by Lee Bezotte
The man rubbed his chin and pushed his whiskery lips to the side. “Hmmm. I’ll have to ask Sevuss if that’s okay. Stay put,” he said. He then disappeared through the door behind him and into the inn.
Moments later, the man returned with an expensively dressed gent with wiry, ginger-and-white hair. His skin looked thin and leathery, and his teeth were tobacco-stained and crooked. Maren didn’t like the look of the man, but she remained polite and composed anyway. “So, you don’t have any money at all?” Sevuss asked with a perturbed expression smeared across his face.
“No,” said the girl. “But I can draw you a picture.”
“Pictures don’t pay for all of this,” the man in charge said as he gestured toward the festivities happening in the square. He then squinted and looked into the distance for a bit. Scratching his cheek, he offered, “I’ll tell you what. Today I’ll let you draw me a picture, but tomorrow you’ll have to bring some money, or something more valuable than a few charcoal scratches on paper.” He then nodded to the gray man behind the table and disappeared back into the inn.
“Yessir,” Maren replied, even though Sevuss was already out of earshot.
“Well then,” the man behind the table said as he handed Maren a few sheets of paper and a pencil. “It’s your lucky day. You can stand at the edge of the table to make your drawings and bring them to me when they’re ready.”
“Okay,” the girl said as she took the paper and found a clear spot to draw on.
She spent several minutes sketching a recreation of the town square with all of its party-goers, musicians, and spectators. It was difficult for her to be patient with the process because she was eager to join in the celebrating. When she was satisfied with the drawing, she walked over and handed it to the man.
“Well, that was quick,” he said, sweeping his long, gray hair out of his eyes. He studied the image, looking up at the subject of the drawing and then back toward the paper. “This is very impressive,” he said with an amused smile.
“I know,” Maren replied. Her mouth was already watering for more blackberry pie.
The man looked over to the edge of the table, then back to the square, then at the drawing again. “You weren’t even lookin’ at the square. How’d ye draw it so well?”
“I remembered,” she answered confidently.
“I’ll say ye did,” he said as he took a final peek at the sketch. He then picked up the blue ribbon he had cut for Maren earlier. “Well, let’s tie this around yer arm. Would you like me to cut off the one from yesterday?”
“No, thank you,” she said, and she held out her wrist, ready for an endless number of sweets and amusements. Once the fabric was secured, she ran off gleefully to take it all in.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Dearer Price
“The road is up ahead,” Dulnear mentioned to Faymia. The elk they had hunted was stretched across a makeshift cart that was tied to both of their horses.
“It’s about time,” his wife responded. “I think we’ll hunt closer to home next time. Dragging this carcass hasn’t been easy.”
The man from the north smiled. He had thoroughly enjoyed every part of their excursion together, even the challenge of hauling the game back home. “It has been wonderful to toil alongside of you, my love.”
Faymia chuckled and her expression lightened. “Then perhaps we can toil a little harder together and finish building our cottage when we get back.”
The large man’s smile turned into a laugh. He had been working on a dwelling for the two of them for quite some time. It sat on the southern edge of Gale Hill Farm with a view of the distant sea on one side and kept Son and Maren’s house within sight on the other. “It will make a fine place to grow old together,” he said.
“Well, let’s make sure we don’t grow old before we can move in,” she joked.
Around midday, the two hunters came upon a small village that was situated on either side of the easterly road. It was unique in that the northern half was partly built into a rocky hill, and the southern half was built on stilts to keep it level with the road. It was unusually quiet for the hour, and the street was littered with discarded papers, eating utensils, and the bones of various fowl.
Dulnear halted their horses and smelled the air as he looked around. The hair on the back of his neck felt like needles of ice. “This is not right,” he said to Faymia in a hushed tone.
“It was a lovely town just a few days ago,” she said.
They rode their horses up to the nearby tavern and tied them to a post. As they stepped inside, the man from the north noticed how few people were there for an afternoon meal. He also observed that those who were there were relatively quiet and bore somber expressions. Continually scanning the room, he approached the old barkeep, who was busy wiping down a clean countertop. “Good afternoon,” he said, announcing his presence.
The barkeep looked up and seemed surprised by the presence of the considerable fur-clad warrior. “Good afternoon,” he swallowed.
“Two mugs of ale, please,” Dulnear ordered as Faymia joined him at the bar.
“Yessir,” the barkeep replied and turned around momentarily to fetch the brew. Setting the full tankards on the counter, the man smiled awkwardly and exclaimed, “It’s nice to get some business from the likes of folks like you today.”
“What do you mean by that?” the man from the north asked.
“Well, I mean that there ain’t hardly been any business since everyone went off,” the old man explained as he toweled out a mug.
Dulnear furrowed his brow and examined the room once again. “Please continue explaining,” he said.
“It’s just that most of the town took off in wagons with a bunch of fancy-dressed gents the other day,” the barkeep said with a tinge of annoyance in his voice.
As the man was describing the exodus of the townspeople, Faymia drew closer to Dulnear and clung tightly to his arm. He looked down at his wife, then back at the old man. “And what of the slovenly appearance of your village?”
“Oh, that would be the celebrations that went on for days before they up and left,” the man said.
Dulnear knew exactly where the barkeep was going with his story, but he pressed anyway. “What kind of celebrations?”
“Grand ones! They started out free, too. Then, every day, they grew more grandiose, and the fancy-dressed fellas charged more and more for them. I don’t know how they did it, but they got the people to keep coming back, and keep paying more and more until—”
“Until they agreed to go as slaves,” the man from the north said, finishing the barkeep’s sentence. He could feel Faymia trembling as she held onto him. Suddenly, his heart beat faster and he asked, “Which way were they headed?”
“East, toward Laor,” the old man answered.
Dulnear could feel his wife’s grip tighten like a vice around his arm and his chest burned. “Where did you say?” he demanded.
“Laor,” the barkeep confirmed.
The burning sensation in the warrior’s chest spread upward to his face in blotches of red and pink. He struggled momentarily to focus his eyes on the man behind the bar. He inhaled deeply through flared nostrils and regained his focus. “Here is payment for the ale,” he said as he dropped a couple of coins on the countertop. “We must be going.”
“All right, Godspeed,” the old man said, scratching the back of his head as he fixed his eyes on the northerner’s troubled grimace.
Dulnear began to turn around with Faymia still holding firm to his arm. He then halted abruptly, remembering something. He glanced back at the barkeep and announced, “Thank you for the information. I will leave a freshly slain elk by your door.”
The man wrinkled his forehead and squinted his eyes. “An elk? I don’t need an elk.”
“It is yours,” the man from the north continued as he walked toward the exit.
“What am I going to do with—”
“Good day.”
As Faymia and Duln
ear rode east toward Laor, ill-tempered skies forced out cold rain, filling the narrow, winding road along the jagged hillside. It was slippery and dangerous but there was no stopping. Faymia’s stomach turned at the idea of slavers in Laor. She herself had fallen into slavery for many years and was fortunate to have had help to get out. Her imagination tormented her with thoughts of Son and Maren falling for the trap that is so skillfully set to ensnare people all over Aun. She drove her horse hard, not wanting to waste a single moment.
“Take it easy,” the man from the north admonished as he struggled to keep up with her. “’Tis best to arrive a day late than not at all.”
“But we may already be too late,” Faymia contended. “Why did we choose to hunt so far away?!”
“Son is a wise lad and a warrior in his own right,” Dulnear argued. “He would not easily fall into a slaver’s snare.”
“Perhaps, but what about Maren? I’m far more concerned about her ability to discern a ruse than I am with Son’s,” the woman explained. As she spoke, she risked a little more speed from Tapp as they passed rock, hill, and evergreen with panicked quickness.
Dulnear conceded, “Yes, she would be particularly susceptible to the slaver’s type of deception. However, let us be careful.”
As if in response to the northerner’s warning, the next curve in the road revealed that the deluge of rain had washed away a large section of their path. Faymia’s horse skidded to a stop at the edge of the temporary river that blocked their way. As she observed the obstacle before her, she clenched her teeth and cursed under her breath. “I can’t believe this is happening!” she grumbled.
The man from the north stopped his horse and dismounted. He walked over to the flowing water and put his hand in. “Perhaps we can walk the horses through it,” he said. He then jogged over to a nearby tree that had long ago died and he broke off a long, narrow branch.
“What are you going to do with that?” the woman asked.
“I need to see how deep it is,” he explained, and he began to insert the branch into the flow.
Just then, the rushing water turned a cloudy brown and it filled with debris. A sound like thunder mixed with falling trees filled the air from above. “Look out!” Faymia cried, backing up her horse frantically.
The temporary river had transformed into a mudslide, bringing rocks and tall trees down like they were pebbles and grass. It was as if the road at that place had simply grown tired of clinging to the mountain and had fallen into the valley. Dulnear ran back in the direction they had come from as fast as he could, barely clearing the rush of destruction. His horse wasn’t as fortunate and was swept away by the torrent. “Mor!!” he shouted as he watched her flail to keep her head above the rapidly descending slide.
Faymia’s heart sank and time seemed to stand still, as it appeared they would not make it back to the farm when she had hoped. If only they would have ridden a little faster. If only it hadn’t been raining so hard. She got down from her horse and joined her husband in the road. Standing in the rain together, she consoled, “I’m sorry about Mor. She was a loyal companion.”
Dulnear closed his eyes in thought for a moment. He then opened them and said, “She will be missed. But we must get to higher ground so we can get around this rubbish and return to the children.”
“How do you propose we do that?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, we will have to leave Tapp here. Carry what you can, and we will climb around.”
The woman loved her horse and hated the idea of leaving him behind. “I can’t just leave him here!” she protested. But she knew in her heart that they would never make it to the other side of the mudslide with the animal.
“He is a bright horse,” Dulnear assured her. “It would be a risk to his safety to make him climb up the hill. He will most likely find a way home on his own.”
Faymia took her bow and a few other items from one of the saddlebags. She then walked around the horse, reached into the other saddlebag, and withdrew an iron object with leather straps attached to it. It resembled a fist and the top part of a man’s forearm. “You may be needing this,” she announced.
“Ah, thank you, my love,” the man from the north said. “I am afraid my knife-hand went down the hillside with Mor.”
“What would you do without me?” the woman teased (though she was quite serious).
“I shudder to think,” he replied.
She then walked around to the front of the horse, gently stroked his head and told him, “Goodbye, my friend. Find your way home and I’ll have a whole basket of apples waiting for you.”
Tapp nodded his head as if he fully understood what she was saying.
Faymia took a deep breath and noticed that the rain had diminished to a sprinkle and the clouds had lightened into a pale gray. Much of the sliding earth and forest had slowed its descent into the valley, but it was still too dangerous to try to cross over. She looked up the damaged slope and declared, “I’m ready. Let’s get to Laor.”
“Okay,” Dulnear answered. “Stay close.”
As Son opened the door to look outside the barn, he could see Maren wrapping up her morning chores. The previous day’s rain caused an abundant crop of weeds to spring up and he had checked on her work several times to make sure she didn’t leave before the job was done.
For the last few days, he had been working hard to create several of his toys and gadgets to sell in Laor. He gathered from bits and pieces of conversation with the young girl that there was some sort of festival there and he reckoned it would be a great opportunity to make some silver.
“I’m done!” she shouted, and tossed a handful of earth and grass onto a pile before making her way to the barn to fetch Earl. She patted his saddlebag gently, grabbed his rope and made her way to the door.
“Okay,” Son said. “But don’t forget to be home before dark.”
“I won’t,” she assured with a touch of annoyance in her voice. As she walked away with her mule, her young guardian noticed something.
“Maren,” he said loudly to get her attention.
“What?” she replied curtly.
Son jogged so he could get in front of her and look at her from another angle. “You look different,” he observed.
Maren’s forehead wrinkled and she pushed her mouth to one side in a curious frown. As she massaged her ear with her free hand, she asked, “How do you mean?”
The boy squinted and cocked his head to the side. “You seem…heavier,” he explained.
“Heavier?”
“Yes. But not taller.”
“My dress is just getting smaller,” she said.
The girl’s assessment of the situation amused Son. He smiled and said, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. You must be eating too much when you’re in the village. Do take care of yourself. Eating too many sweets isn’t good for you.”
Maren stared through the boy blankly as she continued to pull at her ear. Eventually, her eyes focused on his. “Um, okay,” she said. “I’m going to go to Laor now.”
Feeling leery, and not quite ready to see her leave, Son asked, “Will you be seeing your friend Micah?”
Maren’s face became a little brighter and she answered, “Uh huh. He’s there every day.”
Son was happy that Maren had a friend. On many occasions he had invited her to join him when he went to sell his toys. He did so with the hope that she would make friends with other children in town. She mostly said no because she preferred to stay home. The times she did join him, she kept to herself or failed to find interest in what the other children were doing.
There was something nagging him about the boy Micah though. He tried to dismiss it as worry because he didn’t know the name, but it kept coming back. “What does he look like?” he asked.
“He has nice clothes,” she answered as she started to take the smallest of steps toward the road.
Son noticed her growing impatience and stepped to the side. Trying to catch her eyes, he
said, “Well, please be careful. I haven’t met the lad yet and I wouldn’t want you to fall into bad company.”
“I will,” she assured with her eyes fixed on the road.
As Son watched her walk off, he felt a saddening sense of separation between himself and his young ward. He cared for her deeply, and would risk his life to protect her, but she seemed to be no more attached to him than she would be with a stranger. He wondered what their lives would become in the future, and carried his sadness with him for the rest of the day.
As Maren rode Earl into Laor, she noticed straightaway that there was a large tent erected in the town square. She could hear music and laughter and saw people coming and going with drinks and plates of food. She hopped off of Earl, quickly tied him to a post, grabbed the contents of his saddlebag, and ran over to the table situated in front of the inn.
“Well hello, Maren,” the man with long, gray hair greeted her.
“Hello,” Maren returned as she held out her arm so the man could cut yesterday’s ribbon off. “Why is there a tent?” she asked.
“Well, today we have a special show,” he answered. “We have a magician performing incredible feats. It’s a marvel!”
“It’s a marvel!” the girl repeated quietly as laughter hid just beneath her words.
“What do you have for me today?” the man asked as he grabbed a pair of scissors and a roll of green ribbon.
“This,” she said as she set one of Son’s contraptions on the table.
The worn-looking man frowned. “Now, Maren, you’ve already brought enough of those toys. I told you that yesterday.”
“But I’ve already given up all my coins, my other dress, and my hairbrush,” she protested.
The man folded his arms and rubbed his whiskery chin. Squinting, he asked, “How about that mule over there? He should do fine as payment.”
The enthusiasm drained from Maren’s shoulders and a thick heaviness overtook her ability to move. She swallowed, and the man standing behind the table looked to be growing larger and smaller at the same time. Her thoughts, however, blazed through her mind like a raging whirlwind of pros, cons, debate, and rationalization.
