by M. Woodruff
Shivering, he threw the toenail clippings into the fireplace. As soon they hit the flames, the fire disappeared. It wasn’t like the fire had gone out—it just disappeared—one moment it was a roaring, merry fire; the next, it was nonexistent, as if it had never been.
Grabbing his fur-skin robe, Nels ran out of the room, forgetting to put on his smallclothes.
He found Mistress Whiten still outside pacing her garden. He wasn’t sure if he should tell her about the tub or not. It wouldn’t be good for her sensibilities, but then again, she should be warned to be on the lookout. It could possibly happen again and he didn’t think the widow would have such good reflexes as he did.
“Nels, what—” She abruptly cut off with a frown.
“Ah, sorry…Esther,” Nels said as he cinched his robe tighter. “There was an incident in the bathing room, and I ran down in a hurry.”
“What kind of incident?” she asked, putting the pail down. Nels noticed she was still wearing his leather gloves.
“It…ah…well, it’s hard to explain. I was getting ready to get in the bathtub like I always do, and ah…well, the bottom of the tub was gone.”
“Gone! What do you mean gone? Where did the bottom of my custom-ordered porcelain bathtub go? Where could it go, for that matter?!”
“Oh! Well, it’s back! It’s back Mistress Whiten! Don’t you worry now. Your tub is all in one whole porcelain piece like it’s always been. Don’t you think there’s anything wrong with the tub, now. It’s just that…”
Mistress Whiten crossed her arms, heaving up her ample bosom.
“Those rocks!” Nels exclaimed, pointing at the pail.
“What do those rocks have to do with my bathtub? There weren’t more in there, were there?” she asked suspiciously.
“No, no rocks. But it was like those rocks—it had that same feeling of a dark, empty space. I put my foot through it, but there was nothing there. I didn’t harm your tub,” he added quickly. “There was nothing to harm. It was as if the bottom of the tub was a big black hole into…nothingness. That’s the best I can explain it. I didn’t want to scare you, but I wanted to warn you since you use that tub. I didn’t want anything to happen to you…Esther.”
Mistress Whiten uncrossed her arms. “No, I suppose you didn’t,” she said softly. “Well, whatever it is that happened, I’m sure that it’s because of these stones.” She shook her head. “None of the plants will speak to me to tell me what I should do with them. I was going to bury them under the blackberry bush, but when I started to dig, it finally said I shouldn’t bury the stones anywhere on the property. I can’t throw them out in the street, though. That would be very irresponsible.”
“I could take them back to the Illusionist,” Nels quipped.
“You will do no such thing!” Mistress Whiten looked horrified at the very idea.
“I was just—”
“I’m sure he’s the one who created these vile things,” she continued. “And to take them back to him! Why, there’s no telling what one such as that might do. No, we’ll have to think of another way to safely dispose of these infernal stones.”
“The fire!” Nels burst out. “We can throw them in the fire. One of my toenails got a sliver of black taint on it from that hole. I cut the nail off and threw the clippings in the fire. They disappeared I’m sure…”
Mistress Whiten raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Well, the whole fire disappeared, but I’m sure they went with it.” Wherever it went, he didn’t add.
“I don’t know…that could be dangerous. A tiny sliver from your toenail is one thing, but several stones…and if it made the fire disappear, you say?”
Nels nodded. “One second it was there—the next, it was gone.”
“It didn’t hurt the fireplace, did it?”
“No, nothing like that.” Nels covered a grin by scratching his nose. “Maybe if we just put one stone in at a time. We won’t dump them all in at once. We could even build a fire out here, so the house won’t be in any danger.”
The last seemed to mollify Mistress Whiten enough for her to give a slight nod. “All right, but you build that fire away from my plants. I don’t want you singeing any.”
“That, I’ll do,” Nels agreed, looking around hopelessly for a bare patch of ground as Mistress Whiten went back inside.
Nels decided to follow when he realized he was still only wearing his fur-skin robe and no smallclothes. He also couldn’t help but think that what the widow didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He picked up the bucket of stones and stuck his head in the doorway. She wasn’t in the kitchen. She was probably upstairs checking on her bathtub.
The fire was still blazing from this morning’s breakfast. Mistress Whiten would always just let it burn itself out on warm days. Nels gave it a few prods with the poker to heat it back up a little. He didn’t know how hot it should be to burn stones, but maybe that was good enough. Carefully, he lifted off the cloth and picked up one of the black rocks, he gently threw it into the fire from several paces back.
Nothing happened. The fire continued blazing somewhat merrily.
He threw in another—and another—and another—until finally he had thrown all the stones in.
Perplexed, he walked back over to the hearth. He had been sure his idea would work. Maybe the fire needed to be hotter. He picked up the poker and began stirring up the glowing orange coals.
Suddenly, the iron rod flew out of his hand as if someone had jerked it from him. Nels watched it slide right into the bottom of the flames. Then he saw a black hole the size of his head form in the midst of the fire. It began pulling in the burning wood and smoldering coals in one quick motion before the hole closed up leaving a hearth empty of everything—including Mistress Whiten’s andirons, Nels noted ruefully. It looked like it had been swept clean of every single particle of soot that had been in that fireplace for the past fifty years. It looked so new that the stones even seemed to be shining as if polished.
“What have you done?!” Mistress Whiten shrieked as she pushed Nels out of her line of sight. “Wh—oh my, but it does look beautiful. I could never have gotten it this clean myself. How did you—” Her eyes suddenly narrowed as they took in Nels and the empty bucket in his hand.
“I put the stones in the fire.”
“And they cleaned and polished the fireplace? Well, maybe they weren’t so bad after all,” Mistress Whiten said, while running a finger over the shiny gray stones.
Nels frowned at the old lady’s back.
“Wait. Where are my andirons?”
Nels continued up the stairs as quietly as possible.
After somewhat pacifying Mistress Whiten by explaining that he would replace her custom-made andirons as soon as he could, Nels headed out into the street. He had never been completely sure how to make the right impression with potential clients. Certainly, a lot of the planning involved knowing the clients themselves to be able to make the impression they wanted and expected to see, which was, of course, impossible. He wanted to appear professional, mostly because—he had to admit—this was a pretty easy job. He never did any of the hunting himself—he wasn’t there for the experience—and after a sharp glance, his clients learned he didn’t chop wood or cook either. But, it did only seem fair that his clients feel like they were getting something for their coin besides not getting lost. The counter to that was that he didn’t want to overdress and not get paid enough coin for keeping them from getting lost.
So, he emerged onto the cobblestone streets of Parker’s Town in his newest outfit of brown leather pants and matching shirt. The pair of brown boots he was wearing today was only for about-town travels. He wore a scruffier pair in the woods. It was too warm for him to don a fur-skin coat or cap, which he really enjoyed wearing and even toyed with the idea of getting a fur-skin vest for the warmer months. He did have one accoutrement he would not forgo: he always wore a pair of soft brown leather gloves, no matter the season. He felt the leather gloves g
ave him just the right amount of professionalism he was looking for.
Heading towards The Rickety Inn, Nels got the sense of what Mistress Whiten had been describing earlier. For one thing, the town was being decorated for the occasion of tonight’s Illusion show. Black, silver, and red ribbons were being strung on every lamppost. The mermaid fountain in the center square now boasted long black hair complete with a top hat and a black-and-silver tail. Nels could only hope that whoever had painted her knew what he or she was about when it came time to remove the lacquer; he had always been partial to her white-marbled form.
Even the stores were getting into the spirit: Pot’s Bakery featured Illusion pies—it looks like a cherry pie, but tastes like a prune. Evie’s Boutique had numerous dresses on display guaranteed to give all women hourglass shapes, but limited sizes were available. And, Gregor’s Apothecary was selling a special one-time mix of herbs that would be sure to enhance your Illusionary experience. Nels stopped for a moment almost considering that one, but no, he wouldn’t be going anywhere near tonight’s show. Herbs or no herbs, it was sure to disappoint.
But the town certainly was showing its support for the Illusionist, whoever the poor sap was. Nels passed farmer after farmer suddenly sporting black capes over their homespun tunics. The ladies also seemed a little too dressed up for the middle of the day. Mistress Lewyleen came out of the butcher’s shop wearing so many flowers in her hair you couldn’t even see her raven locks. And Mistress Syle had on so much face paint, she had scared old man Syle so bad coming around the corner, he had taken a swing at her with his axe before realizing it was his wife.
Nels stepped gratefully onto the stone porch of The Rickety Inn. Thom had decorated the outside with the same black, silver, and red ribbons that were fluttering about town, but the proprietor was a levelheaded man, never one to give into a town craze. As soon as Nels stepped through the door he was pelted with silver flecks of cloth.
“Welcome to the Inn of Illusion, grand sir!” Velna, the barmaid purred. “Oh, Nels! It’s you! Even better. How do you like my illusionist outfit?”
Nels liked the filmy, gauzy, tightly wrapped dress just fine, but he wasn’t sure where the illusion part fit in. Except maybe in how she was supposed to move around in it.
“Lovelier than ever, Velna.” Nels flashed the girl his most dazzling smile. It always paid to be on good terms with the staff, especially if it was the only common room in town.
“Thom’s behind the bar,” Velna said as she began contorting to pick up the pieces of silver cloth to put back in her basket.
“Eh, poor guy.”
Thom was indeed behind the bar. He would refuse to let his gout get him down or keep him from running a smooth and efficient establishment. His hospitality and the inn’s cleanliness had spread his popularity far and wide. When he was having an attack of the gout he wouldn’t sit in bed and moan; he would have his two favorite chairs brought behind the bar so he could prop his feet up and still keep a sharp eye on his staff—including his wife. He considered the running of his business a work of art, and refused to allow even the smallest detail out his masterful hands.
“Thom! I hate to see you back there, my friend,” Nels called out cheerfully.
“Ah, I hate to see it myself, Nels, especially on a day like today. So much to do—ehhh,” he grumbled, “that missus of mine will never be able to keep all the girls in line. Their good girls, but you’ve got to keep a sharp eye on them, mind, or they’ll be dawdling in the kitchens quick as you please. And now, with that Illusionist Zircano staying upstairs, it’s all I can do to stop them sneaking up to make calf-eyes at him while he sleeps.” Thom shook his head. “Of all the luck to have this danged gout at a time like this. This place is like to be in ruins before the night is through and there’s not a danged thing I can do about it. Well, it’s always something.”
Thom suddenly cocked his head to the side, listening. “Marta!” he bellowed, banging his cane on the floor.
A plump gray-haired woman stuck her head through the kitchen door, wiping dough from her fingers. “Oh. Hi, Nels!” she said, smiling.
“Marta,” Nels acknowledged with a slight wave.
“Marta! You go tell that boy next door that I just heard him throwing his slops over my wall. If I have told him once, I have told him twice, and I won’t be telling him again or I’ll give him a switching myself. And you make him come over and clean it up this time! I won’t be having no slop puddles in my pleasure garden on a night like tonight.”
“Thom Rickets! You heard no such thing! You can’t hear a boy throwing slops through a stone wall!”
“I’m telling you, Marta, I heard him! Now, you go tell him! I won’t be having no slops in my yard! Not tonight! Not ever! And see he cleans it up, mind. Not you! I won’t be having my wife clean up that boy’s slops. His mama can clean it up, if she’s a mind to! I say make him clean it up—coddling that boy…ehhh!”
Marta shook her head at Nels. “I’ll take care of it, Thom. Don’t you worry about it. You’ve got enough things on your mind.”
“You’re danged right I do! There’s always something around this place—”
“Uh, Thom?” Nels interrupted. “I’m supposed to meet a client here today—a Langard Turkand from The King’s City.”
“Oh, aye. He’s at the corner table in the back. Been there since early this morning. Real affable fellow. Knows a good inn when he sees one. Shows his appreciation, too. Yeah, a real good chap. You’ll have a fine time with him. Probably make some good coin, too. Yeah, you two will hit it right off. See if you don’t.”
“Thanks, Thom. I’ll find him,” Nels said as he turned around peering into the quiet gloom.
He saw a figure darker than the rest in the far corner and confidently walked that way. He didn’t buy a mug of ale at the bar, even though he would’ve liked one. He always felt it was the client’s obligation to buy the drinks. As he got closer he realized he had made a mistake—no one was sitting there—it was just a pile of dirty rags. Strange for Thom to let a mess like this go, but he probably was right and the girls were slacking while he was stuck behind the bar, not able to even see over the counter.
“Nels Hunter,” the rags spoke.
“Uh.” Nels looked around.
The pile of rags suddenly seemed to shift, allowing a bearded face to appear. “I’m Langard. We had an appointment today. You are Nels Hunter, aren’t you?” the little bundle of rags said in an imperious voice.
“Uh,” Nels managed, while trying to think of a thousand ways to get out of this.
“Sit down, and stop gawping like a fool. I’m hiring a wood’s guide not some young chit on her wedding night. If her husband’s lucky, that is—or not.” The bearded face burst out into raspy guffaws.
As Nels’ eyes began to adjust to the dim light, he began to realize something. This old man wasn’t wearing rags, but layers and layers of squirrel hides, sewn together with all parts still attached. Even on his hat.
Sickened, he forgot his normally prepared spiel that extolled his virtues and highlighted what wonders clients could expect to see in the Deadwood. “Your from The King’s City?” Nels blurted out.
“Aye. That’s what I said.”
“You got that coat in The King’s City?”
“No. I never said that.”
“Where’d you get that coat?” Nels demanded.
“Can’t see that it’s none of your business, unless your thinking it’s yours, which I don’t think you are. And if you’re wanting to buy one for yourself—well, too bad. I got an original.”
“I don’t want—” Nels spluttered. “I’ve got my own coat, thank you very much. I was asking about your coat because it’s obviously made from squirrels, which live mostly in the woods, which then leads me to wonder why someone that familiar with the woods—to be able to trap, kill, and skin thousands of squirrels—would need to hire a hunter’s guide.” Nels banged his hand on the table. He was going to order his own ale
.
“No need to get bent out of shape, young lad. They told me you were good, and I see they were right. You’ve got a right quick thinking head on those shoulders, you do. And you’re right, too. I don’t need a guide. I want one. And the one I want is you.”
Nels turned around. Where was Velna? He gave the table another hard rap.
“You want me,” Nels said slowly. “Might I ask why?”
Langard Turkand took the largest inhalation of air through his nose that Nels had ever heard or seen. Then he let it all out, blowing hot breath on Nels from all the way across the table. “I want to show you something.”
“You want to show me something. I see. Look, I am a professional Deadwood guide. I don’t have time for games. I know that forest backwards and forwards, Mister Turkand. There is nothing in that forest that you—from The King’s City, so you say—can show me that I haven’t seen before. So, if you’ll excuse me,” Nels stood scraping back his chair. “I feel this is a waste of both of our times and we really should proceed no further. I’ll even have Velna bring you a pitcher of ale on me to show you there’s no hard feelings. Good day.”
Nels turned around to order the squirrely old man a pitcher of ale, when he heard the unmistakable plonk of a bag of coins hitting the table. A rather large bag by the sound of it. Turning back around, he saw a two-fist size brown leather pouch in the middle of the table.
“It’s gold,” Langard said, pulling out a pipe.
“Uh, you say you’ve got something you want to show me, Langard?” Nels asked, sitting back down.
“Aye.”
“Well, what is it?” Nels asked a bit impatiently.
“Can’t tell you. Gotta show you.” Langard lit his pipe and began smoking thousand-year-old horse dung, the best Nels could figure from the smell and putrid brown smoke rings he was blowing.
