The Silver Claw

by Erik Williamson

  Dreggar wouldn’t touch the charity comment; a man like Ben had earned the right to receive some charity.

  “I need to call on these southern towns. If it weren’t my first time on the route, I’d simply cancel. But if I go fast, I can be back in three months.”

  “Don’t risk your job, Dreg. I’d hate for you to do that.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can sell in my sleep. I am getting you out of here.”

  Dreggar rose before the sun, bag packed and ready for the road. If he was to introduce himself to all his new clients, and be back in under three months, he would have to push hard. It was an impossible goal, but seeing the shape Ben was in, he didn’t dare take longer. He’d said his goodbyes the night before, knowing Ben needed rest and that Emmie would already be out picking up the day’s catch to clean and sell.

  Their wobbly table was arranged such that he couldn’t miss it: two still-warm little loaves of bread and three dried fish fillets sat in an old brown sack. Next to it lay the empty candy bag he’d given Emmie the night before. Only eight candies remained—the raspberry ones she detested—arranged in a little smile to greet him before he left. Dreggar stared at the smiling candies. Three gurgling chest-deep hacks echoed from the back room. Dreggar lingered for a moment of indecision. Then he grasped the bag of food, poured the candies into the cloak pocket next to his heart, and marched out the door.

  The new southern route circuit-salesman signed out at the city gate in the dark. But not at the south gate. Dreggar was going home. He strode swiftly and purposely, forcing himself to set aside the possible repercussions of skipping out on his job. He didn’t even have a plan. What do you do with a washed-out fisherman? His jaw worked hard, his eyes squinting with distaste. Not because of his job or lack of plan. What he was thinking was that these raspberry candies were nasty. How could he offer them to his clients? He spat them in the woods, and with a grin vowed he’d have a whole bowl of them waiting for Emmie if—no, when; absolutely when—he could somehow manage to find her a new home in Drennich.

  XII - Drennich

  In the Vale, simply maintaining the status quo was a commendable feat. For a town like Drennich, new—as in the ‘new’ courthouse and ‘new’ town square—meant less than a century old. The west end of town experienced what little growth Drennich knew, as though the town reached longingly towards the capital of Longardin, pleading to be a part of its relative affluence. The coast along the wide Longar River, the town’s upper boundary, featured a patchwork of small farms and orchards. To the east lay pasturelands—home of the dairymen and herders. Little lay along the sleepy north or east outbound roads but wilderness, mountains, and myth. To the south lay Dungarvale, more populated and commerce-minded, but holding little interest in what Drennich had to offer.

  Unlike virtually all his peers, Rennwinn mostly passed his days near the southern road, avoiding the west end and the people that came with it. Renn had grown from a melancholy, sensitive little boy into a melancholy, sensitive teenager. The third son of an eastern goatherder, of roughly average height and build, and topped with an unruly mop of plain brown hair, Renn feared he was decidedly unremarkable.

  Renn was pushing 18, the age at virtually all Vale boys were betrothed if not married. Courting and betrothal dominated the plans and dreams of his Drennich peers, yet Renn entered into no plans let alone dreams. At least not in a way that didn’t lead the other guys to snicker and the girls to roll their eyes. His fear of being decidedly unremarkable solidified into knowing he was decidedly unremarkable.

  Perched in an oak alongside the road, Renn rehearsed for the imminent conversation with his best friend, Kalderr. This is big for Kal. This is about him, not me. I want to be happy for him. I am happy. Still. . .

  The big boy ambled towards him, his wide face wearing a dreamy, dumb grin. Kal was so unlike Renn it was amazing they were such good friends. Kal was big and stocky, and untroubled by over-self-reflection. All Kal wanted out of life was to get married, take over his dad’s orchard when it was time, and then turn it over to his kids a few decades later. A blissfully simple boy, Kalderr. He didn’t ask much of life, didn’t expect life to ask much in return, and was quite content with that arrangement.

  “Hey, Renn. Hear anything exciting?” He swung into the oak, shaking it as he climbed.

  “Doesn’t get much more exciting than this.” Renn gestured to a handful of folks straggling down the road. Renn was pleased to realize he was happy for his friend. “You?”

  “Dunno,” Kalderr replied, that big dopey smile etched on his face.

  So Kal was going to make him ask. “Well, you get it worked out?”

  “Talked with Dad and Mom and Brie. They gave me and Ellika their final blessing.”

  Kalderr and Ellika. Both big, simple, good-natured kids, from simple orcharding families—perfect fit. Renn managed to squeeze out a “congratulations, Kal. . .”

  Renn meant it but wished he could sound happier for his friend.

  “Thanks, Renn. That means a lot. I know it hurts, you can’t hide that,” Kalderr said with the knowing look of a friend. “There’s a girl out there for you.”

  “Brie can’t find anyone. And if Brie can’t. . .?” Renn clenched his teeth. He wished he hadn’t said it. Today should be about Kal.

  “Hey, Brie loves you like you were her own kid. Always has. Ever consider that maybe—just maybe—she hasn’t found a girl she thinks is good enough for you? That she wants you to spend life with someone that’s really you?”

  “Not good enough? You kidding?” No, Renn hadn’t thought of that. And didn’t give it a second of consideration. “I’m not making her job easy, being me. It’d be better if I was anybody but me.”

  “I hope you know that’s not true.”

  Renn chewed at the inside of his mouth, deep in thought. He replayed his woeful interactions with country girls, town girls, popular ones, even awkward ones. They all knew with certainty that he had no future to offer. And besides, most everyone thought he was weird. But what if he could bury the weird Renn. . .

  “I don’t like whatever you’re thinking.” Kal scowled. “Don’t try anything stupid. You’ll only be more miserable in the end.”

  Renn opened his mouth to argue, but saw a familiar face coming up the south road. The thought was lost. “Uncle Dreg? You’ve hardly been gone a week. What’s up?”

  A clearly distracted Dreggar stopped, searching for the source of the voice.

  “Rennwinn. Kalderr. Taken to the trees, have you?”

  “You shouldn’t be back for months. You get fired, or did some big deal come along?”

  “Yes.” Dreggar looked his nephew square in the eye. “Exactly. Big deal. Maybe the sale of a lifetime.”

  Mind still searching for how exactly to close that deal, Dreggar began moving on.

  “Dreg,” Kalderr called out. “Your nephew’s got some plan brewing. I don’t think I like it. Maybe he could, uh, use a little advice?”

  “Renn’s a bright kid.” Dreggar was too focused to intuit that this was a comment he should follow up on, get inside his favorite nephew’s head. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

  Renn cast a victorious smile at his friend. Kal nervously frowned back.

  Urwen stomped through their farm’s back meadow, not bothering to step over the wildflowers he knew his wife loved. He was not pleased about being pulled away from shearing. The day was too busy for something as trivial as his brother.

  “He didn’t say what he wanted? Not even a hint?”

  “No, Urwen, he did not,” Jes said through heavy breaths. She stopped on the way up one of the last rolling hills prior to reaching their homestead. “Slow down! I can’t keep up in this skirt and you know it. Want to switch? You try it for a change!”

  “You look so much better in it.” Urwen paused for his wife to scramble up the hill. “And I don’t think you’d want to be scurrying around the countryside wearing nothing but your skivvies. Some of the fi
eld hands may appreciate it, though...”

  She smacked him on the head. He put two calloused hands in the air and laughed. She responded with the angry look, but he knew she wasn’t truly angry. He always took it as a good sign that he and Jes could still enjoy this kind of give and take after nearly 30 years of marriage.

  “You watch yourself.” Jes glowered. “Dreggar was distracted and agitated.”

  “My brother, agitated? Shocking.”

  “Something’s wrong, Urwen, or he wouldn’t be back so soon. Don’t aggravate him.”

  Urwen raised his hands in surrender and smiled noncommittally as they continued home.

  Three cups of boiling tea, a loaf of Dungar cracked wheat, and warm fresh butter sat on the table. Dreggar, pacing, welcomed them with a little too much salesman-like flair.

  “What’s up, Dreg?” Urwen shuffled past him without a look. “And, please, skip the song and dance. I’m not angry or anything.” He glanced at Jes for her approval at his good manners. She didn’t oblige. “But I am busy. We’re family—you don’t need to play games with me.”

  Jes cleared her throat.

  “Sorry. Us.”

  “I know your time is precious.” Dreggar rubbed his hands, then his forehead. “Too much work to be done for how few guys you’ve hired. You’ve earned a right to a little rest, no?”

  Urwen crossed his arms and leaned back.

  “Dreg, say it.” Jes smiled calmly. “You wouldn’t be back so soon—so unexpectedly—without good reason. You don’t need to put on an act for us.”

  “Right.” Oh, he was glad Jes was here. “So. . . I can’t even remember the last time I asked you a favor, Urwen.”

  “Oh geez.” Urwen threw up his hands.

  “No, please.” Dreggar stood, bumping the table. “Please hear me out.”

  “Of course we will,” Jes responded.

  Urwen nodded—though not quite as believably as his wife.

  “So. . . haven’t asked a favor in forever. I don’t impose, don’t try to con you—you say what you want—but you know it’s true.” He swallowed. “A friend of mine needs work. You’re over-busy. You could use him. Good man, real asset.”

  “I’ve no openings and none of my guys deserve to just be let go.”

  “At least consider it?” Dreggar was sweating as though the fireplace were home to a roaring inferno.

  Jes cleared her throat.

  “Fine.” Urwen rubbed his face. “Your friend have any special skills?”

  “Well, in his day—”

  “In his day?” Urwen dropped two meaty hands onto the table.

  “. . . he was a top-notch fisherman.”

  “I tend goats, Dreg. Not fish.”

  “He, uh, can’t fish any more. Nerves are going. Got stuff in his lungs.”

  “Oh come, I can’t pay a man who can’t work, just out of goodwill.”

  The two went back and forth, over and over. Jes absently pushed an empty mug along the counter, listening wearily to their all-too-familiar bickering.

  “I’ll beg if you want,” Dreggar, desperate, finally said. “Hands and knees, the whole bit.”

  “Please don’t. That’s childish.”

  Dreggar was willing to beg. And Urwen genuinely did want to help. But willing and wanting didn’t equal doing. They stared across the table at each other: stalemated.

  “Why this man?” Jes’s soft voice broke the silence.

  The two big, stubborn men looked at the slight little woman cradling her tea mug. The only thing big about Jes was her wildly unruly auburn hair—and her wildly compassionate heart.

  “I know you, Dreg. Bottom line is everything. And, no offense, but you are a prideful man.” She cast a baleful look at her husband. “Don’t you say a word. He’s not the only man I see with an unhealthy proud streak.” Jes folded her hands, turned back to Dreggar. “You put your job on the line. Come groveling to your brother. I’ve never seen you like this in all the decades we’ve known each other.”

  “He’s going to die.” Dreggar held his hands open. “Poor and unmourned in Dungarvale. His daughter left all alone. She won’t have a chance.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “If it’s this important to you, Dreg,” Jes interrupted before the word ‘no’ could come out of her husband’s mouth. “It’s this important to us.”

  Urwen could hear it in her voice. It was illogical and idealistic. . . but he knew better than to argue with Jes when she uttered a decree.

  “I know we can’t afford to. But it’s isn’t about money. It’s about family.” She stared pointedly at Dreggar, recalling all the times she’d seen him intentionally rile Urwen up. All the times she watched these two quarrel at this very table. “Isn’t this what we’ve always tried to teach the boys? Do what’s right, even if it costs you, even if others disapprove. Well, how much is a man’s dignity worth? Or hope, for the girl? We’ll just tighten our belts.” She glanced down at Urwen’s midsection. “You could stand to tighten yours as it is.”

  Urwen sucked in his gut.

  “Our answer is yes.” Jes smiled, chin up, at Dreggar. “End of discussion.”

  “I’ve always said you married over your head, Urwen.” Dreggar couldn’t hide his delight. “Way over your head.”

  “She likes to put me in over my head, too.” Urwen puffed his cheeks and let his breath out in a slow sigh. With a nod, he looked up brightly.” So when can your man start?”

  XIII - Bermark to Drennich

  Emmie sat on the sagging porch of their sad excuse of a house on the edge of Bermark, wearing the same dreamy expression she’d worn for days. This was her last night in Bermark. Her last view of this life-sucking wasteland. Backsides of buildings on one side, soggy lowlands with scruffy underbrush and scraggly ash trees on the other. People hurrying past, oblivious—sometimes unintentionally, often not—to the girl quietly watching them, so alone.

  No, Emmie would not miss Bermark at all. Not like when they left Khuul Duvar, her neck straining backwards over the gate of their wagon, until the last remnant of the Khuul was wrenched away. Trying to hang onto one last view of her water and mountains, the last whiff of lake air, the last ding of fishing boat bells.

  Duvar was her home. But without Dad? Just another place. No matter how often she watched people curl their lips at her or purposefully shun her, or how many nights she cried herself to sleep, she never doubted they’d done the right thing. Ever since that afternoon on the lake. She knew. It was the only option. Period.

  “Lower your sails, Emmidawn. You going to sail off into the mountains or what?” The staccato voice cut through the wind whipping around her little skiff, same one Dad had rigged up for her when she was just six, as she cruised dead center of expansive Birchdown Lake.

  Maybe I will, the skinny blonde simmered. After all. . . leave Duvar? How could Dad do this to her? She didn’t know the first thing about Dungarvale, but she hated it already.

  The sailboat scraped against Emmie’s skiff just enough to let her know who was in charge.

  “You pilot better than any 12-year old I’ve seen. But you’re not getting away from me.”

  One of Dad’s fishing partners floated into view. A familiar face, but she was smoldering too much to recall his name. Her grey eyes burned silver with defiance.

  He laughed at the resolve on her dirty face, before gently calling, “Hear me out, Emmie.”

  In response, she rammed the rudder hard left and banked her sails. An expert move. Her skiff glanced away free. The double-masted sailboat closed on her easily, though; this time catching her boat sideways, ending Emmie’s getaway. Her eyes stormed with rage, and the man could probably tell she was considering throwing her wiry little self into the water to swim for it.

  “That’s enough! I hate to have to be the one to say this but. . . your dad’ll die if you don’t leave the Khuul. Doc said so himself.”

  Emmie’s heart shattered like a seashell smashed underfoot on the beach. />
  “He, he didn’t tell me that,” she squeaked. “Da—Dad can’t die. He can’t.”

  “I’m sorry. He was mustering up the courage to tell you today, before you went rogue here. He doesn’t want to leave either, believe me.”

  She stared across the bright blue water, her whole world ripped from underneath her. Tears flooded down her cheeks. Dying? Dad? And she was only making things harder. Emmie dropped her eyes, ashamed. She’d need to stop that, immediately.

  “Pull me back in?” her voice quavered as she glanced blankly about her skiff. She felt adrift, how to steer her way home escaped her.

  “Of course, little girl. I’ll pull you back.”

  After that she accepted the move without reservation. Dad couldn’t live there anymore, and that was that. She tried hard to never look back.

  “What’s bouncing around in that golden little head of yours?” Ben plunked himself down next to her on the weathered bench, giving her hair a playful scratch.

  “Reflecting. I’m a mushy old romantic, I guess,” she said in mock-dramatic flair, then gave a boisterous laugh.

  “There’s more romantic to you then you let on, Emmidawn.”

  “Whatever. . .” Emmie snorted. “Looking back on the Khuul, here. . . wondering about Drennich. You ever been there?”

  Would Drennich be home, something like Duvar? Or another lonely disappointment like Bermark? Emmie wiped her eyes, chastising herself for her self-pity. She worked to keep bitterness at arm’s length while they lived here. She’d not wallow in it now, when they were leaving. She could melt down in tears with the best of them. Emmie knew she’d proven that. But those were honest tears, ones forced by real sadness and heartbreak. She cleared her throat loudly, refusing to allow self-pity and bitterness to take root.