by William Cali
The thought of the Market Palace reminded him of a couple other things. He glanced in “his” hut to where his battered jeans and jacket were folded carefully in the corner of the room. He wore a standard tunic outfit now, with grey pants and a flowing shirt of soft, woolen fabric, much more in style in Somerville. He had managed to navigate safely through the passive aggressive argument Daley was having with Faldo, and, in the end, he made out with a fine wardrobe that suited his needs.
Then there was the gun hidden underneath the hay of his bed. He had taken it out every night so far and contemplated it carefully while holding it. Every day that passed, it felt more and more foreign in his hands. Pent found himself more interested in the artifacts of this world, and he knew of only one in town, which hung on the wall in Faldo’s home.
“It’s been here for a while, since the founding of Somerville. Chief Pohk turned it over to me, in honor of my grandfather,” Faldo said dismissively. “Come, look at my latest accomplishment!” He laid out a piece of weathered paper on the surface of the table. Pent glanced at the contents of the page. It was a map.
“It’s a map.” Pent nodded, hoping his expression conveyed interest.
“Yes, yes! I’ve had to make several drafts, but this is the best one yet.” He pointed at a stream of water. “Here’s the river, and here, this is where we are right now.”
Pent studied the map more carefully. Faldo’s skill was clear; the map was a detailed drawing of Somerville and the surrounding areas. The river and the bridge were off to the right, and the cliff wall off to the left. Small fenced off areas with crops and animals were on the south part of the village, the graveyard close to the bridge. Pent marveled at the minutely crafted details on the page; it was incredibly accurate. He thought back to every map he had seen before. It’s weird not seeing road lines going every which way.
Pent pointed at the forests to the north. “Do you go out here often? The map stretches farther than the tip of Somerville.”
“No,” Faldo answered, frowning. “I can plot the lay of the town inch by inch. It would be embarrassing if I couldn’t, I designed most of the buildings here. But for everything outside I’ve had to rely on other’s word of mouth.”
Pent smiled knowingly. “Hanar’s word of mouth?”
“Indeed. I don’t spend much time outside of Somerville. A bit odd, I know, given my adventurer bloodline.”
Pent had learned that Faldo was the direct descendant of one of the founders of Somerville. Faldo had told him that when the “dust settled,” people traveled along the river and stayed at the encampment of two brave men who had fought back the hordes of evil that threatened humanity during the Age of Monsters. One was Faldo’s grandfather, who died shortly after fathering a single son. The other was Chief Pohk’s father, who had had several children, who in turn had children of their own. Of these children, only one was still around, being Pohk himself.
Walking away from the table with the map stretched out on it, Pent reached up and touched the sword hung on the wall.
“Be careful with that,” Faldo said, “and don’t dare let anyone see you wielding it. The chief takes the ban on weapons very seriously.”
“Then why did he let you keep this?”
“You would have to ask him,” Faldo grunted, crossing his arms. “He probably thinks he owes it to me for what my grandfather did back then. I just like it as a centerpiece. It adds a lot of character to this room. Lord knows I’m more skilled with a pen than with a sword.” He paused for a moment. “You may hold it if you like.”
The sword was heavy; Pent wondered how someone could swing it around in an actual fight without getting exhausted. It had to be over three feet of polished steel, and at least five pounds. It was clear Faldo took good care of it. He had tried to be dismissive about it, but he winced every time Pent swung the sword. It means a lot to him, that’s for sure.
“Thanks for letting me mess with that, man. Anyway, I gotta go meet up with Hanar. Convinced him to take me fishing.”
“Go on then.” He took the sword and delicately put it back on the wall. “It would be wise for you to stay out of sight today.”
“Why’s that?”
“Oh, you don’t know? This is tax day.” He let the words linger without elaboration. Pent nodded in silence and walked out the door.
* * *
Hanar was waiting at the edge of town carrying two fishing poles, one shabbier than the other. He saw Pent approach and smiled approvingly. When he spoke, he looked at the poles instead of his friend.
“I’ve seen you around this river a few times, my friend, and you’re no expert with a pole.”
“I just don’t know if I have the patience for it.”
Hanar grinned, he handed him the more pristine looking pole. “Here, you’ll need all the help I can offer.”
The two men walked down the stream, stopping where it dipped a little. The water cascaded over a rock outcrop, causing a miniature waterfall. They posted up near the waterfall, and Hanar pitched his line deep downstream. Pent tossed his own line in closer to the waterfall.
Hanar sat as still as a stone, eyes glued on his fishing line. “You won’t catch a thing doing that,” he said, not even looking at Pent.
“Listen, man, you have your strategy, and I have mine.”
“You want to set your line up a little further down the river. Give the fish time to calm themselves. They will be too jumpy when they drop down from the falls.”
Pent kept his line where it was. He felt a certain lazy stubbornness. He was supposed to be relaxing with his friend. Let the line be where it is, it’ll work out. Changing the subject, he said, “Heard you hurt your arm hunting the other day, might mess up your fishing.”
Hanar smirked slightly, but his body didn’t move an inch. “I doubt it, this is my specialty. You just need to be ready to wait. I know how to wait. Besides, this is nothing Riven can’t patch up.”
“There’s something weird about that guy,” Pent said, half under his breath. He thought about Riven’s behavior: arguing with the chief, the constant smiles, the way he seemed to just disappear. Pent couldn’t shake the feeling that the doctor’s motivations were more selfish than he let on. Maybe I’m just getting paranoid among all these strange people…
“You’re speaking of his behavior towards the chief?”
Pent eyed Hanar in surprise, although he knew he shouldn’t have been. Hanar was an observant person. Despite all of the scars he was accumulating out in the wilderness, he had to be observant to survive out here.
“Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I don’t understand it, man. I mean, I appreciate it, don’t get me wrong. But my moms always told me to not trust strangers. It’d be like chewing out your manager because a homeless guy just wandered into your store.”
Hanar nodded. “I’m not sure either. He seems a good enough person, and well learned and traveled at that. But I would wager that his reasons are less about you and your needs and more about his.” He tugged at his line, yanking a small fish out in a single move. Pent didn’t even see his line catch the bite.
Hanar was giggling like a school girl as he strung his catch on a string of fishing line. He pointed out to the water where Pent’s lure was resting. “As I said, my friend, I think you would be wise to move your line. You won’t catch anything there.”
Pent begrudgingly followed his advice and pulled his line back, launching it out into the stream much closer to Hanar’s. The two sat in silence for some time. Pent still appreciated the beauty and peace of Somerville. The water was flowing, the birds chirping, and when night fell, there were thousands of stars in the sky. The air smelled fresher and cleaner than anything he could remember. Everything he saw constantly reminded him of how different things were here. It felt so open and free, like a land of opportunities. No strict rules to confine you. Rules like…
“Taxes,” Pent said, completing his thought aloud.
“What was that, my friend?” Ha
nar asked. Pent guessed, from the quickly hidden look of surprise on Hanar’s face, that the woodsman had heard him just fine.
Pent gave his line a tug. Still no luck on the fishing situation. “People seem a bit shook up by this whole situation, Hanar, the tax thing.” He thought he felt a fish biting, but it was nothing at all, maybe a snag on a rock. “I’ve been hearing things bit by bit from everyone. Some guy is coming here to take the drink Lemen makes as a tax.”
“So, you’ve heard of Gilbrand then,” Hanar said, nodding. “I had wondered how you would take this.”
“How is anyone supposed to take it? This is robbery and extortion, pure and simple.”
“Oh? Is there no system in place in your world where people pay for protection? I would think your commoners are very vulnerable.”
“Well...” Pent juggled Hanar’s words around in his mind. It was true; taxes were a thing in his world. Everyone pitches in a little bit, and that money goes to the common good. You hoped that the money you put into the schools would pay for a good education. The money put into transportation would pay for well-paved roads. And the money that goes into the pockets of the police would pay for their protection. “It’s not that simple. There’s something like it, sure, but it’s not as simple as us paying a guy to leave us alone. This is like some Scarface stuff. You’re not paying for protection, you’re paying to not get the crap kicked out of you.”
Hanar tugged at his fishing pole, cursing under his breath as a fish escaped his hook.
“Don’t be in a rush to make things complicated. Why not keep it simple: we pay, and we’re safe.”
“That doesn’t make it right for him to take advantage of you.”
Hanar shrugged. “What is right and what is wrong? Those are just words. I don’t care what world you live in, people will do what they need to do to survive.”
Pent reached for his shoulder holster reflexively as an image flashed in his mind. Just a kid, fresh out of school. His future ripped away in an instant. Sirens screaming through the night.
Pent shook his head. Maybe he’s right… People do what they can to survive. And they look out for themselves above everyone else. “When the chips are down, who knows what will happen?”
“Chips?”
Pent groaned. “Never mind, I’ll explain it later.”
“When it comes to our tax day,” Hanar said with a smile, “I just make myself scarce. I haven’t seen the likes of him in a while. Gilbrand. Not a nice person by any means. Makes me question what worth nobility really has. But he doesn’t bother me any and he doesn’t take anything of mine.” He chuckled to himself. “Not that there’s really much at all for him to take!”
“Well, what about Lemen’s things? I don’t think you would feel the same if you had more to lose.” Pent tried to contain the frustration and anger in his voice. It wasn’t really Hanar’s fault he thought as he did. The world as he knew it had shaped his opinion and this resilience was part of his charm.
“Sometimes it’s best to keep your head down.” Hanar put on the sternest face Pent had ever seen from him. “This is a dangerous world, my friend, and that’s the price we pay to be safe here.” His cold expression melted into the warm smile Pent was used to. “Lemen will be all right, I promise you that.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
They both turned to their poles and fished in silence.
Chapter Seventeen
Pent had gone out with Hanar to hunt on a couple of occasions since the failure with the minches, and, despite being touted as a man of the wilds, he caught more wounds than animals. But Pent was humbled looking at the catch Hanar was bringing back now. Pent carried the fishing poles, and, next to him, Hanar was swaggering into town with his catch of the day. On a line, he held the two large fish and a merry expression on his face.
Pent couldn’t help but laugh. “I can’t believe this fool, why don’t you fish all the time? Clearly, you’re not made for hunting.”
“Both practices are centered on patience and silence,” Hanar answered. He raised the fish in his left hand up, “Patience,” and then the right, “Silence.” He cackled at his own humor.
“Guess if you’re going to eat them both, you’re gonna need to learn how to cook, too,” Pent said as they entered the town.
“Ah, I’ll make my way to Lyle’s. I’m sure she can do something amazing with these.” Hanar stepped away, and then turned and said over his shoulder, “Try not to let the tax wear at your mind. It only happens once a month.” Hanar was concerned, clearly. It was written all over his face.
“I got you, man,” Pent answered, trying to ease Hanar’s concern. “I’ll try to turn the other cheek.”
“Turn the other cheek, I like that one.” Hanar smiled and walked away towards Mother Lyle’s house.
Pent went to his hut, deposited the two fishing poles, and then decided to go to Faldo’s place. He was interested in figuring out the finer details about making his own home. Standing outside Faldo’s finely constructed home, he knocked on the door.
Faldo was slow coming to the door. Before throwing it wide, the builder poked his head out while it was cracked two inches open, and then, once he saw who it was, beckoned Pent to join him inside.
“You’re jumpy today.”
Faldo wiped sweat from his forehead. “You know why. Does everyone from your world make obvious observations of everything you see?”
“Not everyone. Only the cool ones.”
Faldo just blinked, perhaps unsure if Pent was teasing him or not. “I’ll pray to the soul of my grandfather that I never wind up there. How can I help you?”
“It’s about that house we were discussing earlier. I’m thinking I could set up behind Hanar’s hut. Don’t think he’s too appreciative of me robbing him of his living space.”
They sat down at the table, Faldo gesturing with his arms, making notes on a piece of paper, and nodding over the specifications Pent was interested in. The design was not a problem, but the procurement of materials as well as the labor would prove to be a challenge.
“You’ll have to do most of the legwork on this yourself. I can’t snap my fingers and force the whole town to pitch in and build you a house. And it is a great effort to gather this much lumber. Are you certain you’re interested?”
“Absolutely, I—” He was cut off by a sudden commotion outside. “What’s that? It sounds like yelling.”
“It’s starting,” Faldo said, his voice grim. “It would be best to stay indoors.” Even as he spoke, though, Faldo was stepping towards the doorway with the clear intent of going outside. He jerked open the door, poked his head through the crack, and then stepped out. Pent followed close behind him.
At first glance, the town did not look any different from what Pent was used to. The same shabby huts, the same grassy clumps, and patches of dirt. But the villagers’ faces were twisted in awe and fear as they stared at the entrance of town, not far from the river Pent had just fished at.
A man trotted into town on horseback. Gilbrand, I’m guessing. He was decked out in full plate armor, shining in the sunlight. Wish I had my shades on for this. Pent couldn’t keep from squinting at the knight. His armor clattered as he moved, reminding Pent of a set of keys jingling in a pocket. He had a long broadsword belted to his waist and gloves and boots of shining metal—polished steel or maybe even silver. The only thing he was missing was a helmet. His face could have been chiseled from granite or marble with his square jawline and darkened blonde hair—a real pretty boy. Looks like some of the guys I used to play ball with. Behind him, two dirt-covered servants pulled a wooden cart.
The knight passed by Pent without saying a word but stared at him curiously. Pent stood stone-faced and stared off in the distance. As he went by, Pent noticed a cloth draped over the side of the horse. It was a flag with a black and yellow cross, the same design as the one hung high in Somerville. Just toe the line. The words of the townsfolk, his friends, echoed in his mind. This is the way t
hings work here. The servants pointedly did not look at him, or anyone else in the town.
Gilbrand stopped outside of Lemen’s distillery. After dismounting his horse, he hitched it to a small post and stood next to the doorway. Pent had noticed that little fence before when he’d seen Lemen trip over it. None of the other buildings in Somerville seemed to have anything like it, but no one else owned a horse. It must be just for this guy since he comes regularly with his horse.
The man was tall, almost as tall as Pent, and in that armor he was huge. Pent wondered if he would even be able to fit in it himself. Gilbrand did not knock, but instead just stood there, not speaking or moving.
Moments later, the bumbling Lemen spilled out of the doorway and into the dirt at the knight’s feet. “Gilbrand!” he slurred, “You’re here early.”
“I’m here on time, fool. Bring my liquor.”
Lemen had a drunken swagger to him, but the declaration seemed to sober him up real fast. “Y… yes. Right away, Sir Gilbrand.”
Pent and the other villagers watched as Lemen single-handedly loaded up three barrels of liquor onto Gilbrand’s wooden cart. Even the servants pulling the cart didn’t lift a finger to help him. He rolled them down the dirt pathway and, with a tremendous effort, managed to tip them over onto the cart. He was gasping and shaking, and after retrieving the third barrel, collapsed into the dirt, lying on his back gasping for air.
“Another one.” Gilbrand didn’t even glance at Lemen as he spoke.
The villagers gaped amongst themselves, concern written plainly on their faces. Lemen himself stared in confusion.