Dragon Clan #7: Shell’s Story

CHAPTER THREE

Shell didn’t believe sneaking off into the dark to escape the highwaymen pursuing him was an option. He imagined sitting alone each night, scared of stray sounds and the highwaymen’s reappearance, and that didn’t appeal. Neither did watching for them around each bend of the paths he followed. They named the tune, so he would sing it.

Waiting in the darkness under the bushes, he hid in the deepest shadows where he could see the clearing in front of the three crudely built huts. The three men pursuing him would probably search near the river all night, but the three people still in the camp deserved a visit from him in return for the harm they tried to do to him. The one he had decided was a woman by her diminutive size and movements, helped set the broken arm of the screaming man. Shell waited until they finished, and the two men headed for one hut while she went to another.

Still, he waited. The huts had been built of brushwood piled against a framework of greasewood and juniper, all local plants, and the only available sources to use for construction. The small willows and cottonwoods growing beside the stream he’d passed were half a day’s walk away. To build on the grasslands, you used what the rolling hills offered, and that is generally a choice between tall grass and stunted shrubs or both.

Yellow light from oil lamps escaped through the many cracks of the walls in both occupied huts. Eventually, the lights went out. Shell checked his desire to rush ahead and slip into the camp, and hopefully convince them to leave him alone in the future. The third hut drew his attention. That one had looked empty and still was, as far as he knew. Near midnight he crept closer and carefully opened its door an inch. He froze and listened. Hearing no breathing inside, he opened it further and sniffed. A room containing a person smells different than an empty one, but he saw, smelled, and heard nothing.

Leaving the door open to shed a little starlight inside, he felt his way to an empty sleeping pallet and a crudely made chair. He continued working his way around the room, following the walls to a second pallet. A light would have hastened his search, but with the shoddy construction, enough light would spill from the walls for one of the others to see it if they were not asleep.

His hand touched a table made from a tree stump. On top of it, he found the first item he searched for, which was an oil lamp. A small jar filled with lamp oil sat on the bare floor. Carrying the lamp and oil, he continued his search, and behind the door discovered one of the things he’d hoped to find; a bow and quiver of arrows, both surprisingly well crafted from the brief inspection he gave them. They must have stolen these from another traveler. These are not the kind of people to own good weapons.

He slipped the bow over his head and adjusted it to fit comfortably on his shoulder. The quiver went over the other shoulder, with the arrows in easy reach. Filled with the satisfaction of the finds, his hand touched the jar of oil and the lamp again. Outside in the starlight, he dribbled oil around the base of the hut, then quickly, but quietly moved to the other huts. After emptying the oil jar on them, he went to the dying campfire and placed a dry stick on the red coals. When it caught fire, he used it to light the lamp.

With restraint, while hurrying, his heart pounded. He went to the hut where the two men had entered and touched the flame of the lamp to the spilled oil. The fire flickered, caught, and quickly spread. He hurried to the hut where the woman entered and did the same. On his way to the third hut, he paused, saw how fast the huts were burning and called out, “Fire!”

He knelt in the shadow at the base of the last hut as he watched the people spill out of the burning huts, confused and trying to wake up to face the emergency. He lit the last hut on fire and backed quickly into the shadows of the boulders that surrounded the area before the light from the flames could betray him. He went deeper into the dense brush to hide and watch. Turning, he made sure all three people were safely outside as they tried to put out the fires. That’ll keep them busy for a while.

They’d never look back at the incident the same as Shell. They would curse and blame him for their troubles because that’s the kind of people they were. Others were always at fault, not them. But if they had let him go unmolested when he tried to cross the river, their huts and belongings wouldn’t have burned. Hopefully, they would move on and find another place to rob innocent people instead of following him. Better yet, they might move on and take up new occupations.

More likely, they’d chase Shell until their boots wore out, but he hoped they’d had enough and feared chasing him would cause them more grief. He remembered an old joke about fools chasing a man until he caught them. But it would not be a joke if they did catch up. He would die, probably painfully, or they would. Shell decided the next encounter would end differently than they wished.

In his eyes, they were now even. They had tried to hurt him and steal his belongings. In return, he destroyed their huts and injured two of them. But if they followed with the desire to injure or kill him, he intended to end the situation for good. For now, he had a distance to put between himself and any highwaymen foolish enough to follow.

Shell traveled upstream in the darkness, always keeping the sounds of the river on his left since the three searching for him had gone downstream. He made satisfactory progress. The ground was drying out and the footing firmer than the last two days. When he caught a glimpse of the river, it had receded even more than the early afternoon. As he followed the muddy bank northward, the river widened, and the current slowed as the water grew more shallow. Ahead it seemed to narrow again and probably ran faster up there, so he decided he’d reached the best place to cross.

Glancing behind drew a frown as it clearly showed his footprints in the mud, so trying to hide his intentions was silly because the evidence was clear for anyone to see. He waded into the cool water and allowed the current to brush against his legs, testing both the water’s speed and footing. It moved gently, and his feet only sank in a little. He took another tentative step. Then another. And another. After ten steps, the water was only knee deep. He plunged ahead.

By morning the river would shrink again to become a wide stream, and later in the day a dry wash. The water rose to his thighs near the middle, and a touch of worry briefly filled his mind, but then he walked out of the water instead of into it, the depth growing less with each step. The level decreased to ankle high, and then he stood on the far bank, safe and reasonably dry.

Another look behind found a bright point of light against the depth of the night, where the huts still glowed, not as brightly as earlier. There had been no way for them to put out the fires he’d started, not with the oil he’d poured on the huts and the distance to the river for water to pour on them. By now only a few embers told where three huts had been, and his name would be cursed a hundred times before dawn. Shell stood on a sandstone shelf and instead of walking in the soft mud, he moved along the harder surface and continued slowly and carefully, leaving few tracks for followers.

The elevation of the land rose, and as always, when he reached the crest he saw another hill ahead. But as he followed a sandstone shelf he came to a depression that had already drained, the bottom dry. Looking behind again revealed the long upward slope he’d followed, he could see the river dimly in the distance.

He pulled a few sage bushes and uprooted two small junipers and placed them on the lip of the depression, on the downhill side where they helped hide him from being seen from the trail. From a prone position behind the bushes, he could watch his back trail and see anyone following long before they saw him. With luck, they could walk within twenty steps of him and never know he lay there, with his new bow strung and ready to let arrows fly.

But he also planned for a backdoor exit, also unseen from the trail. That provided his two options, again. Two choices.

After a last look, he unrolled his blanket and lay down on one-half, pulling the other half over him for a cover. Sleep had escaped him for a couple of nights, and he intended to make up for some of it. He woke half a dozen times before sunrise, carefully checking the path and surrounding area each time, but nobody followed. Later, after the sun came up, he continued napping the morning away, figuring that if they were going to follow him, it would be in daylight. So instead of leaving, he remained and caught up on his sleep.

Shortly after mid-day, Shell stood and stretched since there were still no signs of pursuit. A few minutes later he continued walking east, feeling confident that he was safe from them. The incident impressed upon him that not all strangers understood he wanted to be a hero, and his quest might be fanciful and perhaps silly, but standing in his way could get someone killed—or they might lose their huts to fire. He felt a grin spreading and suppressed it.

In no way, did he make light of the situation, or think it a joking matter. No, it put a stamp of seriousness on the venture that he probably needed because he hadn’t considered getting into any fights before he arrived in Breslau. He couldn’t thank the men who wanted to rob him, but perhaps he did owe them a debt for warning him of the hardships sure to follow.

The Raging Mountains that had seemed so much closer two days ago were still as far away as ever, or so it seemed. He was almost out of food and expected to go hungry for a few days, but fortunately, he had crossed several streams lately. A man can live without eating, but he must drink, and streams offered food.

At a trickle of a stream, late on the fifth day, he noticed a place where the bank had caved in long ago and left a shallow depression covered with sand. A small fire would be safe from discovery, especially if he dug out the sand and made his fire there where the flames would be hidden from direct sight. But the fire wasn’t the primary reason for stopping early at that location. The stream was.

As he approached the stream edge slowly, he looked in the deep water, peering into the rocky bottom and spotted crayfish scuttling about in the mud between the rocks. He gathered a fistful of the long dry grass and twisted strands until he wove four tube traps, all with wide openings where the crayfish could enter easily, but not escape.

He located periwinkles attached to rocks, a tiny freshwater clam in the mud, a grasshopper, and an earthworm. They were captured and placed in the traps as bait. While the bait worked, hopefully attracting the crayfish, he gathered firewood and scooped out a deep hole to help hide the fire from a distance, then built a ring of rocks. He wouldn’t light it until dark because of smoke rising in the clear sky telling anyone with eyes where he was.

When he checked the traps, he found more than twenty crayfish. Without a bowl or a way to keep them, he left them in the traps and reset them in the water before climbing the tallest hill and sitting at the top to watch, and make sure he was the only person in sight.

Later, he roasted the crayfish by setting them on the hot rocks surrounding the fire and wished for more to eat. The fire soothed his spirits as well as warmed his body in a way that had little to do with the chill of the night. But he had a reasonably full belly, and when the sun rose, he stood, eager and ready to walk a full day.

The mountains looked a little taller in the morning, and the snow-capped peaks higher, the air more invigorating. As he walked, the vegetation changed slightly, showing more green, and the shrubs grew taller. Shell became so relaxed he almost missed the footprints in the soft dirt that crossed his trail.

Shell pulled to a stop in mid-stride, eyes focused on the ground. Two footprints were visible in the soft dirt, both distinct and clearly fresh as if someone had just run across the path. His eyes flashed around, searching for the person who left them. When he didn’t see anyone, he took a knee to shield himself from their sight and measured the prints against his.

The footprint near his hand held sharp edges still standing upright, no dust or sand had blown inside, and it looked as fresh as those he’d left a few steps behind. The print was a little larger than his. Shell’s fingers felt for the pommel of his knife and hesitated. Instead, he slipped the bow he’d never used off his shoulder, strung it and fitted an arrow before standing slowly to reach a crouched position and look around. The bow seemed a better option than the staff because it would reach further, but he kept the staff near his left hand as a backup. He’d never used the bow but thought it might provide an advantage if distance became an issue.

He used all his senses trying to locate the maker of the footprints, a single person who must be very close because the prints were so fresh. The ground fell away from the path that wound around the side of the hill in the direction the prints led. An expanse of brown grass waved in the breeze all the way to a creek in the distance, where the upward side of another hill revealed itself. The grass stood almost waist high everywhere he looked. There were no trees, few shrubs, no large boulders, or ravines the stranger could slip behind or into, and anyone wading through the grass would leave a swath of bent plants behind, easy to locate.

But, the tracks were clear and fresh, and there was no sign of a person. Shell moved ahead slowly, following the tracks, looking for a place where the stranger could hide instead of looking for the stranger. As he moved, he decided a friend would greet him, but an enemy would probably hide and wait for him to follow so he could ambush Shell. I won’t fall into that trap.

He eased back into a crouch, ready to fight or flee, but remained still. If he didn’t follow, whoever was waiting for him down there would lose patience first because Shell didn’t intend to expose himself. He kept the arrow ready to pull and release in an instant. A tickle behind his ear drew his attention, but more than one person had lost his prey because of swatting a mosquito or scratching an itch.

The tickle came again. He ignored it and remained as still as a cat about to pounce on a field mouse. Nothing moved on the hillside below, and there seemed to be no hiding places, but there must be something. A man can’t vanish, but he can blend into the background like a fawn. Shell allowed his eyes to scan for anything that should, or should not, be there.

His ears strained for the slightest sound. The tickle touched his ear again, more insistent, and his nose caught the familiar scent of wood smoke. Not smoke from a fire, but the stale, leftover smell of campfires tinged with sweat. He somehow managed to control himself as he remained perfectly still.

Disgusted with himself for falling into the trap, Shell said, “Who are you?”

“A better hunter and tracker than you.” The voice came from directly behind the ear that had tickled.

Shell slowly turned. A smiling face greeted him from only two steps away. The young man dressed in leather pants and a shirt decorated with geometric designs held a switch with a feather poked into the raw end, the origin of the tickle to his ear. “My name’s Shell.”

“How did you finally know I was behind you?”

“You smell of wood smoke.”

“Good to know.” The young man backed off a step, his hands held away from his weapons, a long knife at his hip and a bow carried over his shoulder. He glanced meaningfully at Shell’s bow and the cocked arrow. When Shell relaxed the arrow and slipped it back into the quiver, the stranger said, “Shell? Like a seashell? That’s odd for a man of the grasslands.”

“There are other shells. Like a turtle, and snail.” His explanation felt as foolish as it sounded. His mother owned a seashell, a reminder of her younger days when she had traveled all the way to the Endless Sea, and his name came from that travel. Shell took the time to examine the other. The man was near twenty, taller than Shell by a little, and his hair was the color of sand. His eyes held green flecks embedded in light brown, and his hands were thin, with long fingers.

A twinkle in the man’s eyes belied his next statement. “I suspect seashell is probably right. You didn’t deny it; you just offered different options.”

“You didn’t give me your name,” Shell said as he squatted to be more comfortable.

“I don’t have one, or better said, I don’t wish to tell it to you.”

“Everyone has a name.”

“Oh, I had one my whole life, but I never liked it, so I’ve been seeking a new one for over two years, now.”

The revelation answered a few questions, but brought up a hundred others, such as who this strange person was, why was he here, and how did the conversation always end up with Shell feeling inadequate? “Then what do people call you?”

The smile faded. “I don’t meet a lot of people and don’t like most of them that I do, so I don’t give them my name. I’ve tried several, but John, Ander, Sander, and Bob don’t fit. Bob, do you think I look like a Bob?”

“No,” Shell admitted with a smile.

“A name should be personal. It should say something about a man.”

“So you do not have one and are seeking a name that fits you for two whole years? I can understand some of that. Do you live around here?”

A fleeting expression of pain crossed the stranger’s face, but he quickly controlled it. “No. I lived in the mountains far to the west, but raiders killed almost everyone in my village and the few that survived went to live with relatives. They didn’t like me, so I left.”

Shell waited for more explanation, and when it didn’t come, he said, “I didn’t know there were mountains to the west, only the Raging Mountains over there.” He nodded his head at the white peaks. “How long ago did you leave and what are you doing here?”

“You ask a lot of questions for a stranger. I left two years ago and have been seeking my future. I’m here because I ended up here because of my wandering, but for no other reason than that.”

Shell stood again and faced the taller man, an idea forming. He liked the honesty and frankness of the other, and there was much to learn from him in the ways of tracking if nothing else. He said, “I think I know what your name should be, and you’ve used it two or three times to describe yourself since we met.”

The other waited, but grew impatient and fidgeted until he figured out he had to ask Shell to find out. “What?”

“Seeker.”

A smile slowly grew into a chuckle and then turned into a laugh. “I like that. I’m a seeker, but also more than that. I am on a quest to find the rest of my life. Seeker is close, but I think Quester will be my name until I decide on another that fits me better. And now, Shell, what are you doing here with no other people within a day’s walk?”

“I’m also seeking my future, on a quest of my own.”

“In what way?”

Shell hesitated. How much should he reveal? The truth was that he didn’t have to tell it all. Not yet. “I’ve never done anything in my life but watch over a flock of stupid sheep. One of those mountains to the east is called Bear Mountain. They say dragons nest on the slopes.”

“You know that for the truth, or is it just a story?”

“I believe it, but have not seen it, Quester.” The last was Shell trying out the new name, and it sounded right to his ears.

Quester smiled again upon hearing it and nodded his approval. “Are you by chance traveling to see those dragons?”

“I am.”

“I’ve heard about dragons and how fierce they are, and I would like to see one. From a distance. Would you object to me traveling with you?”