The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  “So why did you let her go?”

  “We didn’t know it was her, sir.”

  “And who did you think it was? The Queen Mother?”

  Agonized silence. They had in fact believed she was a woman of uncertain affiliation, one of Prince Ward’s girlfriends, a type they had seen leaving the palace on foot before. The prince was working himself into a state of molten anger when the Captain of the Guard returned, having given orders sufficient, he believed, to ensure Panna’s capture. The prince transferred his anger immediately. “I suggest you take two more of your imbeciles to the dungeon,” he ordered.

  The captain looked surprised.

  The Prince stared hard at the two miscreants. “Royal Dragoons indeed.” The bitterness in Mather’s voice seemed to have been wrung up from his intestines. He spoke as if he believed every ill in the world could be traced directly to the men before him. “How do you find your recruits, Captain? Do you scour the countryside until you’ve found every village idiot in the kingdom? And how do men who couldn’t possibly find their own mouths with a spoon grow so very big? Do you just feed them out of troughs? And how do you keep them from slobbering on their fine uniforms?” Now he screamed at the Captain of the Guard. “Get them out of my sight before I order them all hanged!”

  The two guards and their captain all looked as though they’d been kicked in the stomach. They left in a hurry.

  Panna turned into the iron gate, at the beckoning of the old priest. He put a hand on her arm. She shuddered involuntarily.

  “It’s all right, young lady. You’re safe here.”

  She smiled at him. “I just got a little chill, is all.” But she pulled her arm away. This was not right. Packer had spoken to her about his departure from the Seminary nearly four years earlier, but only in the broadest terms. Her father had also shielded her from the ugly realities of what had happened here. Those efforts to protect her sensibilities now put her in jeopardy.

  But Usher Fell’s eyes were warm. “Let’s just talk inside.”

  He escorted her to his cottage. As he opened the door for her and stepped aside to allow her to enter, she stopped, a catch in her spirit. He hadn’t even asked her name, hadn’t asked the nature of her trouble. A moment ago she had been thankful for it; now that he was inviting her into his cottage it seemed quite odd. He had no idea who she was, and yet he was willing to take her in. She studied his smiling face, searching for some clue. “Is your wife at home?”

  “I’m not married, child.”

  Just then, a friendly voice called out from behind them. “Hello, Father Fell.” Panna and the priest both turned to find its source. Panna felt immediate relief.

  A smallish priest, round in a robust sort of way, stood looking at them, grinning broadly. He carried a hoe in a gloved hand, and mud was spattered around the hem of his robe where the toes of muddy boots peeked out. His gloves were far too big for him. His face was round and flat but very pleasant. His eyes were naturally puffy, enough so that when he smiled, as he did now, they were little more than slits. But those slits were pleasantly angled half circles, and a sparkle of good humor, or perhaps sharp wit, seemed to leap from them.

  Panna laughed. She immediately put a hand to her mouth, realizing this was not nearly the most polite response possible, but then she was not laughing at him, precisely, but because of him. The word that popped into her head was delight. He seemed utterly delighted to see them, and so she felt the same in return. The sudden appearance of such an emotion in her was so incongruous with the darkness she had been enduring for days on end, that it simply overcame her inhibition. “I’m sorry,” she said, without any elaboration, or any possibility of elaboration.

  He seemed completely unfazed by her faux pas, accepting it as though it were a normal response to his presence. “And who is your lovely companion?” he asked Usher Fell. “Won’t you introduce me?”

  The old priest continued to smile, put his hands together, and looked to Panna. “Ah…actually, we just met. We were about to get further acquainted. The young lady is in some trouble, and so I felt it best to get her off the street and into a…safer place.”

  “Quite so.” Now the little man did not look at Usher Fell, but put a gloved and muddy hand out to Panna. “I’m Father Bran Mooring. And you are…?”

  Panna beamed. “Father Mooring! I’m so pleased to meet you!” She reached out to the muddy glove, but he finally realized his own error and fumbled with it, quickly pulling the glove off. She grasped his warm hand with two of hers. “Sorry,” he said, “I was trying to get to my cultivating all day and just finally got it done.”

  “My husband has told me such wonderful things about your teaching,” she said. “Wonderful things.”

  “Really? That’s so nice to hear. And who is your husband?”

  “Packer Throme.”

  Father Mooring glanced happily at Usher Fell, who seemed to take a large step backward, though his feet never actually moved. Bran Mooring’s sense of delight only grew.

  “Ah, Packer! I certainly enjoyed him. Wonderful mind for the things of God. A great spirit. He’s done large things in the greater world of late. We’re all so proud here. Aren’t we, Father Fell?”

  “So very proud,” Fell managed.

  Panna beamed.

  “I think of him often,” Bran continued, “particularly when I’m looking for examples of those who ‘hunger and thirst after righteousness.’ I always felt he was like that, you know, someone who simply wanted everything to be right, and good. He struggled so with the burden of evil in the world. So he always struck me, at least.”

  “Yes. He struck me also,” said Usher Fell grimly, rubbing his jaw. “You know, I’m just thinking. You two seem to have so much in common, and so much to talk about. Father Mooring, I wonder if you would be so kind as to take a bit of time to find out about Mrs. Throme’s current difficulties.”

  “Well, of course I will! If that’s all right with you, Mrs. Throme? Or may I call you Panna?”

  “Why, yes. Panna is fine. But how do you know my name?” she asked, already following along as he led her away from Usher Fell.

  “Well, it would have been quite difficult to know Packer Throme for any length of time without knowing something about Panna Seline, the girl back home. And I must say, you are every bit as beautiful and charming as he led us all to believe.”

  Packer. Tears stung Panna’s eyes as she followed the small man’s muddy footsteps to the doorway of his cottage.

  “And how is your father, Will Seline?”

  “You know him?”

  “Why, of course. We’re not close, but there are a limited number of priests in this kingdom, and only one Seminary. Will Seline has a great heart. A great heart. I’ve said before that if God were to answer only one man’s prayers on this whole earth, I believe it would be his.”

  “He does have his good points.” She wiped a tear away, trying not to let her voice break. She looked up to heaven and paused just before she entered the priest’s home. Stars shone brightly, and the moon reflected the hidden glory of the sun. She was thankful to the God of the Universe, to the core of her being. All was working out, just as her father had predicted.

  She felt safe.

  The priest’s small cottage was a wonderland of knickknacks and bric-a-brac and artwork, large and small. Every inch of every wall, it seemed, was covered with parchments or paintings or framed squares of line drawings, or handwritten thank-you notes, poems, and every other type of memorabilia. The floor, except for the one deep, thickly-woven rug before the fireplace, and a few pathways to and from it, was stacked with books and statuettes and paintings and sketches lacking frames, frames lacking paintings, and a host of odd implements of every description, from farming, fishing, shoemaking, haberdashery, and many other trades. A cluttered desk against one wall was stacked with papers and books. Four chairs faced one another at the four corners of the rug, each draped with not one but two or three blankets, knitted, crocheted,
or quilted, so that the chairs themselves were barely recognizable as chairs.

  After removing his boots and gloves, Father Mooring trimmed several lamps. Panna closed the heavy curtains of his sitting room and bolted the door shut behind them. The priest noted her actions without comment, then went to the fireplace and began to stir it. “I’ll put on a pot of tea,” he suggested as he fanned the flames. “Do you like tea? I could make coffee.”

  “Tea would be wonderful. But about the trouble I’m in. I’m afraid I may be…” she hated to bring such ugly realities into such a pleasant place, but she knew she must, “…pursued.”

  He paused and looked at her. “Are you running away from the law, or are you running toward it?”

  She set her jaw. He didn’t seem to suggest he’d mind either way. But it was hard to form the words. “Away, I suppose. But I have done nothing illegal. At least, nothing that wasn’t justified.” She knew how weak that sounded.

  He looked back into the flames, seemed satisfied with the job he’d done. “I have some nice jasmine tea, from the East. Actually, it’s Drammune, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  He smiled at her and went into the kitchen, busying himself loudly with the banging of pots and the clattering of cabinet doors and an incomprehensible screech of metal or two. “My house is always full of people, you see!” he sang out from the kitchen, “even when I’m home alone. I started collecting little items from my students years ago. It’s gotten rather out of hand, I’m afraid. Now they send me things from their travels. Their work. I have students’ children sending me things now. Trouble is, I can’t seem to throw a thing away.”

  “All of these are gifts?”

  “Most of them,” he said, coming back into the room with a large teapot and a bright, proud smile. “Some are items I simply kept to remind me.”

  “And how long have you been teaching?”

  “Oh, heavens. Forever. I don’t know, twenty-five years? No, more than that now.” He put the teapot on an iron hook over the flames. “There. It will be ready in just a few moments.” He saw Panna scanning the walls and floors, as though looking for something.

  He walked to the wall opposite the one she searched, and took a framed sketch from it. “This is what you’re looking for, I believe.” He handed it to her. It was a line drawing of a sea monster, very much like the one above Cap Hillis’s pub. “By a young student named Packer Throme.”

  She smiled. “Firefish.”

  “His father’s interest back then, I believe.”

  She handed it back to him, sadness growing in her. “His now.”

  “Ah yes, quite famously so. But we haven’t talked about your trouble.” His voice was gentle as he took the frame, returned it to its place. “Please, sit by the fire.”

  She did, and he sat down in the other lumpy chair by the hearth.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” she said truthfully. “There’s so much.”

  “We will have time enough. Perhaps we should start with why you are out by yourself tonight after dark in the Old City, a young bride from Hangman’s Cliffs.”

  She took a deep breath. “I have escaped from the palace, where the prince has been holding me against my will.”

  She was afraid he would be startled by such news, but if he was, he didn’t show it. “The prince. Mather Sennett, or his brother, Ward?”

  “Mather. I hit him in order to escape. He won’t stop looking for me until he finds me, I’m afraid.”

  The priest’s dancing eyes looked into hers for quite a while. “You and Packer are a pair, I see.”

  “I suppose so. But my father’s still in danger.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes, he was arrested, and the prince is holding him to get me to…comply.”

  Now Father Mooring’s eyebrows went up. “Serious indeed.”

  “It’s not as bad as it could be. But it’s plenty bad. And now I’ve brought my troubles on you.”

  “Oh, I am happy to share your troubles! I have so few of my own.”

  She looked at him blankly, expecting some evidence that this was a joke, but she quickly realized he was perfectly serious. He was stating what to him was a simple fact. The thought of a life with few troubles was refreshing, like a warm sea breeze coming off the surf. And the thought of someone willing to take her burdens as his own was like the sun rising over that same pristine beach.

  “ ‘In this world you will have trouble,’ ” he quoted abruptly. “ ‘But fear not, for I have overcome the world.’ Do you believe that?”

  “Which part?” she asked glumly.

  He laughed, a bubbling thing. “Why, both parts.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. But I’m ready for a little more of the overcoming part.”

  “It has ever been so.” The teapot whistled. “Well, let’s have tea!” He hurried off to the kitchen and returned with two cups and a tea strainer full of small, chopped leaves. Panna kept glancing at the door as he poured, sure there would be an urgent knock any moment.

  When they were both seated again by the warm fire with cups of hot tea in their hands, he looked at her and smiled again. “Are you afraid? Of the prince?” The way he asked it, without scolding, made it easy to answer.

  “Yes. I’m very afraid. And not just for me, but for my father.”

  “Hmm. You don’t seem a fearful person at all.” He sipped. “I love jasmine.”

  She sipped, too, and tried to pay attention to the taste. It was strong, rich, and sweet, and it smelled of far away places. But she could not give in to it. “Maybe I’m not fearful. But I’m plenty worried.” She glanced at the door again.

  “The prince will not harm you. Not while you’re here.”

  “I don’t think you know the prince very well.”

  “If you’re here, God has led you here. If the prince comes here, he’ll find out who he should fear, soon enough.” The bold words seemed quite incongruous with the tone in which they were spoken. He smiled warmly. “Tell me everything.”

  Panna nodded. She didn’t really believe he could help, one little priest in a cottage full of memories. But she didn’t know who he might know, or how he might be connected. And he certainly seemed comfortable with the idea that he could protect her. Or rather, that God could. And since he was apparently the help God had sent her, she could hardly turn him down.

  She had gotten through most of the tale, all but the escape through the hedges, when there was a loud banging on the door. Panna jumped; it was a harsh and brutal noise.

  “Open up! Royal Dragoons! We have orders to search!”

  Outside, the Captain of the Guard himself stood in front of the door, having decided the prince’s mood required him to take personal charge of the search. He was flanked by two other guards, one with a pike in his hand, the other with a battle-axe.

  Standing in the dark behind the three of them was Father Usher Fell.

  Panna jumped to her feet, reproaching herself silently. Why had she been sitting here, having tea, allowing herself to be charmed by this priest, when she could have been running?

  “There, there,” Father Mooring said in a whisper. “All shall be well.”

  “Do you have a back door?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not. And even if I did, it wouldn’t help. They’d have men posted there.” He smiled, then very deliberately stood up.

  “Father Mooring! We know the fugitive woman is in there. Do not make us break down this door!”

  “I’m coming!” Bran called. Then he sighed, and whispered to Panna. “You’ll be fine, really.”

  “You meant for me to be caught!” she accused him, in a hoarse whisper. Her eyes were aflame. “You’re on his side. I’m so stupid, drinking tea with a silly old—”

  “Shhh! Now don’t be hasty,” he whispered back, holding up one hand, balancing his teacup in the other. “Or you’ll say something you’ll regret.” He smiled. “Follow me.” He said it in an encou
raging tone, and since he walked into his kitchen rather than toward his front door, she followed.

  Loud banging on the door continued. “Open up! We’ll be breaking this door down in ten seconds! This is your last warning.”

  “One moment!” Bran calmly put his teacup in among a stack of dirty dishes. “Over there, my dear,” he said gently, pointing toward the floor on the far side of the small stove. “I hope you don’t mind tight spaces. It’s a bit dank, but it will only be for a short while, I hope.”

  The axe hit the front door.

  “What?” she asked.

  The priest gestured again, this time with an open palm, toward the floor at his feet. Now she saw the square hole, not much wider than her shoulders. A wooden ladder led downward. She immediately sat at the edge of it, gathered her gown around her, and started down.

  The axe slammed the door again.

  “Stay on the ladder,” he instructed.

  “Watch your head now,” he said calmly. As her head cleared the plane of the floor, the priest slid the oven back over the top of her, with the same scraping sound she had heard when he was busy making tea. And then she was in darkness.

  “Goodness, what a racket!” the priest shouted as he walked to his front door. “I’m coming! My, can’t a man have a quiet moment in his own home?” He opened the door and immediately examined the axe marks in it. Then he smiled up at the guard. “You’ll need a good woodsman’s axe if you’re going to chop through solid oak.”

  “Out of the way,” the Captain of the Guard said gruffly, “or he’ll be chopping something much softer.”

  “My.” Bran Mooring stepped aside.

  The cottage was tiny. There were three rooms: living, bed, kitchen. A toolshed stood outside. And that was it. The eaves followed the roofline, so there was no attic. There were no stairs to any sort of cellar. It took the guards no more than twenty seconds to search the entire place. Then the captain turned on Usher Fell.

  “You said she was here.”

  Usher Fell shriveled, shrugged, pointed at Father Mooring. “She came in here with Father Mooring, that’s all I know.”