by Robert Beers
Morning arrived as if it was unsure of the appointment. Heavy clouds obscured the rising sun, and a mist coated everything with a fine layer of dampness.
“Mmmppff! Hey! What happened to th’ sun? Where's th’ morning?” Flynn poked his head out from beneath his bedroll, and squinted at the clouds and fog.
“I think it's still sleepin'” Neely lifted his forearm off of his eyes.
Charity crawled out from underneath her bedroll, and over to the ring of stones where the campfire had burned the night before. The cat peeked out from underneath Charity's bedroll, and complained loudly about the conditions.
Charity looked back at her, and nodded. “I know, but I can't do anything about it.” The cat's face disappeared back within the blankets.
Charity picked up a stick and began stirring the ashes. “I'll see if there's any life left in these coals. I'm not going to tackle that raft today without a nice hot cup of tisane to get me going.”
Flynn yawned hugely and smacked his lips. “Neely's already headed that way. For a fellow who says he hates somethin’ so much, he sure puts ‘is heart into th’ job.”
Charity stirred the ashes, looking for a coal or two she could bring to life. “I don't think he hates fishing or rafting all that much, really, Flynn. I think he just likes to find a way to be contrary. Kind of like you looking for the good in things.”
Flynn rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “You may be right on that one, Miss Charity. Long as I've know ‘im it's been that way. He'll fuss over somethin', but iffn it's really th’ right thing to do, Neely does it.”
Charity blew on a surviving coal. “That's the impression I got.”
She added bits of tinder and twigs to the flare of a glowing coal until the campfire was blazing again. Then she rigged a tripod for the tisane pot.
“Breakfast'll be in a few minutes.” She told Flynn. “Why don't you see if Neely wants some before we tackle that raft again?”
Neely did indeed want breakfast, and ate all that was offered, along with several cups of steaming tisane. He snuck a number of tidbits the cat's way when he thought no one was looking.
“Uuurrrppp! Sorry.” Flynn smiled behind the hand covering his mouth. “That was nice an’ fillin', wasn't it, Neely?”
“Huh?” Neely looked up from wiping up the last of the bacon grease from his travel plate with the last of his biscuit.
“I said...” Flynn finished of his tisane as he stood. “That was nice an’ fillin'.”
“Yup.” Neely replied around a mouthful of biscuit. “Now, let's finish that raft.”
They cut and trimmed a third layer of logs to serve as the floor of the raft by the time midday arrived. After the midday meal, Neely had them peeling strips of bark to use as thongs to tie the floor to the base of the raft.
“Mind you, now.” Neely gestured with his knife. “Only take a few strips from each tree, and don't girdle ‘em, so they'll have a chance to heal. I don't want to kill a tree just for a bit of bark.”
The work of collecting the bark warmed them up to the point where the chill damp of the day didn't really affect them.
As per Neely's instructions, they worked their way through the Alder stand, taking only one strip of bark from each tree. The job took them until dusk to complete. When they were finished, the collected pile of bark strips sat almost two feet high.
“We gotta make sure these strips don't dry out overnight, so we better spread ‘em out, an’ let this weather do its job.”
They woke in the morning, groused about the continued lousy weather, breakfasted and began attaching the raft's floor with the softened bark strips. The cat had decided staying under covers all day, in spite of the damp weather, was boring, and busied herself examining each tie as if insuring its quality.
Charity looked up from tying one of the strips in a crossover pattern that bound the log she was on and the one beneath it tightly together. “Before we started this raft, Neely, you said we'd probably be working on it in the water. Are we still going to be doing that? I mean, it's looking pretty complete now as it is.”
Neely straightened from his crouch. “Might. Might not. It all depends on how she floats when she's in the water. “Specially when we've got th’ weight on. Y'know, th’ horses an’ such?”
“I see. And if it sinks?” Charity raised an eyebrow.
“We start over, I guess.” Neely shrugged.
Flynn reached for another strip of Alder bark. “Or ... we could keep adding layers until it floats.”
Neely reached for his last strip of bark. “Well, we're almost done here. Might as well see what happens. We're gonna need that beast o’ yourn, Flynn.”
Flynn got up from his place on the raft. “I'll get th’ rope ... an’ the’ horse.”
Flynn's draft animal was hitched to the completed raft, and Flynn guided him into the shallows of the river. Neely stepped onto the raft as it entered the water. “It floats!” He called out.
“We did it! We did it!” Charity jumped up and down at the river's edge.
“All right, Neely!” Flynn yelled his congratulations.
“Yeah, yeah.” Neely waved the jubilation away. “It holds me, all right. Let's see if it holds th’ horses an’ th’ packs afore we celebrate. Ok?”
Flynn pulled his horse around, and brought the raft as close as possible into the bank without grounding it. Neely jumped off the raft, and collected the poles he'd cut earlier, and brought them back to the raft. Charity began gathering up the packs, and repacking the loose camping gear, followed closely by the cat.
Her Dapple Gray mare carried the collected packs to the riverbank without complaint, and Flynn tossed them to Neely from the shore.
“It looks like it's holding the weight ok.” Charity observed, as Flynn tossed the last pack onto the raft where Neely caught it.
He walked over to the edge, and bent down to examine the water line. “Lookin’ good, all right. Th’ horses'll be th’ real test. Shall we bring ‘em on?”
They decided that Wilbut would be the first. He was the easiest tempered, as well as the most experienced of the three horses. If he took to the raft well, the other two should be coaxed on board that much easier.
“That's it, Neely. He's goin’ on. He's goin’ on.” Flynn steadied the raft from one of the corners with a pole as Neely led his horse onto the floating platform.
“How's she floatin’ now?” Charity was so excited that she slipped into Flynn and Neely's patois.
“Still lookin’ good.” Neely knelt down to examine the water line once again.
“Good.” Charity took a hold of her mare's reins. The cat leapt onto the packs tied onto the back the saddle. “She'll go on next, and then Flynn's horse. If we don't get wet, we should be good to go.”
Neely nodded. “Sounds good to me. If that beast don't sink us, nothin’ will.”
Flynn ignored the barb. “You bring ‘er on, Miss Charity. I'll steady things from this side.”
Neely held Wilbut's reins while Charity led her mare onto the raft. The horse wuffed as the raft dipped slightly under her weight, but she continued forward and walked across the platform to stand next to Neely's horse.
“Ok, Flynn. Let's see if that beast of yourn'll fit.” Neely took the pole from Flynn to steady the raft.
Flynn's horse transferred over to the raft as if he was merely stepping into a comfortable stall. The raft sank slightly under the added weight, but the water line remained below the top layer of logs.
“Looks like we have a raft,” Neely said, to accompanying cheers.
Charity comforted her mare by offering her a small apple from the pack. She looked at Flynn and Neely. “Shall we see what's down this river?”
Chapter Sixteen
Vedder, Priest and spiritual conscience of the village of Bantering, clicked his tongue as he urged on the twin mules pulling his cart.
Avern would be just over the next rise. He congratulated himself on thinking of the cart. He'd almost forgott
en about the downs between the forest and the lakeside city.
His mind traveled ahead of the cart as he thought about his older brother, Rolston. He would be so proud of his younger brother's accomplishments, if it were not for the nature of them. Rolston, according to his letters, had built a successful business collecting night soil, aging it, and then reselling it as fertilizer to the farmers in the Dairy Lands south of Avern.
“Bardoc's ways are mysterious, indeed.” He thought. “Who would ever think the stuff in the bottom of cesspits could be turned into gold?”
Avern came into view; its log walls starkly brown against the verdant green of the downs. Firth Lake gleamed a brilliant blue to the north of the city.
The mule team merged into the traffic traveling along the main North-South road. Vedder noticed with distaste the number of elf breeds and dwarves mixed into the flow.
He shook his head at the blatant lack of morality of this city, allowing such ... creatures to move about freely was against the very will of Bardoc.
Vedder twitched the reins against the mule team's backs, trying for more speed out of the plodding beasts.
There was a queue at the city gate. Because of the war with Spu a couple of years ago, the vigilance of the cities had been raised. Anyone entering, or leaving their confines was questioned. In some cases a search would be performed. In a very few cases they would find something, hence the atmosphere between Avern and its neighbors remained tense.
Vedder found no fault with the security or the searches. He had nothing to hide, and would welcome the opportunity to prove his worthiness. The only thing that bothered him was seeing some of the lesser races being treated as though they were as good as he.
“No, Gunther, I'm tellin ya. It were a dragon. I saw it flyin’ past th’ clouds, plain as th’ nose on me face. I swear it, on Bardoc's bristlin’ beard.”
“I don't give a skrud ‘bout Bardoc's beard, an’ I ain't seen nuthin’ plainer'n yer nose, Dolbutt. There ain't no sech thing as dragons; I ain't never seen one. ‘Splain that, iffn yer will.”
The heavily country accented conversation caught Vedder's ear. Did he hear the word dragons mixed within that slop the two bumpkins called speech? He pulled on the reins, slowing the mules, and cocked his ear towards the two who were speaking.
“Yer ain't seen no dragons, ‘cause yer ain't never been further from yourn farm than yer fields, an’ yer knows that good'n well, Gunther. Tell me iffn it ain't so.”
“Yer got's me there an’ that's a fack. But skrud me iffn I'm gonna believe in no dragon. Whatta yer wants me ta do, stay awake all night? Naw Dolbutt, they ain'ts none, ‘cause I says they ain'ts none.”
“Yer a close-minded man, Gunther. They is dragons. I saw ‘em as I was passin’ through th’ mountains above th’ Bastard River. Iffn yer had th’ gumption to go there, yer'd see ‘em too.”
“Oh, no, Dolbutt. Yer ain't gettin’ me with that'un. Yer knows I got crops comin’ in. Naw. You go watch yer bleedin’ dragons, an’ I'll tend to me crops. Good day to ya, Dolbutt. I'm gettin’ back to me missus, an’ me nice farm where there ain't no skruddin’ dragons.”
Vedder missed Dolbutt's farewell to Gunther due to an argument that broke out between an elderly couple and one of the gate guards over the contents of the woman's parcel.
He was considering the subject matter of Gunther and Dolbutt's talk when another voice broke in on his thoughts.
“Oy! Priest! You awake up there?” The guard tapped the seat of the cart with the tip of his spear.
Vedder looked down his nose at the guard standing to the right of his cart. “Of course I'm awake. My mind was elsewhere. Is there something you need of me?”
The guard peered into the cart's bed. Vedder was traveling light. The empty bed looked back at the guard. “You got anything to declare?”
If there was one thing Vedder understood above all others, it was the bureaucratic mind. Here, he was on familiar ground. He reached under the cart's seat and pulled out a wickerwork basket. “All I have with me, guard Sergeant, is my lunch. You're welcome to inspect it, if you wish.”
“Might as well.” The Sergeant sighed. “Best to keep with the rules.” He looked at the priest with a humorous glint in his eye. “You never know, you could be smuggling Spuian mercenaries in there.”
Vedder smiled back even as he shivered inwardly at the crassness of the guard sergeant's joke, and opened the basket. “As you can see, Sergeant, there are no mercenaries hidden within my lunch.”
“Very good, priest, You can go now. Welcome to Avern.” The guard waved him along, already turning his attention to the next one in line.
Inside Avern's gates, Vedder turned the cart a hard right to follow the line of the city wall. Rolston's home and office occupied one of the homogenous wood frame buildings along the backside of a street appropriately named Skunkwood lane.
Vedder's brother met the cart as it pulled up in front of his door. One of his employees, a grizzled oldster with a permanent tremor, took care of the team as the priest stepped to the ground.
“Brother! Good to see you after all these years. You're looking prosperous and well.” Rolston hopped down off his porch and held out his arms to greet his younger sibling.
“Brother!” Vedder greeted Rolston in kind. “How does one go about killing a dragon?”
* * * *
Charity stretched her arms out and opened her mouth in a wide yawn. The cat, nestled snugly in Charity's lap, copied her mistress’ action.
They were rafting in the upper reaches of the Ort River where the water flowed wide and slow. The horses, partially due to the stability of the raft and its slow drift in the river's current, had settled enough that their riders no longer felt compelled to watch their every living moment onboard.
She was content to just lie back against the packs and enjoy the warm fall sunshine. Flynn, on the other hand, thought this was a perfect time to try to infect Neely with the same love of fishing he had.
The big man was sitting on the edge of the raft across from the horses with his bare feet dangling into the river. One of the willow poles he'd made rested in his hands and the line trailed off behind them in the water.
He reached up with a hand and scratched his cheek. The scritch, scritch sounded loud in the stillness of the morning. “Come on, Neely. Give it a try, you may like it, if you give it a chance.”
“I ain't fishin'. You know why.” Neely sat with his back against the other side of the packs Charity used as a rest.
Flynn shrugged and turned his attention back to his pole. “Well, iffin you change your mind...”
Neely's derisive snort expressed the chances of that being very, very small.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! I got one!” Flynn surged to his feet with his willow pole bent nearly double.
In spite of his intentions to the contrary, Neely got excited over Flynn's catch. He got up from his spot against the packs and joined Flynn at his side. “You got a big'un there, Flynn.”
The big man hauled back on the pole as he fought to keep the thrashing fish on his line. “Sure do. Look at that! You see the flash of pink on its side? That's a salmon, that is. Even you'd like a fresh salmon steak, Neely. Even you.”
“Don't bet on it, Flynn.” Neely muttered, and then “Ease off there. Don't pull so hard, you'll lose ‘im.”
Flynn looked over at Charity and smiled. Then he turned his attention back to the salmon. “I got ‘im, Neely. Ohhh, he's a strong'un, he is.”
Neely edged closer to Flynn, his eyes glued to the king-sized fish on the end of the line. “Ok, give ‘im a little slack now. Good, good. All right. Draw ‘im in, Flynn, draw ‘im in.”
“You wanna take over for me, Neely?” Flynn asked, with a half smile.
Neely shook his head, but his eyes stayed on the fish.
Flynn put the pole in his friend's hands. “You take over for me, Neely. Me arms was gettin’ tired, an’ we don't wanna lose th’ prize, do we?”
Neely g
rabbed a hold of the pole. “Oh, skrud. Give me th’ bleedin’ thing. Come ‘ere, me pretty. I got you now.”
He worked the willow pole back and forth, bringing the fighting salmon in toward the raft, and then allowing it spare room to run. After a time, the struggles of the fish slowed as it began to tire.
Flynn leaned back against the packs and crossed his arms over his paunch. “You doin’ ok, Neely? Need any help?”
“No. No, I've got it.”
Charity had watched Flynn's seduction of Neely into the world of fishing. She noticed the fanatical gleam in Neely's eyes when he answered Flynn's inquiry. She then leaned over until her chin rested on Flynn's shoulder blade. “You beast. You baited him into it, didn't you?”
Flynn chuckled. “I did, didn't I. Seems to be enjoyin’ himself though.”
“I got ‘im.” Neely called out. “Look at ‘im. Isn't he a beauty?”
He held up the exhausted salmon by its tail. The hooked mouth opened and closed as it tried to breathe out of the water.
Charity looked at the salmon, and then at Neely. The sense of triumph he was feeling radiated out of his expression. “He sure is, but I thought you said you didn't want anything to do with fish or fishing?”
Flynn chuckled deeply in his chest, as Neely, abashed, blushed crimson. “Awww, now. Don't go teasin’ ‘im, Miss Charity. Takes a big man to admit it when he's been wrong. I'd say Neely, here, just done a heap of admittin'.”
Later, after Flynn's masterful preparation, Neely had to also admit he liked salmon steak.
Charity watched the moon rise in the east as Neely maneuvered the raft into a still eddy against the shore. Thick green grasses flowed from the shoreline into the black shadow of the mountain range to the West.
“Looks like a good spot to pasture the horses, as well as camp for the night. Whadda you think?” Neely pushed the pole he held into the soft mud of the river bottom to help keep the raft steady until it could be staked and tied fast.
Flynn took hold of the reins of his horse and began the task of leading them from the raft onto shore.
Charity looked up from stroking the cat curled upon her lap. “Looks good to me. How about you?” She looked down at the cat who looked up at her, and burped salmon-flavored breath through an open-mouthed purr.