by E.W. Pierce
tottered to the fence. “I be Herbert. You need of a horse, stranger?”
“I do. Mine last had its belly ripped out whilst stabled at the inn.”
Herbert nodded. “Wolves. They venture into town on occasion, looking for food. The cold drives ‘em to it.”
Marten eyed the man’s stock. Broad of chest and thick-legged, with boots of shaggy hair about their lower legs, these were meant more for pulling plow than a wagon. But they’d serve ably enough, at least until Marten reached another town. “How much?”
Herbert turned to look at the horses, frowning in thought. “Two hundred a head.”
“Two hundred? For these mangy pack animals? Fifty.”
The old farmer spit noisily. “Horse flesh ain’t easy to come by in these parts, stranger. Aye, two hundred will set you right.”
Marten smiled. “I fear I am a bit pressed for coin at the moment. Will you barter?”
“Aye, if you’ve something of value.”
Marten grinned to himself.
They settled on fifty gold, plus six silver arrow heads and a silvered dagger besides. Wolves, indeed; Herbert thought enough of werewolves to part with his horseflesh for what amounted to half his original asking price. The boy chased Baron across the yard while they negotiated, laughing breathlessly as he tackled the dog. Marten felt sorry for the boy, left on his own and so obviously starved for attention. He owed him a debt for mentioning this werewolf business.
The trade cost included shoeing, but given the lateness of the day it’d be tomorrow before the horse was ready. Of the lot, Marten selected a lean spotted mare that moved with easy grace. Then, their business concluded, he turned back for town. Despite the onset of dusk, only twenty-odd chimneys appeared to be lit, including the inn. Could so many still be about the fields or attending their work, or was there something more sinister going on in Hodgersville?
The boy fell in alongside, sticking close by his side, eyeing the receding daylight warily. They walked in silence.
Halfway into town, Marten saw Michelle standing inside a fence, shaking out a towel. Dressed practically this time, though her face was naked to the air. Likely her husband was inside, but the door was closed. Marten ambled over. “Hail-o.”
Michelle startled at the sound of his voice, dropping the towel.
Marten retrieved the towel and passed it over the fence. “Coming by the inn tonight?”
“Pardon?” She drew back a pace toward the house.
Marten smiled. Was this the game then? Hot then cold. Did she want him to tease it out of her? “I’ll be staying another night. Care to warm my bed? You did it so ably last night.”
“I… who… how dare you!” She fled for the house and slammed the door.
Marten stood at the fence. He thought to push open the gate and demand an explanation, husband or no. He’d known some women for playing games, but this was something else. Different. “She acted like didn’t know me...” But it was no act; he'd seen the blankness in her eyes, the confusion and alarm as she'd backed away.
“People lose time,” the boy said. “Go to sleep on Monday, wake on Friday.”
“But she came to see me. How can she not remember?”
The boy shrugged. “People don’t like forgetting things they done.”
They stopped outside of the boy’s house. The chimney was cold. “Can I come with you?” The fading sun glittered in the boy’s eyes.
“No.”
Sniffling, the boy hugged Baron. He stood inside the fence and watched them go.
Baron whined and then barked when Marten ignored him.
"Quiet now." Lost to confusion over everything that had befallen him since waking, Marten forgot his silent promise to look after the boy.