The Hickory Staff

SOUTHPORT, PRAGA

Hannah fell to her knees, toppling slowly until she placed one hand firmly on the grass, arresting her collapse. She was no longer in Steven’s living room. Her head swam; her elbow buckled and she dropped to the ground. Her breath caught in her throat and she coughed roughly several times. Peering up through overhanging branches, she watched, dazed, as a light breeze rustled autumn leaves: noisy affirmation that she was indeed somewhere other than 147 Tenth Street, Idaho Springs.

She replayed the last thirty seconds, looking through Steven’s desk, seeing the pen on the mantelpiece, sliding the chair across the floor and finding herself here in the forest. It didn’t add up. She fought the knowledge that something remarkable had happened to her with all the tenacity she could summon until, growing angry at her inability to reconcile the problem in her mind, she sat up and took in her surroundings. The trees were actually part of a small grove atop a grassy hill overlooking what appeared to be an ocean. Combatting a second wave of nausea, she forced herself to remain open-minded, fighting a growing desire to lose control and run screaming down the hill. Since she found herself outside, she could very well be near an ocean. Hannah was determined to look at one impossible circumstance at a time while she tried to make sense of her situation.

Coming slowly to her feet, Hannah swallowed hard to moisten her throat; she wished she had some water. Taking a long look, she concluded her mind was not toying with her: it was true, an ocean – or at least a sea – lay sprawled across the horizon. For an irrational moment, she hoped she had been transported somewhere other, because if what lay before her was the Denver metro area, everything she knew – everyone she knew – was now submerged.

Scanning the coastline, she caught sight of a bustling town nearby. Built on a long peninsula extending out into the sea, it did not resemble any of the oceanfront cities she knew: Seattle, Boston or San Diego, or the cookie-cutter jumble of resort towns she had visited while in college. The town lay along either side of a narrow ridge that descended sharply from the sparsely wooded heights to the waterfront below, like a gigantic giraffe with its head buried in the harbour. From her vantage point on top of the hill, she could see horses and mules pulling wooden carts along a quay, to and from sloops and frigates, and harbour boats apparently serving several massive galleons moored out in deeper water. She saw none of the telltale signs of a modern working wharf, though: no delivery trucks or industrial cranes, or forklifts hauling crates around warehouses. Also peculiar, she could recognise none of the flags flying from bowsprits or fantails of the vessels docked along the wharf.

With the sunlight fading behind the horizon, Hannah stood totally still, waiting for some answer to emerge from the depths of her consciousness, something that would explain the incongruity of where she found herself now. ‘Oh, yes, of course, I understand,’ she would say with a sigh of relief.

But clarity did not come. Instead, darkness came, and, looking out at the ocean, her worst fears were confirmed. Two moons rose slowly in the night sky. Hannah sat heavily in the coarse hilltop grass to keep from passing out. She forced her head between her knees and made herself breathe deeply, using her diaphragm to fill her lungs.

The moons drew closer together and with each passing hour, the light breeze that had been so pleasantly rustling the leaves grew in strength until Hannah’s hair was blowing wildly about her face. She sat there, staring out to sea, until the moons faded across the southern horizon and the sun prepared to rise once again. Shortly before dawn, exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep.

She guessed it was about midday when she woke. A frigate was putting to sea; even from this distance, she could hear officers calling orders to sailors in the rigging. Rolling to her side, she watched as the fore and main topgallant sails snapped to in the brisk afternoon wind. Despite the fear – of not knowing where she was, or how she managed to arrive wherever she was – Hannah watched in awe as seamen climbed like lemurs along spars far above plank decks below. She thought perhaps this was a tourist town and the ship departing was filled with bored, overweight businessmen or lawyers buying a week’s adventure on the high seas. Then she remembered the moons. She could explain away the ships, even the wagons and mules along the harbour docks. It might be a festival or a weekend fair celebrating eighteenth-century culture. But she could not explain the moons.

Sitting up, Hannah peeled off a leaf that had been clinging to the side of her face. She turned it over several times: it was oddly shaped, nothing she recognised, not aspen, maple, oak or elm. She examined the grove more closely. There were several massive-trunked trees she could not identify, though they reminded her of ancient oaks. She stuffed several of the curious leaves into her jacket pocket.

As if the mundane process of picking through fallen leaves had somehow awakened her sense of survival, Hannah suddenly realised she was ravenous. ‘I could eat a horse,’ she said out loud – and after almost a full day and night of silence, the sound of her own voice surprised her. It was not comforting. It was a reminder that she was lost, in every sense of the word. And hearing herself express something as commonplace as hunger forced her to look at her current unnatural predicament. Just yesterday she had been living in a place where abject fear had never paralysed her; where she had never been forced to spend a night outside pondering celestial anomalies. Just yesterday she felt as though she were in control of her life, her relationships and her future.

Today, she was uncertain exactly what she did control. She had to accept that enlightenment was not about to seek her out on top of this mountain; she would need to find her way into town, to make enquiries and, hopefully, to find a way back home.

The pain in Hoyt Navarra’s shoulder grew irksome. He shifted his weight against the uneven stone, but this new position was still awkward, so he pulled a cloak from his pack, balled it into a makeshift pillow and placed it behind his back as he continued reading. It was nearly midday: he was glad to have been able to read for two full avens without interruption. It was rare these days for him to be able to study without worrying he might be discovered by a Malakasian patrol or a Pragan informant. Southport City was filled with would-be spies, every one of them willing to sell their own children to Prince Malagon’s emissaries for a few pieces of silver, and Hoyt’s reputation as a healer marked him especially as a wanted man among the Pragan Resistance.

Wiry and lean, with long hair tied loosely at the back, Hoyt Navarra could pass for a battle-hardened soldier, physically tough and free from excess fat, or a beggar, emaciated, hungry and drawn. Either way, his soft eyes and chiselled features betrayed him as one who fretted over weighty issues to his physical cost. He was uncertain of his own age, but estimated he was somewhere between a hundred and eighty and two hundred Twinmoons old. It wasn’t really important to him; he was only half-joking when he said, ‘I suppose I’ll die when I’ve lived long enough.’

Here, hidden in a copse outside the city, Hoyt had shelter and a quiet place to catch up on his studies. Malakasian soldiers patrolled the coastal highway only a few paces from his hiding place, but the grove of trees provided just enough cover and he rarely had to do more than duck behind a rock.

Only Churn knew where to find him; Hoyt never spoke of the grove while in town. He planned to exploit his newly found solitude for as long as possible: he had a number of outlawed books, treatises and facsimile reproductions he planned to read, review and re-read before giving up this secluded location. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone followed him, or tracked him from the city, and he would be forced to go in search of another study carrel in another forest.

He was nearly through a chapter detailing the tendons and ligaments of the knee, wishing he could sneak another aven to process all he had learned that morning, but he and Churn had work to do. He closed the book, wrapped it in a waterproofed piece of canvas and replaced it beneath a hollow log, next to a score of others similarly protected from the elements.

Casting his eyes over the impromptu medical library, Hoyt sighed. One day, somehow, he would have his own medical practice.

He had never attended a university – Prince Marek, Prince Malagon’s distant ancestor and erstwhile iron-hand dictator of Eldarn, had closed them all. Books were scarce and many citizens illiterate. Hoyt read well, thanks to Alen Jasper, and as he flipped through the pages, he thought once again that he would for ever be in the old man’s debt. The idea of a university, buildings filled with students pursuing knowledge and research, was almost too foreign for him to imagine, even after Alen’s tales of Eldarn’s universities of old. Hoyt dreamed of being there to witness their revival.

The Malakasian royal family believed an uneducated public was less threatening to the government. Hoyt wasn’t sure he agreed, because he had never known how threatening an educated populace could be, but the Pragans were a sensible people, and Malagon underestimated their good nature and compassion. They were intelligent enough to know what would be possible if they governed themselves. Recognising the difference between where they were under Malagon and where they might one day be, culturally speaking, did not require a degree in advanced literacy.

Hoyt believed the Pragans would eventually rise up against Malakasia, but as much as he hoped they would succeed in that fight, he planned to be far from the conflict when it erupted. He was torn between his love for the Pragan people and his desire to look out for himself; for him and Churn, Resistance was a lucrative business – and he enjoyed pillaging weapons and silver from wealthy merchants and sea captains.

Deep inside, Hoyt knew he had the potential to give much more: the Pragans were disorganised and desperately needed true leadership. He frowned as he thought of the current array of men and women vying for that status among the Resistance forces. They were passionate and outspoken, and essentially devoid of any leadership skills. Blacksmiths, farmers and sailors, all with their hearts in the right place but their heads in the mist, they were working to raise an army, but any army marching against Malagon would be torn to shreds by his well-trained and merciless occupation forces.

Victory, if it could be won, would only be possible if guerrilla strikes on land and sea focused attention away from a small group of highly trained assassins and magicians infiltrating Welstar Palace to kill off the Whitward line for ever. Hoyt was plagued by a conscience he fought to sublimate as often as possible. It wasn’t that he felt any compassion for Malagon – quite the contrary: he found it surprising he could so absolutely despise someone he had never met. But a Pragan uprising would mean a great many lives lost, and as much as he wished for a chance at real freedom, he could not bring himself to hoist the flag and join his brothers on the front lines.

So instead of battling for Pragan independence and opening his coveted medical practice, Hoyt remained a thief. It was ironic that in so doing, he perpetuated his own myth and retained his position as one of the most sought-after enemies of the Malakasian state: a healer-thief with a long history of nursing the crown’s enemies back to health and robbing its supporters of critical resources and silver.

His reading time in the quiet shelter of his protected copse provided him with an opportunity to wrestle his emotional grettans while perfecting his medical arts. Now he shrugged to himself and, thrusting the ever-present guilt to the back of his mind, began preparing for the trip back to Southport.

Hearing leaves rustle behind him, Hoyt peered up into the trees. No wind. He turned quickly, drawing a short, razor-sharp dagger. One benefit of studying medicine for the past fifty Twinmoons was his advanced knowledge of the human body: Hoyt could disable an attacker in a heartbeat with just a couple of carefully placed slashes. His favourite targets were the tendons in an assailant’s wrists. Even the most passionate soldiers ran from battle when denied the use of opposable thumbs. Hoyt never killed anyone, but an ever-increasing number of Malakasian soldiers made the trip home with a clumsy grip on their reins. The dagger held before him, Hoyt dropped into a protective crouch and looked between the trees towards the coastal highway; he sighed in relief when he saw Churn Prellis lumbering in his direction. Churn was his best friend and business partner.

His dagger disappeared as quickly as it had been drawn, and Hoyt smiled a welcome as he watched his companion trudge through the forest. He was the complete antithesis to Hoyt: he looked like a section of granite cliff face that had broken off and walked away. A full head shorter than his friend, with a barrel chest and broad shoulders, rippling with dense muscle: Churn was blessed with enormous strength. Hoyt thought he was probably the most physically imposing man in all the Westlands.

In contrast with his almost inhuman strength, Churn was somewhat simple-minded – not disabled, but rather, slower than average when it came to thinking, solving problems or processing information. He was unable – or unwilling – to speak, Hoyt didn’t know which, but he communicated using hand gestures, and over the Twinmoons, their ability to carry on interesting and detailed conversations had grown.

Churn had joined Hoyt after the healer had saved his life. Hoyt had found him lying in a drainage ditch off a field near Churn’s family farm, bleeding badly from multiple stab wounds and lashed to several sections of wooden plank Hoyt guessed had been ripped from the walls of his own barn. Churn never discussed what had happened, but Hoyt guessed Malakasian soldiers had most likely tortured and murdered his friend’s family. The young doctor nursed the bigger man back to health and from that moment, Churn, in his simple mind, had been motivated by two things: the desire to serve Hoyt, and the overwhelming need to physically tear Malagon’s still-beating heart from his chest. Hoyt assumed Churn’s silence resulted from being forced to witness his family’s torture, and he had been unable to prescribe any remedy for his friend’s sense of grievous loss.

He knew Churn wasn’t deaf, but he learned the hand gestures anyway. It was something he did initially out of courtesy and friendship, and it became extremely useful in business, providing a silent means of communication when stealth was called for.

Unlike Hoyt, Churn had killed. Sometimes the Pragan giant disappeared for several days at a time. Hoyt never asked any questions, but news of Malakasian soldiers missing or murdered always followed in the wake of Churn’s absences. His rage was rarely evident, but it simmered there, beneath the calm, friendly mask Churn wore most days. Hoyt supposed murdering Malakasian warriors was cathartic for his muscle-bound companion, a therapeutic act of vengeance that brought a sliver of peace to Churn’s simple soul, and who was he to deny peace to a troubled man?

Now Hoyt waved to the lumbering giant and called out, ‘Perhaps if you walk a bit heavier you can bring an entire brigade of occupation soldiers in here. Or should I just fetch you a rampart horn and you can announce our hiding place with a fanfare?’

Signing, Churn replied, ‘None around. I checked the road.’

Hoyt laughed. ‘I know. They went by earlier this morning. I don’t expect them back for another half-aven. How are things in town?’

Moving his fingers in a rapid pattern, Churn said, ‘Rumours about the new galleon. Silver, silk and tobacco.’

Hoyt sat up, interested. ‘Is it heavily guarded?’

‘A full platoon, but they look lazy. Maybe too long at sea.’

‘Is Branag at the shop?’ Hoyt was already planning his assault on the cumbersome Malakasian ship. ‘Let’s go there right now. We’ll need his help if we are to pull this off tonight.’ He picked up his pack.

Churn was confused. ‘Rob it or sink it?’

Hoyt tossed a few handfuls of leaves over the log sheltering his illegal library. ‘Both, Churn. We’re going to do both.’

‘All right, but I’m not going up in the shrouds.’

‘Oh, you great hulking baby,’ Hoyt teased. ‘Well, the plan will never work then. We’ll just have to let them sail off to Pellia free as a bird.’

‘I’m not going up there.’ Churn was agitated now and sweat beaded his forehead.

‘Fine. Fine. All right. You don’t have to go up in the rigging. I will take care of that.’

‘What do you mean, “he didn’t call again today”?’ Howard was furious and Myrna Kessler was trying to stay out of his way, an impossible task in the small bank office.

‘I’m simply telling you, Howard, he didn’t call again today.’ Myrna glanced past Mrs Winter at the long line of customers waiting for counter service. ‘C’mon Howard, we’ve got quite a queue forming out here.’

Saturdays at the bank were always busy; usually Steven Taylor came in to help Myrna handle the morning rush. Although they closed at noon, Myrna frequently dealt with more customers on a Saturday than she did during business hours all week. Steven had missed work the day before and was out again today.

‘I thought he and Mark were climbing Decatur.’

‘No, he told me Thursday night they had to cancel because of the snow. He distinctly said he would be able to close yesterday, and be here to help this morning.’ Howard slammed a drawer in his desk and poured a third cup of black coffee.

‘Where’s Stevie?’ Mrs Winter asked Myrna.

‘Steven,’ she said pointedly, ‘is not in this morning, Mrs Winter. He’ll be back on Monday.’ She handed a deposit receipt and twenty dollars in notes through the window. ‘Don’t spend it all at once, Mrs W. Have a good weekend.’

‘Good-bye dear,’ the elderly woman answered, and Myrna regretted correcting her. She was only being friendly, after all.

Howard finally appeared at Myrna’s side and opened a second teller window. Several customers in the long line across the lobby looked at one another awkwardly for a moment before shifting queues. Myrna’s pleasant demeanour was the antithesis of Howard’s cold efficiency, but for a bank manager with little time on the teller window, Griffin worked as quickly as Myrna. His tempo this morning was fuelled by anger.

‘He should let us know where he is,’ Howard whispered while running a receipt through his computer. ‘What if I hadn’t been available to come in this morning? I really thought he was more responsible than this.’ Howard counted out two hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills as if practising for a Vegas gambling table.

‘Give him a break, Howard,’ Myrna scolded. ‘Maybe he’s in the hospital, or in a ditch with his car or something. We’ll be closed here in a couple of hours. I’ll go up to his house and see what’s happening with him.’

‘No,’ Griffin told her, ‘I’ll go. You take the afternoon and enjoy yourself. I’ll figure out what’s happening with him.’

Howard had intended to go straight round to 147 Tenth Street, but as he locked the bank door behind him, he smelled the distinct aroma of grilling beef emanating from Owen’s Pub down the block.

‘My heavens, but is there a better smell on this planet?’ he asked out loud, adding, ‘maybe just a quick burger to get me through the afternoon.’ Walking towards the pub in the bright afternoon sun, he heard a loud cheer go up from the crowd gathered inside. He stopped in his tracks. ‘Ah yes, Michigan.’ Griffin savoured the words before jogging the last few feet to the entrance while humming the Colorado fight song.

Six draught beers, one bacon cheeseburger, an enormous order of French fries and a forty-two-thirty-one victory later, Howard Griffin stumbled from the pub and up the street towards the corner of Miner and Tenth. When he reached Steven’s house, he was surprised to find the door unlocked and slightly ajar.

‘Stevie,’ he slurred into the front hallway, ‘Stevie, I am pissed at you, my boy, but CU won good this afternoon. So you’ve caught me in a good mood.’ Seeing no one coming out to greet him, Griffin meandered through the house towards the kitchen. Several beer cans stood on the counter near an open pizza box and Howard picked one up, realised it was nearly full and took a long draught from it before spitting the beer back into the sink.

‘Christ, it’s warm,’ he complained, then, shouting to anyone who might be listening, ‘what the hell are you doing leaving warm beer out here? Someone might drink it.’

He giggled as he pulled out a cold can from the fridge, then headed towards the living room.

If Howard Griffin noticed the shimmering air and flecks of coloured light dancing above the incongruous tapestry, he didn’t show it. Instead, he came awkwardly around the sofa and dropped heavily onto the cushions. Finding no ottoman on which to put his feet, the inebriated bank manager slid the coffee table out into the middle of the room and rested his boots on the finished wood surface. He rubbed one hand across his bulging stomach, and was distracted by the sight of a large expanse of cloth spread out across the floor.

‘Sheez, what an ugly rug,’ he gurgled, eyeing the tapestry now bunched up against the legs of the coffee table. ‘You guys must have stolen that from the bathroom at a bus station. Stevie, I am never going to let you live this one down. I wouldn’t even buy that ugly bastard, and I like tacky decor.’

Yawning widely, Griffin stood up, stretched and, with a loud groan, started back towards the door. In the kitchen, he found a pen and scribbled a note on the open pizza box: STEVIE: CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU GET IN, YOU DERILECT BUGGER. He was not quite certain how to spell derelict, so he deliberately ran the letters together, but even in his weakened condition he could spell bugger, so he made the letters much larger, as if he were a child practising for a spelling quiz.

Message completed, he moved the box to the edge of the stove near the refrigerator, where Steven would be certain to read it. Then he pulled from behind his ear the cigarette he’d bummed from a drinking buddy earlier that afternoon and, failing to find matches, turned on the gas stove. He placed the cigarette clumsily in his mouth and leaned into the flame until the embers glowed red and the smoke stung his eyes. He had not smoked regularly since his move from Boulder to Idaho Springs, but he allowed himself one cigarette every six months – or when he was under particularly difficult stress. He was not sure which excuse counted today, but he inhaled deeply regardless.

Making certain he had locked the door behind him, Howard Griffin walked into the waning afternoon sunlight. It was much colder outside now, and he took a moment to zip his jacket up tightly before making his way towards home in an ungainly drunken shuffle.

He had no idea the gas stove in Steven and Mark’s house continued to burn.

Rob Scott

The Hickory Staff