Gariff blinked.
I waited.
Kabor shrugged, eyes wide. By wide, I mean more than three times magnified when you include his specs. “This really is the Flipside,” he added with a smirk.
I groaned. “That sounds like something Bobbin would say.”
“Must be something in the air around here,” said Kabor. He put away his specs.
The three of us impaled ourselves on all the smoke, music and chatter of an energetic night on the town. Pale yellow lanterns cast a dim glow in the room. Many eyes fell upon us on entry – Pips, Stouts, Outlanders, and Men alike. One giant of a man with a long, drooping face took an especially long look. He was the only one in the room that sat alone. I nodded a “hello” to him and he returned the courtesy with a half-smile before sinking his eyes back into his giant-sized tankard.
I could barely hear Gariff’s relentless pessimism over the blaring music. “See. No tables anywhere,” he said. “Let’s go out back. The – … anyway.”
“Hold on,” I told him. “Just give it a chance. People come and go all the time.”
As we waited and watched, acrobats bounded into the great room from the back entranceway. All heads turned to watch their antics. Checkered black and white from head to toe and wearing the sort of floppy-horned hoods a jester might cherish, they began to tumble. Some cartwheeled, some flipped and others simply bounced their way to the stage, and then bounded from one musician to the next when they got there. The band played on. The acrobats, unsatisfied that they were not able to disrupt the band, set their sights on the crowd. They flipped onto tables and cartwheeled through the startled onlookers. After a minute or so of spilling beer and knocking around plates as they bounded, a great clang arose out from the stage and the music halted. The acrobats – exclusively Pips – all stopped at once and stared at one another. They nodded their heads and smiled as the crowd clapped and cheered them on. “More!” some shouted, “Show us more!” After a long pause, the musicians started up again, but this time the band instruments rang with dissonance and the words they sang made no sense at all.
The checkered troupe gathered at centre stage to form a pyramid, one on top of the other. Stacked as they were, the acrobats wobbled as the crowd “whoa’d!” and the fiddles screeched, all the while feigning to topple at any moment. At one point, their sideways lean was so steep it seemed they would crush the percussionist. But they whipped back, vibrating into place like a lively spring. As soon as one of the onlookers in the crowd stood up to get a better view, everyone did. All eyes fell upon the tumbling Pips… all eyes save two that could barely see anything at all.
A gut feeling had me wondering what Kabor was up to. Sure enough, by the glint in his eyes I could tell he was scheming. Gariff’s cousin had spied a vulnerable long table. With the former occupants standing forward of it to get a better view of the action, their backs were to us. Kabor snatched my arm and Gariff’s. He dragged us to the table, and with a nod and a look, he coaxed his reluctant cousin to grab an end while he grabbed the other. My role was to move the chairs, despite a feeble protest on my part not to be involved.
You see, the clever Stout had also found an open space created by a large group having put two tables together. To complete the devious and covert operation, Kabor pilfered us each a near-empy tankard (for show, not for drinking from) and some near empty plates, replacing those he took with items from our table. If anyone noticed, they didn’t seem to care.
Kabor, now settled and in his glory, stood on his chair like so many others and cheered with the crowd. He hollered at a particularly daring acrobat, who began head spinning at the top of the Pip pyramid, all to the tune of Mighty Maelstrom played at a progressively fast tempo.
“Don’t look now,” Gariff whispered to me. He and I were both sitting and gripping our stolen tankards.
And there they were, the rightful owners of the table, shrugging their shoulders and exchanging annoyed glances. One looked our way and met my gaze. I couldn’t hide my guilt. I looked away, but it was too late. He knew, instantly.
“I think we’ve been spotted,” I said to Gariff.
Sure enough, the four Men made their way over. Two were stocky, with soiled clothes and rough looks, probably construction workers in from Abandon Bay. Another was thin as a rake, wiry, and well tanned for the season, with a black cap over long straight hair. He could’ve been part Scarsander or from the Jakka. The first to speak was the rounder of them, with a fat face and sweaty hair that stuck to his head in tight curls. His voice was loud and full of spit, his breath as sour as the house garlic sauce.
“Get lost, Frog-face,” he said directly to me, clearly irritated.
Kabor looked back over his shoulder and drew his attention. “What?” he asked.
“You heard me. You stole our table, now get lost before I put you on the menu,” he said.
“Menu? No thanks. I’ll have another barkwood though,” said Kabor, “and bring some frog legs too.” Kabor turned his attention back to the show.
The man, who looked to be middle-aged, picked Kabor up off his chair by the shoulders. One of the stocky brutes grabbed Gariff the same way, but couldn’t manage to lift him.
That was when the giant stepped in, having totally misinterpreted the situation in our favor.
“No hurting littler Pipses, little Mens,” he boomed, stumbling and waving his tankard at them.
I dove under the table before anyone could get a hand on me and rolled to the far side. And as I rolled, so did something else. My ears honed in on the sound – the unnerving clatter of some small object skipping along with me. Shuffling feet sent it skidding off in another direction.
Yes, it was the bog stone, sparking wildly as it zigzagged along the floor, lit up like some kind of half-crazed glow bug. I scrambled between the legs of onlookers to retrieve it. The floor was sloppy, full of grunge, and sticky in places. Heads turned, I was stepped on, and one curious person made a grab for my stone when it flashed. Every time I got near to it, someone kicked it away. Finally, a ricochet sent it spinning against a wall. Just as I closed in, one of the stocky men we had stolen the table from grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me up. The bog stone flashed and was kicked away again.
This time I didn’t hear the giant’s voice, but I did notice a giant tankard strike my captor over the head. Ale sprayed everywhere. His grip let loose. Scrambling again, I searched for the light of the stone. It was gone.
I scanned the crowd frantically. The room was in chaos. The confrontation over our table had erupted into an all out brawl. The giant shouted as he spun in circles with some brute and the skinny man clinging to his back. The trio knocked over patrons, dishes, cups, and chairs. Gariff got free when someone broke a clay flagon over his captor’s head. The Stout then swung a chair at the round man with curly hair holding his cousin. He clipped him squarely in the knee. The curly man fell back onto a chair, which collapsed under his heavy weight. Kabor squirmed free and bolted.
Fueling the fray, Pip band members switched to pipes and played a spirited tune. That much was comical. They must have conspired with the acrobats, who took the opportunity to add to the mayhem by bounding on and off furniture and brawlers alike, teasing patrons with pokes, pulled hair, covered eyes, slaps in the face, stolen food and pinches before leaping away. One acrobat received a square punch to the nose for his antics. He responded by pulling the offender’s pants down and kicking him in the rear. The man stumbled onto the lap of a well-rounded Stout woman gnawing on a chicken leg, her wispy scruff soused in grease.
Then I spied my hard-earned prize. Of all the luck. That blasted Outlander with the thin beard had my stone. He stared at it in a pondering way as the light flickered in his hand, painting his face in its pulsing red glow. He looked the part of a slick devil.
“That’s my stone!” I cried. Heart pumping, I charged through the crowd at him. He was about to slip it into his vest pocket.
I slapped at his hand and the
stone went flying. Flying and sparking in a high arc. I ran and dove and caught my prize before it smashed to the ground. Stone in hand, I scuttled along the floor and underneath the ruckus, making my way to the nearest exit. I slipped out of the room and backed up against the foyer wall, hidden from sight. Gariff and Kabor met me there in short order. The bar fight raged on without us.
“That was close,” I said, wiping the sweat from my forehead. The Stouts agreed. Out we snuck.
Kabor was the first to start chuckling. A second later, we were all laughing our way onto the veranda. Behind us, the fight continued to build. Outside, patrons viewed the skirmish, some with amusement, others with disapproving looks on their faces. One woman commented “What a bunch of idiots” and shook her head. A grizzled-looking Pip with unusually large forearms said, “I’m getting a piece of this!” and hobbled off towards the door. Others spoke with hushed voices.
“Can we go around back now?” said Gariff, “before we get into real trouble?”
“I think we’re done here,” I said.
Kabor, holding his chest to catch his breath, nodded in agreement. At last, we stole around back as originally suggested. The path was cobbled and unlit, lined with tall pines that blocked out any and all light. The fresh scent of resin spiced the air, and fallen needles softened our steps underfoot. Gariff and I stumbled along, while Kabor passed like a ghost from one end to the other, unseen and unheard.
“Looks like we have the place to ourselves,” said Kabor when we caught up to him. It was open and airy out back, spilling with ambient light from a covered passage that connected the inn proper with the kitchen house. A dozen empty tables occupied the cobblestone patio. Gariff strode over to one, let his pack slide off one shoulder, then the other, and thudded down on the bench.
“Kabor, light us a lantern,” Gariff commanded. “Nud, you get moving and find Bobbin, and make it snappy – get back here with some food before I eat my hat! I’ll hold the table.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Nevermind that. It was yer blinking rock that got us here this late in the first place,” he stated bluntly, carelessly, “a little flash here, a flicker there, next thing I know yer mystified.” Gariff wiggled his fingers at me in true magician form. “So the least you can do is put a rush order on our grub, thank-you-very-much!”
“What do you mean by blinking? Mine doesn’t blink,” Kabor jutted in. He turned to look at me as he reached for the lantern. “What’s this about blinking?”
“It just sparks easy,” I replied. “And he meant ‘blinking’ like ‘Where’s my blinking hat?’” So much for secrets.
“Flint?” said Kabor. “Quartz?”
I said nothing, contemplating how I might answer. A liar knows a lie when he hears it. Gariff’s blank look did nothing to help my cause.
An unexpected voice cut through the awkward silence. The voice – a rough, older voice and distinctly country – called out from the shadows. “Blinking rock aye? Now that’s something I’d sure like to see. How ‘bout we have a looksie?”
CHAPTER VIII
Deepwood arrows
The arrows Paplov made were deadly accurate. Proper grain and weight of wood made them fly true, even when fowl hunting in dense bush. But there is more to the craft than that. The arrow and the bow have to complement one another.
Paplov kept an exact duplicate of Fyorn’s bow in his workshop. It was the original model, bought at an estate sale in Proudfoot. Precisely how the old farmer had come across such a fine piece of equipment in the first place is still a mystery.
After a trip to Fyorn’s cabin, Paplov would set aside the best pieces of collected wood for the footed shafts. Each arrow was carefully constructed by blending a softwood shaft with a heavier deepwood footing to create a perfect balance between strength of impact, weight and flexibility. Paplov worked the wood until every shaft was flawless before attaching the pointed heads and fletching to complete the arrows. He made scores of them for each trip to Deepweald. My uncle spent many arrows and fashioned his fair share as well; Paplov’s were just to supplement his own stocks. Once he even admitted preferring Paplov’s to his own. It might have been the wine talking though.
It was mid-morning when I finally crawled out of bed, still wearing the previous day’s clothes. My head ached. Paplov was out fletching in his workshop again, as he had been on and off over the last several days. I had arrived home in the early hours of the morning and had stumbled into bed, tired and sore and in need of a visit to the bathhouse. I felt my pockets right away. The stone was still there. I pulled it out to verify. After one streak of quick flashes, I put it back.
I made my way to the study and sat in Paplov’s favorite chair. I spotted my grandfather working behind the open shutters of the workshop. I watched as he notched a new arrow and tested the draw. He picked up another one and eyed the two closely, peering down the shafts and examining the ends with a magnifying lens. He balanced them on a scale – dead even, I suspect.
Consistency is important.
An arrow flies in an arc, not a straight line, and if one arrow is a different weight and length from the next, the shooter will have to adjust the vertical cant of the bow in order to compensate for the arrow’s drop as gravity draws it downward and air resistance slows its flight. Arrows have different designs as well, especially if they are made by different fletchers or for targeting different sizes of game. Arrows meant for a specific purpose need to be of consistent quality. Paplov fashioned a single kind of arrow for Uncle Fyorn, the kind that will take down a deer at one hundred feet. The woodsman had used the same kind in the Outlands, back in the day.
I tried to remember all that had happened the previous night, but it was all a blur. For the first time, my memory failed me. I remembered meeting one Mer Andulus, a grizzled old prospector in search of the “mother load,” and I remembered how Bobbin waddled onto the back patio of the Flipside like a contented duck, wearing a fancy, white doublet with frills and loose trousers under a food-stained apron. He saw me right away, and flashed me his “what a pleasant surprise” smile. He wasn’t alone. The portly Pip, and innkeeper’s only son, was escorting a striking young serving girl, the very girl we had been ogling from the veranda. She had beautiful eyes, an inviting smile, and a carefree laugh. She wore a necklace that reminded me of one my mother used to wear. Had I not been caught eyeing her earlier, maybe our greeting would have been less awkward. Bobbin helped break the ice for me. “Holly Hopkins, from Proudfoot,” he had said. Later came great food and fantastic barkwood ale. I don’t remember a lot else after that – as non-Pippish as that might seem. Even Pip memory has its limitations, and alcohol is one of them.
Paplov spied me watching him. “It’s almost noon,” he said, with more than a hint of sharpness in his voice. “I could use a hand out here.”
I sat up too fast and the sudden motion made my head hurt. I waited out the vertigo, then hurried as best I could out back, groggy and without breakfast. Not having any breakfast wasn’t a big deal – my stomach was still unpleasantly full and queasy from the night’s feasting.
As keen as I normally was to help Paplov with fletching, on that day I simply couldn’t focus. I felt light headed all the while Paplov explained what needed to be done. All I could think about was the stone.
Once alone in the workshop, I sat down on the most uncomfortable wooden chair ever made, and nearly dozed off. I let the silence of the day soak in, with gentle interruptions from the twitter of birdsong, the gentle drone of buzzing insects in the garden, and the twang and thump of target practice from the range out back. It smelled like sawdust.
Slowly, images from the night before began to form in my mind. Mer – the old prospector who overheard us talking about the ‘blinking rock’ – spoke with a bone pipe clenched in his teeth, smoke pulsing out of his nose and mouth. The pipe was shaped like a whale. Rocks of various sorts from his pack had been strewn about his table the moment we showed interest in them, and he gave us a
spiel about each unique piece. Then he pointed to where they had come from on the many maps also laying about, describing the intricacies of the local geology as he did so. He kept saying something about the “mother load.” I got the feeling he could talk for hours about his precious rocks, maps and the weird combination of witchcraft and geology that he preached. Maybe he did. One thing I remember distinctly is what Mer Andulus had said about my stone. He said it was not a proper stone at all. The closest he could come up with was some kind of amber – prehistoric tree gum. But it definitely was not amber.
I got up off my chair, closed the workshop shutters and unveiled my precious find once again. I raised it high above my head in the darkness. The spark ignited instantly. It was bright, strong and burning red – a rising sun in my outstretched hand, shining of its own eternal radiance. What have I found? Should I ask Paplov? – No, he might think it’s dangerous and take it away…
Paplov called from outside, snapping me out of my trance. “Quite the batch this round,” he said, admiring his own handiwork. He was on his way over.
My heart raced. I can’t let him see it, not yet. Hurriedly, I went to put the stone away, but fumbled it in my hands. I felt a blood rush, dizzying, my head suddenly spinning in a frenzy. Paplov shouldered the door to the workshop and it creaked open.
“Good grain,” he said, unsuspecting.
As sudden as it came on, the sensation collapsed. I felt a rush of air out of the room. It sucked the breath right out of me. The door slammed shut, nearly knocking Paplov over.
“Wha?” said Paplov.
The feeling passed quickly and I squirreled the stone away.
Paplov tried the door again, and this time stepped in slow and steady, peeking in as he did so.
“Why did you do that?” he said, a little ticked.
“I didn—” he interrupted.
“It’s not funny. You could have seriously hurt me. I was holding one of the new arrows at about eye level.” He demonstrated, squinting as he looked down the shaft.
SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1) Page 5
