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CHAPTER 4: rumors
Eveneye had never forgotten King Irontooth's words.
Why have you done this to yourself, Eveneye?
Those words haunted him, the memory of Irontooth haunted him, and the sculpture of Irontooth standing right outside of his courtroom haunted him. It had been fifteen years since Eveneye had killed Irontooth, but those words stayed as fresh as if they had just been spoken.
Why had he done it? Back then Eveneye had been so sure of his convictions, so sure that his motives were just. But from time to time, he doubted himself and those decisions. He had taken another bear’s life. Yes, it had been legal, but was it necessary, was it just? He had disagreed with Irontooth and had been backed into a corner. It was Irontooth or the boy. But was it?
Even the bears of the kingdom had these questions. No one brought them to Eveneye now that he was king, but Eveneye was no fool. He heard the rumors. No one was displeased with how Eveneye ruled the kingdom, but some questioned his motives. Many more questioned his plan for the boy. An ambassador of peace—was it madness? Was he forcing a horrible fate onto the boy? Was he forcing a horrible fate onto his kingdom?
The bears had accepted the boy—or at least the majority had—and as king, Eveneye was able to provide him with everything a child could need. But the boy was grown now, and his fate was almost upon him. A fate Eveneye had sentenced him to when he had killed Irontooth. Eveneye felt the boy was still too young, but the questions had already begun. When?, his advisers had asked him on different occasions. When would Eveneye’s plan for peace begin? When would the boy be ready? The truth was that Eveneye didn’t know, and he was afraid the kingdom might force his decision before he had made up his own mind.
Eveneye thought back to those first few years after the ritual. They had been some of the happiest in his life: he and Goldenheart, playing with the boy and enjoying the leisure of being royalty. It had all seemed like such a dream. Lately, however, it seemed like sand falling through an hourglass. He could even pinpoint the exact moment that had shattered his perfect little dream world, because it had broken his heart.
Father, why am I different?
Even now when Eveneye remembered it, his chest would tighten. What had he done? To what horrible fate had he damned this boy? The boy’s entire world was the bears. Yet if he stayed in the kingdom he would grow to be an incomplete man, never knowing the love of a woman or the miracle of seeing his own children. He would never completely fit. Yet if he left the kingdom for the world of humans he would be a man with no past and no one to help him. Would he even fit in human society, having been raised by bears? His only hope rested on Eveneye’s plan for peace. Eveneye had put this boy’s only hope in a society that was both bear and human, and it scared him to pieces.
Eveneye sat next to Evercloud in the castle tower, looking out over the kingdom with the Everflame burning directly behind them. Both father and son would come to the top of the tower to meditate or speak to each other. It was something they had been doing together for a while now. Evening was upon them, and the sky was shades of pink and violet, its hues becoming cooler as time passed. Eveneye had had enough of his own thoughts and decided he’d like to hear about his son’s day. He looked over at the young man, his long matted hair hanging around his bare shoulders. Evercloud wore leather pants and shoes, but the bears hadn’t seen the use for anything else during warm weather.
“Evercloud,” Eveneye said. “What happened today that made you ask about your name earlier?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Evercloud replied. “Riverpaw and I were discussing names, and I realized I didn’t know how I had received mine. I think I had always assumed it was because my skin is pale compared with a bear’s fur, like the clouds are paler than the sky. But after Wintersun said it was because I had clouds for brains, Riverpaw and I began thinking on it.”
“Why would Wintersun say that of you?” Eveneye asked.
“Only because I had told him his true name was Fishface,” Evercloud answered.
“And why would you do that?”
“Because he said Riverpaw played johnball like a female. Which was only Wintersun being sore, as Riverpaw and I had just won a match against him and Redcoat.”
Eveneye chuckled heartily. “I’m glad to see you getting on so well with your friends.”
Evercloud smiled and climbed to his feet. “Father, I’ve been meaning to ask if you and Uncle Whiteclaw might teach Riverpaw and I to night fish sometime? We’re both very eager to learn.”
“So it would seem,” Whiteclaw said as he entered the room. “Riverpaw just asked me the very same question only an hour ago. I told him yes, on the condition that the two of you continue to achieve high marks in your studies.”
“Of course, Uncle,” Evercloud said brightly. “Thank you.”
“All right,” Whiteclaw said. “Now run and tell your mother the king is needed for an emergency meeting and it might take a while.”
“Yes, Uncle.” Evercloud said his good-byes and left the room.
“Emergency meeting?” Eveneye asked.
“Yes,” Whiteclaw said. “I have the rest of the advisers assembled. We shouldn’t waste time.”
Eveneye stood up and followed Whiteclaw down the tower steps. He knew what this meeting would be about. Eveneye had been expecting it for some time. His advisers were going to demand action on the plan for peace, or at least a timetable. Eveneye didn’t want to think about it, so as he and Whiteclaw made their way to the advising room, he figured he would lighten the mood with talk of their sons. Whiteclaw had married soon after the ritual, and his wife, Autumnbreeze, had given birth to Riverpaw not long after.
“Did you hear?” Eveneye asked. “Our sons won a johnball match today.”
“No,” Whiteclaw said. “But I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Yes,” Eveneye said. “I should send a gift to Wintersun’s and Redcoat’s parents for teaching their sons to be good sports, taking it easy on a lesser opponent. My son is lucky to have such kind friends.”
Whiteclaw looked at his friend in confusion. “Eveneye, when was the last time you watched Evercloud play johnball?”
“Well…” Eveneye hesitated. “I suppose it has been a while. Why?”
“Well, first off,” Whiteclaw began. “Your boy is as large and capable a man as I have ever seen. Should he walk into a human village right now, they just might mistake him for a bear. Secondly, I assure you no one is taking it easy on him. He is a very good player.”
Eveneye beamed. “Well, I’ll have to make time to see him play.”
The bears had reached their destination and entered the room. All the advisers were seated around the table, and Eveneye and Whiteclaw took their places among them. Eveneye didn’t wait before speaking.
“All right,” he said. “I already know what this is about, and I would ask you to have a little more faith in my ability to know when the time is right. I—”
“Er, Your Highness,” interjected Oaktongue, a small brown bear with a nasally voice. “I don’t think this meeting is about what you think it’s about.”
“Yes,” Forestmoon added. “This meeting has been called to address a rumor coming from outside the kingdom.”
Eveneye looked at his five advisers quizzically. This was definitely not what he expected, and he was not prepared.
“Sire,” said Whiteclaw, who always addressed Eveneye more formally in front of others. “We have reason to believe one of the Ancients has returned to our world.”
“You can’t be serious,” Eveneye replied. “What evidence do we have of this?”
“Not a lot,” Oaktongue answered. “Just a rumor, really. But the rumor has spread. Our scouts have heard the same rumor in the north of Ephanlarea as well as in the south, and it would seem the rumor originates in the west.”
Gray Mountain was located in the middle of the land of Ephanlarea. Eveneye knew it was uncommon to hear the same news over such a vast area, unless there was some validity to it.
“Well,” Eveneye said with a shrug, “continue.”
“The rumor is this,” Oaktongue said. “A footprint has been found around the White Mountains. The footprint of a giant griffin, to be exact.”
“Tenturo,” Eveneye muttered.
“Yes, sire,” Oaktongue said. “It would seem so.”
A vast span of time had passed since the Ancients had been a part of the world. It had been so long that some bears believed the Ancients to be nothing more than fiction created by the elder bears. Eveneye felt this rumor seemed fantastical.
“I do appreciate being informed,” Eveneye said. “And I would like to be updated with any new information that may arise. But I hardly see why I have been called to an emergency meeting that has me missing dinner with my family. I cannot justify taking action on a rumor, even if it is concerning the Ancients. Please, tell me you weren’t expecting me to take a rumor at face value.”
“No, my king,” Whiteclaw said. “Not exactly. We did not expect you to believe the rumor. Yet this rumor, true or false, creates an issue we need to address—namely, the effect it will have on Evercloud.”
“Oh, I see.” Eveneye stood up and paced the room for a moment. The other bears didn’t dare interrupt him as they knew this was a delicate matter, however Eveneye didn’t take long to come to his decision. “Send for the boy.”
“Excuse me, sire?” Forestmoon asked.
“You heard me,” the king said. “Have a guard retrieve Evercloud. It’s time he be told…everything.”
Why have you done this to yourself, Eveneye?
Those words haunted him, the memory of Irontooth haunted him, and the sculpture of Irontooth standing right outside of his courtroom haunted him. It had been fifteen years since Eveneye had killed Irontooth, but those words stayed as fresh as if they had just been spoken.
Why had he done it? Back then Eveneye had been so sure of his convictions, so sure that his motives were just. But from time to time, he doubted himself and those decisions. He had taken another bear’s life. Yes, it had been legal, but was it necessary, was it just? He had disagreed with Irontooth and had been backed into a corner. It was Irontooth or the boy. But was it?
Even the bears of the kingdom had these questions. No one brought them to Eveneye now that he was king, but Eveneye was no fool. He heard the rumors. No one was displeased with how Eveneye ruled the kingdom, but some questioned his motives. Many more questioned his plan for the boy. An ambassador of peace—was it madness? Was he forcing a horrible fate onto the boy? Was he forcing a horrible fate onto his kingdom?
The bears had accepted the boy—or at least the majority had—and as king, Eveneye was able to provide him with everything a child could need. But the boy was grown now, and his fate was almost upon him. A fate Eveneye had sentenced him to when he had killed Irontooth. Eveneye felt the boy was still too young, but the questions had already begun. When?, his advisers had asked him on different occasions. When would Eveneye’s plan for peace begin? When would the boy be ready? The truth was that Eveneye didn’t know, and he was afraid the kingdom might force his decision before he had made up his own mind.
Eveneye thought back to those first few years after the ritual. They had been some of the happiest in his life: he and Goldenheart, playing with the boy and enjoying the leisure of being royalty. It had all seemed like such a dream. Lately, however, it seemed like sand falling through an hourglass. He could even pinpoint the exact moment that had shattered his perfect little dream world, because it had broken his heart.
Father, why am I different?
Even now when Eveneye remembered it, his chest would tighten. What had he done? To what horrible fate had he damned this boy? The boy’s entire world was the bears. Yet if he stayed in the kingdom he would grow to be an incomplete man, never knowing the love of a woman or the miracle of seeing his own children. He would never completely fit. Yet if he left the kingdom for the world of humans he would be a man with no past and no one to help him. Would he even fit in human society, having been raised by bears? His only hope rested on Eveneye’s plan for peace. Eveneye had put this boy’s only hope in a society that was both bear and human, and it scared him to pieces.
Eveneye sat next to Evercloud in the castle tower, looking out over the kingdom with the Everflame burning directly behind them. Both father and son would come to the top of the tower to meditate or speak to each other. It was something they had been doing together for a while now. Evening was upon them, and the sky was shades of pink and violet, its hues becoming cooler as time passed. Eveneye had had enough of his own thoughts and decided he’d like to hear about his son’s day. He looked over at the young man, his long matted hair hanging around his bare shoulders. Evercloud wore leather pants and shoes, but the bears hadn’t seen the use for anything else during warm weather.
“Evercloud,” Eveneye said. “What happened today that made you ask about your name earlier?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Evercloud replied. “Riverpaw and I were discussing names, and I realized I didn’t know how I had received mine. I think I had always assumed it was because my skin is pale compared with a bear’s fur, like the clouds are paler than the sky. But after Wintersun said it was because I had clouds for brains, Riverpaw and I began thinking on it.”
“Why would Wintersun say that of you?” Eveneye asked.
“Only because I had told him his true name was Fishface,” Evercloud answered.
“And why would you do that?”
“Because he said Riverpaw played johnball like a female. Which was only Wintersun being sore, as Riverpaw and I had just won a match against him and Redcoat.”
Eveneye chuckled heartily. “I’m glad to see you getting on so well with your friends.”
Evercloud smiled and climbed to his feet. “Father, I’ve been meaning to ask if you and Uncle Whiteclaw might teach Riverpaw and I to night fish sometime? We’re both very eager to learn.”
“So it would seem,” Whiteclaw said as he entered the room. “Riverpaw just asked me the very same question only an hour ago. I told him yes, on the condition that the two of you continue to achieve high marks in your studies.”
“Of course, Uncle,” Evercloud said brightly. “Thank you.”
“All right,” Whiteclaw said. “Now run and tell your mother the king is needed for an emergency meeting and it might take a while.”
“Yes, Uncle.” Evercloud said his good-byes and left the room.
“Emergency meeting?” Eveneye asked.
“Yes,” Whiteclaw said. “I have the rest of the advisers assembled. We shouldn’t waste time.”
Eveneye stood up and followed Whiteclaw down the tower steps. He knew what this meeting would be about. Eveneye had been expecting it for some time. His advisers were going to demand action on the plan for peace, or at least a timetable. Eveneye didn’t want to think about it, so as he and Whiteclaw made their way to the advising room, he figured he would lighten the mood with talk of their sons. Whiteclaw had married soon after the ritual, and his wife, Autumnbreeze, had given birth to Riverpaw not long after.
“Did you hear?” Eveneye asked. “Our sons won a johnball match today.”
“No,” Whiteclaw said. “But I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Yes,” Eveneye said. “I should send a gift to Wintersun’s and Redcoat’s parents for teaching their sons to be good sports, taking it easy on a lesser opponent. My son is lucky to have such kind friends.”
Whiteclaw looked at his friend in confusion. “Eveneye, when was the last time you watched Evercloud play johnball?”
“Well…” Eveneye hesitated. “I suppose it has been a while. Why?”
“Well, first off,” Whiteclaw began. “Your boy is as large and capable a man as I have ever seen. Should he walk into a human village right now, they just might mistake him for a bear. Secondly, I assure you no one is taking it easy on him. He is a very good player.”
Eveneye beamed. “Well, I’ll have to make time to see him play.”
The bears had reached their destination and entered the room. All the advisers were seated around the table, and Eveneye and Whiteclaw took their places among them. Eveneye didn’t wait before speaking.
“All right,” he said. “I already know what this is about, and I would ask you to have a little more faith in my ability to know when the time is right. I—”
“Er, Your Highness,” interjected Oaktongue, a small brown bear with a nasally voice. “I don’t think this meeting is about what you think it’s about.”
“Yes,” Forestmoon added. “This meeting has been called to address a rumor coming from outside the kingdom.”
Eveneye looked at his five advisers quizzically. This was definitely not what he expected, and he was not prepared.
“Sire,” said Whiteclaw, who always addressed Eveneye more formally in front of others. “We have reason to believe one of the Ancients has returned to our world.”
“You can’t be serious,” Eveneye replied. “What evidence do we have of this?”
“Not a lot,” Oaktongue answered. “Just a rumor, really. But the rumor has spread. Our scouts have heard the same rumor in the north of Ephanlarea as well as in the south, and it would seem the rumor originates in the west.”
Gray Mountain was located in the middle of the land of Ephanlarea. Eveneye knew it was uncommon to hear the same news over such a vast area, unless there was some validity to it.
“Well,” Eveneye said with a shrug, “continue.”
“The rumor is this,” Oaktongue said. “A footprint has been found around the White Mountains. The footprint of a giant griffin, to be exact.”
“Tenturo,” Eveneye muttered.
“Yes, sire,” Oaktongue said. “It would seem so.”
A vast span of time had passed since the Ancients had been a part of the world. It had been so long that some bears believed the Ancients to be nothing more than fiction created by the elder bears. Eveneye felt this rumor seemed fantastical.
“I do appreciate being informed,” Eveneye said. “And I would like to be updated with any new information that may arise. But I hardly see why I have been called to an emergency meeting that has me missing dinner with my family. I cannot justify taking action on a rumor, even if it is concerning the Ancients. Please, tell me you weren’t expecting me to take a rumor at face value.”
“No, my king,” Whiteclaw said. “Not exactly. We did not expect you to believe the rumor. Yet this rumor, true or false, creates an issue we need to address—namely, the effect it will have on Evercloud.”
“Oh, I see.” Eveneye stood up and paced the room for a moment. The other bears didn’t dare interrupt him as they knew this was a delicate matter, however Eveneye didn’t take long to come to his decision. “Send for the boy.”
“Excuse me, sire?” Forestmoon asked.
“You heard me,” the king said. “Have a guard retrieve Evercloud. It’s time he be told…everything.”
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Chapter 9: need
Edgar Shein hated when his mother had him run errands. He would purposefully try to make himself scarce when he could see supplies were low. It wasn’t that Edgar was a lazy child. It was simply that he was an unpopular child, and the bullies would always find him when he went into the village alone. Especially Pritchard Barton. Pritchard had already bloodied Edgar’s nose on three occasions, as well as stolen money from him and even embarrassed him by taking his clothes, forcing him to run home nude. Edgar’s mother, Rachael, felt horrible about how her son was tormented, but with Edgar’s father gone so often on long trips, she had little choice but to send the boy on errands.
Edgar’s black locks hung past his eyes as he walked into the village of Hammlin. Gazing down at his feet, the small pale boy looked miserable. He knew he had to help his mother. He didn’t blame her at all. It was his father he blamed. Edgar’s father, Joe, worked for the Holy. He was a missionary, and he had been absent for more of Edgar’s life than he had been present. The boy resented him for it. He felt Joe should be at home, taking care of him and his mother, not off in other lands. Edgar didn’t even feel right calling him father.
As Edgar passed houses in the village, he changed his posture. He couldn’t afford to hang his head now. He had to be on the lookout at all times. As his eyes surveyed his surroundings, he wished his father were there. But as Pritchard Barton’s yellow teeth came sneering around the corner of the blacksmith’s shop, Edgar’s sentiment changed and he cursed his father’s name.
“You know,” Pritchard said. “I would have thought by now you’d just stop showing your ugly face around here, Shein.”
Edgar reacted the same way he always did when he saw Pritchard. He kept his head straight, walked as fast as he could, and prayed to the Holy this would be the time that Pritchard let him go. Unfortunately—as they always did—Edgar’s prayers went unanswered.
“I’m talkin’ to you, you little insect,” Pritchard shouted as he picked up a stone along the side of the road and hurled it at Edgar, hitting him on the shoulder.
Pain shot through Edgar’s shoulder and arm but he didn’t stop walking.
Please make him stop, Edgar thought. Please make him stop.
However, Pritchard wasn’t alone today. His crony, Joe Stockton, was with him and Pritchard loved to show off.
“I think the little girl’s gone deaf,” Joe said, laughing.
“He ain’t deaf…yet,” Barton said with a sneer as he picked up another stone.
“Put that stone down, you little bastard!” Murray the blacksmith came rumbling out of his shop and grabbed Pritchard by his ear. “If I catch either of you hooligans terrorizing people again, you’ll get the back of my hand. Got it?”
Murray released Prichard’s ear, and the boy almost tripped over himself in retreat. Scuffling in the street and kicking up dust, the two bullies ran away as fast as they could. Edgar couldn’t help but grin at the shocked and embarrassed look on Pritchard’s pimpled face. The blacksmith walked over to where Edgar stood and put his big hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“You all right, boy?” Murray asked.
“I’m fine, sir,” Edgar said. “Thank you, sir.”
Edgar looked up into the big man’s bearded face. Murray was an intimidating man, and although he had just helped Edgar, the boy wasn’t exactly comfortable in his presence.
“You running errands for your mum again?” Murray asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” Murray said and extended his hand down the road, “let’s get ’em done then, shall we?”
Edgar couldn’t believe his luck. The blacksmith had stopped Pritchard Barton, and now he was escorting Edgar through the village, like a personal guard.
“What do you need to get today, Edgar?” Murray asked.
“Mum asked for salt, sugar, and bread,” the boy answered.
“Where’s your dad gone off to this time, eh?”
“Don’t know, sir,” Edgar replied. “He never says.”
Murray grumbled to himself. It was obvious to Edgar that the blacksmith felt the same way he did about Joe’s absence. Edgar had begun to feel much better, but now he was falling back into a depression with the topic of his father in his mind.
“How’s your mum doing up at the farm?” Murray asked.
“She’s all right, sir. Busy, but doing fine.”
“Now that’s enough of that ‘sir’ stuff,” the blacksmith said. “I appreciate the manners and it goes to show your mum’s doing a good job with you, but you can call me Murray. Sound good?”
“Yes, sir—I mean, Murray.”
Once Edgar had purchased what he needed, he and Murray returned to the blacksmith’s shop.
“I got something inside I wanna show you before you go back to your mum,” the man said.
Sunlight came through the windows of the blacksmith’s shop, revealing a good amount of dust in the air. The shop was dingy, and it seemed obvious to Edgar that Murray didn’t clean very often.
“I live just through that door there at the back of the shop,” Murray said and pointed. “It’s small, but it’s just me, so I figured there’s no sense in having a whole house. What I wanted to show you is back there. Follow me.”
Edgar followed Murray through the door into his living quarters. Murray wasn’t being modest when he said it was small. There was a bed, a table and chair, what looked like a closet with a curtain hanging in front of it, and a door Edgar assumed led outside to an outhouse. Leftover food was still on the table, and the bed had not been made. Edgar wasn’t used to such untidiness and as children sometimes do, he let his curiosity get the best of him.
“Why don’t you have a wife, Murray?” Edgar asked.
Murray looked sullenly down at the boy and pursed his lips. Edgar suddenly realized he should have kept his mouth shut.
“Well,” Murray said with a sigh, “I was married for a time. My wife’s name was Andrea. She was the most beautiful woman in the village.” Murray then turned away from Edgar. “But she took ill and passed on a couple years ago.” Edgar was ashamed of himself and began to say he was sorry, but Murray cut him off. “Enough about the past. Let me show you what’s in the closet.”
Suddenly, Edgar realized he was in a strange man’s house and became uneasy. Murray had been nice to him and had helped him, but he didn’t know the blacksmith that well and wondered if it hadn’t been a mistake to follow him into his shop. Murray reached the closet and turned to Edgar with a smile, but when he saw the cautious look on Edgar’s face he laughed.
“Come on, boy. I ain’t gonna hurt ye.” Murray drew the curtain to the side and said, “Now be quiet. I think they’re sleeping.”
As Murray moved the curtain aside, Edgar’s eyes lit up. Lying on the floor of the closet was a female wolfhound with five pups, all huddled together.
“The big one’s name is Tiffa.” As Murray spoke, one of the puppies lifted his head from his mother’s leg and walked up to Edgar, wagging his tail.
“Can I pick him up?” Edgar asked.
“’Course you can. Go ahead.”
Edgar bent down and picked up the puppy. It was like a big ball of brown fuzz. Edgar held the dog in his arms, and it licked his face.
“What’s his name?” Edgar asked.
“Well, he doesn’t have one yet,” Murray said. “Thought you might want to give him one, since he’s yours now.”
Edgar looked up at Murray, slack-jawed while the puppy continued licking his face.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yep,” Murray said. “He’s yours. I can’t take care of all these dogs. Plus, he likes you.”
Edgar was so excited and he slumped down to the floor to let the little brown puppy bounce all around him.
“There’s something else I want you to have, Edgar.” Murray reached under the mattress of his bed and pulled out a small dagger with a black handle and a red stone on the hilt. “Now, that Pritchard Barton is a sight bigger than you. His head’s not right, and he don’t fight fair. Anytime your mum sends you on errands, you can come see me first and we’ll go together. But I might not always be here, so I think you should keep this with you.”
Murray handed Edgar the dagger, and the red stone shined bright as he held it in his hands.
“I don—” Edgar started.
“Hear me out,” Murray said. “I’m not saying you should attack Pritchard Barton, but if he puts you in a dangerous situation that dagger might be your only way out. Not everybody knows right from wrong, Edgar. Far worse, sometimes people think they do when they really don’t. It’s okay to protect yourself.”
“Thank you. I don’t know what to say.” Edgar stared down at the puppy in his lap and then at the dagger in his hand. “Mum and Joe are real strict with the Holy. I don’t think they’ll let me keep the dagger.” Then Edgar’s expression soured. “They probably won’t let me keep the dog, either.”
Murray pursed his lips and nodded his head. Edgar’s reaction wasn’t quite what he had expected. The boy felt ashamed, and was just about to say he should leave when Murray surprised him.
“Well, I’m just going to have to convince your mum then,” Murray said. “Let’s go.”
Edgar stood up with the puppy in his arms. “You’re going to come home with me and talk to my mum?”
“Yep,” Murray nodded. “Let’s go.” A smile broke across Edgar’s face. He couldn’t believe the luck he had run into. “Oh, and Edgar?”
“Yes, Murray?”
“You still need to name that dog.”
Edgar and Murray walked silently for the first mile of the trip to Shein Farm. The sun was setting and the sky was a mixture of blue and pink. There was a dirt road that led to the farm, but it was only the fastest route while on horseback. A straight path through the forest was best on foot. Edgar hid the dagger inside of his shirt. He didn’t want his mother to see it until Murray talked to her. The puppy was cradled in Edgar’s arms and he placed a hand in front of the dog as they walked through trees to protect its head from low branches.
Edgar worried what his mother would say to Murray. He was already attached to the dog, and more than that, he didn’t want to lose the blacksmith’s friendship. With Murray on his side he’d never have to worry about Pritchard again. The puppy wagged his tail and looked up at Edgar with his little blue eyes. Then—as children usually do—Edgar came up with an obvious name choice.
“Blue,” Edgar said.
“What’s blue?” Murray asked.
“I’m gonna name the dog Blue.”
“He looks like a Blue,” Murray said. “Good choice.”
The blacksmith smiled but didn’t say much else on the matter. Edgar didn’t really feel like talking anyway, as he was too busy thinking of all the amazing things he was going to do with Blue.
As Edgar and Murray emerged from the forest, a large field of tall grass spread out before them. On the far side of the field, up on a small hill, was Edgar’s home. The pair waded through the tall grass until they reached the gate to Shein Farm. A wooden fence that only came up to Murray’s waist opened with a creak. The sky was beginning to show shades of violet and Edgar could see candlelight coming from the windows of the small white house. Edgar handed Blue to Murray once they reached the porch, and asked him to wait while he fetched his mother. Murray held the dog up to his face and looked into its eyes.
“You’re just too cute to say no to, aren’t you?” Murray cooed. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Murray ruffled the fur on Blue’s head, not noticing that Rachael had come out onto the porch.
“What can I help you with, Murray?” she asked.
“Rachael,” Murray said, startled and embarrassed. “I—uh—good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, Murray,” Rachael said. “Edgar said there was something you wanted to talk to me about.”
“Well, actually, it was Edgar that I wanted to talk to you about.”
Murray now noticed how tired Rachael’s eyes looked. She was a tiny woman with mousy blonde hair. Too small, Murray felt, to be living out here all alone with her husband far away. His heart went out to Rachael as it had for the boy when Murray spotted him out his shop window.
“He hasn’t been making trouble, has he?” Rachael asked.
“Oh no, not at all,” Murray said. “Actually, it seems as though some bullies in town have been making trouble for Edgar, and I was hoping to have a talk with you about it.”
“I know the older children pick on him, Murray—I do,” Rachael said. “But I’m just too busy to escort the boy around. With Joe gone, I don’t have enough time.”
“I know that Rachael,” Murray said. “And well, that’s where I wanted to help. You see, I want Edgar to have this dog for protection.” Murray held up Blue. “He’s just a pup now, but he’ll grow and be real loyal. Wolfhounds always are. Plus every family should have a good dog they can count on.”
“I appreciate your concern, Murray. Really, I do. But I don’t have the extra food for a dog, let alone the time to spend taking care of it.”
“Well, I can help with that too,” Murray said. “I haven’t had much to keep me busy since Andrea passed away, and I was hoping I could help out with some things. I’m not asking anything for it. It’s payment enough just to have something to do. And I hope I’m not out of line saying so, but I just can’t bear to watch you with your hands so full when I’ve got extra time on mine. What with Joe being gone so often.”
Rachael stared at Murray sharply, and the blacksmith was afraid he had gone too far. He lowered his gaze and saw Edgar standing in the doorway behind Rachael.
“So can I keep Blue?” Edgar asked.
Murray glanced back toward Rachael and was surprised to see her with a slight grin on her face. She shook her head and turned to Edgar.
“Edgar, go back inside and put another plate on the table.” Then Rachael turned back to Murray and smiled. “I do expect you’ll be staying for dinner. You can’t go hungry on my watch.”
Murray couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Can’t say no to that.”
Rachael stepped aside to usher Murray through the door, and as he made his way past her she gently touched his hand. He stopped and looked down at her.
“Thank you, Murray,” she said.
Murray looked into Rachael’s blue eyes and something moved inside of him. All of a sudden, he felt very shy.
“My pleasure, Rachael.”
Edgar, Rachael, and Murray talked and laughed as they ate dinner, and nobody’s smile was bigger or brighter than Edgar’s.
How did I get so lucky? he thought and snuck Blue a scrap of meat from the table.
It was obvious Edgar had taken to Murray, and although Rachael was worried the boy might find in Murray a substitute for his absent father, she wouldn’t do anything to prevent his happiness. As they finished dinner, Rachael gathered the empty plates and brought them into the kitchen.
Once Edgar and Murray were alone, the boy said, “Did you ask about the dagger, Murray? I didn’t hear you say anything about the dagger.”
Murray looked at Edgar and winked. “Your mother doesn’t need to be bothered with every little thing, Edgar.”
Edgar smiled and lifted Blue onto his lap.
Later that night after Murray had left for the village, Edgar lay wide awake going over the day’s events in his head. He couldn’t remember any other time in his life when he had been this happy. He pet Blue and the puppy returned the affection by licking his arm. Edgar looked out his bedroom window and found the biggest star in the sky. Then he made a wish that Murray was his father.
Edgar’s black locks hung past his eyes as he walked into the village of Hammlin. Gazing down at his feet, the small pale boy looked miserable. He knew he had to help his mother. He didn’t blame her at all. It was his father he blamed. Edgar’s father, Joe, worked for the Holy. He was a missionary, and he had been absent for more of Edgar’s life than he had been present. The boy resented him for it. He felt Joe should be at home, taking care of him and his mother, not off in other lands. Edgar didn’t even feel right calling him father.
As Edgar passed houses in the village, he changed his posture. He couldn’t afford to hang his head now. He had to be on the lookout at all times. As his eyes surveyed his surroundings, he wished his father were there. But as Pritchard Barton’s yellow teeth came sneering around the corner of the blacksmith’s shop, Edgar’s sentiment changed and he cursed his father’s name.
“You know,” Pritchard said. “I would have thought by now you’d just stop showing your ugly face around here, Shein.”
Edgar reacted the same way he always did when he saw Pritchard. He kept his head straight, walked as fast as he could, and prayed to the Holy this would be the time that Pritchard let him go. Unfortunately—as they always did—Edgar’s prayers went unanswered.
“I’m talkin’ to you, you little insect,” Pritchard shouted as he picked up a stone along the side of the road and hurled it at Edgar, hitting him on the shoulder.
Pain shot through Edgar’s shoulder and arm but he didn’t stop walking.
Please make him stop, Edgar thought. Please make him stop.
However, Pritchard wasn’t alone today. His crony, Joe Stockton, was with him and Pritchard loved to show off.
“I think the little girl’s gone deaf,” Joe said, laughing.
“He ain’t deaf…yet,” Barton said with a sneer as he picked up another stone.
“Put that stone down, you little bastard!” Murray the blacksmith came rumbling out of his shop and grabbed Pritchard by his ear. “If I catch either of you hooligans terrorizing people again, you’ll get the back of my hand. Got it?”
Murray released Prichard’s ear, and the boy almost tripped over himself in retreat. Scuffling in the street and kicking up dust, the two bullies ran away as fast as they could. Edgar couldn’t help but grin at the shocked and embarrassed look on Pritchard’s pimpled face. The blacksmith walked over to where Edgar stood and put his big hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“You all right, boy?” Murray asked.
“I’m fine, sir,” Edgar said. “Thank you, sir.”
Edgar looked up into the big man’s bearded face. Murray was an intimidating man, and although he had just helped Edgar, the boy wasn’t exactly comfortable in his presence.
“You running errands for your mum again?” Murray asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” Murray said and extended his hand down the road, “let’s get ’em done then, shall we?”
Edgar couldn’t believe his luck. The blacksmith had stopped Pritchard Barton, and now he was escorting Edgar through the village, like a personal guard.
“What do you need to get today, Edgar?” Murray asked.
“Mum asked for salt, sugar, and bread,” the boy answered.
“Where’s your dad gone off to this time, eh?”
“Don’t know, sir,” Edgar replied. “He never says.”
Murray grumbled to himself. It was obvious to Edgar that the blacksmith felt the same way he did about Joe’s absence. Edgar had begun to feel much better, but now he was falling back into a depression with the topic of his father in his mind.
“How’s your mum doing up at the farm?” Murray asked.
“She’s all right, sir. Busy, but doing fine.”
“Now that’s enough of that ‘sir’ stuff,” the blacksmith said. “I appreciate the manners and it goes to show your mum’s doing a good job with you, but you can call me Murray. Sound good?”
“Yes, sir—I mean, Murray.”
Once Edgar had purchased what he needed, he and Murray returned to the blacksmith’s shop.
“I got something inside I wanna show you before you go back to your mum,” the man said.
Sunlight came through the windows of the blacksmith’s shop, revealing a good amount of dust in the air. The shop was dingy, and it seemed obvious to Edgar that Murray didn’t clean very often.
“I live just through that door there at the back of the shop,” Murray said and pointed. “It’s small, but it’s just me, so I figured there’s no sense in having a whole house. What I wanted to show you is back there. Follow me.”
Edgar followed Murray through the door into his living quarters. Murray wasn’t being modest when he said it was small. There was a bed, a table and chair, what looked like a closet with a curtain hanging in front of it, and a door Edgar assumed led outside to an outhouse. Leftover food was still on the table, and the bed had not been made. Edgar wasn’t used to such untidiness and as children sometimes do, he let his curiosity get the best of him.
“Why don’t you have a wife, Murray?” Edgar asked.
Murray looked sullenly down at the boy and pursed his lips. Edgar suddenly realized he should have kept his mouth shut.
“Well,” Murray said with a sigh, “I was married for a time. My wife’s name was Andrea. She was the most beautiful woman in the village.” Murray then turned away from Edgar. “But she took ill and passed on a couple years ago.” Edgar was ashamed of himself and began to say he was sorry, but Murray cut him off. “Enough about the past. Let me show you what’s in the closet.”
Suddenly, Edgar realized he was in a strange man’s house and became uneasy. Murray had been nice to him and had helped him, but he didn’t know the blacksmith that well and wondered if it hadn’t been a mistake to follow him into his shop. Murray reached the closet and turned to Edgar with a smile, but when he saw the cautious look on Edgar’s face he laughed.
“Come on, boy. I ain’t gonna hurt ye.” Murray drew the curtain to the side and said, “Now be quiet. I think they’re sleeping.”
As Murray moved the curtain aside, Edgar’s eyes lit up. Lying on the floor of the closet was a female wolfhound with five pups, all huddled together.
“The big one’s name is Tiffa.” As Murray spoke, one of the puppies lifted his head from his mother’s leg and walked up to Edgar, wagging his tail.
“Can I pick him up?” Edgar asked.
“’Course you can. Go ahead.”
Edgar bent down and picked up the puppy. It was like a big ball of brown fuzz. Edgar held the dog in his arms, and it licked his face.
“What’s his name?” Edgar asked.
“Well, he doesn’t have one yet,” Murray said. “Thought you might want to give him one, since he’s yours now.”
Edgar looked up at Murray, slack-jawed while the puppy continued licking his face.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yep,” Murray said. “He’s yours. I can’t take care of all these dogs. Plus, he likes you.”
Edgar was so excited and he slumped down to the floor to let the little brown puppy bounce all around him.
“There’s something else I want you to have, Edgar.” Murray reached under the mattress of his bed and pulled out a small dagger with a black handle and a red stone on the hilt. “Now, that Pritchard Barton is a sight bigger than you. His head’s not right, and he don’t fight fair. Anytime your mum sends you on errands, you can come see me first and we’ll go together. But I might not always be here, so I think you should keep this with you.”
Murray handed Edgar the dagger, and the red stone shined bright as he held it in his hands.
“I don—” Edgar started.
“Hear me out,” Murray said. “I’m not saying you should attack Pritchard Barton, but if he puts you in a dangerous situation that dagger might be your only way out. Not everybody knows right from wrong, Edgar. Far worse, sometimes people think they do when they really don’t. It’s okay to protect yourself.”
“Thank you. I don’t know what to say.” Edgar stared down at the puppy in his lap and then at the dagger in his hand. “Mum and Joe are real strict with the Holy. I don’t think they’ll let me keep the dagger.” Then Edgar’s expression soured. “They probably won’t let me keep the dog, either.”
Murray pursed his lips and nodded his head. Edgar’s reaction wasn’t quite what he had expected. The boy felt ashamed, and was just about to say he should leave when Murray surprised him.
“Well, I’m just going to have to convince your mum then,” Murray said. “Let’s go.”
Edgar stood up with the puppy in his arms. “You’re going to come home with me and talk to my mum?”
“Yep,” Murray nodded. “Let’s go.” A smile broke across Edgar’s face. He couldn’t believe the luck he had run into. “Oh, and Edgar?”
“Yes, Murray?”
“You still need to name that dog.”
Edgar and Murray walked silently for the first mile of the trip to Shein Farm. The sun was setting and the sky was a mixture of blue and pink. There was a dirt road that led to the farm, but it was only the fastest route while on horseback. A straight path through the forest was best on foot. Edgar hid the dagger inside of his shirt. He didn’t want his mother to see it until Murray talked to her. The puppy was cradled in Edgar’s arms and he placed a hand in front of the dog as they walked through trees to protect its head from low branches.
Edgar worried what his mother would say to Murray. He was already attached to the dog, and more than that, he didn’t want to lose the blacksmith’s friendship. With Murray on his side he’d never have to worry about Pritchard again. The puppy wagged his tail and looked up at Edgar with his little blue eyes. Then—as children usually do—Edgar came up with an obvious name choice.
“Blue,” Edgar said.
“What’s blue?” Murray asked.
“I’m gonna name the dog Blue.”
“He looks like a Blue,” Murray said. “Good choice.”
The blacksmith smiled but didn’t say much else on the matter. Edgar didn’t really feel like talking anyway, as he was too busy thinking of all the amazing things he was going to do with Blue.
As Edgar and Murray emerged from the forest, a large field of tall grass spread out before them. On the far side of the field, up on a small hill, was Edgar’s home. The pair waded through the tall grass until they reached the gate to Shein Farm. A wooden fence that only came up to Murray’s waist opened with a creak. The sky was beginning to show shades of violet and Edgar could see candlelight coming from the windows of the small white house. Edgar handed Blue to Murray once they reached the porch, and asked him to wait while he fetched his mother. Murray held the dog up to his face and looked into its eyes.
“You’re just too cute to say no to, aren’t you?” Murray cooed. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Murray ruffled the fur on Blue’s head, not noticing that Rachael had come out onto the porch.
“What can I help you with, Murray?” she asked.
“Rachael,” Murray said, startled and embarrassed. “I—uh—good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, Murray,” Rachael said. “Edgar said there was something you wanted to talk to me about.”
“Well, actually, it was Edgar that I wanted to talk to you about.”
Murray now noticed how tired Rachael’s eyes looked. She was a tiny woman with mousy blonde hair. Too small, Murray felt, to be living out here all alone with her husband far away. His heart went out to Rachael as it had for the boy when Murray spotted him out his shop window.
“He hasn’t been making trouble, has he?” Rachael asked.
“Oh no, not at all,” Murray said. “Actually, it seems as though some bullies in town have been making trouble for Edgar, and I was hoping to have a talk with you about it.”
“I know the older children pick on him, Murray—I do,” Rachael said. “But I’m just too busy to escort the boy around. With Joe gone, I don’t have enough time.”
“I know that Rachael,” Murray said. “And well, that’s where I wanted to help. You see, I want Edgar to have this dog for protection.” Murray held up Blue. “He’s just a pup now, but he’ll grow and be real loyal. Wolfhounds always are. Plus every family should have a good dog they can count on.”
“I appreciate your concern, Murray. Really, I do. But I don’t have the extra food for a dog, let alone the time to spend taking care of it.”
“Well, I can help with that too,” Murray said. “I haven’t had much to keep me busy since Andrea passed away, and I was hoping I could help out with some things. I’m not asking anything for it. It’s payment enough just to have something to do. And I hope I’m not out of line saying so, but I just can’t bear to watch you with your hands so full when I’ve got extra time on mine. What with Joe being gone so often.”
Rachael stared at Murray sharply, and the blacksmith was afraid he had gone too far. He lowered his gaze and saw Edgar standing in the doorway behind Rachael.
“So can I keep Blue?” Edgar asked.
Murray glanced back toward Rachael and was surprised to see her with a slight grin on her face. She shook her head and turned to Edgar.
“Edgar, go back inside and put another plate on the table.” Then Rachael turned back to Murray and smiled. “I do expect you’ll be staying for dinner. You can’t go hungry on my watch.”
Murray couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Can’t say no to that.”
Rachael stepped aside to usher Murray through the door, and as he made his way past her she gently touched his hand. He stopped and looked down at her.
“Thank you, Murray,” she said.
Murray looked into Rachael’s blue eyes and something moved inside of him. All of a sudden, he felt very shy.
“My pleasure, Rachael.”
Edgar, Rachael, and Murray talked and laughed as they ate dinner, and nobody’s smile was bigger or brighter than Edgar’s.
How did I get so lucky? he thought and snuck Blue a scrap of meat from the table.
It was obvious Edgar had taken to Murray, and although Rachael was worried the boy might find in Murray a substitute for his absent father, she wouldn’t do anything to prevent his happiness. As they finished dinner, Rachael gathered the empty plates and brought them into the kitchen.
Once Edgar and Murray were alone, the boy said, “Did you ask about the dagger, Murray? I didn’t hear you say anything about the dagger.”
Murray looked at Edgar and winked. “Your mother doesn’t need to be bothered with every little thing, Edgar.”
Edgar smiled and lifted Blue onto his lap.
Later that night after Murray had left for the village, Edgar lay wide awake going over the day’s events in his head. He couldn’t remember any other time in his life when he had been this happy. He pet Blue and the puppy returned the affection by licking his arm. Edgar looked out his bedroom window and found the biggest star in the sky. Then he made a wish that Murray was his father.
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chapter 22: biding time
The little tavern along the road from Kreskin to Gable didn’t see the business it used to. This was due to the feud that had been going on for years between the two most powerful families in each village: the Laughlin family of Gable, and the Montgomery family of Kreskin. The feud had started with a rumor that Lady Montgomery and Lord Laughlin were having a secret affair. Rumors being what they were, it spread like a plague upon the two villages, reaching the doorsteps of the Montgomery’s and Laughlin’s respective estates. Lord Montgomery, none too pleased with the rumor, questioned his wife on the matter. Without hesitation, the lady denied the accusations and called for retribution against whoever started such a nasty rumor. Lady Laughlin was also shook by the tales of her husband’s infidelity. In his defense, Lord Laughlin swore he would find the vile rumormonger.
And so the search began. The villagers of Kreskin and Gable were all interviewed, mostly by thugs working under the command of the affected lords. These thugs, being what they were, had adept methods of extracting information. However, under the pressures of these methods, the villagers’ information was not always reliable.
In the end, every person in both villages had been implicated by someone else—everyone except for a Kreskin man by the name of Derrick Kane. After much deliberation, the two lords decided that Derrick Kane of Kreskin was, indeed, the perpetrator, and had, in fact, scared all of the villagers into giving any name but his own.
So it was decided that he would be hung in Kreskin Square.
Derrick’s last words, as he stood with a noose around his neck, were still remembered in both villages to this day.
“All right,” he had said. “Quit pullin’ my leg.”
A few months later it was discovered that Lady Montgomery and Lord Laughlin had been having an affair, after all. Everyone felt horrible for old Derrick, and since then it was common to say—when things of a tragic and unjust nature occurred—“There they go, pulling old Derrick’s leg again.”
After the adulterers had been outed, the feud began. All trade and general niceties were severed between the two villages, and this drastically reduced traffic passing the little tavern. A couple years after the feud, the tavern’s owner decided to rename his establishment Derrick’s Leg, as a tribute to the man whose fate the tavern shared.
This night, as smoke poured from the chimney into the chilling air, a conversation about recent happenings sprung up among the patrons of Derrick’s Leg.
“I say it’s not true,” a man named Jensen said as the barkeeper poured him a small glass of strong-smelling stuff. “Too grotesque. Can’t be real.”
This wasn’t Jensen’s first drink of the night, and he was beginning to give off a stronger smell of alcohol than the drinks themselves. His wispy gray hair, which he usually combed over his bald dome, was now waving in the air. It gave the impression Jensen was a drunkard. Jensen was a drunkard.
“I don’t know,” said Bing, a fat man at a table behind Jensen. “I travel all over Ephanlarea, and I’ve heard these stories everywhere.” Bing’s hair was slicked back, and he eyed a pocket watch set on the table next to his mug of ale. “What do you think, Bart?”
The barkeeper, Bart, was behind the counter rubbing a glass with a rag. The rag was dirty and so was the glass, but Bart kept on rubbing as if friction alone would clean the glass.
“Don’t know,” he said, and grimaced. “I hear a lot of stories and rumors, but you know what they say about rumors.”
“See?” Jensen barked at Bing. “People are gettin’ all worked up for nothin’.” He grabbed his glass and poured its contents down his throat. Then he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and continued. “Listen to this one I heard. So this guy, this…Messenger—I guess they’re callin’ him. One night, he just walks into this couple’s house while they’re eatin’ dinner, and he sits down at their table and starts eatin’ their food. The young man asks him who he is, and this guy tells him he’s a messenger. A real sense of humor this guy has.
“Then the Messenger turns to the young lady and says her husband is a thief, and he stole the food on the table. So the husband gets upset and tells the Messenger he don’t know who he is or why he’s here but he better leave or else. And this guy’s shovin’ his finger in the Messenger’s face, tryin’ to be tough.
“Now listen to this—this is where it gets good,” Jensen said. “The Messenger gets up from the table and grabs the guy’s finger. He tells the guy to tell his wife the truth, or he’ll break the finger. So this guy starts cryin’, and he tells his wife he’s a thief and the food is stolen. The guy’s wife starts cryin’ and yellin’ at him, so he tells his wife he’s sorry and asks for forgiveness. Next thing you know the Messenger breaks this guy’s finger and strangles him to death. The wife runs out of the house screamin’, and when she comes back with the authorities, they find the dead guy sitting at the dinner table and the word ‘thief’ is written on the walls in blood.
“And guess what? The Messenger is nowhere to be found.” Jensen shrugged smugly. “Now you tell me that story doesn’t sound fake.”
The barkeeper nodded, but Bing shook his head.
“I’m not saying this Messenger fellow isn’t completely off his rocker,” Bing said. “But where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire, and there’s smoke all over this land. Listen to this story I heard from a man claiming to have seen the Messenger all the way down in Cerano. This fellow describes him as a man, bigger than he’d ever seen, whose hands glow with light.”
“Oh, I see,” Jensen laughed. “Ten feet tall and shoots lightnin’ out of his bum. I can see where this story’s goin’.”
“Just listen. I’m not making it up.” Bing said and stole a look at his timepiece before he continued. “So this man was riding his horse through the forest near Cerano when he saw funny lights in the darkness. He rode through the brush where the lights came from and found a dead body. When he inspected the body, he saw there was no head. So he panicked and rode his horse as fast as he could into the village to alert the authorities.
“When he got there, the officers were already outside the jailhouse looking at something on the ground. It turns out they were looking at the head of the dead body in the forest, and the head had a piece of paper in its mouth. One of the officers pulled it out and saw it was a note. ‘I sold your children as slaves’ the note said.
“Children had been disappearing in Cerano for about a year, and the officers had no leads. So the man told the officers he found a headless body in the forest, and they all went out there to retrieve it. However, when they got there they found the Messenger waiting for them. He had a hood over his face, and his hands glowed with blue light. They were all so scared they couldn’t move a muscle. Then, the Messenger told them what happened to the slave trader would happen to all who were evil. Then the Messenger disappeared.
“The scary thing is,” Bing added, “the man who told me the story is a doctor, and he said the head of the slave trader wasn’t cut clean. He said it looked like the head had been ripped off.”
Bart swallowed hard and rubbed his neck.
“Rubbish,” Jensen said. “Biggest pile o’ rubbish I ever heard. Glowin’ blue hands. Please.”
“I’m telling you, Jensen,” Bing argued. “I’ve heard a story about that Messenger from all corners of this land, and every one talks about those glowing hands. I’ve heard rumors before and the stories never match—the fundamentals change. All these stories match up nicely. This man—if he’s even a man at all—is out there, and he’s punishing those who do wrong.”
Jensen waved an arm dismissively at Bing.
“I heard another account,” Bing continued, “of a man who’d seen under the Messenger’s hood. He said the Messenger has no eyes.”
“Now, I’ve heard it all,” Jensen said, and threw his arms into the air.
“Well, you know,” Bart said, still rubbing the dirty rag against the dirty glass like a bad habit. “It’s funny you should say that about the eyes because I just heard a story of this Messenger, and the eyes came up. But this fellow told me the Messenger was blind.”
“Really?” Bing said with a curious tone. “Let’s hear the story.”
“Well,” Bart said. “It wasn’t so much a story, as it was a conversation.”
“Well, go on anyway,” Jensen said, becoming more inebriated by the minute. He eyed his empty glass. “And I’ll take another drink.”
“You sure you want more?” Bart asked. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fffine,” Jensen slurred.
“So” Bart said, and poured Jensen another drink. “I was told the Messenger is blind. Well, sort of. This guy said the Messenger sees through the grace of the Holy, but he can’t see like we can. He told me the Messenger works for the Holy, and that’s why he punishes evil. He told me the world needs to change.”
“Well,” Bing said. “Sounds like that man has spoken to the Messenger himself.”
“Don’t know,” Bart said. “I didn’t want to pry. But you can ask him yourself if you want. He’s right over there.”
Bart pointed at a large man in a white robe, sleeping at a table in the corner of the tavern.
“O-ho,” Jensen said with a start. “Didn’t even see him over there. Thought it was just the three of us tonight.”
“He came in around supper time and ordered water and potatoes,” the barkeeper said. “I talked to him briefly while he ate since he was the only customer in here. He kept that hood down the whole time though. I thought that was kinda weird. He fell asleep after he finished eating, and I figured I’d just let him sleep. Must’ve needed it pretty bad.”
“You know,” Bing said tentatively. “Maybe we should just let him sleep.”
“Nonsense,” Jensen said, and stumbled from his stool. “I’m startin’ to like these stories. Good entertainment. I want to hear what this fellow has to say.”
Jensen struggled to walk in a straight line, but when he finally reached the sleeping man he tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hello,” he called. “Hello in there. Anybody home?”
The stranger raised his head from the table and looked at Jensen, and his large white hood shaded his eyes.
“There you are,” Jensen said. “My friends and I were just tellin’ tales of rumors going around the land, and we were wonderin’ if you might have any stories to add. Have you any tales to tell of the Messenger?”
The stranger grabbed his glass of water and poured the rest of the liquid down his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said from under the hood. “I have no stories to tell. But I do have a question for Mr. Bing.”
Jensen turned his face to Bing with wide eyes and a foolish smile. “Bing, this man says he knows you.”
“Oh, uh, really?” Bing asked nervously. His eyes darted to the watch on the table. “You must have misheard him, Jensen.”
“Why do you keep checking your watch, Bing?” the stranger asked with a louder and clearer voice.
“I-I-I don’t know w-what you’re talking about,” Bing stammered and slid the watch into an open pocket.
“Waiting for something?” the stranger asked.
“I th-think you have me confused f-for someone else,” Bing stammered.
The stranger turned to Jensen. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jensen, but it would seem as though you’re going to have to die.”
“What are you talking about?” Jensen exclaimed.
“What I am talking about, Mr. Jensen, is the poison Mr. Bing put in your drink when you left to relieve yourself,” the stranger said. “He continues to check his watch so he knows when it will be a good time to leave the tavern and steal your horse. Probably about the same time that you, Mr. Jensen, lose the ability to breathe. Am I right, Mr. Bing?”
Bing shot out of his chair and headed for the door. “This is preposterous. I never. I’m not going to sit around and listen to—”
The stranger raised a hand, and suddenly the tavern was bathed in blue light. Bing froze.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bing,” the stranger said. “But I just wouldn’t feel right if you left. At least not until we’ve seen eye to eye.”
The stranger stood and pulled his hood back from his head. He walked to the petrified Mr. Bing and looked into his eyes. Behind them, Jensen clutched at his throat and fell to the floor.
“As you can see,” the stranger said to Mr. Bing. “I do have eyes.”
Bing stared into the Messenger’s milky-white eyes, felt a hand at his back and another pressed upon his chest.
“I-I’m sorry,” Bing muttered. “I’m s-so s-sorry.”
“I forgive you,” the Messenger said.
Bing felt the Messenger’s hand dig into him, and he gasped as his ribs cracked. Sharp pain seared his chest, and warm blood poured down the front of his shirt. The Messenger closed his hand around Bing’s frantically beating heart, and then darkness enveloped Bing forever.
“Hmm,” the Messenger mused. “I thought it would be black.”
He dropped Bing’s heart to the tavern floor and walked away, scattering a pile of blood-soaked gold coins along the bar as he exited the tavern. Bart stood alone behind the bar, still rubbing the dirty glass with the dirty rag, muttering prayers with every breath he took.
And so the search began. The villagers of Kreskin and Gable were all interviewed, mostly by thugs working under the command of the affected lords. These thugs, being what they were, had adept methods of extracting information. However, under the pressures of these methods, the villagers’ information was not always reliable.
In the end, every person in both villages had been implicated by someone else—everyone except for a Kreskin man by the name of Derrick Kane. After much deliberation, the two lords decided that Derrick Kane of Kreskin was, indeed, the perpetrator, and had, in fact, scared all of the villagers into giving any name but his own.
So it was decided that he would be hung in Kreskin Square.
Derrick’s last words, as he stood with a noose around his neck, were still remembered in both villages to this day.
“All right,” he had said. “Quit pullin’ my leg.”
A few months later it was discovered that Lady Montgomery and Lord Laughlin had been having an affair, after all. Everyone felt horrible for old Derrick, and since then it was common to say—when things of a tragic and unjust nature occurred—“There they go, pulling old Derrick’s leg again.”
After the adulterers had been outed, the feud began. All trade and general niceties were severed between the two villages, and this drastically reduced traffic passing the little tavern. A couple years after the feud, the tavern’s owner decided to rename his establishment Derrick’s Leg, as a tribute to the man whose fate the tavern shared.
This night, as smoke poured from the chimney into the chilling air, a conversation about recent happenings sprung up among the patrons of Derrick’s Leg.
“I say it’s not true,” a man named Jensen said as the barkeeper poured him a small glass of strong-smelling stuff. “Too grotesque. Can’t be real.”
This wasn’t Jensen’s first drink of the night, and he was beginning to give off a stronger smell of alcohol than the drinks themselves. His wispy gray hair, which he usually combed over his bald dome, was now waving in the air. It gave the impression Jensen was a drunkard. Jensen was a drunkard.
“I don’t know,” said Bing, a fat man at a table behind Jensen. “I travel all over Ephanlarea, and I’ve heard these stories everywhere.” Bing’s hair was slicked back, and he eyed a pocket watch set on the table next to his mug of ale. “What do you think, Bart?”
The barkeeper, Bart, was behind the counter rubbing a glass with a rag. The rag was dirty and so was the glass, but Bart kept on rubbing as if friction alone would clean the glass.
“Don’t know,” he said, and grimaced. “I hear a lot of stories and rumors, but you know what they say about rumors.”
“See?” Jensen barked at Bing. “People are gettin’ all worked up for nothin’.” He grabbed his glass and poured its contents down his throat. Then he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and continued. “Listen to this one I heard. So this guy, this…Messenger—I guess they’re callin’ him. One night, he just walks into this couple’s house while they’re eatin’ dinner, and he sits down at their table and starts eatin’ their food. The young man asks him who he is, and this guy tells him he’s a messenger. A real sense of humor this guy has.
“Then the Messenger turns to the young lady and says her husband is a thief, and he stole the food on the table. So the husband gets upset and tells the Messenger he don’t know who he is or why he’s here but he better leave or else. And this guy’s shovin’ his finger in the Messenger’s face, tryin’ to be tough.
“Now listen to this—this is where it gets good,” Jensen said. “The Messenger gets up from the table and grabs the guy’s finger. He tells the guy to tell his wife the truth, or he’ll break the finger. So this guy starts cryin’, and he tells his wife he’s a thief and the food is stolen. The guy’s wife starts cryin’ and yellin’ at him, so he tells his wife he’s sorry and asks for forgiveness. Next thing you know the Messenger breaks this guy’s finger and strangles him to death. The wife runs out of the house screamin’, and when she comes back with the authorities, they find the dead guy sitting at the dinner table and the word ‘thief’ is written on the walls in blood.
“And guess what? The Messenger is nowhere to be found.” Jensen shrugged smugly. “Now you tell me that story doesn’t sound fake.”
The barkeeper nodded, but Bing shook his head.
“I’m not saying this Messenger fellow isn’t completely off his rocker,” Bing said. “But where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire, and there’s smoke all over this land. Listen to this story I heard from a man claiming to have seen the Messenger all the way down in Cerano. This fellow describes him as a man, bigger than he’d ever seen, whose hands glow with light.”
“Oh, I see,” Jensen laughed. “Ten feet tall and shoots lightnin’ out of his bum. I can see where this story’s goin’.”
“Just listen. I’m not making it up.” Bing said and stole a look at his timepiece before he continued. “So this man was riding his horse through the forest near Cerano when he saw funny lights in the darkness. He rode through the brush where the lights came from and found a dead body. When he inspected the body, he saw there was no head. So he panicked and rode his horse as fast as he could into the village to alert the authorities.
“When he got there, the officers were already outside the jailhouse looking at something on the ground. It turns out they were looking at the head of the dead body in the forest, and the head had a piece of paper in its mouth. One of the officers pulled it out and saw it was a note. ‘I sold your children as slaves’ the note said.
“Children had been disappearing in Cerano for about a year, and the officers had no leads. So the man told the officers he found a headless body in the forest, and they all went out there to retrieve it. However, when they got there they found the Messenger waiting for them. He had a hood over his face, and his hands glowed with blue light. They were all so scared they couldn’t move a muscle. Then, the Messenger told them what happened to the slave trader would happen to all who were evil. Then the Messenger disappeared.
“The scary thing is,” Bing added, “the man who told me the story is a doctor, and he said the head of the slave trader wasn’t cut clean. He said it looked like the head had been ripped off.”
Bart swallowed hard and rubbed his neck.
“Rubbish,” Jensen said. “Biggest pile o’ rubbish I ever heard. Glowin’ blue hands. Please.”
“I’m telling you, Jensen,” Bing argued. “I’ve heard a story about that Messenger from all corners of this land, and every one talks about those glowing hands. I’ve heard rumors before and the stories never match—the fundamentals change. All these stories match up nicely. This man—if he’s even a man at all—is out there, and he’s punishing those who do wrong.”
Jensen waved an arm dismissively at Bing.
“I heard another account,” Bing continued, “of a man who’d seen under the Messenger’s hood. He said the Messenger has no eyes.”
“Now, I’ve heard it all,” Jensen said, and threw his arms into the air.
“Well, you know,” Bart said, still rubbing the dirty rag against the dirty glass like a bad habit. “It’s funny you should say that about the eyes because I just heard a story of this Messenger, and the eyes came up. But this fellow told me the Messenger was blind.”
“Really?” Bing said with a curious tone. “Let’s hear the story.”
“Well,” Bart said. “It wasn’t so much a story, as it was a conversation.”
“Well, go on anyway,” Jensen said, becoming more inebriated by the minute. He eyed his empty glass. “And I’ll take another drink.”
“You sure you want more?” Bart asked. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fffine,” Jensen slurred.
“So” Bart said, and poured Jensen another drink. “I was told the Messenger is blind. Well, sort of. This guy said the Messenger sees through the grace of the Holy, but he can’t see like we can. He told me the Messenger works for the Holy, and that’s why he punishes evil. He told me the world needs to change.”
“Well,” Bing said. “Sounds like that man has spoken to the Messenger himself.”
“Don’t know,” Bart said. “I didn’t want to pry. But you can ask him yourself if you want. He’s right over there.”
Bart pointed at a large man in a white robe, sleeping at a table in the corner of the tavern.
“O-ho,” Jensen said with a start. “Didn’t even see him over there. Thought it was just the three of us tonight.”
“He came in around supper time and ordered water and potatoes,” the barkeeper said. “I talked to him briefly while he ate since he was the only customer in here. He kept that hood down the whole time though. I thought that was kinda weird. He fell asleep after he finished eating, and I figured I’d just let him sleep. Must’ve needed it pretty bad.”
“You know,” Bing said tentatively. “Maybe we should just let him sleep.”
“Nonsense,” Jensen said, and stumbled from his stool. “I’m startin’ to like these stories. Good entertainment. I want to hear what this fellow has to say.”
Jensen struggled to walk in a straight line, but when he finally reached the sleeping man he tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hello,” he called. “Hello in there. Anybody home?”
The stranger raised his head from the table and looked at Jensen, and his large white hood shaded his eyes.
“There you are,” Jensen said. “My friends and I were just tellin’ tales of rumors going around the land, and we were wonderin’ if you might have any stories to add. Have you any tales to tell of the Messenger?”
The stranger grabbed his glass of water and poured the rest of the liquid down his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said from under the hood. “I have no stories to tell. But I do have a question for Mr. Bing.”
Jensen turned his face to Bing with wide eyes and a foolish smile. “Bing, this man says he knows you.”
“Oh, uh, really?” Bing asked nervously. His eyes darted to the watch on the table. “You must have misheard him, Jensen.”
“Why do you keep checking your watch, Bing?” the stranger asked with a louder and clearer voice.
“I-I-I don’t know w-what you’re talking about,” Bing stammered and slid the watch into an open pocket.
“Waiting for something?” the stranger asked.
“I th-think you have me confused f-for someone else,” Bing stammered.
The stranger turned to Jensen. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jensen, but it would seem as though you’re going to have to die.”
“What are you talking about?” Jensen exclaimed.
“What I am talking about, Mr. Jensen, is the poison Mr. Bing put in your drink when you left to relieve yourself,” the stranger said. “He continues to check his watch so he knows when it will be a good time to leave the tavern and steal your horse. Probably about the same time that you, Mr. Jensen, lose the ability to breathe. Am I right, Mr. Bing?”
Bing shot out of his chair and headed for the door. “This is preposterous. I never. I’m not going to sit around and listen to—”
The stranger raised a hand, and suddenly the tavern was bathed in blue light. Bing froze.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bing,” the stranger said. “But I just wouldn’t feel right if you left. At least not until we’ve seen eye to eye.”
The stranger stood and pulled his hood back from his head. He walked to the petrified Mr. Bing and looked into his eyes. Behind them, Jensen clutched at his throat and fell to the floor.
“As you can see,” the stranger said to Mr. Bing. “I do have eyes.”
Bing stared into the Messenger’s milky-white eyes, felt a hand at his back and another pressed upon his chest.
“I-I’m sorry,” Bing muttered. “I’m s-so s-sorry.”
“I forgive you,” the Messenger said.
Bing felt the Messenger’s hand dig into him, and he gasped as his ribs cracked. Sharp pain seared his chest, and warm blood poured down the front of his shirt. The Messenger closed his hand around Bing’s frantically beating heart, and then darkness enveloped Bing forever.
“Hmm,” the Messenger mused. “I thought it would be black.”
He dropped Bing’s heart to the tavern floor and walked away, scattering a pile of blood-soaked gold coins along the bar as he exited the tavern. Bart stood alone behind the bar, still rubbing the dirty glass with the dirty rag, muttering prayers with every breath he took.