shoreline was thick with the first growth of spring. Patches of lush meadows, fields, woodlands, and rock-fence-lined properties randomly dotted the landscape north and south of Gallows Haven. From so high up, the chapel and abandoned keep north of town looked like children’s playthings. An armed silhouette paced atop the keep’s western wall, some poor sod Baron Jubal Bruk had put to the watch. The courtyard of the keep was a clear swath of grass, soon to be packed with Mourning Moon Feast goers. There were a handful of carts moving along the pathways. In the center of town near the docks, someone was sweeping the front porch of the Grayken Spear Inn. On the beach just north of town, streams of black smoke rose into the sky, billowing from hundreds of black cauldrons filled with grayken blubber. Wood fires under the pots were melting down the leathery blubber. Baron Bruk would sell the oil to traders. Fishing boats bobbed in the waters beyond the pots, the tiny forms of men casting nets into the ocean.

  Nail pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to his bicep, showing Ava the tattoo Stefan had given him just above the claw marks of the mermaid. “Three shark’s teeth. Most grayken hunters get a mermaid or a sea serpent tattoo. Some get an anchor. A lot get crossed harpoons.”

  “It’s wonderful.” Ava ran her fingers gently over the tattoo. “But what’s this?” she asked, touching the still-visible scars from the mermaid’s claws.

  “One of the merfolk tried to drown me while I was in the water.”

  “How ghastly.” She immediately withdrew her hand, revulsion on her face.

  Nail sat up straighter. “I fought my way free. Saved Zane. Baron Bruk said it was the bravest thing he’d ever seen.” His eyes darted to Stefan on the trail behind them—his friend was fussing with his quiver of yellow-fletched arrows, oblivious to their conversation. Nail had never mentioned his encounter with the mermaid to anyone; he’d told Bishop Tolbret, who’d wrapped the wound with bandages, that it was just the ratlines that had slashed his arm. The lingering image of the mermaid’s pale face in the bloody water and the feel of her scaly tail wrapping around his legs had become a nightmare fixed in his mind that he would not soon forget.

  “It’s why Baron Bruk offered me a place on his ship, for saving Zane,” he finished.

  “Grayken-hunting ships are magnificent indeed.” She ran her fingers over his bicep again, tracing the lines of the tattoo over his muscles. “The town is a-talk of how you snuck aboard the Lady Kindly. But they also say Shawcroft most likely won’t let you sail with Baron Bruk again. It must be sad, always belonging to people.”

  Her words hurt. But the pain was brief as she leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder. Even in her drab hiking clothes—brown jerkin over tan shirt and plain, rough-spun pants—her beauty kindled a flame that flared in his heart. He felt the turtle carving she had given him resting against his chest under his shirt.

  It must be sad, always belonging to people.

  Nail’s world was a small one, and he knew his place within it. Along the coastline as far as he could see, between mountain range and ocean, his entire world was spread out below. The social order of Gul Kana and its peoples was broadly similar to that of Wyn Darrè. The king in Amadon ruled alongside the holy vicar of the Church of Laijon. The land was divided into shires. A local bishop along with a sheriff or baron ruled the largest town within the shire. Together they collected the king’s taxes and the church’s tithes, and oversaw justice. It was these two leaders, under the direction of Amadon, who made sure every Gul Kana male, be they peasant, freeman, or baron’s son, serve church and crown as a conscripted soldier in training for two years, starting at seventeen.

  The rulers of the larger cities like Avlonia, Rivermeade, Eskander, Lord’s Point, and the like were titled lords. Large estate owners near the smaller towns were titled barons. Peasants and freemen were tied to business owners or large estates and were subject to the barons. One’s station, high or low, fortunes good or bad, was established by one’s parentage. Whatever your lineage, you had security in your station.

  As a bastard, Nail was free only to follow his master’s bidding unless a formal offer of legitimate employment was made by another of higher station—just as Jubal Bruk had offered Nail a place aboard the Lady Kindly. Nail knew he relied entirely on the goodwill of others. Still, he had always known he was different, creative, and strong, better than others of no birthright. If a girl as enchanting as Ava Shay could see something in him, then anything was possible.

  Gazing down the mountain, he found the familiar s
hape of her home near the center of town. It was half-hidden under a large oak, a small two-room affair she shared with her five younger siblings, its thatched roof no more than a brown dot below, a curl of woodsmoke twirling up from the chimney. Ava lived with her brothers and sisters in a house near the Grayken Spear Inn that Ol’ Man Leddingham had set them up in. She’d helped raise them since her parents had died. A sickness had taken her mother. Shortly after that her father had been killed in a logging accident above Tomkin Sty. Nail admired Ava’s hard work and resolve in dealing with life’s challenges.

  “Your house looks so small from up here,” he said.

  A dog ran past Ava’s home, a pinprick on the landscape as it sped through town, Zane Neville chasing it. Even from so far up, Nail recognized Zane’s awkward gait. The two specks ran past the harbor, where Baron Bruk’s grayken-hunting ship was nestled. Nail could see people scurrying about on her riggings like spiders on a web. Beer Mug kept going, shooting past the harbor up the road, followed by Zane, chugging along behind. They both charged into a small field north of the chapel and ran in circles, Zane chasing, Beer Mug leading. Nail could imagine Zane’s laughter and the dog’s barks of joy.

  “Who are you?” Stefan’s shaky voice said from behind.

  Both Nail and Ava turned to find Stefan Wayland with his bow taut, yellow-fletched arrow pointing up at a dark-cloaked horseman on the road behind them.

  Ava squealed. Nail lurched to his feet.

  The horse on the trail was straight out of his childhood nightmares: a mare, sleek, black, and powerfully built, with feverish eyes like red-glowing holes in its wedge-shaped head. Arteries and corded muscle pulsed beneath its glistening black hide. The rider was darker still, bathed in midnight against the greenery of the mountainside, a hint of black boiled-leather armor under the cloak, pale face mostly obscured beneath a hood.

  But when the rider pulled back the hood, Nail was startled even further. For it was not the face of a man hidden underneath, but that of a young woman. And she was not just pretty, but beautiful, arresting even. Hair of exquisite silvery-white waves framed her face. She had slanting eyebrows above striking green eyes, high-boned cheeks, and full lips. Some pale light glowed just beneath her skin, as though through a thin veil.