by Robert York
Chapter 20
Ididn’t know how long I’d slept this time, the only thing I knew for certain was that I hadn’t dreamt at all. Merlin hadn’t visited me either. I half expected him to dispense more of his Yoda-like Wizard advice. Maybe he was resting as well. Perhaps the stew put him into a long overdue food coma. Did Merlin even need to sleep? He was a spirit after all; did spirits have earthly needs like sleep? That was definitely a question for another time; right at that moment I didn’t want to think about anything thought provoking. My head was pain free, I felt tempting fate was a horrible idea. My eyes lazily scanned the room.
I was still in bed though, today - whatever day it happened to be - the cabin seemed quite and lonely. I heard none of the sounds from the previous night. No crackling fire. No wind buffeting the exterior of the cabin. No simmering pot of stew. My things were gone from the table. I spied my backpack neatly packed waiting near the front door, my chainmail draped over it. Light spilled in from tiny windows on three sides of the cabin, which looked somehow smaller in the daylight. The cabin however didn’t lose any of its homey feel. The fire in the hearth had burned down to smoldering red embers. The temperature had plummeted considerably within the cabin, judging by the chill I felt pressing against my exposed neck and cheeks; it had to be around fifty degrees. I didn’t see Wilmar anywhere. The place was far too small to have a place to hide. It was just a box with no closets or other doors to speak of. I assumed he’d be reading something on the iPod or rereading one of the three books I had with me. He however was nowhere to be seen and I noticed the furs were gone.
I sat up, - tried to at any rate - my body wasting no time in reminding me that I got my ass kicked by a bunch of Yeti’s. Pain moved through me like a jolt of electricity, but the pain itself was far less sharp, almost like I had been resting a few weeks instead of a few days. At least I thought I’d been here only a few days, I wasn’t sure. I may have been here a month for all I knew. I would have to ask Wilmar when he appeared again. A feeling of unease settled upon me realizing my host was absent. My mind began thinking of irrational unpleasant possibilities. For instance, Wilmar outside this very minute digging a shallow grave in the frozen earth for one maimed Wizard. Then again there’s the possibility that there’s a shed near the cabin where my host was in the process of selecting a suitable gardening implement in which to kill me, I’ve always had a vivid imagination. On more than one occasion I’ve let my imagined terrors get the best of me, scaring the living crap out of me.
Just then, right in the midst of my silly musings almost as if he’d heard my thoughts, the cabin door opened and in walked Wilmar. Dressed in his furs, lugging an armful of freshly split wood for the fire. He glanced in my direction giving me a stone-faced smile.
“You’re awake I see,” he said mechanically. “Good, you will be able to make an early start for your friends encampment.”
He moved to the fireplace, opening a worn wooden box with squeaky hinges to the right of the hearth. He dropped the armload of wood into the box with an echoing thud. He fed the fire a few logs before dropping the lid back down removing his coat. I got the distinct feeling all was not well today,
“Is there something wrong Wilmar,” I asked cautiously. “Is there anything that I can do?”
“Yes, you could leave,” he said curtly hanging up his furs.
That was fairly direct and to the point. Given the fact he could probably crush me like an empty beer can, this was a great opportunity for me to make myself ready and get out of his hair.
“OK,” I said, pulling the covers off me.
I can’t convey to you the intense unpleasant sensation that met my exposed skin, but it was flipping cold in that cabin. Goose flesh erupted on my skin and my teeth began chattering almost immediately. As I wrapped my arms about me in a vain attempt to coax heat into my body I noticed that my bandaged arm was no longer bandaged. I moved it around testing the tenderness of it. My arm may not have been broken any longer, but it felt like I’d been through a rigorous game of punch buggy at the Volkswagen assembly plant.
“I do not wish to be unfriendly toward you young man but this is how it must be,” he continued. “Our talk last night awakened desires in me I have not experienced in ages and should I return to the world of man, I have no doubt that what has already happened to me will happen again. The world will never accept a monster despite your assurances.”
I nodded not sure exactly what to say, then looking in his direction I simply said.
“I understand.”
I turned my attention to my clothes, which were cleaned as well as neatly folded on the seat of a wooden chair Wilmar had pulled up beside me while I was sleeping. I kicked my legs off the side of the high bed dangling them over the edge. My feet weren’t able to touch the floor. Resolved in my desire to get the day started I slid off the bed, my rear facing outward. I was surprised when my feet hit the floor; the bed rose to my waist. I actually smiled. I felt like a child getting out of the orphanage bed I slept in for many years. The beds in the orphanage were made for adults; there was no such thing as kid sized beds for the poor when I was growing up. Sister Mari took what she received in donations as well as cast off items people would give to her making good use of whatever it was. I credit my agility to that orphanage bed. In order to get into it, I’d have to make a running start then vault like a gymnast. That way was much easier and a hell of a lot more fun.
Oh, did I mention that the wood floor felt like a sheet of frozen lake ice under my bare feet? I reached for my clothes stiffly pulling them on, my body shivering uncontrollably. I watched Wilmar take up a metal poker coaxing the fire back to life. I glanced over to the pot bellied stove relieved to see that the metal still glowed a faint orange. I grabbed my things moving over to that oasis of heat in order to put on my remaining clothes. I became acutely aware of my aches and pains as I went through the simple motions of getting dressed. The beginning twinges of a headache I’d hoped to avoid pulsed faintly at my temples. My exertions coupled with my shivering weren’t helping matters either.
I pulled on my heavy sweater, after a few moments began to feel the shivering subside. Wilmar watched me obliquely as I looked searchingly around the cabin, my heart sunk as I realized there wasn’t one.
“I have to go outside don’t I,” I asked in a deflated tone.
The faintest of smiles played on his face as he gave a curt nod.
“You may use the chamber pot under the bed,” he said gesturing to my aforementioned resting place. “You are not accustomed to this rustic life are you?” He added.
That idea didn’t appeal to me either. I didn’t want him watching as I did my business. I think my expression spoke volumes because Wilmar chuckled as he stood placing the poker back in its holder. If I had to go only number one it wouldn’t have been an issue. Sighing, I resigned myself to what I had to do. I moved over snatching my coat off the peg, shrugging into it. I turned back to Wilmar.
“How far from the cabin is the out house,” I asked.
“About twenty five yards around back,” He replied, then added. “There is a path freshly cleared this morning that will lead you right to it.”
I nodded squatting next to my pack. I brushed the chainmail to one side; it made a slithering metallic sound as it hit the wood floor. Opening my pack I picked up my protective shirt thrusting it into the bag. I searched for the item I would desperately need for what I needed to do, a roll of two-ply toilet paper. I stood feeling a tad dizzy, too much blood rushing to my head. I needed to eat something. I turned thrusting open the door, cold air hit me like a two by four to the bridge of the nose. I inhaled a deep frigid steadying breath, hoping to God that my privates survived the experience. Pulling the hood up over my head I set out to do my business.
I don’t think many people realize what an awful experience it is going to the bathroom out in nature, far away from the comforts of our modern society. My idea of camping or roughing it is a lodge with electricity
, an almost endless supply of hot running water and of course room service. There are some who’d argue what I described wasn’t camping at all, which I would have to staunchly disagree with. The lodge would be out in a forest, which is the main ingredient in camping. What’s wrong with having the comforts of home when you’re roughing it? Birds have their nests, bears have their dens and beavers have their dams. Why can’t I have my eggs, bacon and hash browns served in a climate controlled hotel room? Am I spoiled to the modern way of life? Hell yes and proud of it too!
I returned to the cabin finding Wilmar seated at the table eating something from a bowl with a spoon. My teeth chattered so rapidly they sounded like someone feverishly pecking away at an old electric Smith Corona Typewriter. I tossed the roll of toilet paper onto my pack, stiffly shuffling over to stand in front of the fireplace. I thought to myself, a nice shot of bourbon or whiskey would’ve helped my situation. Unfortunately, I didn’t have either in my pack. I was also fairly certain Wilmar wasn’t a drinking man, so there wouldn’t be any spirits in the cabin.
“There is porridge on the stove if you are hungry,” I heard Wilmar say behind me.
I turned obliquely in his direction giving a stiff nod. I didn’t dare open my mouth for fear my chattering teeth would shear off the tip of my tongue. I contemplated my situation as my body shook off the chill. I’d eventually have to brave the cold once again. Not a thought I was happy thinking, then another thought occurred to me as thoughts often do when I tried to avoid unpleasant situations or tasks. Why did I have to go to them? Why couldn’t they make the trip to me? It was a good idea that’d buy me a few hours of warmth at least. I knew Wilmar didn’t like visitors, going to great lengths to preserve his privacy. In this instance however I felt there was an outside chance that he might go for the idea if I pose it correctly.
“Barnabas should’ve figured out where I was with a spell by now,” I said to no one in particular through chattering teeth, hoping Wilmar was listening, which I was certain he was.
“I’m surprised he hasn’t come to find me yet.”
“He cannot locate you with magical or mortal means, not here at any rate,” Wilmar answered confidently.
My body warmed sufficiently enough the chattering of my teeth had subsided for me to speak more clearly without fear of amputation. I turned facing Wilmar, not really to answer him, but more importantly to warm my backside. It’d taken the brunt of the cold weather while doing my duty - no pun intended -
“What do you mean,” I asked.
“There are stone pillars that resemble trees encircling this place. They create a shield and masking barrier that prevents anyone or anything from venturing too close. If anyone does find their way through the barrier, the magic spells gently compel them to move on never knowing this place was even here.” He said, raising his left arm.
The bracelet was a simple flat braided ring of gold that fit snugly around Wilmar’s wrist.
“This bracelet allows me to pass through the barrier at will and anything that is with me is protected,” he continued lowering his arm and then went back to eating his porridge.
That sounded like some strong magic he had working here. He wasn’t a Wizard, I was sure of that, so that could mean only one of two things. First that this barrier was here when he came to this place long ago, which I admit could’ve been possible. Unusual things get found all the time, but in this case however that scenario was highly unlikely. Wilmar needed a bracelet in order to use the barrier field thingy. He may have found the barrier, but finding the bracelet and knowing how to employ it was a long shot at best. What I felt was more plausible, was that someone helped him create it. The only burning question was who? I knew that Bialek was in the area; he was possibly the Wizard who created it. Bialek was after all just as powerful as Barnabas, this barrier sounded like something he would’ve been able to accomplish. Defensive magic was Bialek’s specialty. Bialek helped Barnabas with complex defensive spells on a regular basis. I was fairly certain that everyone in the Wizarding Community of consequence knew of Bialek’s talents and that he was a recluse that liked privacy. If it wasn’t Bialek that made it, then who?
“That sounds like a pretty useful thing,” I said impressed.
“Who helped you make it,” I asked uneasily.
Wilmar straightened in his chair puffing out his chest, in a proud unwavering tone he answered.
“My Wizard friend that lives just over the ridge a few miles from here, he created it. I helped put the pillars in place.”
A deep spine-freezing chill ran through me despite the heat from the fire warming my behind. Wilmar didn’t know. He didn’t know that Bialek, his good wizard friend was dead. Christ, this was one of those key moments that had to be handled delicately. I’ve never been any good at dealing with emotional moments, deaths, births, infidelity, bad news about a medical diagnosis, sick or dead pets. I never learned or never wanted to learn how to tell people unpleasant things. I grew up orphaned. I never knew my parents, nor have I ever mourned for the death of my mother or dwelt on the fact that my father left her when she was pregnant with me. I’m great at burying my feelings deep down inside myself. I suppose you could make the argument that I am emotionally stunted, but I bet there isn’t any one reading this that wouldn’t rather take a pointy stick to the eye than tell someone that his or her good friend has just died. My body tensed before I spoke. It’s always best to beat a hasty retreat instead of being pounded into a red mushy stain on the hardwood floor.
“Would your friend happen to be named Hans Bialek?”
Wilmar smiled broadly.
“Yes,” he said. “That is his name.”
He dug into his porridge once more, lowering his head to take the mouthful, then paused. He raised his head, his eyes meeting mine. I watched as the smile faded.
“How do you know his name?” He asked as I watched a bit of porridge drip from the spoon back into the bowl.
“He is why my friends and I are here in this forest. I hate to have to tell you this, but your friend Hans Bialek is dead… He was murdered.” I answered uneasily ready to bolt from the cabin through one of the walls.
I couldn’t read any emotion in him; he just sat unmoving, not doing anything except breathing. After what seemed like an eternity, tears welled up in his dark brown eyes. He sobbed only once. Wilmar place the spoon into the bowl then pulled a red handkerchief from his pants pocket. He dabbed tears from his eyes, honking his nose into it before returning it to his pocket. Without warning he raised his hand clenching it into a fist bringing it down violently onto the surface of the table. The force of the blow was so great that the table split in the center about an inch or two wide. His bowl of porridge rose above the table five to six inches into the air before clattering back down into an overturned mess. It may have been my imagination, but I kid you not I felt the force of the blow travel through the hardwood floor under my feet.
Wilmar pushed back his chair noisily on the wood floor standing. His eyes met mine with something resembling absolute resolve in them. Then asked.
“Do you know who is responsible for this?”
“Not yet,” I replied. “That’s why all of us have come here to determined how and why it happened.”
He gave a nod.
“His apprentice the young girl, Olivia… Is she safe?” He asked earnestly. If I didn’t know any better I’d swear that he had feelings for her.
“We don’t know if she is alive or dead,”
He pressed his lips into a thin line. His brows knitting deep furrows into his forehead, then the expression was gone.
“And what of the little Elf servant, Tillander?” He asked concerned.
“He’s alright, a little beat up but alright.” I said and then added. “He is safe and with us.”
“Thank The Lord,” he replied.
His hand moved to his chest clutching something under his shirt. A crucifix was my first thought. His eyes closed as his lips moved in a silent pray
er. After a few seconds Wilmar moved over to the dresser removing the pitcher filled with water from the basin. He stalked over to the fireplace kneeling. Wilmar emptied the entire pitcher onto the fire drowning the flames. Billows of gray smoke issued from the popping logs as the fire snuffed reluctantly out. Wilmar stood placing the pitcher on the mantle facing me.
“I will be coming with you. Get your things,” he said in a curt tone.
I didn’t have to be told twice, I did as he said and did it quickly.
Chapter 21
Wilmar and I trekked for nearly an hour and a half heading toward the spot where the others were encamped. That included the time it took to get our things together before we left his cabin. The route we were taking was far from direct, which sort of sucked, but it had the virtue of presenting me with a great view of some of the most beautiful scenery that I ever saw. The sun shone through a wide column of patchwork clouds moving lazily to the east. The sky was a brilliant topaz blue; it had the appearance of a calm sea inviting a person to dive in for a swim. I think the snow however was probably the most beautiful thing I had experienced so far that morning. I know I’ve said on multiple occasions how I hate snow with a passion, but even the most hating heart would’ve stopped for this breathtaking site. Snow covered the ground in uneven drifts; tree branches strained under the weight of a heavy mantling yet everything glittered like a king’s ransom of diamonds. Wherever I looked it was as though mirages resembling piles of those precious stones were conjured by some mischievous winter sprite to fool me into filling my empty pockets. I was glad however that I had my ski goggles down over my eyes; otherwise I believe the continued exposure to such a sight would’ve caused me to go blind.
Wilmar led the way cutting a path through the deep snow. Drifts of the fine powder rose to thigh height on him, for me however they were nearly waist high. His long pondering strides bulldozed through the snow making it far easier to follow in his wake without snowshoes. Mine had succumbed to an untimely end a day or so ago as I may have already said, so I appreciated his efforts immensely. Wilmar, dressed in his dark furs with his own pair of antique ski goggles riding on his forehead seemed to not be affected by nature’s glaring wonder. He’d lived up here for so many years that I assumed his eyes had become acclimated to the blinding brilliance of the snow. The goggles may have been for show or some misunderstood Steam Punk fashion statement. He had the appearance of a great grizzly bear trudging through the snow on two legs. I wondered how many hunters had taken pot shots at him over the years mistaking him for that formidable predator. Then again, anyone who coveted his or her privacy as much as Wilmar knew how to stay out of sight. We traveled roughly two miles or maybe a little more, the walk however didn’t tire me in the least, it just made me bored. For me, being bored ultimately leads to the smart assed side of my personality becoming more prominent than it normally would. All the mental guards residing in my head take a nap or something leaving smartass guy free to roam making life more interesting.
