✽ ✽ ✽
The streets cleared early that afternoon, as waresmen and trader families enjoyed each other’s company one last time. Fox stayed away from his own cabin, knowing that his parents preferred to be alone right before Father left. Instead, he chose to spend his last free evening with the Blackroots. They all sat together in the empty common room, eating thick and flavorful rabbit stew and playing cards. Bartrum was invited to join them, and he gladly accepted.
As the skies grew darker outside and the fires were lit, Fox watched Picck and Rose, wondering if they knew about the baby. Wondering if he should tell them. He put off making the decision by throwing himself into a lively game of dice with the group. A game at which Bartrum failed spectactularly. The poor man ended up losing two of his fancy scarves to Rose, and an exceptionally nice cloak to Picck. When Borric collected his winnings from Bartrum, he joked that none of the stick-man’s clothes would fit him, so he settled instead for hard coin. But despite his constant losses, poor Bartrum continued to play.
“I’m sure I can figure this game out!” he said after Lai teasingly suggested they play something else. “I am a scholar after all, young madam! And there is no strategy to be had that can elude me! I have studied it all!”
After losing three more rounds, Bartrum finally admitted defeat. He stood and adjusted his glasses. “Perhaps I should have graciously stepped away from the table when it was first suggested,” he said with a wry smile. And then he sighed and patted Fox on the shoulder. “Come on then, I suppose I ought to let you claim your profits.”
Fox followed him out to the traveling library, still tucked cozily in the goat barn. He didn’t want any of Bartrum’s clothes or money, but he had agreed to take his winnings out in paper goods. He sifted eagerly through the books tucked into the wagon, and even leafed through the fancy sheets of parchment. In the end, he selected one of the fancy pens and a bottle of rich black ink. But as he stepped back to let Bartrum close up the wagon doors once more, a handful of rolled-up papers tucked into a corner caught his eye. At a glance, they looked like a crude map, and he was intrigued.
“Oh, those,” said Bartrum, noticing Fox’s gaze. “One of the tradesmen was so kind as to show me the path we’ll be taking back down to the southern lands. Here,” he said, pulling the papers free, eager to share his knowledge with Fox. He tugged at yet another secret panel in his miraculous wagon, producing an attached table at just the right height for he and Fox to spread the map upon it and read.
It was a strange, sketched map of the Merchant’s Highway. Simple squares marked certain cities and waypoints on the journey, and a thick line symbolized the general placement of the road. There were notes here and there, saying things like “Left Fork at the Lowest Cavern” and “Keep Away from Townsfolk at Garrindor!”
“I found it rather fascinating,” said Bartrum in his usual, excitable tone. “Your people have no notion of the proper mapmaking techniques, but you’ve gone on for generations making this journey every year. With only the barest, rudimentary charts. And, well, instinct, I suppose.”
Fox smiled to himself. The idea that someone who’d seen as much of the world as Bartrum, had read all the books that he had, could find the Thiccans fascinating. Absently, Fox ran his fingers along the trade route, as he had done so many times before with the maps in his precious book.
It happened in an instant. A cold, crushing pressure wrapped around his chest, and he was drowning in a freezing cold terror. He heard himself screaming as if from a great distance, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Or maybe it wasn’t him screaming. Perhaps it was the very earth, crying out in pain. He could hear something thundering, making his head pound. His vision was all at once white and dark and blinding.
And then someone was pulling his hand free of the map, and Fox doubled over, trying with all his might not to collapse onto the goat barn floor. The thundering stopped, and the pressure released as quickly as it had come. But the deep, cold feeling, the feeling of standing naked in the snow, did not go away.
There was a hole in the map, just where his finger had been. A charred, jagged hole, right in the center of the block marked “Tessoc Pass.” For a moment, Fox simply stared at it, trying to force his breathing to slow through the stabbing pain in his ribs. And then he ran. Back through the empty valley streets, back up the hill to his cabin and his parents. And when he burst through the front door, breathless, he found Father sitting by the glowing embers of the long-dead kitchen
fire.
“You can’t go,” said Fox at once. “It’s the pass ... it’ll kill you. It’ll kill us all.” He stared his father directly in the eyes, unflinching and unapologetic. Man-to-man. And when Father did not respond, he said it again. “You can’t go.”
There was a look in Father’s eyes, only just visible in the emberglow. It was a look Fox had never seen before. An ever-so-quick glimmer of fear. But then, the look vanished, to be replaced by one of fatherly comfort. “Come,” he said. “Sit.”
Fox joined him at the fireside, and there was silence in the kitchen. For several minutes, father and son sat quietly. Then Father said, “I don’t presume to know how you know this ... but you do, don’t you?”
Fox nodded, and after a moment Father continued.
“You’re a very clever boy, Fox. You always were. And now, with these new things happening to you, you’re growing up so fast that I fear I might miss it.” Then he sighed deeply and went on. “You’re practically a young man. But because of your maturity, I know you’ll understand me when I say this: not going is never an option.”
Fox opened his mouth to protest. To say he knew it wasn’t an option, but this year it had to be. But Father held up his hand and went on.
“The lives of everyone I hold dear depend that caravan. You, your mother, this valley ... they are all worth the risk. And there is always risk. But we are prepared to meet those risks head on.” He put his arm around Fox, as he had so many times when Fox was a little boy. Times when he would tell Fox stories of the caravan. Stories that Fox would cling to and dream about. Now, Father said, “You’ll see. Right by my side, we’ll take on the whole Merchant’s Highway.”
But Fox pulled away. “You don’t understand,” he said. “This is bigger than just a bad winter storm, or a highway bandit. There is something happening out there!”
Father sighed and rubbed his temples. “Go to bed, Fox.”
“But –” said Fox angrily.
“Go,” said Father sternly, “to bed.”
The conversation was over, and Fox knew it. Father’s word was final. And Fox, feeling defeated and lost, climbed the stairs angrily and disappeared into his cubby. He buried himself in his blankets, hoping to ward off some of the cold that still wrapped itself around him, but he did not sleep. He listened to Mother’s light snores from down below, and the sounds of Father tinkering away in his workroom. Late into the night Father worked, and Fox lay awake. Thinking. Praying. And by the time he finally drifted off into a fitful half-sleep, dawn was beginning to brighten the sky, and Father was still downstairs.
✽ ✽ ✽
“But it’s not just them,” Lai was saying. “It’s not them who will be killed if they go, it’s you! You’re one of them this year!”
“I know,” said Fox bitterly, “but that doesn’t mean they’ll listen to me. And Father’s right! Even if I could convince every one of them that death was waiting, they’d still go. They’re Thiccans, after all. They face death every day just by living here.”
They were sitting on the roof of the Five Sides, looking down on the rapidly-filling valley streets. Harvestmast was upon them. Fox should have been celebrating with everybody else, but he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the festival. Too much was happening, and everywhere he looked, he saw one more life that might be affected by what he knew. A wareman’s wife. A trader’s daughter. And over and over in Fox’s mind, he relived that one moment with Farran. How much more blood do you want on your hand
s? You already have a lifetime’s worth ahead of you.
He could never forget the faces of the widows he’d made. The women whose husbands had fallen defending the valley against the Desolata. A threat that had only been chasing Fox. He couldn’t stand the idea of making even more by letting the caravan leave. The plan was simple, and began to grow in his mind as the valley prepared for the last festival of the year. When the sun was at its peak, the valley bells rang out, and everyone flocked toward the valley square. Music and dancing broke out, and the streets filled with the smells of delicious morsels.
But Fox made his way against the tide of valley folk, back to his home.
For a moment he stood in his deserted house, in the doorway of Father’s workshop. He looked around at the neatly packaged pelts and furs, ready to be loaded into the cart later that very night. The plan was, indeed, simple. If Father didn’t go, perhaps the rest of them would follow. He was one of the caravan leaders. He was respected.
Fox took his whittling knife from its place on his belt and held it tight. And then, he began to slice. He tore into the packages, ripping through them and slashing the very furs within. He cut pelts from their frames and threw the frames themselves into the workroom fire pit, causing the embers to reignite into a blaze. He sliced a bear skin into unusable scraps, mentally calculating how much he’d need to destroy to stop Father leaving. It made sense, even as he threw a full package of otter pelts into the growing flame. With nothing to trade, there was no need to leave. But as Fox reached out to tear open a tightly bundled packet of tanned deer hide, he stopped. Father was watching him from the doorway. And this time, the look in his eyes was not fear, or fatherly concern. It was pure, paralyzing disappointment.
Fox let both knife and hide slip from his hands. He searched for something to say. Anything that would make Father stop looking at him like that. But no words came. It was Father who finally spoke.
“I have been looking forward to sharing this journey with my son. A strong, intelligent young man. For a long time, I’ve wanted to take him on the caravan with me, as my apprentice.” His voice was empty of any emotion, but his eyes still rang with that absolute disappointment. “Perhaps I was mistaken. I haven’t got a young man for a son. He is just a little boy. And little boys stay home for the winter.”
Fox’s voice caught up with him again. “What are you saying?” he asked.
In that moment, Father seemed to grow taller. His voice deepened as he said, “You are no longer invited on the caravan. You no longer have apprentice status in this valley, or in my home. You will stay home, and think about what it means to truly be a man.” And then, as he turned to leave Fox standing in the wreckage of the workroom, he said quietly, “I hope to Spirit that you figure it out.”
Fox did not join in the Harvestmast festivities. He took to the woods instead, hunting to keep his mind off what he had done. But he could hear and smell pieces of the celebration on the wind at times. A scrap of Borric’s pies, or a hint of a dancing tune. And it wasn’t long before he realized he was not alone. The wolves were keeping their distance, but he could see them tucked in the shadows, and hear them roaming behind the trees.
They kept him company all night. As he hunted small game and set traps for larger prizes. They lounged just out of reach when he sat high up on a grassy ridge, watching the lights from the Harvestmast. And they began to howl their haunting songs as dawn brushed the mountaintops, and the caravan pulled out of town.
Chapter Fifteen
Doff
Change was in the air. The change of seasons, with summer’s end melting into the chill of autumn. Colors changed, as bright green grasses faded into yellow and brown. Leaves turned deep red and orange and copper, and frost greeted every farmer when he woke before dawn each morning. And in the midst of it all, there was the change that only came from the whispering hints of rumors.
Fox heard them all. Theories about why he hadn’t joined the caravan this year, as everyone knew he should have. Some believed he was going to be married off to a daughter in another town, and he’d be learning her father’s trade. Others touched on the truth, though they didn’t know the full story, when they said that the Foxglove men had a falling out. But there were a select few who could be heard saying that young Forric Foxglove simply didn’t have what it took to be a trapper. That he’d been left at home because he was a disgrace to the fur trade, and would never be the man his father was. Fox could feel them watching him every time he set foot outside his house. Every eye in the valley was turned to him, waiting for something. Just as they’d watched him after the destruction of the valley, so many months ago.
He began spending more and more time in the woods, even staying some nights in Father’s nearby trapping cabin. He caught his own meals, and ventured deeper and deeper into the wild with each journey.
“Doesn’t that upset your mother?” asked Lai. They were sitting by the river during one of the brief moments they had to spare together. Lai had been helping Widow Mossgrove with the harvest every day, working just as hard as any of the farm hands. And with Fox doing his best to avoid the Thiccan’s stares, the two had hardly seen each other since the caravan’s departure. Now, they sat on the riverbank, skipping stones across the water.
“Not really,” admitted Fox. “Truth is, she’s not too happy with me right now. She says my ‘childish tantrum’ might have cut his profits for this year almost in half.” He threw his next stone with such force, it shattered when it hit a boulder across the river. “She’s been depressed since he left. Figured it was best for her if I didn’t ... if I wasn’t around to remind her what I’d done.”
They stood in silence for awhile, skipping handful after handful of smooth, flat river rocks. Then Lai said cheerfully, “Rose knows she’s pregnant now. She and Picck announced it just yesterday.” She grinned. “Can you imagine? Picck, a father?” She giggled and tossed her next stone.
“They’ll make good parents,” said Fox, smiling a bit. There, at least, was one thing he’d done right lately.
Lai kept him company for a bit longer, then said she was needed at home to help with the dinner rush. After a halfhearted invitation to join in, which they both knew he’d refuse, Lai headed back to the Five Sides. And Fox sat for a long while, skipping rocks and floating dried leaves in the current. He waited until well after dark, when he knew Mother would already be asleep, before he crept back into his cubby and began packing his things. Short journeys to and from the cabin weren’t enough anymore. It was time he tried trading on his own.
✽ ✽ ✽
Doff was a solid three-day journey on foot. At least, it had been when Fox traveled there with Father. But his instincts told him to take different paths. Cut through different parts of the mountain. And by the time he’d reached the rough stone pillar marked “Doff,” it had only been just over a day and a half.
He’d been too distracted on his last journey to take in much of the scenery of Doff. Now, he looked around with a wanderer’s fascination. He admired the way the village was arranged, up and down the mountainside, as if everything was perched on a great stone shelf. And he discovered quickly that, in its own way, rough and provincial Doff was just as interesting as the sprawling Whitethorn. Perhaps even more.
The whole little town looked as if it had been carved directly out of the mountainside. Everywhere Fox looked, he saw rough stone. House fronts looked like cave mouths fitted with doors. Their roofs were angular and uneven, sometimes nothing more than natural rocky outcroppings. Great boulders had been carved and shaped into little gardens, with oddly-shaped shelves and pockets overgrown with herbs.
For a bit, Fox simply wandered. Taking it all in. Enjoying the new sights and sounds and smells. There was wax in the air, and flint. In everything there was a hint of charcoal, even the very stone. Natural chimneys protruded from every stone-cut house, and smoke curled from every one in the late-afternoon chill. It was as though the whole village was steaming. He breathed deep, his s
enses delighting in the fresh excitement of a strange place. And then he hitched his bags higher onto his shoulders and set off to the public house.
Even if he hadn’t remembered it from his and Father’s last visit, the smells would have drawn him straight to the little cavern. It was two levels up, at approximately the heart of this strange village, hidden within a long, deep crevice in the wall of the stone. In fact, it was the sort of place you almost couldn’t find if you didn’t already know what to look for. The entrance looked like nothing more than a low, jagged shelf in the rock. But as Fox dipped low and slid beneath it, warmth settled upon him. Here, tucked safely behind the face of the mountain, its narrow entryway protecting it from the harsh mountain winters, was the pub.
It was a dark, sprawling cave with low ceilings. Tables and benches were scattered throughout the room, sometimes disappearing into the darker corners. Torches cast their glow from rough brackets on the walls, and deep veins of unharvested firestone ran through the walls. The soft crackle of the flames echoed strangely against the stone, and voices all through the room were kept low. Smells of ale and hearty stews met Fox’s nose, making him suddenly very aware of his stomach. He’d only snacked on bread and scraps of smoked elk on his trip, and now he was ravenously hungry.
There was a long slab of stone that took up a large portion of the right side of the cavern. Fox made his way up to it and waited until the surly-looking bartender behind the slab took notice of him. “You’re that trader’s kid,” the man said after a moment. His voice was low and grunting, and his face was mostly in shadow from the bulk of his protruding forehead. He was busy wiping down a strange piece of crockery. It was almost a deep, wide bowl, but with a bulbous handle on either side.
“You remembered,” said Fox, somewhat surprised.
“Don’t get many visitors around here,” the man grunted. “New faces always stick out.” He slapped the now-clean dish down in front of Fox and said, “What’ll you have? Goat? Eggs? You look too young for hard ale, but for the right coin I won’t ask any questions.”
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