“What did your first visitor look like?” Dirk asked.
The old man laid his knife down next to the remains of the meal, and laced his fingers over his belly. He sucked at his teeth, contemplating the question.
“Youthful,” he said. “Long and tall. Light of foot, quick of tongue, and hungry.”
Dirk nodded, taking time to chew over the old man's words, and suck the marrow from his meaning. The codger's smile vanished, and he regarded Dirk soberly.
“I need hardly tell the tale,” he said. “May as well speak to the raven of the crow.”
“Teller's been here, then,” Dirk said. It wasn't a question, but the man nodded as if it needed an answer.
“See to your lady,” he said, easing himself onto his feet. He grabbed one of the few sticks left from the dying fire, and turned toward the cabin. “I've no bed to spare, but my hearth is warm, and the boards before it are no harder than the forest floor.”
“My thanks,” Dirk said to the old man's back. His host waved the words off, and stepped into the darkened house.
Dirk led Sunset to the creek, and stroked her mane as she drank. Light blossomed inside the cabin, and Dirk saw the old man busying himself near the fireplace. He also saw a small, wooden corral against the back of the house. He patted Sunset, and drew her toward the enclosure. She came willingly enough, and even held still while he unburdened her. They'd fallen into a routine, and the road had taken the edge off of her exuberance to be out of the barn and away from her mistress. The mare was still strong, but Dirk could tell she would need a long rest soon. She walked the length and breadth of the enclosure, snorting disdainfully at the leaning fence. After several passes, she finally laid down on the springy grass near the chimney stones. Dirk shouldered his gear, and walked back to the front porch.
The cabin was close, but comfortable. The furnishings were wood, but knitted cushions and woven blankets softened the hard corners. A bearskin rug lay on the floor. Plants dangled in the kitchen nook, adding the smell of onions, spices, and fresh herbs to the air. The bearskin was old, and many of the softer furnishings were threadbare, but the place was no less comfortable for it. Dirk's host sat in a rocking chair near the fire, his hand resting near a heavy walking stick.
“Which one are you?” the old man asked as Dirk laid down his bags and saddle. “The boy had a certainty someone would come seeking him, but would make no stake on who it would be. There were brigands on his trail, so he said, but mayhap his kin as well.”
“My name is Dirk,” Dirk said. “Teller is my cousin.”
The old man nodded once, satisfied. “Well-met, then. Call me Banys, if it please you.”
Dirk returned the nod, and seated himself in a chair opposite the old man. He rested his elbows on his knees, and waited. Banys began rocking, the muscles in his ankles tightening and slackening in time with the chair's soft creak. For a short while there was nothing but the crackle of the fire, and the occasional sound of a night bird beyond the windows.
“Will you tell me what happened, Banys?” Dirk asked.
The old man leaned back in the chair, squared his shoulders, and rested his gaze on Dirk. After a long moment, he nodded his head.
“Aye, though there is little enough soothe in the story. Spring was on her last dance, and summer was mincing through the trees when the boy trilled along my path.” Banys smiled, and shook his head slightly. “He was travel ragged, and woods dirty. Rain clouds hung low in the sky, and he asked if I had soap and a razor, as he would be in sore need of both soon. I shouted that he walked in fortune's footsteps, for I had both, and a fire to dry himself and his clothes if the storm didn't lift him to heaven on the first strong wind.”
“I do not ken your meaning,” Dirk said, frowning slightly as he tried to pick apart Banys's unfamiliar dialect.
“The woods and wind had sucked him clean,” Banys said. “His hair hung like wet milkweed, and his boots and bag seemed to be all that anchored him to the ground.”
Dirk frowned, then nodded. “He was thin? And unwell?”
“Sleep seemed a burden he had gladly shed some time ago,” Banys said, nodding. “I thought his greeting jest, but he was sincere. He lay his pack on my porch, and flung off his modesty as the rain came down. The sky washed him clean, and rivulets ran filthy from his hair. As sullied as he was, his garb was more so. He slapped it on the butcher's stump, and against the railing, fury and laughter ringing from his lips. I had fear he was fevered, or mad, but the storm lashed that from him sure as it had summer's dust.”
Dry lightning flashed outside, leaping from one cloud to another as it tried to climb back into the night sky. Dirk turned toward the window, and waited. Two breaths later, the slow-footed thunder gave rumbling chase. When he turned back, Banys was watching him.
“Did you grant him the razor?” Dirk asked.
“I did. He showed his face to the sky, and I thought sure he would cut his throat rather than strop it. His hand was smooth and soft, though, and not a drop of blood mixed with the fallen sky. Then, once his face was clean, he barbered himself. He shook in truth by the time he finished, and he lost his legs by the time he reached the porch.” Banys opened the lid on a small, wooden box, and withdrew a small piece of dried meat. He popped it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “I helped him inside, and put a blanket round his shoulders. He laid on yonder skin, and all the miles finally caught him. He fell asleep between a bolt of lightning, and the crack of thunder that followed.”
Banys withdrew another of the jerked nuggets, and raised his eyebrows at Dirk. Dirk nodded, and the old man tossed it to him. The meat was gamy and tough, but it was also smoky and savory. Dirk took a moment to enjoy the flavor. Banys did the same, slowing his rocking and resting one foot on a stool.
“He was dreams for the whole night, and the day besides. I tried to rouse him, but may as well have tried to stir a snowbound bear. So I left him, and he returned to his senses the next night. He ate, he drank, and vacated enthusiastically. Then he dressed, and spoke the way a man whose kept his thoughts bottled too long does.”
“That sounds like Teller,” Dirk said. “What did he talk about?”
“He told me a tale. He spake of a ramshackle place in the depths of the woods, and of a clan of killers nested there. He told me a trick he played, and of a treasure he stole from them.” Banys frowned, and in that moment he seemed much older. He rocked slowly, staring at the ground between his feet. “He told me of the dreams he had, as well. Terrible dreams, so they sounded.”
“Dreams?” Dirk asked, unsure he'd understood.
“Your kin was hag-ridden, stake your shank on that,” Banys said. “He walked for days on end, and when he tried to sleep, he awoke on his feet, in a place he had no memory of. When he did sleep, he dreamed of a black road beneath a black sky. He said it led on to a city of stone, peopled only by the mad and the dead. Whenever he had that dream, he awoke on the road, holding the pearl before him like a dowser's stick.”
“Did he say aught else?” Dirk asked.
“Aye, and plenty,” Banys said. “He told of his brothers and sisters, many as the days are long. He shared tales of his mountain father and river mother, and counted the deeds of his clan. And when his throat ran dry, he drank, and confessed more. Lovers fresh and lost, journeys and trades, and the tumble that led to the scar behind his left ear.”
“And?” Dirk asked.
Banys twitched his lips in an expression that was a distant relation to a smile. “He talked so long I drowsed. I roused a time or three, but the rain eased me away. When I woke again, I was wrapped and swaddled. The boy was gone, along with some turnips, a sack of jerked meat, and my old gray geld.”
Dirk nodded. “Do you know where he would have gone?”
“Northwest,” the old man said, gesturing with a hand. “I followed the tracks with my own eyes. Cressus must have led him right through the back cut that leads up to the high trail.”
“Did you follow further?
” Dirk asked.
Banys shook his head. “Once upon a by, I may have. But I saw no reason to run myself ragged over a beast I kept more out of favor than need.”
“Is there anything northwest of here?” Dirk asked.
“Town called Barrow Fields,” Banys said. “It stands a few days travel on beast back. Much longer afoot. Three or four turns on the trail will bring you round the marshes. A way station stands there, or at least it did six years back, and it is the last such before you reach the heath lands. If the boy kept going that way, he would have to pass by there. And if he passed by, the mistress of that pile saw him go. A nosy shrew she may be, but she has a keen eye.”
“And if he went another way?” Dirk asked.
“Then he came nowhere near that road,” Banys said. “The heath is thin, and the bogs are thirsty. A man ahorse would bare have time to cry out before the ground swallowed him up.”
Dirk nodded, and leaned back in his chair. He turned over the codger's words in his mind, looking for some hint of a false trail. He didn't see one. Banys stopped rocking, and faced the fire. Though he watched the flames, he didn't appear to see them.
“I had a wife, once,” Banys said, his voice quiet enough Dirk almost didn't hear him. “I sired two sons and a daughter on her. When the boys grew big enough to swing my old ax, they cleared and split trees. We were going to build a room for them. A place they could share, apart from us, but still close.”
“Were?” Dirk asked.
“They took ill that summer. First my Mara, and then Faline when she tried to nurse her mama. The bucks stayed back, but by Long Day, Hardell coughed like a crow. Kellan was just like his brother, and took his bed a few days after.” Banys shifted his gaze, and looked at Dirk. There was sadness in his eyes, but it was an old, cold thing. Ashes of a fire that had once ravaged him, but which had burned down to naught but a few, warm coals. “They left me in the night. No final declarations or whispered prayers like the stories say. No wracking sobs. They just closed their eyes, and in the morning I was alone.”
Banys looked away from Dirk, and began rocking again. He folded his hands in his lap, idly tugging at his thick knuckles. He sniffed, and rubbed a tear from the end of his nose before it could fall.
“Teller, as you name him, reminded me of my boys,” Banys said. “Not his face, or his tales, but his manner. His laugh, his smile... for a night, it was as if one of my own had returned to me.”
“My sympathies-”
“Are yours to keep,” Banys said. “Teller brought me mind of my sons in another way. There is a sickness in him. A fire burning him away from the inside. If it is not quenched, it will burn till there is naught left.”
Dirk couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he stayed silent. Banys nodded as if Dirk had agreed with him, and relaxed back into his chair.
“I pray, for his sake and yours, that you find him before he finds the end of that black road he seeks.”
Chapter Seven
Dirk spent the night on the floor before the hearth. He woke early the next day, but Banys was already up. The old man insisted Dirk stay for the morning meal, and as they ate Banys gave Dirk directions that would take him along the trail to the northern heaths. He also described his old, gray gelding, noting the burn scar along his left flank from when he got too close to a wildfire when he was still a colt. Dirk listened carefully, and when Banys finished speaking, repeated his instructions. When the meal was over, the old homesteader handed Dirk a small, drawstring sack. In it were several loaves of flat bread, wrapped around a clay bottle.
“What's in the jug?” Dirk asked.
“A pretty for the ugly,” Banys said, giving Dirk a crooked smile. “The Mistress of Bracken Bog is a gimlet wench, and her help comes dear. This should make her more amenable.”
“Then I thank you for it,” Dirk said, replacing the bottle and cinching the sack's hemp string.
“I've no use for thanks, boy, as I continue to remind,” Banys said, standing up from the table. “Find yon wayward son, and restore me my sod cutter some time before the sowing sun returns.”
“My word on that,” Dirk said, nodding.
The two men clasped hands, and Banys's smile became a grin. “Go with the gods, Dirk.”
“I doubt they would walk the road with me,” he said.
Banys laughed. “Then walk alone, and be all the happier for it.”
Rather than returning to the path he'd been taking, Dirk rode due west past the little cottage. The trees, whose crowns were beginning to take on gilded gold and red, arched over the path letting in patches of sun. Birds sang their morning tunes, sharing the news of the night among each other. Gravel crunched and leaves shushed beneath Sunset's hooves, and the mare glanced about her as they rode. She tried to go off into the brush a time or two, but Dirk pulled her head back around. Fed, watered, and with a bit of rest in a proper paddock, she came along with no more than a little fuss.
They continued until he found four small cairns. The first was the largest, piled with white stones whose hard edges had begun to wear away. The other cairns were smaller, and closer together. The earth had begun to grow over them, sending tendrils of grass in between the stones, and reclaiming those who'd been laid inside her. They slept beneath heavy blankets, as some said the old gods lurked beneath the mountains. Dirk regarded the burial mounds, letting the dead know he'd witnessed them. After he'd paid his respects, he turned north, and found the cleared path Banys had mentioned. The trail rose slightly, and sitting at the crest of it was a brown rabbit. It twitched its nose, looking down the hill at the man and rider. Dirk slid a stone into his hand. The rabbit glanced aside, and Dirk slowly cocked his arm. He twisted his shoulders, and let fly. The rock struck true, and the long-ear fell over in the dirt.
“Apologies, my little friend,” Dirk said, dismounting and drawing his working blade. “But I have miles ahead of me, and I cannot fill my belly with grass.”
The next four days came and went with little change. The trail was rough, and Dirk had to dismount more than once to lead Sunset. The trees were marked from the buck's rut, and clawed from a few bears, but none of the marks were fresh enough to disturb Dirk's sleep. The midges and blood flies were mostly gone, too, though a few hardy survivors remained to bite and bother him and Sunset.
On the afternoon of the fifth day, they came to a wider, wagon-rutted road. By the evening they reached the place Banys had told him about. It was little more than a hovel sitting at a wide place in the road. The lower level was built from serviceable field stone, and stacked atop it were what looked like barn timbers. While it might have been straight and true when it was first raised, wet and wind had warped the place until the whole pile leaned westward like it was bracing against a strong wind. Light bled through the creaks and cracks, and Dirk heard voices from within as he walked Sunset closer. There were two women, and at least one man. A chicken coop crouched on the lee-side of the building, and a horse cart was stopped and chocked nearby. The team, a pair of stocky bay geldings that had seen better years, stood in a small paddock. One was drinking loudly from a crooked trough, and the other was cropping weeds like a child eating stolen sweets.
Dirk took his time evaluating the place, his rain cloak held tight against the wind. Then he dismounted, and walked closer. He hitched Sunset to a lone tree near the road, slung his pack over his shoulder, and walked toward the front door. It was mismatched and drunk-hung, with leather cords taking the place of hinges. He laid his fist against the door, and the voices inside fell silent. There was an animal snuffling, and a sleepy growl.
“What do you want?” a woman's voice called out, the words blending together into a single, ill-tempered question.
“A place by the fire,” Dirk answered, raising his voice to be heard through the splintery wood.
“Door's open,” the voice said, once again speaking quickly enough that the words slurred into a mangled whole. “Mind the weight.”
Dirk put a hand
to the door, but had to push until it groaned to make it move. The far corner of the door plowed along a well-dug track in the dirt, and the door finally fetched up against a chunk of gray stone. Inside, a batch of hand-carved chairs sat around a fire pit dug right into the floor. Two logs blazed away, casting a dim circle of light. A serving table stood up against the wall, and a few cook pots hung on a drying rack. Several shelves held odds and ends, and what looked like a former horse stall had been turned into a larder.
A grizzled, older woman sat in a slat-backed chair, her feet held out toward the banked flames. Her coarse, greasy hair was pulled into a bun, and her sunken cheeks testified she had few, if any, teeth remaining. Another woman sat next to her, younger but not young, and still with a bit of color in her hair. Her sleeves were rolled high on her arms, and she had the wrinkled fingers of a washer woman. Sitting on a cot in one of the rear stalls was a big-bellied man with muscular arms, and a chest that had gone to fat. His right leg stuck out stiffly, splinted from thigh to ankle. A crutch leaned on the wall near to hand. Lying on the ground next to him was a shaggy wolfhound, its fur a dull red. Even from the doorway, Dirk could see the dog was mostly blind in one eye. Lastly, a dark-skinned man looked across the fire at Dirk. He was puffing on a long-stemmed pipe held in the corner of his mouth. One hand cupped the pipe bowl, and the other rested on his knee. He wore rough-spun wool, and heavy, buckled boots that had seen their share of miles. His head was shaved smooth, and he sported a thick mustache.
“Eve,” Dirk said by way of greeting, closing the door behind his back.
“Fire's free,” the older woman said, gesturing with one, gnarled hand. “Bed or bread, they cost.”
“What would you have for trade?” Dirk asked, easing himself into one of the empty chairs that looked sound enough to support him.
“What you got?” the crone returned, narrowing her beady eyes.
Dirk sat his pack between his feet, and kept his hands in view as he unbuckled the flap, and rooted around. He removed the sackcloth pouch, lighter now that the bread was eaten. He unknotted the drawstring, and slid out the small, clay jug. The contents sloshed quietly, and Dirk held it out to the old woman.
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