Pathfinder Tales: Skinwalkers

by Wendy N. Wagner

  Yul, for example, was a farmer. He grew rye and turnips in the short summer, and lots of beautiful lingonberries that his wife turned into heady lingonberry wine. Morul oversaw the tannery, where the hides of sheep and cows and wild game were transformed into the kinds of supple leathers Jendara sold at a high price on the mainland. They were no mere barbarians, no matter how furiously they might fight in battle.

  "Good. Now that you two aren't bickering, maybe we can get this boar butcher—" Vorrin broke off, nose crinkling. "What's that ghastly smell?"

  Morul chuckled. "While you three were standing about gossiping, I got to work." He nodded at the skinned and gutted boar carcass swinging from the tree. "Now just to finish the hide and get back home."

  Yul laughed. "Except your torch just went out." He reached into his bag and took out a bundle of pine twigs, dried herbs, and cattail fluff. "Here. Use this."

  Morul caught it neatly and lit it with his flint striker. He stooped. He had spread the boar's hide out on the ground, and now he waved the smoking brand over the raw side of the hide. The pungent smell of herbs filled the clearing.

  "What are you doing?" Vorrin asked.

  "Old wives' tale," Jendara murmured.

  "You leave an uncured hide around, a witch can work magic on it that'll make a man into an animal," Yul explained. "A skinwalker."

  "What would the witch do with a...skinwalker?"

  Yul shrugged. "If it was a mule, she'd probably train it for the plow. A bear, now, that would be something. Probably turn a bear on her enemies, kill them all."

  Morul snorted. "You don't really believe all that stuff, do you, brother?" He tossed the bundle of twigs on the ground and kicked dirt over it.

  "Old wives' tales," Jendara repeated, louder this time.

  "Hey, I know a man down on Battlewall, and his cousin's grandmother actually saw a witch turn a man into a dog," Yul said.

  "Must have been a big dog." Morul laughed and clapped Yul on the shoulder. "When you were a boy, you were always afraid Kalvamen would come and eat you, too."

  Yul shook off his brother's hand. "Don't be an ass. Kalvamen are a story for children. Skinwalkers, now that's something that could really happen."

  "Kalvamen are real enough," Jendara snapped. "Just because they don't sail often doesn't mean they won't ever."

  Morul snorted and crossed to the tree where Yul had tied off the rope. "Sure. You and Yul, worrywarts both."

  Jendara crossed her arms. "If you don't believe in skinwalkers, why did you smoke that hide?"

  "Yeah," Yul added. "You always smudge your hides. Why?"

  Morul struggled with the knot a second. "Yul, you tied this too tight. Sailor man, come untie this."

  Vorrin smirked but went to help him. "I think you should answer Jendara's question."

  The knot came loose, and Yul lowered the carcass on the hide. He began to wrap it into one neat bundle.

  Morul lopped the limb off the tree. "Leyla says meat wrapped in a smoked hide isn't as gamy. I'm not going to argue with that."

  He lashed Yul's bundle onto the tree limb and the two big islanders took each end of the limb.

  "Leyla says it makes the meat less gamy," Yul repeated, eyebrows raised.

  "Right." Morul studied the sky. "Clouds have all burned off. Going to be a warm walk back to the village."

  "Then let's hurry," Vorrin said. He pushed aside the wall of brush with the tip of his spear. "I want to take a nap before our going-away feast."

  Morul had some kind of humorous answer, but Jendara missed it. She let the men step out ahead of her. The dark mood she'd felt after killing the boar had settled over her again. She'd been feeling it more since she came back to the island—a burst of heaviness that made her heart hurt. It came at the most unlikely moments: while eating lingonberry pie, or swimming with Kran off the north end of the island, looking for the warm upwellings just as she and her sister Kalira had. Maybe coming back to the islands had been a bad decision. There were just too many reminders of her past.

  "Dara?" Vorrin called. He must have come back for her.

  She smiled at him. "I'm coming."

  She picked her way over the still-steaming pile of boar guts and followed him into the forest. Somewhere in the sun-dappled trees, a bird gave a cry of alarm.

  paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas , Aug 10, 2014

  Chapter Two

  The Quarry

  The thwack of wood against wood jolted Jendara awake. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the sound reverberated throughout her whole head.

  "I shouldn't have had so much of that lingonberry wine," she grumbled.

  Wood cracked outside again. Jendara pushed back the furs and swung her feet over the side of her bed. She padded out into the hallway. Kran's door was open and his bed stood empty, his clothes missing from their hooks.

  She sighed. He'd avoided her all day yesterday, and skipped the going-away feast. She shrugged on her sheepskin coat and trudged into the main room of the cottage.

  "Kran?"

  But he wasn't to be seen. His latest woodworking project sat on the plank table, the tools neatly in their case. A half-eaten slice of bread sat beside it. Jendara reached for her sword belt, hanging by the door, and buckled it on.

  "Kran?" She opened the door. A swath of mist swallowed up the rest of the village. It cast a wintry pall over the summer morning, and Morul's house, just a few hundred feet away, was so shrouded in fog that it may well have been on the other side of the world. Fog was common here in the islands, but she never enjoyed the otherworldly cast it spread across the landscape, or the clamminess it left on everything.

  With a sigh, she stepped out into the damp morning. Her toe squished on something wet and ropy on the doorstep, and she whipped her bare foot back.

  It was the neck cord for Kran's slate. If the boy had taken it off, it was a sure sign he didn't want to talk.

  Jendara's lips compressed. She didn't have the luxury of waiting around to settle this. In a few hours, the tide would change and she and the crew of the Milady would take their last trip to the mainland before winter's snow and ice hit. The thud resounded again, and she followed the sound to the back of the house.

  She rounded the corner of the little cottage and saw Kran's shape, the woad-blue sweater and shaggy black hair. He stood just past the wood-chopping block, his attention on a stick of firewood balanced on top of a fence post. His pants, she realized, cleared the top of his boots by a good half an inch. He was going to be tall, like his father. Like her father. The boy was made up of the best of both sides of his family.

  She didn't know where the muteness came from. When he'd been littler, she thought it was something she'd done wrong before he'd been born. Maybe she should have made offerings to other gods beside Besmara, dark l0ady of pirates. Maybe she should have stayed on land instead of climbing so much rigging. But she'd never found a real reason for Kran's inability to speak, and she had to admit that as he'd gotten older, it didn't seem to matter much to the boy.

  Kran wound up his sling and lobbed a shot at the firewood. It hit dead center and launched the wood far out into the mist.

  Jendara clapped.

  Kran spun around. His face, for one instant bright with his own success, went dark. He spiked two fingers toward his eyes, then pointed out over the fence line. The gesture spoke for itself: See?

  "I saw. You've got a nice release." She held out her hand. "Can I take a look at your shot?"

  He reached in his coat pocket and held out a handful of wooden marbles. She rolled one between her fingers. It was smooth and heavier than it looked.

  "You carved these?"

  He nodded.

  "Makes a world of difference, using shot that all weighs the same. Can really improve your aim." She tossed the marble in the air. "May I keep this? I need a good shooter if we play marbles on the ship."

  He tapped his full belt pouch, suggesting he had plenty more.

  "You still pract
ice with rocks at all?"

  He shrugged a shoulder.

  "You should. What if you run out of shot while you're out hunting? Be sad to miss out on a really good snowshoe hare just because you forgot how to adjust for the weight of an off-balance stone."

  At the word "hunting," his face crunched into a scowl. He reached for his chalk and board and made an exasperated sound when he realized he'd left it behind.

  Jendara took a seat on an old driftwood log and patted the spot beside her. Kran didn't sit. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't take you hunting yesterday. I was afraid. Boars are trouble. I've heard of too many things going wrong on a boar hunt."

  Kran was quick to tap his ear, then raise his eyebrow and point at his eye. He didn't know much of the sign language other mutes used, but he was good at finding his own ways to communicate.

  "That's true: I've only ever heard stories, I haven't seen anything. But I know a man whose uncle—" She broke off, suddenly reminded of Yul's ridiculous story about the skinwalker. "Look, Morul's dog was almost killed yesterday. Hunting is dangerous."

  Kran shook his pointer finger at her and then crossed his arms. He must have picked the gesture up from Yul over the last few summers spent ashore. She wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps she should have insisted the boy accompany her on trading journeys. He was the son of two sailors. He should practice his seamanship.

  She reminded herself to focus on the problem at hand. Her son was angry. She had only a few hours before the tide turned and she set out on a two-month-long journey. She rubbed her head and wished it would stop aching.

  She switched tactics. "You're going to be eleven in spring. That's pretty grown up." Really grown up. At age eleven, she'd gone with her father on her first raid, sailing to the mainland and stealing five sheep and a gallon of Chelish brandy. He'd let her drink it, too.

  The boy kept his eyes on her face, his own expression guardedly neutral.

  "If you can show me that you're ready for hunting big game, then I'll take you hunting with me. Maybe moose, down on Flintyreach. They're dangerous, but you haven't lived until you've made your own moose jerky."

  He tapped his belt, beside his belt knife. She knew just what he meant.

  "Yes, you'll get to take your own weapons. I'll even make you your own hunting spear. A good ash one, like my father made me."

  Kran frowned and made a gesture with his hand like a half-closed fist, the thumb lifted. Jendara cocked her head, mimicking him. He repeated the gesture, raising the fist to eye level and giving it a little snap. She stopped in the middle of raising her own.

  "No." She shook her head, even though it hurt. "My father didn't give me my belt axe. I took his when he died. To remember him."

  Kran stepped over the scraps of wood and put his arms around her. She leaned her head against his. He normally considered himself too mature for babyish hugging.

  He released her and beckoned toward the house. She got up off the log and paused a moment to brush wood chips off herself. Beyond her own small garden space, kept tended by Kran and Leyla, the fog was lifting. She could see all the way out to the harbor now, although the view was hazy. The Milady's yellow-and-blue pennant already waved. She smiled a little. She'd bet a gold coin Glayn had raised it before the sun had even reached the horizon. The oldest member of the crew, the gnome loved the Milady as much as she did.

  She scanned the path leading up to the village. A familiar figure was approaching, the ridiculous peacock feather in his felt cap bobbing along. Vorrin, of course. That must mean the Milady was ready to set sail.

  Jendara waved at Vorrin. She was happy to see him, even if she wasn't ready to leave Kran just yet. But she knew a good way to buy a few more minutes with her boy. "Kran!" she called. "How would you like pancakes for breakfast?"

  "Pancakes?" Vorrin asked. "You know I can't resist pancakes." He gave Kran a friendly punch in the shoulder.

  The boy punched him back with a grin. Vorrin slung his arm around Kran's shoulder. "You sure you don't want to go with us? We're going to swing south a bit to meet Boruc—he's Morul and Yul's brother, and some kind of hermit-artist-genius. He lives in a mine."

  "A quarry," Jendara corrected. She stooped to gather up Kran's slate and pass it to him. "I guess he lives in Averaka most of the year, but in the summer, the quarry reopens and he goes out to get first dibs on the best stone. Yul says all Boruc does is carve rock, drink mead, and chase wo—" She eyed her son. "Chase parties," she corrected herself. "He likes to have a lot of fun."

  "Maybe we're glad you're not going," Vorrin said. "Boruc doesn't sound like a very good influence."

  Kran rolled his eyes. Boats are boring, and so are statues, he wrote.

  Jendara ruffled his hair. "I love you, Kran."

  You, too, he wrote. Pancakes???

  Vorrin laughed. "It's good to know the lad's mind is in the right place."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Flintyreach, one of the largest islands in the Ironbound Archipelago, lived up to its name. Off the Milady's bow, the gray rock of the island's bones stretched down to the water, no softness of soil or grass to invite a sailor off her boat. A few stunted shrubs sprang up out of the cracks in the rock. But although these plants were small, Jendara felt certain she'd never seen any such a happy green. The people of the islands were like that: a hardscrabble lot, quick to fight, but quicker to reach for the mead. Every day was a celebration when you worked so hard to survive.

  "I can't see why Yul's brother wants to live in a place like this," Vorrin said, leaning his elbows on the deck railing beside her.

  She reached into her pouch for a bundle of leftover pancakes and passed him one. "Boruc's a stoneworker."

  "He could go anywhere to find stone." Vorrin waved at the gray expanse. "There aren't even trees here."

  Jendara pointed to the south, where greenery climbed up the steep flanks of Flintyreach's inner hills. "The beaches look harsh, but most of Flintyreach is forested. Unfortunately, the interior is also infested with trolls, giants, and ettins. The folk down in the villages organize hunting parties, but it's still dangerous. People stay close to the sea here. It's safer."

  The Milady began to swing around, preparing for its approach to the docks. In a few minutes, the ship was tied up and the twelve-man crew ready to explore the little fishing village of Alstone—or at least, its tavern. Vorrin consulted with Tam, the big blond first mate who'd grown up on Flintyreach, and then met Jendara at the edge of town, where a little cart road ran off toward Alstone Quarry.

  "Tam says he and the crew will pick up our other trade goods, so there's no rush to get back to town." He eyed the sun, about three fingers above the horizon. "But let's try to be back by nightfall."

  Jendara nodded. Morul claimed there hadn't been any major problems with giants or trolls in this part of Flintyreach lately, but she didn't want to risk a run-in. Wild animals were bad enough, but giants...Jendara could definitely live without running into any of them.

  As the cart road snaked away from the shoreline, the scrubby trees grew taller and the undergrowth thicker. Still, the place didn't feel anything like Sorind, the island she'd just left behind. The trees here had grayer bark and twisted limbs. They did little to soften the wind coming off the ocean.

  Jendara glanced over at Vorrin. He had gone quiet, his teeth working the edge of his mustache like he did when he was worried. She watched him a minute longer.

  "All right, what's bothering you?"

  "Nothing. It's just getting awfully late in the season."

  "It'll be fine," she said. "Sure, we've had a busy summer and it's kept us moving more than usual. Maybe we're a few weeks behind, but it's no big deal. And you've been wanting more variety in our trade goods. Boruc's carvings might be just the moneymaker you've been looking for."

  He sighed. "I understand the logic, but that doesn't make me any more comfortable. We playing it close this trip, Dara. You and I both know summer fades fast out here."

  She gave him a
particularly winsome smile, one that rarely failed to soften him. "This is our last stop before we leave for Varisia. We'll be fine."

  "It's going to make for a hard trip back to Sorind, and you know it. That's why you've been so awkward with Kran. Because you're worried."

  "I'm not worried, and I haven't been awkward." She paused, her eyes scanning the brush. "Did you hear something?"

  Vorrin shook his head. "No. It's perfectly quiet."

  "Now it is. But just now, I thought..." Jendara trailed off. She sniffed at the air, but smelled only smoke and the faint scent of roasted meat. "We must be getting close to the quarry."

  "I hope Boruc's work is as good as Yul claims it is. Our shipment this fall is too ordinary. Too many furs and wines, not enough ivory. If we could get some walrus—"

  Jendara cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Hush." She listened for a long moment, head cocked. "Don't you think it's too quiet?"

  He didn't answer. There were no birds calling, no squirrels rustling the branches. Jendara broke into a run. Vorrin hurried after her.

  The road tilted downhill. A few ruts showed where carts loaded with rock must have dug into the surface, and Jendara avoided them, glad it hadn't rained lately. The smell of smoke intensified, as did the heavy smell of roasted meat.

  Vorrin grabbed her shoulder. "Wait."

  "What?"

  "It's a long time till dinner. Why would anyone be cooking right now?" He shook his head. "Something feels wrong."

  "We should be careful." Jendara moved closer to the edge of the road, ready to dive into cover at any moment. She crept forward.

  A crow exploded from the bush in front of her, its scream launching her backward. She fell onto her backside and pushed herself away. The crow rose up, cawing once, twice as it cleared the treetops.

  Vorrin helped her to her feet. "You okay?"

  She nodded.

  They moved forward again. The cart road turned a sharp corner. Jendara and Vorrin stopped, staring down at the encampment at the edge of the quarry. Nothing moved.