The Hickory Staff

by Rob Scott

  Versen led the group along paths he found easily, as if he had known them his whole life; Gilmour brought up the rear just behind Mark. Garec was riding in front of Steven, and when the path widened slightly, he pulled alongside.

  ‘You haven’t had much sleep in several days I’d guess.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Steven said as he fought off another yawn. ‘I’m not certain I’ll make a full day on this horse.’

  ‘We won’t ride a full day today,’ the young Ronan answered. ‘We all need rest, and I must warn my parents and sisters, so we’ll be stopping at my family’s farm. It’s not far now.’

  ‘Thank God. Maybe I can get some sleep then.’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’ Garec reached across and patted Steven’s horse gently along the neck. ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘She’s wonderful,’ Steven said as he ran one hand up the horse’s mane and started patting her vigorously. The mare responded with a toss of her head and a pleasant whinny. ‘Did you choose her?’

  ‘I did,’ Garec answered proudly.

  ‘You’ve got a great eye for horses.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. She did take to you very quickly, though, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she did,’ Steven said reflectively. He peered at his watch: it was already noon in Idaho Springs, but it had only been daylight here in Rona for four hours.

  ‘What is that thing?’ Garec asked, curiously eyeing Steven’s wrist.

  ‘It’s called a watch,’ Steven replied, and briefly explained the instrument and how it worked. ‘As far as I can tell, you have about four fewer “hours” in your day than we have in Colorado.’ He used the English term, because he still could not think of a Ronan equivalent. Unfastening the watch, he offered it to Garec.

  ‘ ‘‘Hours”?’ He turned the instrument over between his fingers and observed as the second hand made half a revolution.

  ‘Yes, hours. An hour is one of twenty-four equal portions of one Colorado day,’ Steven explained, then added, ‘and those figures listed around the outer edge represent our number system.’

  Garec was fascinated; he endeavoured to find parallels in Ronan time. ‘Your hour is similar to our aven then. There are eight in each day, two from dawn to midday, two between midday and sundown, two from sundown to middlenight and two between middlenight and dawn.’

  Steven did the calculations in his head. ‘So an aven is about two and a half hours, assuming there are twenty hours in a Ronan day.’ He showed Garec how to chart one aven on the face of his watch.

  ‘That’s very interesting, Steven Taylor.’ Garec handed back the timepiece.

  ‘Oh, that’s okay.’ He waved one hand dismissively at the bowman. ‘You keep it.’

  Garec grinned like a schoolboy. ‘Thank you, Steven Taylor. Thank you very much.’ He attached the watch to his wrist before adding, ‘You keep the horse.’

  Now it was Steven’s turn to grin. ‘Are you kidding?’ He ran his hand gently through the animal’s mane. ‘Garec, this is too much. I can’t take this horse.’

  ‘Well, I can’t keep her,’ Garec told him, motioning to his own mount. ‘Rennie would be jealous.’

  ‘What’s this one’s name?’

  ‘We’ll call her whatever you wish, Steven Taylor,’ Garec said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘It’s just Steven, Garec.’ He thought for a moment before asking, ‘Can we call her Howard?’

  ‘Howard it shall be, Steven Taylor. Sorry, “just Steven”.’ Garec laughed.

  Mark, meanwhile, was having a less than easy time with his own mount, a strong-willed animal that would have baulked at commands from an experienced rider. Mark attempted to employ the simple rules Steven had taught him in the orchard, but by midday, when the horse yet again wandered from the path to crop the greenery, he realised the independent-minded beast wasn’t going to pay any attention to him no matter what he did. Finally, Sallax rode alongside and, with a withering look, took the reins from Mark and led the animal himself. Mark was left to balance in the horribly uncomfortable saddle, shattered from two nights without sleep, aching from the awkward motion of the horse’s unfamiliar gait and desperately embarrassed at his inability to control the wretched animal.

  By now the only thing keeping Mark awake was the irregular rhythm of the animal’s tread and the throbbing pain in his thighs and lower back. He had tried resting his head on the horse’s neck, but whenever he started to drift off to sleep, the horse would jerk about or shake its head and Mark would nearly fall from the saddle. Eventually he decided to sit up straight and welcome the pain as his only distraction from the overwhelming fatigue.

  Gilmour trotted forward and touched Mark gently on the forearm. ‘Excuse me, my friend,’ he whispered, waking Mark from his nearly delusional reverie. ‘If you lean forward slightly and use the stirrups to lift your weight just a fraction with each step, you’ll find the rhythm begins to make some sense. It will alleviate the strain on your back.’ He demonstrated what he meant, then fell back alongside.

  ‘Try it. I promise you it will help.’

  Mark felt a fool, but at this stage he had nothing to lose. He was astounded to find Gilmour had not been exaggerating; the relief was almost immediate.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, trying several positions before deciding on one that felt most comfortable, then asked, ‘What is Welstar Palace?’

  ‘It is Prince Malagon’s home in Malakasia, a particularly dangerous place for us to travel to. But it’s there we’ll find Lessek’s Key, and a passage for you and Steven to return home.’

  ‘We can get home through Malagon’s palace?’

  ‘Well, it isn’t really Malagon’s palace any more. Malagon Whitward is long dead. What was Malagon is being controlled, mind and body, by Nerak, an exceedingly evil force that has been plaguing Eldarn for nearly a thousand Twinmoons.’ Gilmour pulled two apples from his saddlebag and handed one to Mark.

  ‘How will we get in without him – it – knowing we’re there?’ Mark took a bite and waited for Gilmour’s reply.

  ‘I’m not certain yet, but I can tell you it will be very dangerous for all of us. Just being that close to Welstar Palace can be deadly.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Going inside verges on suicide. I hope to enter with you and Steven alone. If all goes well, we will send you home and I will search Malagon’s chambers for Lessek’s Key.’

  ‘Does Nerak have a tapestry like the one Steven found at the bank?’ Mark tossed his apple core into the underbrush and wiped his fingers on the tunic he had stolen in Estrad.

  ‘He does. We call them “far portals”. There are only two in existence now. The one Nerak has at Welstar Palace is not as powerful as the one you used to come here. It was actually Nerak who took that one and hid it in Colorado.’ Gilmour filled his pipe but left it unlit and dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  He sighed again, almost to himself, then continued, ‘The Larion Senate in Gorsk used the two far portals for thousands of Twinmoons, travelling back and forth between Eldarn and your homelands, to research medicine, technology and even magic. We used the knowledge we gathered to improve life here in the five nations.’ He ran one hand over his balding pate and scratched vigorously at his beard. ‘The portal hidden in Colorado can pinpoint a location, the beach where you landed, for example. That is its particular strength. So even if the portal in Nerak’s palace is closed, the one you opened will send everyone who comes through to the same place.’

  ‘That’s why Steven landed on the same beach,’ Mark guessed.

  ‘Exactly. However, once it’s closed and re-opened, it finds another place. Anyone else coming through could end up anywhere in Eldarn. The far portal hidden in Welstar Palace can’t pinpoint an area unless the one in your home is left open. Otherwise it might drop you anywhere.’

  The old man’s words took a moment to register. ‘You mean if someone closes the portal in our house, we might get dropped back anywhere on the planet – and it might separate us from one another?
We might end up half the Earth apart?’

  Somehow, while Mark was speaking, Gilmour lit his pipe – although Mark was positive he hadn’t struck a match.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s right,’ Gilmour said. ‘All we can do is hope that while you are with us in Eldarn, no one tampers with the far portal on your floor. But if Nerak decides to travel back to your homeland, his portal will drop him right in the middle of your home town.’

  ‘Oh God, no.’ Mark had not imagined their situation could get worse, yet here it was. He continued, ‘When you were describing the Larion Senate, you said “we” used the far portals. The other tapestry has been locked in Steven’s bank for over a hundred and thirty years. How old does that make you?’

  Gilmour, caught out by the astute foreigner, winked, then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘My friends here in Rona don’t know these things, although I fear I may soon have to let them know who I truly am. Mark Jenkins, I am well over fifteen hundred Twinmoons old. When I reached fifteen hundred, I stopped counting. I, like you and Steven, learned languages and cultures by travelling through the far portals many times while I served the known lands as a Larion Senator.’

  Mark, somewhat punch-drunk from shock and fatigue, was surprised to find he wasn’t surprised by Gilmour’s confession. ‘So you’ve been to my homeland?’

  ‘I have never been to Colorado, although I heard much about it on my last trip. No, my last visit to your land ended on 2 July, 1863. It was outside a small town called—’

  ‘Gettysburg,’ Mark interrupted. ‘Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Gilmour beamed, remembering his younger days. ‘And from what I see from your relationship with Steven Taylor, American culture has come a long way since then.’ He exhaled a cloud of sweetly fragrant smoke that quickly faded on the morning breeze. ‘I am glad to see your society has made such progress.’

  ‘We have done well, but it’s been over a long period of time and we still have a long way to go. There are still inexcusable things happening that must be addressed.’ Mark paused for a moment. ‘Hold on, wait a moment: you were in Pennsylvania in 1863, and you travelled to our world specifically to bring back innovations and progressive technologies?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where is everything?’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘We’re eating from wooden bowls. Brynne speaks of avens to tell time, but you don’t have any timepieces. There were steam engines and blast furnaces in 1863, hospitals, institutions of higher learning and social movements to improve living conditions and ensure basic human rights. Where are they?’

  Gilmour suddenly looked sad; Mark was a little sorry he had asked the question.

  ‘That, my dear boy, is the tragic history of Eldarn.’ He smoked in silence for a moment, then went on, ‘Imagine a dictatorship, five generations long, that didn’t value progress, education, research or innovation. Imagine a dictatorship that closed universities, sought out and murdered intellectuals, stripped communities of basic health and human services and then stifled every attempt to revive any of it. Imagine that over time. People forget; progress is stalled.’

  ‘Well, sure, the culture would stagnate somewhat, Gilmour, but surely brilliant people would find a way to—’

  The old man interrupted, ‘Brilliant people are terrified, and rightly so. There are a few wild revolutionaries operating outlawed printing presses in barns and abandoned warehouses, but too many of them are found out and executed before any real following can pick up the gauntlet and carry on. Eldarni culture has existed for seven Ages, over twenty Eras, literally thousands of Twinmoons, and I can’t even tell you what Twinmoon it is right now. A culture does more than stagnate in such a dictatorship, Mark, it dies.’

  ‘So there’s no hope?’

  ‘There is now, my friend.’

  Deciding not to pursue Gilmour’s insinuations right then, Mark diverted their conversation. ‘So, you were at Gettysburg.’

  ‘I was, but sadly, I could not stay to see how things turned out.’ Gilmour looked up through the low-hanging tree branches and reflected aloud, ‘I was with a young man from Maine named Jed Harkness. His division took up their position at the far end of a long stretch of wooded hill called—’ He paused. ‘I can’t remember its name.’

  ‘Little Round Top,’ Mark helped him. ‘Harkness must have been a member of the Twentieth Maine.’ Mark was happy to be discussing something familiar. ‘You should have stayed around that day, Gilmour. You missed one of the turning points in the whole war. That group of soldiers from Maine held that flank and, some would argue, saved the Union.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry I missed it, but I was summoned back that morning and soon thereafter, there was a terrible tragedy at Sandcliff Palace. I never returned, but I have often thought about Harkness and how he fared that day.’ He hesitated before asking, ‘Why did they call it a Civil War? It seemed far from civil to me.’

  ‘That’s one for the ages, Gilmour,’ Mark commented ironically. Then, feeling a numbing wave of fatigue pass through him, he rubbed his eyes with his fingertips and wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘I’ve never been this tired before.’

  ‘We’ll be there soon, and you can sleep the rest of the day away.’ Gilmour reached into his saddlebag and withdrew a small root that looked to Mark a little like ginger, light brown and strangely shaped. The older man sliced a small portion from one of the root’s twisted appendages and handed it to him. ‘Until then, chew on this. It will bring you some much-needed clarity and energy.’

  The plant was flavourless, but Mark chewed it doggedly and soon felt much better. His vision cleared; his energy level rose and his wits sharpened. Even the pain in his back subsided markedly.

  ‘That’s some remedy,’ he said brightly. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Fennaroot.’ Gilmour handed him the curled stem. ‘Some people like to dry it out and smoke it with their tobacco.’

  Mark raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, so even here they hit the peace pipe from time to time.’ He sniffed at the root and handed it back.

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ the older man said, ‘I do enjoy a bit on my tongue now and again. It does help keep my energy up.’

  ‘You could market that stuff for a hefty profit.’

  ‘I suppose so, but I’ve never been much for material things,’ Gilmour said, then changed the subject. ‘How’s your horse?’

  ‘I’ve chosen a name for him,’ Mark answered.

  ‘Really? What’s that?’ He sounded genuinely interested.

  ‘Wretch.’

  The riders didn’t go straight to Garec’s family home; Gilmour insisted they make camp in a far corner of the property, in case Malakasian spies had been sent to report their arrival. The farm consisted of several large fields and Steven and Mark could see a number of people harvesting vegetables; one drove a one-horse cart through the field while a team of pickers pulled ears of corn from tall stalks and tossed them into the back of the wagon. From a distance, it was almost impossible to see the workers walking beneath the stalks and Steven smiled as he watched hundreds of ears of corn flying of their own volition into the harvest wagon, like so many salmon leaping and tumbling their way upstream.

  ‘You two should sleep,’ Garec suggested as he dismounted and tethered Renna to a thin dogwood tree. ‘We’ll stay here tonight and be on our way again before dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Steven agreed. ‘You sleep first. I’ll stay awake.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘I slept while we were tied to the wall. You’ve been up for almost two full days.’ He watched as Garec made his way into the field. The corn stalks masked his movements and the Ronan revolutionary soon disappeared from view.

  Brynne hustled forward to the edge of the field. ‘Garec,’ she called into the corn, ‘bring me some wool hose and a pair of your sister’s boots, please.’

  Garec’s disembodied reply came back to them in a sharp whisper: ‘All
right.’

  ‘You both should sleep.’ Gilmour joined the foreigners. ‘Nothing will happen to you. Sleep as long as you like. We have much to do tomorrow.’

  Mark had no idea whether he would even be able to get down from his horse, let alone protect himself or Steven should an attack come while they slept. Despite Gilmour’s equestrian coaching, he was contemplating running alongside the animal rather than ever getting in the saddle again. Feeling a spasm of pain shoot across his lower back, Mark finally gave in.

  ‘Fine,’ he said to Steven, ‘let’s both sleep. If they wanted to kill us, they’d have done it by now.’

  ‘Good point,’ Steven dismounted smoothly, ‘but I think I’ll take a watch just in case. I want to be able to get you up if that almor thing appears again.’ Mark spread his bedroll on the ground under what looked like a large beech tree and in a matter of moments was sleeping soundly. Steven leaned against the trunk, determined to stay awake. He watched the others bustle about camp, organising supplies, gathering firewood and tending the horses. The quiet rhythm of their movements coupled with his extreme fatigue soon lulled him to sleep as well and he sank down until he was lying beside Mark on the soft earth beneath the sheltering branches.

  It was dark when Steven opened his eyes. He woke with a start, but found himself so cramped from sleeping on the uneven ground that he made no effort to get up. Instead, he lay back and observed as his new companions continued working in and around their campsite. Light from a small fire threw huge shadows against the forest backdrop; for a while Steven’s gaze moved back and forth between the Ronan partisans and their shadows looming above in the tree branches. Brynne stacked logs near the fire while Garec mended a tear in a leather pack. Their familiar movements were magnified tenfold when projected on the forest canopy; the comforting motions of people keeping busy with common tasks became ominous when performed by forty-foot-tall obsidian wraiths.