by Scott Zamek
The Light of Endura
SCOTT ZAMEK
Copyright © 2017 Scott Zamek
All rights reserved.
E-book edition published, 2017
More books and information at scottzamek.com
Cover design by Sergii Denysov © 123RF.com
Without change, something sleeps
Inside us, and seldom awakens.
The sleeper must awaken.
—Frank Herbert
Contents
QUIET LANDS
BORDER LANDS
FOREST LANDS
ANCIENT LANDS
FAR LANDS
FAR MOUNTAINS
BEYOND LANDS
MEADOWKEEP
QUIET LANDS
F ilby would have preferred living in town. He had inherited the land from his grandfather, and that was the only reason he lived in the country. There were certain things he liked about his land, to be sure. He liked the small log cabin—didn’t require too much upkeep. And the five acres was quiet, so he no longer had to put up with town noise, like people making merry at all hours of the night, or pub keeper Mackleroy staying open late, his lanterns beaming through the window where Filby used to live on Maple Street. He loved the view as well. His stately chestnut oaks always swayed with the wind, forming a neat border where his great-great-grandfather had planted them on the edge of the property nearly a century ago. The south meadow, when he mowed it, gave a clear view to farmer Mack’s plowed fields. Spotted deer often lingered on that meadow, where Filby’s property bordered farmer Mack’s land, and they would sometimes jump the wooden fence and nearly erase farmer Mack’s greens in a single afternoon.
But there were a lot of things Filby did not like about his land. He had lived in Meadowkeep all his life, and now—although he was technically inside town limits—his land formed the easternmost border of the district. His wooden fence, in fact, was the eastern border, and that was the problem. Too many suspicious travelers used the dirt road that ran tight to his fence. The Westing Road, Filby called it (although no one had ever given it a true name) because it followed the northern border of his property in an east, west direction before veering off to the northwest. To the east, it curled south briefly, around the edge of his land, before veering easterly again toward Bordertown. Filby sometimes watched the vagabonds and gypsies and shady merchants as they passed by his property, hoping they would never cross the fence and trespass onto his land. Thank goodness for the oak trees, Filby often thought, planted along the fence in an orderly row to screen any clear view of the road.
Still, when the sun lowered and backed the road with the dim rays of dusk, he would get glimpses between trees, and what he saw added to his irritation. Riders filtered along the road, motley riders: beggars and vagrants and drifters, thieves and petty criminals wearing a patchwork of rags and riding a patchwork of horses. It was the tall riders that made him the most nervous, tall and hooded, dressed in brown cloaks and riding menacing steeds. Time was, he would see one or two of these riders in a month. Now, he was seeing one or two a week, and he wondered at the nerve of them skirting his land so brazenly.
Filby suspected they were using the road to bypass Meadowkeep. Although the feeble gate leading into town was not sturdy enough to hold strangers out, Constable Morton always kept a wary eye, and he never allowed such odd travelers to pass through. The riders were on their way to a port on the Sanguine Sea, no doubt. Had to be, because there was nothing west of Meadowkeep but the Sanguine Sea. The far edge of town came to an abrupt end at a scrubby meadow full of wildflowers and dandelions, but another league and the meadow itself quickly dissolved into beach break and sand dunes. Then there was nothing but an old lighthouse, battered by years of salt spray and wind and no longer in use, and two wooden docks catering to the few ships that plied the Sanguine Sea. Very few ships, because the waters were uncharted for the most part, and none but the very brave ventured out beyond the protected harbor.
The town fathers, Filby was convinced, did not mind his predicament at all. They were happy to have his land serve as a buffer to all the traveling riffraff headed west. In fact, Filby was tired of hearing about his grandfather, who, they said, had always made sure no one climbed over the fence and entered the town illegally. How his grandfather had protected the land remained a mystery, because Filby never really knew his grandfather. Nor did he know his parents, who had died when Filby was very young. He had been raised by a great-aunt and uncle, making his grandfather more like a distant relative, a third cousin one heard about but never saw. All Filby knew for sure was that his grandfather once traveled quite a bit, but no one could say why his grandfather was always gone or where he went.
Filby was well aware how farmer Mack dealt with the problem, whose fields formed the remainder of Meadowkeep’s eastern border. Farmer Mack kept people out with a pitchfork and three snarling dogs. Often, a group of odd-looking riders would pass farmer Mack’s land along the Westing Road, and Filby would hear the dogs howl before the riders appeared along the fence line. Then the travelers would slowly disappear down the road, to the northwest, behind scrubby trees and thin brush and the neglected pastureland beyond.
The land to the north of the road was once tilled and farmed but had long ago gone fallow, overgrown with underbrush and saplings and young forest. Beyond that, to the north, Filby was not sure. Farmer Mack claimed a forest stood there, logged some fifty years ago but now replaced with white pines and maple trees. On the far side of the forest, everyone knew about the marshland flanking a wild river; the Meltwater River flowed west to the Sanguine Sea, arriving away from the east where it veered south to form the edge of Bordertown. No one ever ventured into the marshes; no footpaths entered there, although ship owners did ferry cargo up and down the river from time to time, carrying their wares from the docks on the Sanguine Sea.
Filby was a little confused about what lay over the sea. Trade goods sometimes came that route, but not many people used the docks, and those who did were brave men indeed: explorers, mapmakers, intrepid merchants striking out for new riches in new lands. On occasion, one of them would arrive at port with a ship full of spices and gems and exotic oils from far-off kingdoms. Not one year ago, a distant cousin returned with a few gold trinkets and a black powder that burned in odd-looking sparks. Some said the distant land across the water was a place of safety and sanctuary, where all was at peace. Some said it was a land of war, where the sea ran red with the tide.
Another road entered Filby’s property from the west, more like a dirt wagon track, heading from Filby’s front gate some ten miles toward Meadowkeep. The track arched over a hand-hewn wooden bridge that his great-grandfather had built, eventually turning to cobblestone near the Great Meadow, where the town got its name. There the road passed by Trapper Tavit’s ranch, the easternmost house in Meadowkeep aside from Filby’s cabin and Mack’s farm. Another fair few leagues west stood the outskirts of the town itself, stretching another two leagues to the Sanguin Sea.
Filby went into town quite often; he missed the town square and the cobblestone streets and the merchant shops that lined every main street and side road. He even missed the broken-down stone wall, almost chest high, that surrounded three-quarters of the town. Those who knew such things claimed the wall to be the remains of an old fortress, lending the name “keep” to the town history. The story sounded reasonable, but Filby often visited the small museum by the courthouse, and none of the old pictures supported the claim. Meadowkeep of old looked more like a dusty western village, replete with wooden buildings and saloons and muddy streets. The manicured lawns and thatched roofs came much later, making Filby grateful that he lived in modern times.
Whenever he returned from town, Filby al
ways stopped at his front gate and admired his great-grandfather’s carpentry. This was not a gate as seen guarding the small houses of Meadowkeep. It was roughly cut from oak logs and hinged to a massive oak stump his great-grandfather had chopped down to size decades before Filby was born. Another stump served as the opposite post, where a metal-forged clamp held the gate shut at night. The stumps had stood solid and sturdy through many years and much foul weather, far enough apart for a horse and carriage to pass through and in the perfect position at the far edge of Filby’s property. Yet the gate itself was a good one hundred yards from his house, and Filby always felt a bit nervous if he lingered too long to creak the gate closed, especially if there were riders in view on the Westing Road.
Lately, he had kept the gate closed at all times. On this occasion, the gate remained open, because this was the day old Doloby usually called to chat and catch up on news from Meadowkeep. But it was late, the sun just hovering a few hours above the Westing Road, before the sound of squeaking wheels brought Filby out onto the porch. A horse and wagon passed the gate, creaking and tottering with every watery rut, two lanterns swinging from high front brackets as Doloby maneuvered his old buckboard down the long driveway.
“Filby Redmont, how fares it today?” Doloby stepped down from the cart with a little difficulty, a white apron cinched tight to his round stomach hindering his efforts. “I brought you some olive bread and mulberry tarts,” and he waived a brown bag in the air. Old Doloby had been the baker for as long as Filby could remember. His shop had always stood on the corner near the fountain in the town square; he had always served up bread and pastries and baked goods for the townsfolk, at least those who lived west of the town hall, and for months now he had been visiting Filby, every Monday when the weekend baking was at an end.
“Come in, come in,” Filby motioned toward the door. “You have any pumpernickel this week?”
“No pumpernickel, but I’m working on some semolina. Should be a good batch too.” He planted himself in a corner chair next to the hearth. “I got some good durum wheat in yesterday.”
“Should we light a fire?” asked Filby. “You’re here late today.”
“I know, I know. I got delayed. Don’t want to stay too late with all the riffraff about nowadays. Don’t want to be caught on the road after dark.” Filby put a kettle on the stove, sending the scent of cardamom through the cabin. He cut some olive bread and a wedge of Farthing cheese, then placed it all on the table next to the hearth along with a few mulberry tarts.
“That’s a fine old sturdy cast iron kettle,” said Doloby, as Filby poured two cups of tea. “Your grandfather’s?”
“My great-grandfather’s, I think. It was passed along down the line. Would you like some sugar?”
Doloby paused for a moment, eyeing the Farthing cheese. “Mmm, I’ll take a dram if you have one.”
Filby caught himself in a disapproving frown—rarely drank himself, but always kept a store on hand for company. And he shouldn’t have been surprised; old Doloby was predictable. “A dram it is.” He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a dusty bottle of Maderna, then poured the baker a glass. “That olive bread is incredible,” said Filby, handing over the glass of wine, and he wondered why Doloby didn’t put olives in the bread more often.
“A lot of people ask for it, but it’s sort of a specialty—can’t make it every day.”
Filby sat next to the cold hearth. “I guess it’s too early for a fire.”
“It’s a fine warm day, with a fine breeze. How’s your garden fairing?”
“It’s fine, fine. Coming along just fine. All we need is another good late summer rain and the peas should plump right up.” Filby thought about his small farm. He grew cabbages and green beans and winter squash when it would grow, although the soil was a bit too sandy for proper squash. And his recent gardening had melted away a few pounds, and toned his frame considerably. Filby never thought of himself as overweight, but he wasn’t thin either—a product, he knew, of almost twenty years of sedentary living.
Doloby sipped his Maderna, working on a hunk of Farthing as he gazed through the front window toward the south meadow. “How long have you had possession of the land now Filby?”
“Only three months, since my grandfather died.”
“Nasty business.”
“Indeed.”
“Burglars wasn’t it?”
“So they say. The constable took care of the whole affair.”
Doloby grimaced as he reached for a tart. “Nasty business.”
“And all these ne’er-do-wells on the Westing Road lately,” sighed Filby, shrugging his shoulders. “Makes me cringe to think.”
Doloby shook his head and turned the mulberry tart over in his hand. “Times are changing, to be sure. I remember the days when nary a stranger set foot in Meadowkeep. Now, seems all sorts of strange happenings afoot. Just the other day, a merchant rode through town bound for the Sanguine Sea. Constable Morton had to run him out of town as he was puttin’ up some sort of fuss at the tavern.”
The sun, just touching the treetops, poked through a few white clouds and beamed into the window. Conversation turned to Meadowkeep. Blacksmith Parson was closing up shop after forty years; his grandson was supposed to take over but decided to go to school instead. Mayor Carson called a town meeting but no one showed, leaving the town council with nothing to do but return home for the day. And business at the bakery was steady, as it always had been, as it had been for thirty years.
Light dimmed in the cabin; shadows crept along the corners of the room, up above the countertops, and touched the bottoms of the hanging cupboards in the kitchen. Filby lit two lanterns and hung them overhead, then kindled a fire in the hearth. A warm crackle sent smoke and embers up the chimney, a softening glow edging out along the floor to the pitted wooden walls, reaching out and barely tinting knotted logs the color of dark mahogany. Shadows retreated to the dusty recesses of the cabin, and Filby turned up the flame under another kettle. Doloby slowly sipped his second glass of Maderna, looking over the crumbs left on the fireside table. “I’d better be off. It’s no good to be on the road too late.”
Filby walked outside and watched Doloby’s wagon creak slowly toward the fading sun. The burning lantern on each front bracket swayed left then right, causing an orange circle to bob one way then the other along Filby’s potholed driveway. Evening crickets rose to a tentative hum, and Filby noticed his great-grandfather’s heavy gate flicker yellow as Doloby clopped onto the long road west and disappeared from view, leaving a faint glow echoing off the treetops.
Light from the cabin windows reached into the dusk while trees to the west obscured the sun. Inside, Filby began closing sturdy oak shutters, latching them securely with thick, wooden boards. As he closed the last shutter against the quickly approaching night, he thought he could see, if he strained his eyes, a rider passing beyond the fence. He barred the door, his usual practice after dark, and dismissed his fears. A cup of tea and a good book next to the hearth always made things right, so he took his normal spot next to the fire. The scent of cardamom soon filled the cabin, and the fire snapped with new logs. “I wish I had more olive bread,” he thought. “That Doloby sure can wipe out a plate.”
Filby reached the end of his book; his eyes began to droop. The fire burned down to nothing as he became caught in a half-sleep between dreams. He became slowly aware of a muffled sound in his mind.
Bam, bam, bam. Someone was pounding on the door. He awoke in a start, stood up. What to do? He snatched a fire iron from the hearth. “Be calm Filby,” he said in a whisper. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He was glad one of the lanterns was still lit. He walked over and held it to the door. Bam, bam, bam.
Filby jumped back and almost dropped the lantern.
“Filby?” A muffled voice came through the door.
“Who is it? Who’s there?” Fire iron held high, he moved closer to the door.
“It’s Hawkins.” The voice sounded hurried,
urgent.
Hawkins . . . Hawkins . . . Filby tried to think. “I know no Hawkins,” he said, trying to control his nerves.
“You know me as Trader Hawkins.”
“Trader Hawkins? The merchant from town?” He knew of Trader Hawkins, but barely—had seen him around town only twice. All he knew was that Hawkins had a reputation for wandering, a merchant of some sort, and spent only a fraction of his time in Meadowkeep.
“How do I know you’re Trader Hawkins,” Filby called, his voice a bit shaky.
“Will you open the door Filby.” The urgent tone turned to a tinge of irritation.
Filby said nothing, holding the lantern close to the door as if he could see through the cracks.
“You grew up in town, just moved here three months ago when your grandfather died; you used to get in trouble for swimming in the town fountain when you were a boy.”
Filby creaked the door open a crack, fire iron held over his head. The lantern light reached weakly onto the porch. He saw an unshaven face covered by a canvas cloak, and thought he recognized the merchant. “What do you want?” he whispered through the crack in the door. Farmer Mack’s dogs began to howl, away in the distance beyond the south cornfield, and it made Filby nervous. “What in the world are you doing here this late?”
“Do you mind if I just come in. It’s a bit cold out here.”
This was completely improper, against Filby’s better judgement, but he didn’t want to leave the door cracked open, and he didn’t want to seem unneighborly. Hawkins did live in Meadowkeep after all. “All right, if you must.” A chill wind swept in as Filby opened the door, tilting the lantern flame into a flicker. The sound of crickets rose on the night air.
Hawkins shut the door behind him, peering into the darkness for a moment just before securing the latch. He lowered the hood of his cloak. “That firebrand will do you no good if real trouble arrives.”
