by LeRoy Clary
Shell decided he’d been too trusting of the animal. He kept his eyes averted from the remains of the campfire to preserve his night vision, and watched, smelled, and listened. Nightbirds chattered, owls hooted, insects hummed and screeched, and the soft night breeze rattled the leaves giving a soft background that deflected and softened other sounds.
A hint of a darker black shifted near the stream. He suspected it was the wolf until he checked with his mind. No, the wolf was off to his right.
A bear? No, the wolf said it was a man. He touched the wolf’s mind again and found an image of pups playing happily outside of a den, a pleasant memory. One was hiding, while the wolf he mind-touched crept up on it. Just before it pounced, Shell imagined the wolf smiling.
Smiling? Wolves don’t smile. The black object near his campsite moved another step closer. Shell realized it had spotted his blanket and thought he was sleeping. The glint of starlight reflected off a blade the intruder held.
The wolf made a soft cough that another might think was a laugh. The image sharpened in the wolf’s mind as it remembered the instant just before it leaped from cover to surprise its brother or sister.
Shell sent a thought to the wolf. No danger?
No.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The intruder stood shorter by a head than Shell, and smaller in other ways, too. The movements were different than a man’s, more compact and confident. As he watched a young woman move into his campsite, and he instantly knew who it was.
“Camilla,” he called softly.
She spun, facing the voice in the darkness, the knife poised to slash or stab. The wolf snuffled again, enjoying the turn of events, the game of hide-and-seek. Shell wanted to tell it to shut up and stay out of his business, but then it struck him as funny, too.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am called Shell. Myron sent me after you.”
“How did you know it was me?”
The wolf snorted with humor again in the distance, too softly to hear, but Shell felt it in the rear of his mind as he stood and walked out of the shadows, hands held palms outward so she could see he held no weapons. He had wisely left his staff on the ground.
“Myron said I would catch up with you tomorrow, maybe. But I moved fast.” He turned his back to her, but in the dim light, he felt sure she would see his action and he lifted his shirt.
“I told him I would go alone.” Her voice was sharp, but tinged with relief as she spun and flipped her shirt briefly up, but too fast for him to see her mark, which was rude and offensive. “But I keep a sharp watch behind, and if someone were following, this would be where I’d see him from the crest ahead.”
Shell let his shirt down and stirred the fire with his heel. As the light increased, he sat on his blanket without inviting her to sit. He didn’t say another word. In the back of his mind, he listened to the wolf enjoying itself. It seemed to understand what Shell was about to say and Shell sent it a strong message. Shut up and stop laughing at me.
The wolf pawed her nose as if trying to do as told, but Shell still felt the animal enjoying the conflict between the two humans. If they were going to spend a lifetime together, the wolf was going to have to learn some manners, too. A lifetime? Where did that thought originate?
Shell said, “Is that the way you were taught to greet members of the Dragon Clan?”
“Take what I give you and do it quietly.”
The tone held more anger than he’d heard in years, but more than just anger. Fear tinged her words. It hid the fear behind the sharp tone. Instead of replying, he pulled the blanket around himself. Her anger was misplaced, but his words would only make it worse. He laid down and pretended to sleep.
He could always follow and catch up with her again tomorrow. Or the next day. Or never. The tiredness overcame him and instead of the angry tossing and turning he expected, the opposite happened. Shell fell into a deep sleep as the result of being so tired. The last several days had drained his reserves. He slept long and sound without a hint of night whispers to disturb him.
Upon waking, he started again as his eyes opened. Being surrounded by trees, unfamiliar birds singing, and thinner air took getting used to.
He heard the snap of a twig underfoot and turned to find Camilla, with her back to him, washing her face in the cold water of the little stream. Glancing around, he found the fire dead, and her belongings packed and ready for travel. Yesterday it had been the wolf in his face. This morning it was Camilla. Waking up was not becoming his favorite part of the day.
She stood, turned, and flashed a smile. She said, “I owe you this.”
Camilla turned away again, and lifted the back of her shirt, displaying the dragon image in the proper manner, for the correct time. Respect. Something she withheld the night before.
Shell stood, gathered his belongings and finally chose his words. “I came here from the grasslands for several reasons. I wanted to meet you because I’ve heard so many nice things that are said about you. But I also have this need inside to see the world, and to help my family fight Breslau. Well, we’ve met, and I still have the other two that I want to accomplish. It does not matter where I go or how I get there. Choose your path.”
“So you can follow me?”
“No, just the opposite. You were here first, Camilla. Continue on your way. I’ll find my own since you don’t want or need my help.”
From her reaction, the words stung her, but she recovered and said, “You’ll just follow me, I suspect. But I’m warning you to stay away. I do not need your help.”
“If we meet again, it will be through no fault of mine.” He tossed his pack over his shoulder and instead of continuing west as he had been traveling, he turned abruptly south. In the forest, the wolf leaped to its feet and padded south also, trying to scout ahead in the new direction, but also puzzled. Its mind had trouble understanding human actions, and it broadcast that confusion to Shell, who ignored it.
Shell found he had a tall hill to cross with no easy path to follow. His pride refused to allow him to search for an easier way, knowing that if he went back to find a better way and Camilla saw him, he would cringe in embarrassment. She made it clear. Stay away. No explanation would suffice in that instance. No, it was easier to climb a small mountain than face her derision.
The wolf soon swept an arc in front, and nothing of consequence lay ahead. He managed to reach the crest, where he paused and pulled a hard biscuit from his pack and spent a few satisfied minutes looking out at the world ahead. His words to the girl were not preplanned, and they rang true, even to himself. Ahead lay a wide world filled with unknowns just waiting for him.
He looked to the west again and felt the morning sun on his back. Mountains rose on both sides of a second valley, steep sides rising to peaks he couldn’t see because of low hanging clouds. But it was a route west, and there would be animal trails to follow. A river and streams would run, probably down the middle. He would have water, and he carried food.
He stood in a small clearing. At the end stood a stump where a huge tree had grown at one time. Now it rotted, the bark long gone and the wood flaking off and growing soft and punky. A few steps closer gave him a target hard to miss. He pulled the bow from his shoulder and strung it.
His first arrow struck the stump chest high, near the middle and he smiled with satisfaction. The second missed the tree, and he searched for it until he finally located where it had skittered under the dry grass to hide. A single arrow of the same quality would take days to replicate even if he had the time and skill. He returned to the same place and tried again.
In all, he shot arrows close to a hundred times, convincing himself that most of the time he would miss a cow from ten steps. The bow wobbled in his hands, his arms were not strong enough to hold it steady, and the arrows didn’t fly where expected. But the soft wood of the stump kept them from being damaged, and he vowed to learn by doing the exercise over and over for the next few days.
He grabbed his staff and struck the stump a few solid blows, so it understood it hadn’t defeated him. The wolf emitted more puzzlement. Shell headed west.
He traveled for two days, moving quickly and gaining more experience with the bow, the mountains, and walking on rough, uneven surfaces. He paused at all animal tracks, finding scat and trying to determine what sort of animal left it. Several times he came across the footprints of the wolf, large and deep, but he seldom saw her.
They seemed to have developed a strained relationship. The wolf ranged mostly ahead, but often to either side or behind, while it hunted for small game. She feasted on squirrels, rabbits, and once a small animal Shell didn’t recognize. Shell found eggs in three bird nests, berries hanging large and ripe on vines. He ate strips of smoked venison, but his supply was dwindling.
The morning of the third day again brought rain. The cold water soaked him, and he sat under a broad tree until the light rain gathered into pools on the large leaves above and fell on him with small splashes. The small droplets falling from the sky were easier to live with than the plops of water under the tree.
Sitting and shivering gained him nothing. Walking kept him warmer as he trudged along, head down, until he reached a hill where instead of the narrow pass between two mountains, a rich valley spread out below. Houses, barns, outbuildings, and pastures showed themselves. Smoke rose from chimneys, and probably warm, dry farmers huddled inside.
The rain slowed, the sun peeked between clouds, and Shell waited. Farms have dogs that would detect the scent of the wolf if they went near. Perhaps they would smell the scent on Shell, even though they had not touched. Instead, he continued walking through the wet forest in search of a dry place for shelter. He came to a small lake and paused. He couldn’t get any wetter, and he smelled the sour stench of himself.
With the sun still trying to emerge, he stripped and waded into the lake, carrying his clothes with him. He had no soap, but clean water rinsed most of the grime off him and repeatedly wetting and wringing the clothes removed most of the mud and accumulated dirt.
The wolf didn’t seem to mind the rain. She lay in the open with water shedding off her coat, laying only twenty steps from where Shell huddled against the cold and wet. The action, or inaction, by the wolf, was the first time it had fully shown itself for an extended time and remained nearby. Her amber eyes watched Shell as if the animal expected him to do something, but Shell couldn’t get the idea she was laughing at him from his mind.
“You’re enjoying this,” Shell accused.
The wolf crossed her paws and laid her chin on them. Shell was again struck by legs that appeared almost spindly, would have feet so large. The wet fur matted and dripped, making the wolf appear smaller through the body and chest, but even so, she was huge by any measure.
Shell said, “You could at least get us something to eat, find me a dry shelter, and build a fire after you locate a pile of dry wood.”
The wolf stood and shook the water from its coat, then laid back down in the same place. For an instant, Shell had thought the animal was going to do at least one of the things he requested. He pulled the edge of the blanket over his head to keep the water from running out of his hair onto his face.
He closed his eyes and waited. The rain would have to stop sooner or later, and if nothing else, he was grateful it hadn’t turned to snow. Snow! It was summer, and he was so cold he thought of snow.
The wolf leaped to her feet and snarled in alarm. A man trudged up the hillside. Shell mentally ordered, Go. Hide.
In an instant, the wolf disappeared into the underbrush as if it had never been there. The man turned out to be a boy not much older than Jammer, probably fourteen at the oldest. The thought of his brother and home tugged at his feelings. He hadn’t missed his old life until now, but Shell buried those feelings.
“That your dog that ran away?” the boy called.
“Uh, yes. She doesn’t like strangers.”
“What kind is she?” The boy continued to walk up the path as he talked, carrying a bow in one hand and three arrows in the other. “Looked like a wolf for a minute.”
“She’s a herder, a mixed breed, I think,” Shell said vaguely, then quickly added, “I have sheep and goats at home.”
The boy came closer and lifted the hood keeping the rain from his face. He appeared thin, but something about his eyes told him the boy was lonely and didn’t get the opportunity to talk to many. Shell glanced back down at the valley and the neat and tidy farms lined both sides of the single dirt road. One farm stood out, a ramshackle house sitting near overgrown fields. The fences leaned or had fallen.
Shell asked, suspecting the answer, “Which is yours?”
“The one you’re looking at. Ma and Pa passed on a few years ago, and I don’t have brothers or sisters.”
“Any kin at all?”
The boy sat in the mud beside Shell. “Supposed to be some over on the coast. I heard they live near Fleming. Fishermen.”
Fleming. Shell knew of it from the family messengers. It was a large seaport, and it was his probable destination before sailing for Breslau. Shell asked, “The farm’s not doing too well?”
“Had to sell or eat all the stock. Some were killed by neighbors who want my farm. No money to buy seed to plant; even if I still had a plow, so nope. Things aren’t doing well.”
Shell wanted to change the depressing subject. “Why not stay in your house until the rain is over?”
“Because deer don’t like to move around in the rain any more than you. They tend to hunker down and wait it out. Best time to hunt.” He held up the bow, a battered weapon with a string that looked ready to snap the next time it was pulled. The arrows looked no better.
“I’ll trade you some food for shelter.” The words had tumbled from his mouth before he took the time to think about them.
“Deal!” the boy snapped and stood. “Call your dog and let’s eat.”
From the eager reaction, Shell wondered how long it had been since the boy had eaten. He stood and said, “The dog doesn’t like people. He’ll be fine out here.”
They slogged down the trail through a few inches of traitorously slippery mud often covered with a few inches of brown water. One thing Shell learned quickly was that he couldn’t tell how deep a dirty puddle was by looking at it. He fell twice, then watched the boy step over them, and Shell learned a new lesson.
“Hey, you got a name?”
“Pudding. That’s what my mother used to call me.”
Shell shook off the name with a smile. “What did your father call you?”
“Mostly ‘hey you’ or ‘get busy.' He didn’t talk much.”
The small farm house was still a way off, across a field that appeared partially flooded. They would have to go around. Shell said, “I have a friend that I left behind a few days ago who didn’t like his name. We chose a new one for him. Now, I’m not going to call you either of those names your father did, and the one your mother used is worse.”
“What're you saying?”
“While we walk, let’s think of a new name for you. Something that ‘fits’ you, as my friend Quester said. What do you think?”
“I like Henry.”
“That’s it? Just like that, you’d like to be called Henry? There are a thousand other names, why Henry?”
“I had a horse named Henry and I liked him most of the time.”
Shell couldn’t contain himself. “Most of the time?”
“He bucked some. I didn’t like him then.”
“Okay, I guess Henry is a better name than most, and it’s settled. From now on, you are Henry.” He knew by the smile on the boy’s face that they’d chosen the right name.
At the door, Henry reached ahead and lifted the latch. The door tilted and threatened to fall off the rotted leather hinges. Inside was worse. A year’s accumulation anything the boy carried inside filled the large single room. A brick oven and flat cooktop looked unused because of a broken half-repaired
chair lying on top, along with antlers, a carved cane, and a stack of colorful rocks.
“Firewood?” Shell asked.
“Nope. I just wrap a blanket or two around me.”
Shell glanced at the moldy blankets the boy used and refused even to wipe his feet on them. “People around here haven’t offered help?”
“The farms on both sides want my land. They keep other people away.”
Shell went to the brick oven. At one time, it had been a showpiece, built with proud hands. The curve of the front edge, the flat top made of a single slab of granite that must have been hauled from elsewhere, and the stone chimney reaching out of the ceiling told of craftsmanship. Shell pulled the chair down and broke it into pieces before stuffing them into the open grate. He cleaned the rest of the clutter away and sparked a fire.
Water dripped through the roof in a dozen places. Shell found more wood to burn, and his anger grew with each lick of the flames. The fire didn’t warm the room until the bricks absorbed enough heat, then it threw heat off like a small sun.
“Have they offered to pay for your land?”
“Old man Smithson,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, “he said why pay when I’m going to leave, and he’ll take the land.”
“The farmer on the other side?” Shell asked.
“He says he’ll fight Smithson for his rightful part.”
Shell warmed his hands over the fire as he muttered, “I’ll bet he will.”
Henry pulled a filthy blanket around his shoulders. “You said something about eating?”
Shell’s backpack held food for a few days at best. He sensed the wolf nearby and tried to tell her wanted more meat, like the deer haunch it had provided for him and Quester. The wolf didn’t answer, but Shell realized the animal was up and trotting back up the hill, probably searching for a scent. Shell struggled to imagine a deer haunch. Again, no response came.
But he was warm and his clothing steaming as he hung them near the fire, but out of the way of the steady streams falling through the cracks in the roof. In places, he could see the sky where shingles were missing.