Amber Magic

Chapter Three

Darkness fell swiftly as they drifted toward the island. The first anchored buoy clanged its bell in greeting and they exchanged smiles. Their faces were now illuminated only by the light of the lantern that swung from the lamppost on the mast. They let the current take them now, lifting their poles from the water and saving their energies for the final push to the village docks at Riverton. Both were tired, a bit shivery, and glad the journey was almost at an end. It seemed to Brand that their home island was further away from Riverton this autumn than ever before.

Tonight, Stone Island was a towering shadow of blackness. Only the twinkling lights from the outlying houses that were sprinkled along the cliffs and the warm diffuse glow that came from Riverton relieved the darkness. It wasn't long before the skiff slipped into the lagoon and nudged up against the docks. Brand and Jak were lucky; there was plenty of space at the high public docks. There was no need to jump down into the cold squelching mud of the river to pull the skiff up to shore. A lone cart waited for them at the docks. A brown carthorse stood, tail flipping. The cart’s driver climbed down from the board and held aloft a heavy brass lantern in greeting.

“Hey there, Corbin!” shouted Brand to the driver. “Give us a hand, man!”

With heavy steps that suggested bulk, the man approached. Brand noted that the man had the hood of his cloak pulled up and that the lantern failed to penetrate the gloom within. He frowned. Was this truly Corbin? Or was it someone good at imitating his slow, stumping gait? Thoughts of the shadowy horseman back on the river sprang to mind.

“What's wrong with you, Brand?” asked Jak, a bit short-tempered after the difficult trip. “Take this cask, will you?”

Brand clambered up onto the dock and took the proffered cask. He set it down on the creaking boards while still eyeing the approaching figure. Then he shook his head, chiding himself. Of course it was Corbin. No shadow man could walk like that.

Corbin stepped closer and threw back the hood of his cloak. “It's a cold one tonight, isn't it? It took you gentlemen quite some time to get here. Couldn't use the sails?” he asked. His wide face split with a smile that showed his strong white teeth. “Good to see you, in any case.” He was the same age as Brand, both of them being about twenty, but looked older with his heavy reddish beard and broad shoulders. Corbin was as surprisingly wide as Brand was tall. As was often the case with young hard-working men, there was no fat on either of them.

Although he felt a bit silly, Brand grabbed Corbin's free hand and shook it. He couldn't help but feel relieved. “Good to see you too, my cousin.”

Jak, standing in the skiff, was looking up at them with his fists on his hips. He said nothing, but Brand could tell what he was thinking: You've been acting jumpy all day, ever since… There was no need to finish the thought.

With renewed energy, Brand jumped back into the skiff and began handing up the cargo with Jak. Corbin stacked the casks two at a time and piled the melons beside them with easy, deliberate movements.

Soon they were finished with the first step, and after securing the skiff for the night they carried the cargo to the cart and loaded it. Lastly, they tossed up their rucksacks with their fresh clothes and gear. “I wish that Tator would come out on the dock,” said Jak. “Although I can't say that I blame him for being skittish about the water.”

The shaggy brown pony tossed his head, perhaps recognizing his name. Corbin patted him as he loaded two more broadleaf melons. “Tator knows what's best for him,” he said gently. “And falling into the lagoon ain't it.”

While Jak climbed up onto the board next to the driver's seat and Brand tried to get comfortable perched on the wine casks, Corbin fed Tator an apple from his pocket. Then he heaved himself into the driver's seat and they set off. The horse pulled the cart slowly but gamely up the hill toward Riverton.

The first houses they passed were mounted on spindly-looking stilts. Neither the stilts nor the rickety houses themselves appeared to be in the best of repair. Most of these belonged to the less reputable clans among the Riverton folk, which meant the Hoots, who were the most numerous, as well as the Silures and the Fobs. They inhabited the dock region primarily because no one else wanted to live on stilts that might not hold in the yearly floods, which made the land cheap. It was even cheaper if one simply squatted on the land and built a shack there, which was what many of them did. Brand always disliked the first part of the road up from the docks as it wound through this section of town. It was no fun passing beneath the sour eyes of the Hoots and the Silures who had made a family tradition of sitting out on the raised porches of their shacks in the evenings. There they would sit, some rocking, most smoking long-stemmed clay pipes, all with a large corked jug of fruit wine at their feet.

Years ago, when Jak and Brand had been children and their parents had still lived, the Silures had tried to take Rabing Isle from them with an ancient writ of inheritance. The writ, supposedly discovered among the effects of old man Tad Silure, had turned out to be a forgery. The entire Silure clan, and the Hoots, who counted the Silures as close kinsfolk due to excessive intermarriage between the two clans, had never forgotten the loss of Rabing Isle, which they still regarded as rightfully theirs. Brand looked at the others on the driver's board, and noted that they had a determined cast to their postures. They leaned forward, hunching over without glancing from side to side. He could only imagine the grim look of distaste on their faces. No one in the Rabing clan would give a Silure or a Hoot the time of day. Only the Fobs were on good terms with them, as they disliked both the others.

“I can only imagine the offering that this lot has come up with for the Feast,” muttered Jak back over his shoulder to Brand. “Probably a barrel of last month's salmon garnished with old man Tad Silure's shoelaces.”

Corbin and Brand said nothing in return, but they did exchange a glance. Jak had never forgiven the Silures or the Hoots, and persisted in the claim that they had had a hand in the queer boating accident that had left his parents missing and presumably eaten by merlings.

Slightly higher up the hill they passed the tannery and the slaughterhouse. Brand turned a wistful eye to the rambling old house that stood near the tannery. A single candle burned in an upstairs window. Brand wondered if it was Telyn's room.

Jak nudged Corbin, and it was a moment before Brand noticed that they were both eyeing him and grinning. “You sure are sweet on that Fob girl, aren't you Brand?” chuckled Jak.

Corbin laughed and slapped the reins lightly on Tator's back, as the horse had begun to slow, having sensed their distraction. Brand felt his cheeks flush and grimaced at the melons.

“Scraper, isn't that what they call her?” asked Jak.

Brand frowned at him. “Her name's Telyn.”

Jak nodded, saying nothing more. Corbin began humming a little tavern song about the lord who loved the pig farmer's daughter. Brand sighed, and they both grinned at him.

“I think she's a fine girl, Brand,” said Jak quietly.

Corbin cleared his throat; a mannerism that Brand knew was his mild form of apology. Nothing more was said of it, but Brand continued to watch the lonely candle in the window until they had left it beyond a bend in the road.

After a time the rutted road left the docks and the shacks behind and Riverton proper began. Here the houses were larger and more pleasantly lit up. Sounds of merry-making came from beneath several of the thatched roofs. Smoke curled into the night sky and the scent of burning pine and frying trout filled the streets. Brand and Jak both found their mouths watering. It had been many hours since lunch.

Corbin, never one to travel far between meals himself, sensed their mood. “The Harvest Moon won't come for two nights. We needn't take the offering all the way to the faerie mound tonight. Let's go by Froghollow and see if my mother has some of her stew and cornbread left over.”

Brand perked up visibly. His eyes pleaded with Jak.

“Well,” said Jak after a moment of thoughtful chin rubbing. “If you think we can get to the common by first light tomorrow…”

“There isn't a doubt of it!” said Brand.

Jak nodded. “I would certainly hate to miss out on any of Aunt Suzenna's corn muffins.”

“Nor her stew, either,” added Brand, delighted. At his age, skipping a meal, especially supper, seemed an almost criminal act. And for a fact, there was no better cook in the clan than Aunt Suzenna. Even old Gram Rabing's legendary cooking had been surpassed years ago.

“Good then, it's decided,” Corbin said. He made a comfortable readjustment of his bulk on the sagging driver's board. “Quite possibly, I could do with a bite myself.”

Jak laughed out loud at this, poking Corbin in his thick ribs. “Thin as a rail you are, boy. Famished!”

Corbin took all this good-naturedly. When they came to the fork that led to Froghollow, Corbin let Tator turn toward home. Knowing he was headed for fresh straw and a good brushing, the colt picked up the pace, almost trotting as they left Riverton and entered the forest.