by Mark Eller
He snorted. Not his problem. The only problem he now faced was a more familiar fool shouting at him, disturbing his slumber.
"Uncle Argo! Get up!"
With some trouble, Argo’s mind began to tumble out of its comfort. Someone was shaking him, and that someone seemed more than just a bit urgent.
Blinking back the fog of near sleep, he sat up straighter in his chair to see his nephew, Rab, looking at him with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. The boy's freckled face was flushed red with excitement. His hazel eyes darted from Argo to the front door and back again. What in all of creation was wrong with the lad?
Reaching for his spectacles, Argo hastily put them on. "What is it boy? Did the arvid break lose again? I swear to the gods I’ll have its stones for dinner if it did." Argo wiggled and jiggled his way forward on the seat until his butt rested on the chair’s edge, and then he hoisted himself up with an annoyed grunt. If he kept eating the way he had the last few days they would soon need a wheelbarrow to carry his old carcass around. Still and all, better to eat it now than have hungry villagers take it later when Dern’s folly became apparent.
"Oh come on Uncle,” Rab urged. “Can't you move any faster?"
Giving the spindly youth a long glare, Argo thought about cuffing him into the next week, but chastising the lad would require more energy than he presently owned.
He chose a warning instead. "Pay heed to your mouth, boy, or you'll be eatin’ the floorboards before long." His face scrunched into a scowl. He might no longer have the energy to beat the lad, but he knew Rab had a clear memory of when Argo’s threats were more than air. Had respect, the boy did, and just the right amount of fear.
After momentarily lowering his eyes, Rab nodded and shot another nervous glance to the door. "Sorry— sorry. It's just— the door Uncle."
What in blazes was so darn upsetting about the door? Argo fidgeted with his ancient glasses, looked harder at the boy, and headed for the door. It stood open, allowing the chill winter wind to blow against the winter coats where they hung on their hooks. Parla, his much younger sister, stepped into the opening. Like Rab, she bore a flustered expression. She turned excited eyes to Argo, and a nervous twitch pulled at the corner of her thin lips. Reaching up, Parla nervously patted a stray brown and gray hair back into place.
“Argo, you have a— a delivery." Parla's face twisted into confusion and then changed to exasperation. Her hazel eyes rolled up toward the ceiling.
At that moment, Argo's stomach decided to twist into a knot. If his sister was this upset then maybe something was seriously wrong. He gently moved his sister out of the way, opened the door, and saw dozens of crates sitting on the front weeds beside his dirt drive. Furry faces looked through cut slits. Nearby, a short man stood before an arvid drawn wagon, three guards bearing Anothosia’s crest by his side.
"What in the name of Trelsar is this?" he demanded of the short man, ignoring the others since he didn’t have much use for female guards, especially when those female’s job seemed to be babysitting cats. “Why are you dropping cats in front of my house?”
Stepping up to him, the man thrust out a piece of parchment and a quill. "Are you one Argo Hornblaster?" His beady black eyes narrowed, and his nose gave a quick wiggle.
Argo nodded.
"By order of Lord Calto Morlon, High Priest of Anothosia, I hereby commend to you these boxes and this decree, written in his own Lordship’s hand.”
“By Lord Calto Morlon’s decree,” Argo repeated doubtfully.
“Yes,” the man agreed irritably, pointing at first one spot on the paper, and then another. “Now, please sign here, initial there, and I will be on my way."
Argo’s eyes widened in shock. "What do you mean, 'you'll be on your way? Who’s going to deal with the cats?"
The man straightened his tiny blue jacket and pushed his spectacle up on his nose."What I mean is I will be leaving as soon as you sign for these beasts. What happens after that is not my concern. They will be your responsibility. Please note you are to take special care with the one named Simta. If harm comes to it the consequences will not be pleasant."
"Now you looky here,” Argo sputtered. “I ain't taking— I mean this is an obvious mistake. What does Lord Morlon expect me to do with them things?" Argo's arms flew wildly in all directions as he tried to make his point. This was definitely, most obviously, most seriously, a huge, gigantic, unbelievable mistake. What on earth would he do with these cats? And why on Terra would the royal priest give them to him? Although he and the priest were cousins, the relationship was several generations distant. Argo had only seen the man once. Until this moment he hadn’t thought Lord Morlon knew he existed.
"You are Argo Hornblaster, heir apparent of Radno Hornblaster, correct?" The man said. "Your brother was Sir Radno Hornblaster? Yes?"
“Don’t know nothing about the sir part,” Argo said. “Our branch of the family gave that nonsense up several generations back, but yes, Radno Hornblaster is my brother.”
Nodding, the man continued on. "Then these cats belong to you because your brother is missing and assumed dead. Sign here, initial there, and I can leave, get on with having a life and maybe be home in time for next month’s festival dinner. Most importantly— I can get rid of these stinkingcats." The man sounded as if he were going to start yelling if Argo didn’t comply.
Argo opened his mouth to argue but an angry, half-insane glare from the delivery man made him close it. Taking the quill gingerly from the man's hand, he signed and initialed the parchment. The little man then tipped his hat, climbed upon his wagon, and took off down the road.
Argo stepped outside and looked around the mewling mess he had somehow come to posses.
"Uncle?" Rab said.
"Yes."
"I don't have to clean up their poop, do I?" The boy whined.
Argo dropped his chin to his chest and contemplated the animals. Why did things like this always happen to him? It wasn’t as if he went looking for problems. Quite the contrary, for the most part he desired a serene and boring life, unlike his brother who had worked hard at pursuing evil.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, another delivery man chose that moment to drive down the street with yet another wagon full of crates. He seemed to be waving some sort of sealed missive in his hand.
* * * *
The sun dipped low in the evening sky. Hues of pink, orange and red flowed across the horizon and the faint smell of pine scented the air. A faded red chair rocked back and forth. The dusty porch planking squeaked underneath as Argo sat contemplating what to do next. He had read the note Calto Morlon sent with the cats. It was an odd bit of explaining, especially regarding Simta, the dark, cinnamon, the reason why the cat’s had been guarded on their journey. Because of her unique patchwork of reds and blacks Simta wasn’t hard to pick out, even in this odd assortment. . If Argo was to believe the priest, Simta was another of his distant cousins from eight or nine generation back. She, and the other cats, had apparently been people before Radno somehow changed them into animals.
At least according to a seemingly insane Lord Morlon. To Argo, the idea seemed ridiculous. Still, with Radno one never knew.
He turned his attention back to the now open crates. In all, Lord Morlon had sent him sixteen. The ten small ones contained one cat each. The other six, much larger, held Radno’s personal possessions, gathered and packed from two of his stores and his personal mansion. And what odd possessions they were. Five crates seemed to be full of odd instruments, gears, pulleys and whatnots. Argo had no clue as to their purpose, although a few might be good for the odd hammer or two. And the sixth crate— well— Argo wouldn’t let anyone touch it. Resting on top of Radno’s various magical apparatus’s were his spell and tinkerer’s books. Each book had been neatly stored; wrapped in fine silk, and tied shut with chords of the same material. Picking one up, Argo grimaced. These sorts of items were just plain dangerous in the wrong hands, and they would definitely be in the reall
y wrong hands if Rab ever got hold of them. The boy had a way of making the simplest things go ‘boom’ if given half a chance. Sad really, he liked the boy, thought well of him, but Rab had no real purpose in life, no sense of where he was going, and worst, no desire to try. If given half a chance he would spend most of a day wandering aimlessly around the farm, talking to animals and pretending they talked back instead of doing his chores. The game had been entertaining when Rab was just a wee lad, but now that he was on the verge of adulthood, Argo no longer found it cute.
Shaking his head, Argo sighed. For Rab, it was no longer a game. The boy actually thought he could communicate with dumb beasts. A simpleton and a fool, Argo supposed, but not entirely so. Rab had occasional moments of practicality when he tackled some difficult problem. Still, it upset Argo to no end to think what would happen when he died. Who would look after Rab and his mother then? Would they lose the farm without him there to keep them on track? Would they soon follow him into the grave?
Probably not now since they were due some inheritance, them being Radno’s only close kin, but it was nice thinking he might be indispensable even if he was getting on in years.
“Uncle Argo?” It was Rab, again.
“Go away. You bother me.” Argo said, a bit more gruffly than he intended.
The boy danced from foot to foot. “I can’t. This here is important. Really important.”
Scowling, Argo turned to the boy. He growled and thought of whacking Rab with his walking stick or maybe a chunk of firewood, but again, too much energy had been sapped by the day’s events. “Boy, I don’t care what— ”
“The cats talk.”
“Riiight?” Argo’s eye twitched. Not this, not now. Why couldn’t the lad distinguish between fantasy and reality? Did something cross in his brain when Parla dropped him on his head back when he was still a baby, or was Rab somehow god touched like some of the other simpletons Argo had encountered over the years?
“Uncle, I promise. Those cats can talk, one of them really clear. They say they’re hungry and mad and they gotta’ use the facilities.”
“The facilities?” Yes, Rab was as bonkers as Lord Morlon. “Boy, don’t you dare come over here telling me tales.” Standing, Argo grabbed his walking stick. Low energy or not, he was gunna beat some sense into the fool with his crazy talk.
When he spied the walking stick Rab took off toward the crates, his feet making little sound over the fresh fallen snow. Argo hobbled after at a much slower pace. He smiled as distance grew between them. A person tended to move faster when their hide was on the line, and Rab had youth on his side. Just as well. It was an empty threat anyway. Several years had passed since he last struck the boy, and that was only to keep him from burning himself in the hearth fire. Mostly, Rab was safe enough. Argo didn’t have much heart to do more than threaten him anymore.
Even so, appearances had to be kept. He continued hobbling, and then cursed when his right knee seized. By the gods, he really was getting old. The air in front of him turned into a white cloud with his labored breathing. “Boy!” Argo shouted. He came upon the crates and found Rab hiding behind one containing a large, fat gray Persian. “I’ll catch ya’ I will and when I do I’ll— ”
“Excuse me.” The Persian said in a superior tone. “I hate to break your obvious fun, but I have to pee…now.”
Coming to an abrupt halt, Argo’s mouth flopped open.
“Well? Just don’t stand there you fat, bald potato,” the cat complained. “Find me someplace private so I can piss.”
“By the Seven and Two— the damn thing does talk!” Argo nearly sat down, he was so astounded. “Rab, ease away from them crates real slow like. Those cats are cursed.”
Rab shook his head. “Uncle, they’re real nice. You just gotta’ let ‘em pee and give them some food and water.”
Argo pressed his lips together and scowled at the boy. “Boy, those beasts aren’t normal. If these here things belonged to your Uncle Radno, then they’re gunna be a whole heap a trouble. I’ve lived a lot of years, but I’ve seldom encountered someone more evil than my brother.”
The Persian grumbled, squatted, and gave Rab a look of pure spite. “You wouldn’t listen so now I’ve wet myself. Happy?” Putting its paws high up on the slates, the cat stood on its hind legs. “If you think I’m staying in this crate now, fat man, think again.”
Argo clamped his mouth shut and stomped his foot. His face felt warm, and a vein throbbed in the side of his neck. “Listen you,” Argo said, shaking his cane, “Who are you a calling ‘fat man’?”
“Oh gee, let me see. Maybe— you?” The cat raised furry eyebrows and rolled its eyes. “I’ll say one thing about Radno. He didn’t lie when he said he got the brains and you got the brawn. Come on old man, let me and the others out or you’ll be one sorry Mr. Bald Potato. Not to mention you’ll be missing a few important parts once I break out of here. Care to think about what my claws can do to your hangers when you’re asleep?” Growling, the cat dropped to all fours and began to scratch furiously at the crate.
The earlier knot in Argo’s stomach reformed and twisted inside him like a hard edged rock, gouging and cutting his insides. Turning from the crates, he hurried back to the house. This was too much, yes, way too much for an old man to handle without the proper amount of drunkenness. Whatever this fiasco Lord Morlon had given him, it wasn’t going to be solved while he was sober.
* * * *
A harsh pounding in his head brought Argo awake. The late morning sun seemed to burn through his eyelids as he lay in his bed. An unpleasant sour taste threatened to send him to the nearest chamber pot. Good gods, had he really drunk the entire bottle of Evertrue Whiskey he found among Radno’s personal possessions. It was such a smooth liquor. He hadn’t realized the bottle was empty until he tried to pour a last shot and only a few drops fell.
Grumbling, Argo swung his feet around and plopped them on the cold but clean wood planks. His sister, Parla, was a wondrous housekeeper and a fine cook. He thought it sad her man ran off like he did when the boy was barely two. Nobody in these parts ever heard from Marlo again. To be honest, Argo thought it best because if the fellow had returned Argo would have seen to it the man was strung up and gutted for leaving Arlo’s baby sister and nephew on their own. The fact Marlo was another of his distant cousins from the darker side of his family tree made no matter. Right was right and bad was bad. Parla and Rab might not be the brightest folks in these parts, but in Argo’s heart they were the best and deserved better than being left destitute and forgotten. It was only by pure chance he came to visit them up in the mountains during late winter fifteen years earlier. He found them both nearly froze to death; his sister out of food, out of firewood, and with no way to get down the mountain without freezing to death. He bundled ’em both up and brought them to his farm, and since that moment on they’d been sparks to his cold heart. Parla brought a warmth to his home he hadn’t known since his own beloved Shara disappeared some thirty years previous, her belly big with his only heir. He often wondered if Shara ever gave birth and whether he had a son or a daughter.
Which made him think about other disappearances. There were a lot of them in this area, he came to realize, more than seemed reasonable. A lot of folk had just walked off over the years, not saying two words about nothing to anyone. Maybe they hadn’t just left. Maybe something else had happened. Something bad.
A chill ran the length of Argo’s body, making him shiver, and his head throbbed even worse. Was something out there luring folks away? Had hellkind come calling? Maybe. After all, not so long ago that Jolson fellow had been around, and if he wasn’t from straight out of Hell, Argo didn’t know what was.
A soft knocking came at the door. “Brother? It’s a bit late in the day, but I’ve brought breakfast; just a bit of fresh bread so as not to upset your stomach.” Like always, Parla sounded soft and feathery, like a bird’s wing. More than a decade and a half separated them, years enough so he often thought o
f her as more of a daughter than a sister. He’d had a strong hand in her raising after their parents died, Radno being long gone even before she was born.
Wincing, he got up and slipped on his trousers. “Aye, sister. I’ll be right out.”
The sunlight seemed to stab at him from every direction. Since when did the house have so many blasted windows? Argo crept through the old farm house to the kitchen, still tugging on his sweater. Even with his spectacles, his vision was a tad blurry. It was going to be a long day. The wood pile still needed to be built up a tiny bit more before the heavy snows fell, something soon to come in this high-up mountain valley. And damned if he didn’t need to drag Rab along with him to get it done. Lazy boy.
Argo sighed heavily as he sat at the huge kitchen table. The chair creaked under the old man’s weight. Across from him, Parla had started in earnest on the new ball of yarn she’d picked up at market a few days earlier, and Rab had a big book set in front of him, an unusual but hopeful sign. Maybe the boy would give up his foolish ways and learn something useful for a change. Leaning forward, he squinted a mite in order to focus his eyes. The book didn’t seem to be one he recognized from the library shelves, or was it—?
Argo choked on his bread. Damned if it wasn’t one of Radno’s magic books. His chair grated loudly as he raked it across the floor. Eyes bulging, body shaking, Argo pounded on his chest and grabbed for a wooden cup. Parla and Rab watched him like he was a loon while he forced a bit of water into his throat, forcing the stuck bread down. Finished, he set the cup on the table and glared at Parla’s son. What in the name of the seven did the boy think he was doing with one of those cursed books?
Rab’s graceful, long fingered hands, instinctively pulled the old brown leather book flush against his chest. The table shook as Argo came around it and lunged for the boy’s treasure. Argo snaked out a meaty hand, grabbed hold, and tried to pull the book away, but the boy had a death grip on the accursed thing.
Rab’s face flushed a dark red. His hazel eyes bugged, and his mouth gaped. He looked like a dying fish. “No Uncle! It’s mine! I know it’s meant to be mine!” His chair tipped over backwards as Rab leapt from it and stumbled away from his uncle, taking the book with him. “I understand what it is now. I understand, and you can’t make it no different by taking this from me.”