Passages

by Olan Thorensen

  By now, the search for scattered livestock went farther from the ranch headquarters, and they found fewer animals each day. Mark’s crew slept most nights on the range. They returned only when bringing in batches of animals to join herds being positioned for the coming colder weather.

  Hard work and increasing cold characterized the following months. This far south of the Anyar equator and in the center of the Drilmar continent, the winter season eerily resembled south-central Colorado—days with clear sunlight and freezing nights, snowstorms that dropped inches to feet of snow that disappeared with the following warmer days, and local creatures achingly similar to prairie dogs, along with a pronghorn antelope that had much longer horns than on Earth.

  When the rancher voiced satisfaction that they’d found most strays, work shifted to repairing fences and structures on the purchased ranch. Toodman intended to sell sections of the property when the weather turned warmer. When the sale occurred, Mark expected to be looking for another job—which is why he was suspicious when one day Toodman called him into the main house.

  “Mark, I don’t dally around. You’re one of the best workers I’ve ever had. The men all respect you, and you seem like a decent man, although you’re pretty tight in talking about yourself—which doesn’t bother me. I’ve talked with Tir. I’d like you to stay working for me. I’ve some ideas I’ve toyed with for a couple of years, but I haven’t had enough workers I trusted that they could take over some of what I used to do myself. Age is catching up with me, and I’m not a fool who thinks he can keep doing what he did when he was twenty.

  “I don’t promise anything into the future right now, but I’ll raise your wages to half-again what I’m currently paying you. If things work out, by next winter you might be earning more yet. What do you say?”

  Mark’s first reaction was relief. His big dreams from his time in Tregallon seemed just that—dreams that faded the more time passed. For months he had wandered, worked, wandered again, made the mistake of going destrex hunting, and then worked again in an environment where he liked the people. It was the longest he’d spent in one place since leaving Tregallon for the ill-fated trip to Kaledon. He didn’t know what the long-term future held, but for now he wanted to stay in one place without having a known end date to move on.

  As a “permanent” worker on the ranch, Mark rated a small room in a barracks for single men. His meager possessions gradually accumulated during occasional visits to Nurburt. Secretariat lived in a regular stall for the winter, and Mark continued to eat in the communal room next to the barracks. Mid-day meal was usually delivered at work sites, given to workers to take with them, or provided as a quick grab-and-go if work happened around the main buildings. Eating in the morning and the evening were the first scheduled meals Mark had had since leaving the Naval Academy, where meals were orchestrated, and decorum prevailed. Not so at the ranch. There, nonstop multiple conversations created a semi-chaotic atmosphere. It reminded Mark of extended family gatherings when he was growing up.

  There was no fixed seating. Men sat at whatever empty seat existed when they arrived. In addition to single men, the meal often included visitors, temporary workers, and occasionally a husband who wasn’t on good terms at the moment with his wife.

  It was there he first saw Maghen Lorwell, an assistant cook to the Toodmans’ house and a helper with the workers’ meals. At first, Mark maintained a personal distance from ranch coworkers, but that changed with his permanent status and living full time at the main ranch. There, he ate elbow to elbow with the others, and conversation was impossible to avoid.

  “No, you don’t, Mark. You’re coming with us to the Nurburt harvest festival if I have to tie you up and drag you.”

  Mark eyed the man sitting next to him, as they finished evening meal. Lex Tylmar stood six inches shorter and weighed eighty pounds less than Mark. Though he was a tireless worker, no one at the table believed he could restrain the odd man he’d taken on as a friend. General laughter ensued, along with a chorus supporting Tylmar’s position that Mark needed to become more social away from the ranch.

  “How do you expect to catch women if you don’t go where they’re at?” quipped a voice from the other end of the long table.

  “Maybe he’s not interested in women,” offered a late-forties woman named Hurla while clearing empty dishes off the table. Her husband worked as the ranch’s farrier and horse trainer. “No other reason a big, strapping man like Mark wouldn’t take advantage of available women in Nurburt. Sure, not that many around here. Well . . . except maybe for Maghen.”

  Mark had noticed the referenced woman. It was hard not to see the big woman on the occasional days she helped with worker meals. Maghen Lorwell stood only a couple inches shorter than Mark, and her loose work clothing suggested a sturdy body. During the course of a sixday, he might see her five or six times—putting plates of food on the table, removing empty plates, or walking between ranch buildings. He vaguely remembered hearing that she usually worked at the main house, cooking and cleaning.

  “Hey, what about Maghen?” asked Tylmar. “She’s unmarried and might be a match for Mark.”

  “Not a bad idea,” offered a gravelly voice. “At least, he’s someone who could protect himself if she gets offended.”

  “Now, now,” Hurla said. “Maghen only smacked that man when he put a hand where she hadn’t said he could put it.”

  Mark’s raised eyebrow elicited an explanation from Tylmar. “A man who used to work here before you came. Kept pestering Maghen, wanting to get her on some hay in the barn. She wasn’t interested. Finally, one day he did more than pester, and she beat the crap out of him. When Toodman heard what happened, he dumped the man on a wagon, took him to Nurburt, and left him on the street. Maghen apologized, but it served the asshole right.”

  Not to be diverted, Tylmar brought the talk back to the harvest festival, and Mark gave in—easily when he realized he did want to go. He’d been holed up at the ranch long enough. He felt the urge for a change in his routine.

  The next Godsday, five wagons loaded with passengers took the fifteen-mile trip to Nurburt.

  “It’s a tradition at the ranch,” said Tylmar. “Every year, work stops during the harvest festival so anyone interested can attend. Locals claim ours is the best festival in southern Frangel, but I wouldn’t know since it’s the only one I’ve ever attended.”

  Mark found himself in a wagon with eight men and bags of clothing they would need for the stay. Other wagons carried more workers, families, neighbors, and enough tents for the entire caravan.

  Toodman provided just enough of a nasty-tasting alcoholic beverage to keep everyone, especially the men, in a festive mood during the trip—though not enough to become drunk. Thus, the three-hour trip passed with singing and banter between wagons. They arrived enough before dark to set up an encampment of tents and fire pits.

  Mark skipped the next morning’s formal beginning of the festival. He’d heard enough from Tylmar to know three to four hours of speeches were something he could miss. At mid-day, a bell rang twenty or so times to signal the opening of displays and activities. Mark joined Tylmar and a dozen Toodman workers headed to forty or more acres of stalls, displays, ad hoc musical performances, and events. Within minutes, the group began to splinter, as individuals or smaller groups headed for different interests.

  An hour later, Tylmar and Mark had walked through a row of food stalls, sampling as they went. Mark had what looked like a burrito filled with a spicy Hungarian goulash occupying both hands and mouth and couldn’t verbally respond when Tylmar said, “Oh, look. Here comes Maghen and her family.”

  Mark paused, trying to keep the burrito sauce off his clothes. He saw a group of people pass twenty feet away. A group of mainly big people, except for two women almost a foot shorter than the other four. The three men appeared to be of Mark’s height or taller. The oldest man had a wide gray beard, but there was nothing old about his wide body. The two younger men were obviou
sly sons—even with beards, they strikingly resembled the father. One of the two short women wore her gray hair in a bun, and the younger woman carried a baby in one arm and held the hand of a four- or five-year-old boy in the other. The third woman was almost as tall as the men, had a robust build, and was striking, which surprised Mark. His taste on Earth had run to those like his wife, Jocelyn—slender, blonde if possible, and somewhat heart-shaped faces. This woman was anything but slender but was definitely a woman. Her brown hair with lighter highlights hung loose around her shoulders, and a firm jaw in a round face exuded health and animation, as she talked with her companions.

  Mark scanned the crowd. “Where’s Maghen? I don’t see her.”

  Tylmar grunted. “Then you’re blind. We walked right by her.”

  Mark cast his gaze in several directions, then shook his head.

  Tylmar grasped Mark’s arm and turned him around. “There. That group of big people, two shorter women, and the small child. That’s the Lorwell family—parents, four grown children, and two little ones from the older daughter. They always look odd, the father, three big sons and a daughter, and the much smaller mother and other daughter.”

  Mark made the connection. “The other daughter is Maghen? Sure doesn’t look like her.”

  Tylmar shrugged. “Just goes to show you haven’t really looked at her. She’s not bad looking when she’s out of work clothes, though too good-size a woman for most men. A hard worker and nice as could be, until you piss her off.”

  He tugged on Mark’s arm. “How about we head over to the event field for a while? There’s always something fun to watch, and if you’re careful, it’s a good place to lay some bets.”

  Mark hesitated. He wanted a second look at the Lorwell family, but his hands were still busy with the burrito, so he followed Tylmar.

  On the way to a flat grassy field with flags and scattered stands, Mark finished the burrito. He cleaned the remnants off his hands and face with the cloth he carried as a handkerchief. They first stopped at a makeshift archery range and listened to vociferous betting while four men strung what looked like longbows and tested the pull strengths.

  “Bowmanship is still a pastime in this part of Frangel. There’re songs and legends about a couple of centuries ago when the Frangelese beat off armies from Madyrna and Tekleum, due to the men’s skill with bows. I never had the knack, but some men practice all year to compete, especially at festivals. We can stop and watch if you’d like.”

  “No,” said Mark. “I’ve hunted with a bow but never could hit anything.”

  Shouts erupted from a nearby cluster of several hundred people standing in front of a two-foot-high platform. On it stood several men and objects Mark initially couldn’t make out.

  “Krykor judging,” explained Tylmar, just as Mark recognized several of the lumps on the platform. They were the sheep-like animal that provided a wool equivalent. Mark’s textile venture had focused on flurox, but he had intended to expand to wool. At this thought, too many memories surfaced in his mind.

  “At one time, I wished Toodman raised krykors, instead of cattle,” Tylmar said with a laugh, “but then Toodman had me round up a krykor flock that strayed onto the ranch. Even though krykors are smaller than cattle, they can be harder to control. Trust me, I prefer cattle. Let’s see what else is going on.”

  The next event they moved to elicited the hardest belly laugh from Mark in a longer time than he could remember. They watched as men waded into a flock of krykors, then each grabbed one, threw it over a shoulder, and ran to where event partners waited at small pens.

  “Don’t ask me where this came from,” said Tylmar, “but everyone enjoys watching or participating.”

  After twenty minutes, Mark estimated less than half of the captured krykors made it to pens. Some escaped while being transported, often when men ran through a muddy ditch presumably created as an obstacle.

  After bypassing two more events, they approached another shouting crowd that surrounded a thirty-foot circular area.

  “Weightlifting,” said Tylmar. “I might have expected to find the Lorwell family here.”

  Mark jerked his head around to scan the crowd. He finally identified the same family that Tylmar had pointed out earlier. Tylmar was right; the short mother and daughter among the other adults towering over their neighbors were curious looking.

  His gaze stopped at the woman Tylmar had said was Maghen. It took a moment for Mark to agree, once he searched his memory and compared it to the woman he looked at.

  “You’re right,” said Mark. “She looks different when she’s not wearing work clothes.”

  “What?”

  “Maghen. Over there.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Look, one of her brothers is about to have a turn. I think the one named Erlon. The other one’s Fenon. The father was the champion for many years. Now his two sons are the best.”

  They watched as Erlon stripped off his shirt to show an impressive set of muscles. He assumed several momentary poses before moving to two wooden blocks supporting an eight-foot iron bar two feet from each end. Erlon proceeded to slip iron discs with center holes onto the bar ends. When he’d added the same number of discs to each end, he stood between the blocks. He bent to grasp the bar and, with a grunt, lifted the bar to his chest, then pressed it above his head.

  Good thing the bar is that long, thought Mark. A major accident is waiting to happen with nothing clamping the discs from falling off.

  Mark shook his head. He imagined a single disc slipping off and the now heavier end sagging, letting discs fall off that end. This would further unbalance the bar. The man’s feet could be in serious danger from falling iron, as could his head from the bar’s violent snapback.

  Erlon brought the bar back to the wooden supports. His effort was rewarded with cheers, particularly loud from his family. Brother Fenon followed with the same weight arrangement, then five more men, one of whom failed to push the bar fully above his head. Erlon then approached the setup again.

  “I assume they keep adding weight until only one man is left?” asked Mark, strangely more interested in the event than he’d expected.

  “Yeah. Shouldn’t take long. This was just a warm-up. The two brothers will quickly go beyond what the others can lift, although two years ago a stranger in town gave the brothers quite a struggle until Fenon finally won.”

  They witnessed two more rounds of added discs. By then, only the Lorwell brothers and one other man remained. Later, Mark couldn’t have told anyone what came over him, but he admitted to himself it was likely related to seeing the animation on Maghen Lorwell’s face as she watched the competition.

  Before he thought about consequences, Mark turned to Tylmar and asked, “How do you get to give it a try? Do you have to start at the beginning weights or try where they are now?”

  “I don’t think there’re any rules. Why?” Tylmar turned from watching the participants. “You? You want to give it a try?”

  Mark smiled. He wasn’t much for archery or running around carrying krykors, but he did know about weightlifting from his younger days with football and wrestling. “Oh, I think I can manage.”

  Tylmar gripped Mark’s forearm and leaned over. “You’re big and strong enough, but do you really think you can compete with the Lorwell brothers?”

  “I can’t guarantee, but I’d bet on me if I could.”

  Tylmar’s grin became predatory. “In that case, slip me whatever coin you want to bet. I’ll announce you want to join in. You step into the circle, and there’ll be a flurry of talk and betting. No one has seen you lift, so I’ll try to lay off bets and see if I can get good odds.”

  “Remember,” said Mark, “I don’t know exactly how much weight they’re using, so I can’t guarantee, but if you’re okay with that, let’s do it.”

  Mark surreptitiously passed over all the coin he carried—everything he had expected to spend during their time at the festival. He later assessed that was a foolish move.

>   CHAPTER 21

  DISPLAY

  Tylmar pushed past people at the edge of the circle. He rushed over to where Erlon Lorwell leaned down to add more discs to the bar.

  “Wait, wait! Another man wants to lift.”

  He waved to Mark, who stepped forward. Three minutes of arguing ensued among audience members, the single non-Lorwell contestant who was still active, and an older man apparently serving in a semi-official capacity.

  Mark only half listened to the discussion. He pretended to gaze around at the crowd but managed to catch glimpses of Maghen Lorwell. About the fourth time, he paused with his eyes on her. She looked back and smiled.

  What are you doing, Mark? he thought. Don’t piss around and fool yourself. You’re trying to impress the girl.

  He smiled back, and she whispered something to her father, who up to then hadn’t participated in deciding whether a newcomer could still try the weights. Whatever his daughter said, he spoke loudly, getting everyone’s attention.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, let the man try. This is not some official event. It’s to see who’s the strongest man at the festival. Quit pretending this is anything but fun.”

  A cheer went up, and the already dwindling number of complainers shut up.

  Old guy must still have clout, thought Mark. I bet when he was younger, he could have given his sons some serious competition.

  The other three contestants moved aside, and Erlon Lorwell motioned Mark to the current weight. Mark gave Maghen one more quick look before he turned his back on her to address the bar. He interpreted her expression as either friendly curiosity or “Does this bozo think he can actually do this?”

  From the number of iron plates on the bar, it had to be a significant amount of weight. Mark hadn’t warmed up, which was a good way to tear a muscle or get a hernia. He gripped the bar, positioned his feet, and tested the weight. The bar didn’t move. A few titters broke out. He ignored them.