The Fur Trader

by Sam Ferguson

  William shook his head and motioned for Richard to move into the stone building after Garrin. The trapper was already inside and building a fire in one of the two fireplaces. Within minutes the fire crackled and sparked into life, heating the interior of the stone cabin very quickly. Garrin then began sliding tanning racks to make space. There were seven bear hides, one moose, and several deer hides all stretched on the racks. Garrin shoved them up against the back wall and then helped bring all the supplies in.

  William made himself useful by going to the second fireplace, which was equipped with a large cauldron and utensils for cooking. He took some of the bear meat that had been left over and began making a pot of soup. He found a large glass jar of water, sealed tightly, that he poured into the cauldron before he began cutting hunks of meat and plopping them in.

  “You’ll find carrots and potatoes in the pantry to the left,” Garrin called out as he brought in the last of the supplies from the sled.

  William nodded his thanks and opened a wooden door to find vegetables as well as a braid of garlic. The wooden box was well made, with no holes large enough for a mouse or other animal to squeeze through, yet there was a small vent made of several minute holes in the top of the box that allowed for some air flow.

  “Build this place yourself?” William asked.

  “I did,” Garrin said as he put some wood into the second fireplace and built the fire up for cooking. “Two fireplaces help evenly distribute the heat so I can use it for skins in the winter. In the summer, the stone walls keep it cooler than the outside air as well. It has served me well. Sometimes I come out here for days, and use this as my home away from home, so to speak.”

  “Why do you live out here?” Richard asked suddenly.

  Garrin looked to the boy and saw that he was fingering the hole in his coat that the bear had created during the attack. The trapper smiled and cocked his head to the side.

  “I like being out here. The trees are good friends. The mountains are wise, and have a lot to teach if you are willing to listen.”

  “What do they teach?”

  Garrin pulled his coat off and tossed it over the small bed in the corner of the room. Then he turned to the pelts on the racks and pointed to them.

  “The bear teaches about strength. The moose teaches courage. The deer teaches caution and the value of being alert to one’s surroundings.” Garrin then folded his arms and nodded to Richard. “The woodpecker teaches the value of persistence and faith as he pecks at the wood to find his food. The squirrel teaches about frugality, and preparing for harder times.”

  Richard smiled back and nodded, but he didn’t say anything. His fingers were still feeling the tooth marks in his coat.

  “The split-tails teach of loyalty,” Garrin added. Then he moved toward Richard and pointed at the largest tooth mark. “They also teach that groups that work together can always overcome any threat. A bear may be large and strong, but he is no match for a cunning boy, his fearless uncle, and a couple of split-tails.”

  “You forgot the strong warrior,” William noted quickly, tossing the words over his shoulder at the pair.

  Richard nodded then, and it appeared that the worry had left his face now. He smiled wider and then moved toward the bed. Kaspar nudged his way out of the canister and bounded over to curl up next to Richard.

  “I think he does like me,” Richard said.

  “He has good taste in friends,” Garrin said.

  Richard smiled and stroked a hand down the soft fur on Kaspar’s back.

  “I mentioned before that I took someone else through Geberron Pass, right?” Garrin said.

  Richard nodded.

  Garrin smiled and slid a chair over next to the bed. “He was a bit like you. He was young, inexperienced, and a bit frightened, but he made it through just fine.”

  “Did he come from Richwater?” Richard asked.

  Garrin shook his head. “No, in fact, he came from Brantwyn Keep, which is north of Brywood some distance.”

  “I know where that is,” William cut in. “What was this man’s name?”

  Garrin tossed the words over his shoulder without taking his eyes off of Richard. “His name is Derigrin Sponderak. He was training as a scribe there in Brantwyn Keep.”

  “What in Hammenfein made a scribe from Brantwyn Keep travel across Geberron Pass?” William asked, half choking on laughter.

  Garrin nodded and looked to Richard. “I can tell you if you like,” he told Richard.

  Richard nodded enthusiastically, finally seeming to forget about the bear from the previous night.

  The trapper leaned forward in his chair and cleared his throat. “Have you ever heard of Alimar Dondaric the third?”

  Richard shook his head.

  Garrin smiled wide. “Ah, well, you see, Alimar was a master scholar of the Order of Anorit. It was his job to collect folk tales, legends, and songs from as many peoples and countries as he could in his lifetime. He was a wise man who spoke many languages fluently. Some say he spoke Peish like a dwarf, and yet could switch into Taish and sound just like an elf. Well, you see, Alimar Dondaric met Derigrin Sponderak in Brantwyn Keep one day. The master scholar told the young scribe of his quest, and of past adventures. Derigrin couldn’t help but join the master scholar.

  “Derigrin traveled with Alimar for two and a half years. The young scribe made it his mission in life to assist the master scholar collect stories and myths. Due to the young man’s inexperience, he let Master Dondaric convince him that the trolls and giants in the mountains had treasures of knowledge to be discovered.

  “They trekked upriver to Silverdale. They stayed there for three days gathering supplies and preparing for the journey east to the mountains north of Kot.” Garrin shook his head then and sighed. “They were foolish to go up there. I used to fight up there, you see. That’s where I got my first taste of broken ribs, courtesy of a large Tarthun warrior.”

  William called out from behind, “Is there a point to this story, or are you just trying to give him nightmares?”

  Garrin held up his hand and waved William off. “Derigrin said his travels were enlightening. They were fortunate enough to link up with a merchant caravan for the first half of the trip. However, their luck took a turn for the worse after they split from the merchant caravan. Unbeknownst to them, a group of Tarthun raiders had been watching them, and once they separated from the caravan, the raiders fell upon them like an eagle might light upon unsuspecting mice in the field. Alimar Dondaric, being seventy-two years old, had no strength to fight, and Derigrin had always been better with a quill or pen than a sword. However, Alimar was clever enough to keep them alive. He recounted to the Tarthuns the story of The Moondragon. His lively retelling of the tale enchanted the pagan savages, and they marveled that an outlander should know one of their childhood stories.

  “The Moondragon is not a Tarthun legend,” William argued.

  Garrin turned around and nodded emphatically. “Yes, it is.”

  “How do you know this Derigrin was telling the truth, huh?” William shouted with a flourish of his hands. Richard giggled and covered his mouth.

  Garrin turned back to the boy. “I saw the manuscript. I saw Alimar’s book. The Moondragon is a Tarthun legend. In any case, that isn’t the point of this story.” Garrin turned over his shoulder. “No more interruptions.”

  William put his hands in the air. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d hired a bard, I thought you were a burly, rough and tough mountain man.”

  Garrin turned around and screwed up his face, turning his eyes in to cross each other and letting his tongue hang out. Richard enjoyed the jest and laughed out loud for the first time since Garrin had known him. Then, the trapper continued.

  “As I was saying, the Tarthuns were so enamored with Master Dondaric, that once he finished, they allowed the two men to live so long as they continued to tell the Tarthuns stories. So, each night as the raiders ate and drank themselves into a stupor with wine, Mast
er Dondaric would tell them a story from this compilation. During the day, Alimar and Derigrin walked along with the Tarthuns, for the Tarthuns had stolen their horses, and by night they entertained the savages with stories of honor and heroism.

  “Whether it was because the Tarthuns had grown accustomed to Alimar and Derigrin, or they were celebrating the day’s raids, no one can be sure, but on the eleventh night the Tarthuns drank themselves to sleep much faster than on previous nights. Seeing that they were in the foothills near the mountains, Master Dondaric and the young scribe fled to the forested peaks to take shelter.

  “Icadion smiled upon them once more and they were able to slip away from the Tarthuns for good. They spent the next two years hiking through the mountains, cataloging animals and birds, always looking for giants or trolls. They saw very little of civilization, and almost no humans crossed their path. It was interesting work, but it was certainly not the glamorous adventure Derigrin had hoped it would be. There were nights when they built up fires with thick smoke to drive off the swarms of mosquitos that plagued them. Other times they slept in trees with their bodies tied to the branches so they wouldn’t fall down to be devoured by the savage animals below.”

  “Garrin…” William called out, the patience obviously ebbing away.

  The trapper ignored him. “I don’t even want to mention the dysentery they both contracted after drinking from a stream they thought was clean.” Garrin pinched his nose and made a foul face. Richard laughed again and pulled his legs up under himself to sit upon his knees.

  Garrin continued. “After two years, they quit their search and went farther eastward, arriving in the famous Twin Cities. They spent several weeks pouring over tomes in the archives, but Master Dondaric found nothing on his desired subjects. Oh, they found a couple of chronicles that mentioned cave trolls being spotted in the mountains, but nothing of any detail. Finally, Master Dondaric let his frustration get the better of him. They set out for the next range of mountains, north of the inner sea above the Twin Cities. It took a week to cross the inner sea, and Derigrin was more than grateful to step upon dry land again when they reached the base of the mountains, for the sea made his stomach sick. Master Dondaric was none the worse for wear, and was far too excited about finding trolls to inquire about Derigrin’s health at the time. So, they went straightaway into the jagged, rocky peaks. They camped only at dusk, and would rise to travel with first light. It was a grueling pace.

  “They used every tip and trick Master Dondaric had ever collected to find the elusive trolls and giants, but nothing worked. They did come face to face with a few more bears than one would have wanted, but they were able to survive those encounters without injury, except for perhaps to Derigrin’s pride when an angry sow chased him up a pine tree and Master Dondaric was able to shew the beast away with only a yew branch.

  “Their travels ended a few months later. They were setting camp for the night. Derigrin was roasting a freshly caught trout that he had wrangled out of a small stream and Master Dondaric was smoking a cherry-wood pipe and contemplating as he often did before supper. No sooner had Derigrin plated their meal when something burst through the trees and stamped out their fire. It was big, gray, and it had a grotesque bulging belly that overlapped its ragged, leather loin covering and heaved with each step. With one hand it knocked Derigrin clear from the camp and he landed in a briar patch. Thorns and briars ripped and pierced his skin, holding him pretty well in place no matter how much he struggled.

  “Master Dondaric shouted out for Derigrin to run, and then the young scribe watched in horror as the brutish ogre swiped Alimar Dondaric up by the ankle and dangled him in the air like a freshly caught hen. Master Dondaric fought for all he was worth, but even a young man is not much of a concern for an ogre. The monster turned and walked out of the camp through the trees, carrying Master Dondaric before it and laughing at his impotent shouts and curses.

  “Somehow, the young scribe summoned the courage to go after the ogre. He ripped himself free of the brambles and ran for his bow, which was the only weapon he could honestly claim to use with any amount of skill.” Garrin jumped up and pantomimed ripping briars free from his arms and then pulling back on a bow string. “Derigrin sprinted through the darkening forest, tripping once as his eyes adjusted to the fading light, but no matter how fast he ran, the ogre continued to put a sizeable distance between them. So, he followed the sounds of the ogre’s huge, lumbering steps and Master Dondaric’s shouts.

  Garrin swept his hand out over Richard and sat back on the front edge of his chair. “A half hour passed, and Derigrin’s sides ached from running. Master Dondaric’s shouts had ceased, and the young scribe felt in his gut that there was nothing more he could do for the master scholar. Still, he pressed onward, hoping that he was wrong, and that somehow Dondaric would manage to escape. After all, he had outsmarted the Tarthuns, and he had fought off a bear with only a stick. Surely he must have some trick with which to best a giant, oafish ogre.

  “Derigrin slowed when he saw the light of a fire. He wasn’t sure what he would come upon, so he picked his way carefully through the trees and the underbrush. The scribe could hear rumbling voices and laughter, but it wasn’t human. There were more ogres. As he peeked through a thin wall of blackberry bushes, he spied four giant figures, huddling together and speaking in some language he couldn’t understand. He looked all around the small clearing they stood in, but Derigrin couldn’t see Master Dondaric anywhere.”

  “Was he dead?” Richard asked. He was now sitting on his rump with his knees tucked up into his chest.

  “Honestly, Garrin, that’s enough,” William protested.

  Garrin held a finger up to Richard and continued with the grim tale. “Slowly, silently, Derigrin readied his bow. He only had five arrows, and he knew that ogres had thick, nearly impenetrable skulls and enough fat on them to make striking their heart almost impossible as well, so he decided not to attack directly. He aimed for the bushes on the opposite side of the clearing. The scribe let the arrow fly and it made quite a ruckus as it tore through leaves and limbs. The ogres all snapped their fat heads up to see the sound and started bounding over to the other side. As they shifted away, he saw that they had been standing in front of something. His heart stopped beating and he fought the urge to retch when he saw what it was.” Garrin made a fist and slammed it against his chest as he sucked in a breath.

  Richard jumped and shook his head, eyes wide and mouth open.

  “Derigrin is still haunted by that sight even now. I doubt the image will ever cease haunting him till the day he passes from this mortal plane. A single, black boot hung over the lip of a large, black cauldron with thick steam flowing up and some yellowy water bubbling over the sides and slopping onto the large fire below. Derigrin would have recognized the boot anywhere.”

  “It was Dondaric’s!” Richard squeaked.

  “Okay, that really is enough,” William said as he stepped over to Garrin. “Can’t you see you’re frightening the boy?”

  Richard looked up and shook his head. “No, I want to hear it. I want to know how Derigrin got away. Let him tell me, please?”

  Garrin lifted his brows and cocked his head to the side at William. “Please with sugar on top?” Garrin added.

  William huffed and turned around.

  The trapper turned back to Richard and winked. “Some may call Derigrin a coward for not fighting the ogres and avenging Master Dondaric, but in truth, it wouldn’t have done him any good by the time Derigrin arrived. Instead, the scribe turned and ran for everything he was worth. He knew that his days of adventuring were done the moment he saw what the ogres were doing to poor Master Dondaric. Unfortunately, Derigrin left most of his writings, notes, and the books he traveled with in the camp and I am sure they are now ruined by the weather and lost forever. However, Master Dondaric’s manuscript, which Derigrin showed to me while we travelled together, was sitting in Derigrin’s backpack, which he grabbed on his way out of
the forest. Whether it was there by luck or divine intervention, I can’t say for sure.

  “With my help, Derigrin was safely deposited back at Brantwyn Keep where his tale of adventure and horror had begun. He was most fortunate to be able to take up his position as a scribe there once more, his replacement having fallen ill and died of a fever not a week before our arrival. Though our trip over the pass was much smoother than what he had experienced with Master Dondaric, he shall not venture out into the wilds anymore, of that I am certain. But, to honor the memory of his thirty months with Master Dondaric, he thought it the least he could do to ensure that Alimar’s life work was finished. Derigrin worked with the best craftsmen in Brantwyn Keep to fashion leather binding, emblazoned with the finest calligraphy and an etching of the World Tree, which Master Dondaric had oft said was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, on the front. The young scribe worked tirelessly for three years to produce five copies, each complete with Master Dondaric’s foreword and notes. Derigrin then sent four of the five copies to the library in Graebner, where the Order of Anorit was founded.”

  “What of the last copy?” Richard asked excitedly.

  Garrin touched a finger to his nose and grinned. “That copy, Derigrin holds at Brantwyn Keep. Most of the time it reminds him of the Great Master Dondaric’s legacy, and I am sure the scribe smiles even now whilst thinking of Dondaric exploring Volganor and writing about the gods and goddesses there. But sometimes, on lonely and dark nights when the wind howls through the tiles upon the roof, the book taunts him, sitting as a reminder of Derigrin’s insignificance in the grand designs of fate and his own finite mortality.”

  Garrin ended the story with a deep bow of his head and Richard offered a couple of gleeful claps.

  William wasted no time jumping in, however. “If Derigrin was north of the Twin Cities, why would he come south through our kingdom at all? Wouldn’t it be shorter and more direct to travel to Fort Crow, and then down the river to Silverdale and finally back to Brantwyn Keep?”