“Come and sit down,” said Garrett coolly. “Watch the fire here. There’s a stool setup for you, and I have some ham and mushrooms cooking up.”
“Oh boy,” said Willie, “smells great.”
Garrett cleared his throat. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Dandy,” replied Willie with a sheepish grin. “I just needed a nap, that’s all. I haven’t been sleeping so well the last few nights.”
“Here you go,” said Garrett, passing Willie a plate of mushrooms and ham. “I’ll get you a fork and knife.” He went to the back of the wagon and reached in. “I didn’t have time to make coffee,” he admitted, “how about a mug of cold spring water?”
“That would be fine,” said Willie amiably. “My throat is a little dry.”
“I’ll bet it is,” agreed Garrett. Returning to his friend, he passed him the water and utensils. Willie looked up when Garrett rested a hand on his shoulder. “Now, I’m going to throw on a slice of ham for myself, and you can tell me why a blind man would want to hunt the Deepbrook Devil.”
* * * *
“I’m not blind yet,” said Willie after a long stretch of silence. “I can still see… a bit.”
Garrett added a thick slice of ham to the frying pan and moved it back over the heat. Pulling his stool up to the fire, he felt his stomach turn at having cornered his friend. “When did it happen?” he asked.
“Been happening for a long time,” admitted Willie. “You know me and the Impaler. I could hit a fly at thirty paces.” Garrett nodded, knowing full well Willie’s expertise with his legendary bow. “Then, one day, I couldn’t. It came on so slowly that I didn’t realize it had been happening until I had all but lost the sight in my left eye.” Willie shrugged and cut into his ham. “The left gave out on me, and now the right is going. I can still see down the middle, it’s just the sides are closing in.”
“What about Renli’s surgeons?” asked Garrett, flipping the meat in the pan.
Willie exhaled and jammed a forkful of meat and mushrooms into his mouth. “Been to see ‘em all, chum,” he said around his mouthful. “Nothing they can do for me. It’s just a matter of time.” Willie shook his fork at Garrett. “Now do you see why it was so important for me to come and get you for this hunt?”
Garrett tilted his head and nodded. Dumping the ham onto his plate, he moved his stool away from the heat. He wasn’t sure what to say. If he was going blind, would he want one last hoorah?
“This is it for me, chum,” continued Willie, setting his plate down. “Last chance for glory,” he said.
“Oh come on,” shot back Garrett, “you were the most famous bowman in the realm. Every kid from here to Ponce knows of Willie the West Coast Whelp. Twenty-three time champion of the Five Dells, eight time winner of the King’s Golden Stag, and only the most famed sharpshooter in the northern realm.”
“There, you said it yourself,” complained Willie “I was the most famous sharpshooter.” The man’s voice took on a sullen tone. He kicked at a log hanging on the edge of the fire pit, and missed. “I haven’t been able to compete in five years, and it’s been eight since I medaled. I might as well be dead, Garrett. You and I both know I was put on this earth for one reason and that was to feather targets.” He glared across the campfire at his friend. “King Renli sees me taken care of, but doting servants and arse-kissing lords don’t ignite a fire in your belly, son.” He cleared his throat and waved his fork again. “A man needs that fire in his belly,” he said defiantly.
“Nothing will ever erase your legend,” assured Garrett. “You will always be the best bowman to ever walk the streets of Cassadia. I know a handful of kids in Deep Cove that would kill to have your autograph. Trust me Willie, they still remember you.”
“When I bag the Deepbrook Devil, my legend will be cemented,” argued Willie. “I still have partial sight in my right eye and a strong arm. If that monster steps into my path, I’ll be known as the man that slew the Devil. It can’t get any better than that.” Willie grinned and stood. He made his way to the wagon and returned with a familiar brown bottle. He tipped it toward Garrett in offering, but Garrett shook his head, uncertain if he should voice his concerns.
Garrett gathered up the dishes and the dirty frying pan. “I’ll wash these,” he said, heading for a small stream where he had watered the horses. When he reached the back of the wagon he turned and called out to Willie. “Just for argument’s sake,” he asked, “How many paces can you impale a fly at, now?”
“Oh I don’t think it should be a problem, chum,” replied Willie contentedly. “If they land on me, I almost always get em.”
* * * *
“Come on Garrett, don’t be such a baby. If I miss, I’ll do the breakfast dishes.”
“It’s your turn anyway,” returned Garrett, dumping a pot of water on their breakfast fire. It was now three days since they had left Deep Cove and the two men were getting along relatively well since they had talked things over on the first day. Willie seemed to be genuinely enjoying the trip and had made an effort to cut back on his drinking. He was still sneaking the occasional nip throughout the day, but at least he was remaining coherent.
Willie stood and patted his belly. “Alright,” he conceded. “I’ll do the dishes for the next three days – if I miss.”
“Okay,” agreed Garrett, to shut the other man up.
Willie clapped his hands together and went to the back of the wagon. Retrieving the ebony length of his famous bow, he rubbed the Impaler down with his hands and set about stringing it. “I get three arrows, like I said, though. You can’t expect a blind man to nail it on the first shot.”
“Anything you like, Willie,” agreed Garrett. “And when you scrub the pans tomorrow, make sure you get all of the egg out of the bottom. We don’t want leftovers the next time we eat.”
“You’re a riot, kid,” said Willie, returning to the fire pit.
Garrett lifted a large rotten log he had used as a stool the previous night. “Thirty yards good?” he asked.
“Make it forty,” returned the older man. “I’m feeling lucky this morning.”
Garrett didn’t reply, but continued down the wagon trail, counting to himself. He stopped at forty yards and set the gnarled piece of cedar in the middle of the track. “Can you see it?” he asked hopefully.
Willie was silent for a moment before deciding against lying. “No. I lost you,” he admitted.
Garrett left the wood where he’d placed it and started to walk back to his friend. “Tell me when you see me,” he called.
When Garrett was half way back, Willie waved. “There we go, chum. I got your shadow now,” he said.
“I’m half way,” called Garrett, still walking. “The stump is straight behind me, in the middle of the roadway.”
Willie spat in his hands and selected an arrow from his quiver. Glancing left and right, he assessed the lighter sand of the cart path with his good eye. Kneeling, he drew the string to his cheek with a grunt. He adjusted the elevation, exhaled half-way, and released his arrow. The missile cut through the morning air, and sailed up and over its target.
“Twenty paces behind, and to the left,” informed Garrett. “That’s one.”
Willie turned to his friend. “Hey! I just thought of something,” he said excitedly. “This is exactly like the day we met!”
Garrett laughed and nodded. He had forgotten the incident completely, but now that Willie mentioned it, a flood of memories filled his mind.
“Old Fonn challenged Heindi to a battle of bows, and the bandit had me come in and do his dirty work. I’ll admit I was a tad cocky in those days, but I don’t think there was man there who thought I’d lose.”
“Those old boys had some secrets that no one understood,” said Garrett. “Even after studying with them for years, I never learned to commune with the animals like old Fonn claimed he could. That was more of a Shiva’s ability.”
“Oh yes,” said Willie knowingly. “The Shiva or th
e shield, and the Sworvei, the sword - those old men had some strange notions alright. You trained under Yarl as a Sworvei and Azilda was to be the Shiva if I recall?”
“Yes,” agreed Garrett. The mention of Azilda’s name reminded him of the recent letter he had received.
“Hah, you’re right, though,” said Willie, selecting another arrow. “He did claim the birdies whistled him directions that day. He might have been telling the truth, because at the time, I don’t think he could see much better than I can now.”
“He always managed,” said Garrett, half lost in thought.
Willie took up position again, this time not bothering to kneel. Using his five decades of experience with his bow, he calculated the pull and angle of his shot. The arrow sped from his grip and punched into the dirt fifteen feet to the right of the cedar stump.
Willie cleared his throat and turned to Garrett. “Do you mind, chum?” he asked.
“What’s that?” asked Garrett absently.
Willie chuckled. “I hear lots of birds singing,” said Willie, “but none of the little bastards are sharing anything useful.”
“Oh sorry,” said Garrett, feeling silly. “You missed. To the right. Twelve maybe fifteen paces. The distance was good though.”
“Well, was it twelve or fifteen? That’s a big chunk of area in relation to that little piece of cedar you slung out there, chum.” Willie grinned at his friend.
“Fifteen,” replied Garrett, assessing Willie’s last shot.
“I got her dialed in now,” sang Willie. He took up his last arrow and made a great show of scratching at the ground with his foot and flapping his arms like a chicken. Both men broke into laughter, recalling Master Fonn’s antics from twenty years ago. At last, Willie calmed himself and drew back his last shot. Adjusting his aim according to Garrett’s instructions, he released the arrow.
“I don’t believe it!” yelled Garrett, slapping the older man on the arm. “You nailed it.” Clapping his hands, he rushed off to retrieve the target.
Willie kissed the Impaler, the glint of victory shining in his good eye. “I told you I felt sharp this morning.” He danced a quick jig and followed Garrett along the dirt path.
Garrett collected the two arrows on either side of the cedar target and then ran behind the log in search of the final shaft. Discovering it had broken against a rock, he returned to the stump and jammed an arrow into the rotten wood. Spinning, just as Willie walked up, he thrust the trophy out for the older man to examine. “It’s not dead center,” said Garrett, “but you killed it good.”
* * * *
It was early morning on their sixth day of travel, and Willie reveled in the warmth of the morning sun on his skin. It had rained all day yesterday, and the two men had only left the wagon to relieve themselves, when necessary. As they arrived on the fringes of the Lonely Wood yesterday morning, the storm clouds overhead had made the forest dark and gloomy. To Willie it seemed like a foreshadowing of things to come. The bowman had said little throughout the day; it was all he could do to fight the urge to lose himself in the drink.
This morning, with the sunshine warming his skin and the birds singing in the bushes, he felt as though a weight had been lifted from him. He shouldered his bow and walked along the road, away from the wagon. At forty paces he stopped, looking down at the wooden crate he had placed in the middle of the track. He wasn’t surprised to find no arrows embedded in it. Shrugging to himself, he began to search in ever widening circles around his target. At fifteen paces, he found the first of five arrows he had loosed at the box. ‘I’ll take it,’ he thought to himself, and continued his search.
Though it had started as a joke, his success in hitting the cedar stump the other morning had profoundly inspired him. Why couldn’t he be blind and continue to do the one thing he loved? ‘It’s only a matter of training.’ He had seen blindfolded men throw knives and daggers at targets, and they rarely missed. Even when they were off their mark, the crowd always cheered. After all, they were blind, what chance did they really have? ‘I have fifty years’ experience shooting my bow, I know the draw weight of distances, angles and elevations, and I’ve feathered more targets in my life than I care to count.’ Thirty paces behind the crate he discovered a second arrow. ‘I won’t be able to peek under my blindfold though.’ For the briefest of moments, he thought of pulling the bottle from his pocket and taking a stiff swallow. ‘No,’ he warned himself, “Maybe you can have a drink after the next round. But only if you hit the crate.’
His foot snagged the tip of an arrow buried in the long grasses at the edge of the road, and he bent down to pull it free. He scanned the area, but could not discern any more of his missing arrows in the shadowy landscape of his failing vision. He shrugged and returned to the crate. Protruding through the slates in the wooden box, a metal pole leaned to one side; a cow bell tied to the top of it. Giving the bell a smack, he grinned at the sweet music of his salvation.
He counted out the forty paces back to his shooting line, and pulled the Impaler from his shoulder. He inhaled the cool wet fragrance of the forest. Pulling the string back to his cheek, he adjusted his pull weight and elevation. Breathing evenly he blocked out the sounds of the birds and the squirrels. Without realizing it, he strained to hear that strident clang of the cow bell in the wind; a sound that would not only set his arrow free, but all his pent up tension with it.
A hand came down on his shoulder, shattering his attuned senses. “Willie boy,” a harsh voice breathed into his ear.
The bowman shuddered. He recognized the voice before he turned. “What are you doing here?” he shot back in an angry whisper. The man that had touched his shoulder was equally as tall as Willie, but twice as thick. He wore simple clothes the color of the forest. The man’s face was weathered, and he frowned at Willie’s tone.
“I’m checking in with you, friend,” he said coolly.
“You go too far,” said Willie. Angrily, he slammed his arrow into the quiver at his belt. “I told you to stay away from me.”
“I’m only doing my job,” argued the man. “Besides, I did you the courtesy of waiting for your friend to go over the hill to wash his dishes.”
“I had nothing to say to you before, and I have nothing to say to you now.” Willie glared at the man.
The shove that came next took the bowman by surprise, and he landed on his rump with a grunt. The other man leaned in dangerously close. “I don’t care what you think. You might be the high and mighty Willie Taylor back home, but out here you’re nothing, and you do what I say. I’m a practical man, Willie. You owe our mutual friend quite a sum. Your debts shouldn’t be any concern of your buddy over there, but if you refuse to cooperate, you can both disappear, for all I care. I get paid either way.”
Willie swallowed his retort. He knew the larger man wasn’t bluffing. “What do you want from me?” he hissed.
“You know what I want,” returned the newcomer.
Willie stood and dusted his bottom. Gathering his courage, he poked the man in the chest. “This is none of your business Roget. As you said, my debts are my own…”
Roget grabbed Willie’s hand and twisted the offending finger. Willie groaned and dropped to his knees in pain. “I’ve been paid to make it my business,” argued the man, his nose an inch from Willie’s. “I thought you might need a reminder that you and I have unfinished matters. Did you think that if you left Cassadia your liabilities would be forgotten, or perhaps forgiven?” The man released Willie’s finger and pushed him into the dirt, with one smooth motion. “I’m trying to be pleasant with you, William.”
“I don’t believe you know the meaning of the word,” moaned Willie, rubbing his hand.
“I don’t care what you believe, Taylor. Truth is, I’m not a kind man. Sign over the properties and your bow, and you will be free of your obligations.”
“Yes,” said Willie, scowling, “Free until the next time our friend requires a payment.”
“I could kill yo
u here and now, William. I can have the papers for the estates forged, and we both know your bow will fetch a handsome sum, even on the black market.”
Willie snorted. “You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”
“I’m not above that,” snarled Roget. A look of anger flashed across his face, and for a moment it looked as though he would strike Willie.
From over the hill, the wind carried Garrett’s call. “Willie?”
“Yes?” croaked the bowman. “What do you need?” He pushed himself up from his knees, and watched his antagonist flee into the bushes.
“Are you ready to go?”
“Sure thing,” called Willie. “I’m just collecting my arrows.”
Willie wrung his hands, his mind awhirl. Pacing back and forth, he hesitated. If Garrett knew how much of a mess he was in, he would lose all respect for Willie. The bowman had to find a way to tell him though. Pulling his bottle from his pocket, he drank deeply. He retrieved his bow from the dirt and hurried in Garrett’s direction. “Do you mind giving me a hand?” he called. “I’ve lost my arrows, again.”
3
Busted
The morning sun warmed the stone buildings, concrete laneways, and large holding tanks of the new construction site. Several crews of workers were busy sweeping the laneways or working high up on scaffolding as a dark carriage threaded its way around the various obstacles of the site. The carriage came to a juddering halt before a set of stone steps at the main building, and the driver leaned down to open the door for the carriage’s occupants.
Something Stinks in Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 4) Page 3