by Denis Gagné
Garon and Gaëlle Pellerin rode together back-to-back on a grey dappled mare on the road heading out of their home village of Bucktoo. The young husband had the reins in hand, and the young wife knitted away. Other than being a young couple in love they held between them another bond, one made of magic. Garon was a Raker, someone with the ability to sense and locate magical artifacts. Gaëlle was a Water Diviner, where water calls out to her and can make itself suggestable to her whims. Both of them are what folks would call Perdras, people born with magic.
They moved at a leisurely pace since they didn’t get to ride very often and wanted to take what time they had so they could trot about. The sky was blue with a small crowd of clouds hurrying away from the morning sun. Despite Garon being called upon as a Raker to help local farmer, Henri Garnier, looking for his lost magical charm, the beautiful day betrayed the fact that trouble was abound over the hill.
“Gaëlle, ma belle,” asked Garon in a singsong way that came about simply in the southern part of the Island of Lesser Erta, “what do you think we should ask Farmer Garnier for payment if we’re able to find his charm?” He was always uncomfortable with silence and loved idle chatter. He adjusted the brim on his taupe steeple hat to guard his eyes from the sun’s journey to midday. Not fond of violence, his belt didn’t hold a sword, but he carried a small dagger tucked in his wine-red tunic and chestnut pants. His hand-me-down brown martin boots soaked in the heat of the day.
“Mon mari, there is no ‘if’, we will find Henri’s charm,” said Gaëlle as her knitting needles ticked a song accompanied by the crickets and birds, “I didn’t marry an ill-chanced Raker. Coin would be nice, but most farmers like to barter and the Garniers didn’t become wealthy by handing out their silver.” A smile came easily to Garon’s face at the sound of his wife’s voice.
“He’s a rice farmer. We could ask for a bag a month?” said Garon looking back at Gaëlle seeing her auburn hair poke out the back of her bonnet, a bonnet she wore more to fend off the dust of the road than for modesty. Unusual for most women from Bucktoo, Gaëlle wore a turquoise blouse, indigo trousers and walnut half boots suited for a man, “Would make good porridge for a baby…”
“No baby yet,” said Gaëlle, poking Garon in the ribs with her elbow, “Not until we can get a little house over our heads. We’ll get no sleep in our one room and living across the brasserie is too rowdy for a baby. Also, when do you like rice? Aren’t the potatoes I make good enough?”
“I love almost everything you make, so I can only assume that your rice would be lovely too,” said Garon.
“Almost everything?” asked Gaëlle, her knitting needles stopped a tick.
“Your carrot cake is a touch dry,” said Garon, who suddenly let out a grunt from Gaëlle’s elbow poking back into his ribs.
“Gaëlle,” said Garon, his tone was drained of its natural mirth, which struck Gaëlle as unusual. The horse stopped and she turned away from her knitting and before her were fields of rice paddies as dry as her carrot cake.
“Par Zulad,” said Gaëlle, taking the Red God’s name in vain, as she kicked her leg over to dismount from the horse. Garon sat still, scanning the sight of desiccated paddies before him. All the times they wandered by this farm in the past the rice paddies were lush, verdant and, most of all, wet. Gaëlle approached the nearest paddy and reached down to grab a panicle of rice that crumbled into dry inedible bits in her hand.
“Did Gulian tell you what kind of charm Farmer Garnier lost?” asked Garon, in an absent tone as he kept looking about.
“She said it was a water charm, but no more than that I believe,” said Gaëlle, straining to remember her conversation with Gulian, the blacksmith and artificer of Bucktoo. Garon, having regained his wits, dismounted from the horse and led it by the reins.
“Shall we go and find out?” said Garon, offering his hand to his wife.
They approached the farmhouse on the path that wound here and there through the rice fields. To their left there stood a towering black ash tree surrounded by a despairing pond bed that was turning from mud to cracked clay as the summer sun dried it. The tree looked odd, by the farmhouse it was full of leaves as a healthy tree should be, but the side facing the fields it was shorn of all branches and held up, by nails and a frame of timber, a pulley with a rope that led down to an empty basket. In front of the farmhouse, farmer Henri Garnier stood up from his chair and marched towards Garon and Gaëlle in his tall, oiled muck boots used to step through the paddies and keep his feet dry.
“Are you the Raker?” said Henri, pointing to the couple not knowing who is who, but wanting to get started with business. Garon stepped forward offering his hand to Henri. Henri’s strong hand took Garon’s and shook it vigorously with no effort from his long and lean muscular arms. His tall and sturdy frame was made for farming compared to Garon’s slim body made soft by the more convenient village life.
“I’m the Raker! Garon Pellerin at your service,” said Garon with a smile and a flourishing bow. Henri didn’t return the grin, instead he took his hand back and pointed all around him.
“Do you see what’s wrong here?” said Henri, agitated and piqued, “Do you see?”
“Henri, your manners!” shouted a woman walking out of the farmhouse’s front door, making her way to the trio by the tree. She had black and grey hair tied tightly in a bun with no bonnet covering her head. Her dress was a worn and dusty emerald with the sleeves shortened to free up her strong arms for work. She was pretty, for any line on her face showed how much she smiled and she smiled indeed when she saw Gaëlle as she wiped her hands on her apron and offered them in greeting.
“I’m Carolie and this boar is my husband, Henri,” said the farmer’s wife in good cheer despite her desolate environs, “I can’t blame him though, the last few days have been harrowing watching our hard work wither away all around us.”
“No doubt it is,” said Gaëlle, “what could’ve done this in such short time? Gulian told us about a water charm that was stolen, has your well gone dry in the meantime?”
“There’s no well to be found anywhere here. We’ve been watering these fields with just this pond here,” said Coralie, “but it’s almost dried up since the House Toad was taken.”
“A house toad?” said Garon, his brow and mouth meeting in the middle as if asked a riddle, “I’m told it was a charm as in stone or crystal. I’m afraid I’m no good at finding living creatures.”
Henri turned to Garon staring at him with all the vinegar one would serve a thirsty dimwit.
“The House Toad is not a creature,” said Henri. Garon blushed from the sparks of contempt coming off the farmer, “It was a water charm carved from stone, a wedding gift, and it’s been in our family for generations. If we don’t get it back anytime soon, we’ll lose everything!”
Carolie approached Henri and rubbed his back. She seemed to be the only person who could give him any calm or comfort. As if a taught cord was cut, Henri’s shoulders slackened, and his face became somber as all the rage drained from his face and filled in with grief.
“I can’t sense anything close to a water charm anywhere near here,” said Garon pointing his nose across the horizon, “Do you have an idea who might have taken it?”
With that question, the cord in Henri was pulled taut, and all the anger welled back up in his body.
“I know exactly who! It was that reeking cowherd, Thibolt Vashon!” said Henri, waving his arm above his head like he held an executioner’s axe.
“Henri, don’t start again,” said Carolie. She grabbed the back of his tunic, pulling him towards her, “but yes, Farmer Vashon did ask about borrowing the House Toad and Henri here, ever charitable, refused. It might be a place to start but honestly, I have my doubts.”
“Why is that?” asked Gaëlle.
“The House Toad works very quickly and effectively,” said Carolie, “If he had taken it, he would have only needed it for a day or so to replenish his wells. But also, his land is right by the river, so it’d make no sense. He may have been upset with Henri, but he wouldn’t be this cruel.”
“If you’ve played cards with Thibolt, you’d know how callous he can be,” said Henri, earning only a dismissive wave from Carolie.
“Very well then!” said Garon clapping his hands together, excited to leave, “We will pay sieur Vashon a visit and return with your charm!”
With that, Garon took Gaëlle by the hand and they mounted their horse. This time Gaëlle faced forward with her husband, having put away her knitting in the meantime.
“But we haven’t discussed payment, sieur,” said Carolie waving at the young couple for their attention.
“We’ll settle that when we return, madame,” said Gaëlle as Garon turned the horse and headed back to the road.
The couple made their way north on the road, their horse at a steady canter heading to Vashon’s farm past the hills. This road split the farmlands, to the east most smallholdings were fed by the Levar River, and it showed in their impressive yields swaying heavy in the wind and the fat animals fed by its pastures that laid about without a worry until the abattoir called. The west of the road was still green, but trees and plants seemed squat and meek in comparison, as they relied more on rainfall and irrigation. On the west side, there grew more potatoes, sorghum and melons as they’re not as thirsty as the crops of their eastern neighbours. The Garnier’s farm to the west of the road was always the exception, and the House Toad is what made the difference. If Gaur was the City of Gold, then the Village of Bucktoo was the Breadbasket of the Empire’s southern hold on Lesser Erta, so matters that impacted one farmer could ripple through the island.
“Do you think this’ll be as simple as just going down the road and finding the House Toad?” asked Garon. Gaëlle rested her chin on her husband’s shoulder as she thought.
“If it were, it’d be as simple as Henri confronting Thibolt, but then it would be a murder instead of theft and it’d be something for the Guard’s Arm to take care of,” said Gaëlle, referring to the detachment of soldiers, that are stationed throughout the south, who enforces the Empress’ law.
“I don’t think Henri would kill. He said they play cards together. He’s only…how do they say it up north? ‘Miffed’,” said Garon with a flourish in his words trying to imitate a northern accent as best he could.
“Would you say my father was ‘miffed’ when you set loose his pigs? He wanted to cut your head off. These people’s livelihoods are tied to the land and when it’s trifled with, they’d avenge it as if it were family. The House Toad seems silly but it’s not a bauble to the Garniers,” said Gaëlle.
“Well on account of your father, he had at least enough love for me to only ‘say’ that he’d cut my head off. And you’re right; this is serious. I only hope it’ll be simple,” said Garon as he received a warm hug from his wife. Gaëlle’s hold loosened as soon as the horse crested the last hill to Thibolt’s farm, for the sight of it stopped them all.
“I can sense that Farmer Thibolt has the House Toad,” said Garon. Before them was a flooded valley of what was once hay fields and cow pastures.
“Go, go, go!” said Gaëlle, urging him on with slaps to his side. Garon brought the horse to a speedy gallop. As the farm came into view, what were mounds at a distance were now cows in the water bobbing in the pastures either drowned or drowning and the Vashon family holding a hysterical vigil on the road. A young man consoling Thibolt, likely his son, ran to Garon and Gaëlle waving his arms in a frantic panic.
“Help, please! Help! My brother is in the water! We can’t find him,” cried out the Vashon boy. Gaëlle jumped off the horse to attend to the boy and Garon rode to Thibolt.
“Sieur, where did you last see your son?” asked Garon, grabbing Thibolt by the shoulders, looking at him square in the eyes.
“He went to the well to get the House Toad to try and stop this, but he was overtaken by all the water,” said Thibolt through sobs that only a powerless father can have. He pointed out towards the field to a spot where water was gushing furiously. Gaëlle and the Vashon boy soon joined them.
“Gaëlle, can you make us a path?” said Garon. Gaëlle was already concentrating on the task. As a Water Diviner, Gaëlle can not only sense water but can move it, if needed, like in this fraught moment. With her hands together extended out and her eyes set on the turbulent ocean before her, Gaëlle can feel the pressure of that water as her hands began to part. The men’s calamity ceased as the water before them began splitting into two parallel walls marking a path towards the Vashon brother’s limp body. Familiar but always impressed with his wife’s power, Garon wasn’t as stunned as the Vashon’s were, so he ran down the path to collect the foolish brave farmer’s son. Not far behind him was the boy he met on the road. The boy overtook Garon and fell on his knees in front of his brother.
“Dumas! Dumas!” said the boy pleading for his brother to wake up. Garon reached him just as quickly and grabbed Dumas by the arm. He slapped the suppliant brother out of his stupor.
“We must bring him back to the road. Quickly!” said Garon to the Vashon brother, hoisting up Dumas to take him to the road. The walls of water began to waver as the pressure became more than Gaëlle could hold. The Vashon boy stopped and pointed down the path to an odd-shaped stone no bigger than a piglet.
“The House Toad,” said the boy. Garon knew he couldn’t leave it there lest it drown everyone else. Garon passed the unconscious Dumas to his brother and ran for the stone House Toad, on the way feeling larger and larger droplets of water falling on his person. Picking it up off the ground, the House Toad felt like a regular smooth stone, with a crude toad carved into it that’s been weathered through time, and it weighed no more than a half bushel of corn.
“Run, run, boy!” said Garon to the Vashon boy who was hauling Dumas the way he’d haul a calf. Garon ran as fast as he could as the walls of water weakened around him. He felt the strain that Gaëlle must have been feeling keeping this path together. The road looked to be farther away than before until they heard a rushing crash of water behind them. Behind Garon was a crushing wall of water gaining on him. The Vashon boy holding Dumas stopped, too stunned to move.
“Hurry, câlisse, hurry!” Garon pleaded and cursing at the young man, pushing him forward with his body while the House Toad grew heavier as the seconds passed. Having found his second wind, the young Vashon boy sprinted like an animal in distress, leaving Garon behind huffing and puffing under the weight of the magic stone charm. The Vashon boy made it to the road, received by Thibolt. Garon felt the water rise above his ankles and pour its weight into his boots as the walls began to lose their shape. Getting bogged down with his waterlogged boots and moments from drowning, Garon was instead lifted by the wave of the collapsing walls crashing into his underside. In a moment he didn’t remember too well, Garon was thrown up and out from the water and across the road as the House Toad fell out of his hands, landing on the dusty gravel.
“Go to the village, Clement and get the doctor!” said Thibolt, as the young Vashon, Clement, deposited his still unconscious brother on the road. Clement sprinted a mad dash before Gaëlle could stop him.
“There’s no need for the doctor. I can move the water stopping your son’s breathing,” said Gaëlle. She kneeled by the boy and moved her hands up from Dumas’ chest to his throat. With the second try, water spilled out of the boy’s mouth as he coughed, breathing rough but alive. Thibolt grabbed his son and sobbed out of deep relief and deeper love.
“Stop right there, young man,” said Garon as he had finally managed to get up from the road. He takes Clement by the shoulder and points back to where he left Dumas. The boy was enthused; he sprinted back towards Dumas and knocked him down to give his brother a hug.
Garon swatted the grit and mud off his tunic and trousers. As he’s beating the dust from his hat, he sees the House Toad a few lengths away doing what it was charmed to do, drawing water from the road and multiplying it, turning the dusty gravel into mud. Garon picked it up before they were inundated again and found that it made his hands sweat more than usual.
“Zulad be praised for you two!” said Thibolt as he hugged both Garon and Gaëlle, “You came about just in time to save my boy!”
“Well, it’s no coincidence, sieur Vashon,” said Garon, hoisting the House Toad on his shoulder, “Henri Garnier, believed you stole this and well here we all are.”
“I didn’t steal a thing from Henri!” said Thibolt in shock, “That man has no humour! I was simply teasing him about taking his precious House Toad. My pastures are on the river side. I have no use for his charm and well you see what it did!” His face was red as his arms swept across his farmland as the water finally began its languid retreat to the Levar River.
“We won’t argue about Henri’s manners,” said Gaëlle, “but how did you come to have his charm on your land?”
To this Thibolt had no answer; he simply raised his hand looking dumbfounded.
“It was that Forester,” said Dumas in a hoarse voice.
“A forester? A bucheron?” asked Garon, wondering “Why a woodsman would harass a farmer?”
“No, he’s a Northerner. His name is Forester,” said Dumas, getting up from the ground and standing on his shaky legs. Clement helped to steady him, “He came here offering to buy the farm.”
“I turned him away. It was as simple as that,” said Thibolt, with a nonchalant wave of his hand.
“He didn’t leave it at that, papa. When he walked away from you, he came to me and asked if I was your oldest,” said Dumas, who did stand a head taller than Clement, “he told me that he’d offer me a fair price after you’ve passed away ‘the sooner the better’ he said to me.”
“Par Zulad,” said Thibolt spitting on the dirt in disgust.
“I told him that ‘he’ would die sooner than you if he didn’t leave,” said Dumas, “He left, without a word but just laughed like a sick mule.”
“Seems to me that this Forester has some motivation to force you off of this land,” said Garon, adjusting the heavy House Toad on his shoulder, “We’ll return the House Toad to the Garniers and find out what we can about this Forester. If he has anything to do with this, he should be punished, and you and Henri should be compensated.”
“We would be in your debt, if you could resolve this,” said Thibolt as he put his arms around his sons, “We’ll need to start repairs soon but please tell Henri that I’m sorry to hear about his farm and that we have cards next week.”
*
Garon and Gaëlle returned the House Toad to the grateful Garniers, managing to even get a smile from Henri. They asked the farmers about Forester and the family told them a similar story to the Vashon’s of having refused an offer to purchase their land and that this happened not long before the House Toad was stolen. Garon and Gaëlle watched Henri place the large toad-shaped stone charm back in its basket and with the help of his daughters and the rope and pulley, he gently set it down on the pond bed. Water quickly bubbled up from the ground, flowed through the irrigation trenches and began to refill the rice paddies. Some work is still ahead of them, but things felt assured with the House Toad restored to its place. With that matter set right, Garon and Gaëlle returned to the village of Bucktoo, to bring back the horse they rode and visit their friends, Gulian and Inez Martel.
“So was Henri as warm and inviting as I said?” said Gulian or Gully, as she’s also known, with a sly grin aimed at her close friends. Gully was Bucktoo’s blacksmith and artificer, shorter than most, but she carried herself as if she were a full head taller than anyone. Everything about her was practical: her short black hair in tight curls was less of a fire hazard, her large muscular arms were never covered because sweat dripped and cooled more easily in the sweltering air of her workshop and her tall leather boots were sinched at the top to stop a hot coal or spark from igniting her bare feet.
“He had all the charm of a starving bear in spring,” said Garon rolling his eyes as he pulled a chair back for Gaëlle on the little terrace in front of Gully’s shop. The business of the village moved about them as the three friends could hear the clanging of hammers from Gully’s apprentices at the back of the shop.
“He’s much better with a bit of wine in him,” said Inez joining the three with a tray of table beers and a tea for herself, “Although you then suffer through his dirty jokes.” Inez smiled at her friends and her wife. Where Gully was short and strong, Inez was tall and lean with her long blonde hair tied in a loose bun and while she usually wore more practical clothing suited for her job as a ranger for the nearby forests, she instead donned a loose-fitting dress that draped over her pregnant stomach.
“Well, he was in a much better mood with his House Toad returned,” said Gaëlle taking a sip of her light golden beer, “It was interesting watching that charm get to work. Feeling it draw so much water from that meager pond made me feel flush.”
“Yes, he mentioned it being a wedding present but it’s a bit of an odd gift,” said Garon.
“Its maker was a bit odd,” said Gully, “My great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Abel Martel, carved it from stone for his daughter’s wedding. Knowing the Garnier man she was marrying made a poor decision wanting to start a rice farm far from the Levar River, he carved that stone toad to sit in their pond. Abel was an artificer himself, albeit a stonemason, but he enchanted that rock to not only draw water but also multiply it. From there the Garnier’s grew rich thanks to the House Toad.”
“Damn thing made my hands sweat,” said Garon, wiping the dew from his mug of beer.
“That wasn’t because of the stone, cher,” said Gaëlle to the laughter of Gully and Inez, “So if the House Toad can make enough water from a small pond to irrigate rice paddies, I can see how it flooded the Vashon’s pasture since they’re so close to the Levar and have ample well water.”
“Doing something like that would be quite malicious,” said Inez.
“It makes me think that this Northerner, Forester, may well be behind it,” said Garon.
“Forester?” said Inez surprised, betraying some knowledge.
“You’ve heard the name before?” asked Gaëlle.
“A man named Forester came to the shop earlier today,” said Inez, “He held all the manners of a Northerner, I could barely understand his accent. He had asked about buying a sword for his Master, a sieur Ansellus d’Gamont, from the City of Gaur. In fact, it was a rapier that he wanted, kept insisting that it had to be as light as possible with no way of breaking.”
“Which is something I can make easy enough. Child’s play,” said Gully, tilting up her proud chin.
“Yes, yes, but he asked that since you’re an artificer,” continued Inez shushing her wife, “What enchanted items you used in your crafting, saying that his Master was more than willing to pay for a high-quality enchanted item. I went through some of your tools, but he wanted to know what kept your coals lit.”
To this point, Inez’s three audience members titled their heads in curiosity. Inez took a sip of tea, savouring the tension as much as her drink.
“This man really bothered me. We’ve dealt with demanding customers before, but he seemed to be digging for information, expecting me to spill a secret,” said Inez leaning in towards her friends as her voice got lower, “I told him that we keep the furnaces going like any other shop. He didn’t push any further, but he had this smile rusé, like he knew I was lying but didn’t want to let on. He simply left after that saying that he would return to order the rapier after speaking to sieur d’Gamont.”
The four of them took a moment of silence to digest what Inez just served them. Garon looked about the village square, took a sip of beer and turned back to his friends.
“What do you use to keep your coals lit?” he asked. Gully let out a sigh and stood up from her seat. She made her way to the back of the furnace, that faced the front of the shop and put on a long and heavy grey mitten.
“I’m honestly surprised that I haven’t shown you before,” said Gully as she opened a small grate on the furnace and reached in. Garon and Gaëlle gasped at the sight of their friend plunging her hand into a white-hot pit of fire, but she pulled her hand out, unharmed, and holding a glowing smoking object in her clenched fist. The coals in the furnace dimmed a shade as soon as she pulled out whatever it was.
“It’s a Black Fire Beetle. Abel’s daughter, Mir Martel, wanted to become a blacksmith,” said Gully as she opened her hand to show a wrought iron bug with a carapace worked over into such intricate detail and emitting an outrageous amount of heat, “After completing her apprenticeship, Abel helped her create this charm. Back in her day, few people wanted a woman as an apprentice and fewer still wanted to work for her, so this charm helped make her work easier. As you can see, all it does is burn.” Gully made her way back to the furnace grate to deposit the charm while Garon wiped the sweat from his face and Gaëlle took a cooling chug of beer.
“If all it does is burn,” asked Garon, “how can you hold it so?” Gully showed her mitten covered palm with barely a scorch mark on it.
“It’s some kind of fire-resistant mineral found in a deposit outside the Mercy Woods up north,” said Gully, with the grin of a child showing her parents a neat trick, “I managed to get a good chunk of it here and found that the mineral is more fabric like. I call it Firethread and had enough to make a whole suit out of it.”
“I swear, she looks like a badger on its hind legs when she wears it,” said Inez laughing and covering her mouth to stop herself from spitting out her tea.
“Keep that up and I’ll wear that suit to bed,” said Gully, giving Inez a kiss on top of her head before settling back in her seat.
“Do you think Forester knows about your Black Fire Beetle?” said Garon. Gully looked at Inez who wobbled her head in a show of suspicious uncertainty.
“You should ask him. He may still be in town,” said Inez, “When he left, I watched him go across the village square to the Bon Bock.” Inez pointed and they all looked across the ways to the village’s only brasserie, that also served as an inn.
“Shall we, ma belle?” said Garon as his wife finished off the last of her beer.
The couple said their farewells to their dear friends who, before turning back to their shop, wished them luck and were willing to offer any more assistance on this matter. Garon and Gaëlle made their way to the Bon Bock which by this time was bustling with patrons awaiting dinner.
Garon was making his way to the barkeep to ask about Forester, Gaëlle stopped him and discreetly pointed out two men sitting in the back who stood out amongst the humble villagers of Bucktoo. The two strangers sat in a booth fit for seven patrons. Sitting on the left was a broad man as tall as a door, with long curled auburn hair and a full beard adorned by a twisted moustache that filtered the beer in the mug he clutched in his large hand. Behind all that hair, his eyes pierced through like two black pearls. His manner of dress betrayed his northern roots as he wore a mustard coloured doublet, vermillion trousers tucked into inky black jackboots reaching his knees and dabbled with dried mud along their toes and soles. A cape, the colour of an asparagus tip, sits in a pile next to him. This was most likely Forester, who was scanning the Bon Bock for signs of trouble. His companion sitting at the back of the table was absentmindedly sawing away at some roasted chicken with a knife, shoveling meat into his mouth and sipping at his goblet of wine. This would most likely be Ansellus d’Gamont. Ansellus wore a jade silk tunic, myrtle cotton trousers and emerald short boots. His hat next to him was similarly green. His clothing was audacious and sumptuous well above the standards of Bucktoo and marked him as an obvious citizen of Gaur, a city of a hundred like Ansellus and a thousand more wanting to be an Ansellus. Despite all that, without his clothes he would look like a small elderly man with a bare head and lines pressed in his skin that was bronzed by too much sun and wrinkled by too many thoughts stressing over coin. There’s a tension emanating from these two men and between the rest of the patrons as suspicious glances are thrown at them.
As Garon and Gaëlle approached them, Forester’s hand made its way to the pommel of the short sword tied to his belt. Before Garon could introduce himself, Ansellus dropped his knife on his plate with a clatter and made a show of wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin soaked in chicken grease. Making like a theatre player, Ansellus projected his annoyance across the Bon Bock.
“Wut d’you tu wunt?” said Forester in one of the unmistakable and heavy accents of the Northern Kingdom. His brogue betrayed his common roots as most Northerners spoke in the King’s polished tongue. Forester’s eyes scanned the couple like a wolf does a rabbit hutch. Ansellus reached over and patted Forester’s arm.
“Calm yourself, Mister Forester,” said Ansellus, “These simple people, I’m sure, have questions for us city folk. Curiosity is customary for commoners.” The old man offering them a simpering smirk that the couple didn’t return.
“I take it then, that you are the Forester and sieur d’Gamont that we’ve heard about,” said Garon, crossing his arms and feeling the handle of his dagger under his tunic. Ansellus smiled and put up his hands in mock appreciation.
“We’ve only been here for two days and we’re already célèbre,” said Ansellus laughing to himself with a smug satisfaction afforded by the rich. While he’s having his fun, Forester doesn’t take his eyes off Garon and Gaëlle.
“My name is Garon Pellerin and this is my wife Gaëlle,” said Garon, “I am a Raker and was hired by Henri Garnier to find his water charm. We were able to find it in short order at the farm of Thibolt Vashon, which suffered the misfortune of being flooded by sieur Garnier’s own water charm.”
“Wonderful story,” said Ansellus, waving his dinner knife about, “Thank you for sharing. Now please leave me to my dinner.” Garon leaned forward, pressing his knuckles down on the table.
“The common thread between the two farmers’ calamities is that they refused offers made by your man here, to buy their farms,” said Gaëlle staring down at Ansellus who was clearly trying to ignore them both. The old man wiped his mouth again and looked to Forester who looked no less cross than before.
“Yes, I did task Forester with purchasing that land,” said Ansellus, “The locations of their farms would make for wonderful estates that I could sell to the aristocrats of Gaur or draw in wealthier nobles from the Continent. Their moving here would do more to raise the value of this village than those poor dirt tillers. But, as you said, my offers were refused, and I left it at that. I may be a landlord, but I am not so ruthless as to harm those farmers.” The old man’s unceasing smile just grated at Garon and Gaëlle’s nerves.
“I suppose you want us to leave it at that?” said Garon, he noted that Forester hadn’t blinked since their arrival.
“If your farmer friends are seeking restitution from me,” said Ansellus, pointing his knife at himself, “then they’ll be sorely lost without any proof, which you haven’t shown me. But I could get my dear friend the Empress’s Magistrate of Gaur to come here as soon as possible and settle the matter. It’ll be settled to my satisfaction, mind you. I should let you know that trying to scam an old man of his gold is punishable under the law.” He put his hands up as if there was nothing more to this matter and nothing more for him to say. This dismissal further irritated Garon and Gaëlle as both of their eyebrows and noses converged in arches of contempt. This landlord felt an undeserved sense of invulnerability that he’s purchased through coin and guile. He sits in finely woven trousers of entitlement that any decent person would want to pull from under him, were it not for his henchman, Forester, sitting there waiting for an excuse to let his simmering anger boil over onto these commoners and stop their hands from reaching his master.
“You seem to have the best friends’ money can buy,” said Gaëlle. Her eyes focused on Ansellus’ wine sitting in front of him. Amused, he grins like a child cheating at checkers.
Gaëlle flicked her fingers towards him and through her powers of water divination, his wine agreed to fly on his face. Cutting short any retort the rich old man could muster. As Ansellus sputtered in disbelief, Forester tried to accomplish the twin feat of cursing out the married couple and unsheathing his sword. Garon grabbed the end of the table and pushed it into the brute, pinning Forester’s sword-wielding hand and knocking the air out of him. Flushed, Forester tossed the table over sending his master’s meal flying towards the patrons of the Bon Bock. All this commotion brought everyone to their feet and whoever carried weapons on their person, now had them in hand with the landlord from Gaur and his henchman as their targets. After the table toppled and the plates and cutlery landed with a clatter, a strained silence held court. The villagers of Bucktoo were thoroughly annoyed by the gaudy visitors from Gaur and a perfect moment presented itself for a brawl. Garon and Gaëlle stood side-by-side staring at Forester and his blade. Ansellus wiped the wine from his face.
“Forester, put your sword away,” said Ansellus as he stood up sweeping the crumbs and bits of food from his trousers. Now on his feet, his frail frame was more evident as the top of his head only reached Forester’s shoulder, “These two aren’t worth the effort and neither are any of these funereal commoners.”
Forester sheathed his sword, took up his purple-green cape from his seat and clasped it around his neck with a flourish. Ansellus reached into his purse to produce two gold coins that he held aloft between his two spindly fingers, then placed on his seat.
“Barkeep!” said Ansellus, snapping his fingers above his head, “This should suffice for the food and drink and any damage thereafter.”
Before turning to leave, Ansellus gave Gaëlle a rapturous once over. Her unease was apparent as she stepped closer to her husband.
“Madame, you are wasted in this backwater hole,” he said and waved the back of his hand to the crowd of the Bon Bock, “Adieu to you all. I meant to give you so much, but I have gotten little but contempt in return,” and with that, Ansellus walked to the exit with Forester in tow. The eyes of the patrons of the Bon Bock followed them on their way out the door.
*
Returning to their apartment later that night, after receiving a few rounds of drinks at the Bon Bock, Garon and Gaëlle collapsed on their bed. The thrills of the day have taken their toll sapping whatever youthful energy that was privileged to them. They turned to one another and stared at each other. Their abode is simple, a bed, some chairs huddled around a table next to a humble fireplace that heats them and their food and next to their window, that looks down at a Bon Bock across the street, stands an armoire that holds their few pieces of clothing and simple cooking implements. Besides having one another in each other’s life, they couldn’t ask for more.
“As satisfying as it felt to show up that cursed landlord,” said Garon grunting as he brings himself up off the bed, “I feel that we fell short in helping the farmers.” Garon began preparing the fireplace for a bit of heat to cut the night chill that crept into their apartment with them. Gaëlle is rubbing her eyes to wipe out the fatigue.
“I don’t think we’re done with sieur d’Gamont and his man Forester,” said a tired Gaëlle, “Did you see how he leered at me before he exited? It left a film on me; I should wash myself.”
“Ma belle, it took all my will to not hit him between his beady little eyes,” said Garon clenching a fist at thought of it. He lit a match and set fire to the little bundle of kindling he’s put together.
“I admire your restraint, mon amour,” said Gaëlle who then started to sniff the air, “It smells like smoke, Garon.”
“Well, yes. I’m starting a fire,” said Garon, then noticing Gaëlle looking at the window where an orange glow and black smoke was emanating from the street below, “A fire!”
Gaëlle swung the apartment window open and with Garon right behind her. The outside wall to their apartment was set aflame, reaching its way from the ground floor up. Garon pointed in the distance to a figure holding a glowing stone in the arms of a set of tongs and his purple-green cape fluttering in haste. The man was running away down an alley from the crowd coming to see the ruckus.
“Forester! It must be him!” said Garon, as Gaëlle pulls him away from the window and out the door.
By the time Garon and Gaëlle made their way down to the street, the villagers have already formed a fire brigade hauling water to stop the blaze that has climbed further up the outside wall and entering the units on the first floor. Other tenants nearer to the fire were being helped out of the burning building.
“What is it, Garon?” said Gaëlle. She knows that look on his face that’s sweeping towards the dark alleys.
“I sense something magical and it’s moving,” said Garon.
Expecting danger, Garon drew his dagger from its hidden sheath and ran towards where he last saw Forester. Feeling the pull of magic, he turned a few corners where the scoundrel turned, but soon the string he followed was cut. Forester either found a way to block the magic he carried or may have escaped on horse and was too far away for Garon’s Raker senses. On his way back to the now dying fire, he’s stopped by a distressed Gully.
“It’s gone!” said Gully, grabbing Garon’s shoulders and squeezing hard, “My Black Fire Beetle was stolen!”
Joined by Gaëlle, the three friends made their way to the blacksmith shop where the theft of the Black Fire Beetle was evident upon entering. The once bright orange furnaces were now only holding dead or dying embers, and the shop’s constant warmth was taken away by the night’s cool winds. Gully’s grief at this loss didn’t come in tears but in pacing the floor and slamming her fist on her workbenches.
“What villain steals like this?” said Gully plunging her hand in the furnace to take a mound of ashen coal and crush it between her fingers. Inez appeared out of their home door connected to the shop.
“Any word on your charm, chere?” said Inez whose touch dissolved any anger in Gully’s body.
“I’m sure I saw that Forester run away when our apartment caught fire,” said Garon, “I’m fairly certain he had the Black Fire Beetle in the tip of tongs.”
“He took my tongs too?” said Gully. She slammed her palm to the hollow ringing of the cold furnace. The four of them are taken out of the shop by the sound of the crowd outside moving past as the gong of the struck furnace fades out.
“Fire! Fire!” said one of the villagers. The volunteer fire brigade ran out of the village square towards the farm hills.
“Look!” shouted Gaëlle pointing towards a bright orange glow in the hills before the farmlands, “That could be the Garniers’ Farm!”
Garon and Gaëlle made haste to the village stable across the square and mounted their mare. With another horse’s reins in hand, they brought it to Gully’s shop.
“Come with us,” said Garon, “We’ll get your precious beetle back!”
“Go now and I’ll follow you soon,” said Gully handing the reins to Inez, “I need to get something that’ll help.”
The Garon and Gaëlle gallantly galloped towards the glowing blaze up over the way and well ahead of the villagers of Bucktoo who are armed with buckets, shovels and axes in hand to fight the fire. Closer and closer they crest the hill, the flicking fingers of flames and its hellish heat confront them like a wild animal. They stop atop the hill, the burning of the Garnier’s rice farm frightened them so. The tree that held the House Toad burns like a mythical torch for the Red God, Zulad and the family’s nearby farmhouse has been breached by flames coming from the tree in a salvo of sparks.
Garon kicked the horse forward, cursing its hesitation and demanding all its speed. As they reached the farm, the sound of the roaring fire was joined in a terrible chorus of the screaming Garnier family trapped in their home. With a resounding snap, the burning tree sends the House Toad to the ground in a muddy plop sending hot steam into the air. This convulsion of fire and water made Garon and Gaëlle’s horse stop in its tracks. Gaëlle dismounted while the villagers have all caught up to them and got to work dismantling the blaze. With her power to move water, she quickly began to throw barrels-worth that the House Toad offered onto the burning home. The blazing tree was another matter, it didn’t want to give up its flame, it just burned and burned and burned especially from one spot near its base. Garon sensed the origin of the flames. He found the spot where metal tongs were thrust into the wood, holding in place the Black Fire Beetle against the tree’s body. No amount of water will quench that fire, the charm’s magic will incinerate all it touches until there’s nothing left.
“Move out of the way!” shouted Inez on her horse running past villagers and Garon. Garon was stunned by what was sitting the back of Inez’s horse. It looked like a stout grey homunculus with a rounded head, deep set eyes that reflected the fire like glass and feet like big round baby boots. Garon wasn’t sure that this thing was alive until it threw itself off the horse and began talking.
“Garon!” said the grey creature, “Get over here and help me!” It was Gully’s voice, but it made no sense. The grey creature scuttled its way to Garon and with its stiff joints began pulling on his leg.
“Gully?” said Garon trying to fight off the creature before him.
“Yes, you dolt!” said Gully, “I can get to the beetle in this Firethread suit, but I need you to help guide me.”
Garon dismounted his horse, who with no misgivings, ran as far as it could from the fire surrounding it. Inez came towards him with a pole two men high topped with a short flat hook.
“Take this,” said Inez handing Garon the pole, “hook it in the back of Gully’s suit and help guide her to the Beetle.” Garon took the pole in hand and hooked it to Gully’s back. Were it not for the deadly fire, this would feel almost silly, but Garon took his task of nudging Gully along seriously. He brought the fireproofed Gully straight ahead but a ways away from where the Beetle sat helplessly against the Garnier’s black ash tree. With slow and steady steps, Garon prodded Gully forward, watching her waddle her way through the scorching heat and flame unharmed. All the villagers were too busy to take notice of this odd sight as most were pulling the Garnier’s out of their home, shoveling smothering dirt on the fire, pulling branches off of the tree to refuse the fire more fuel and some were directing Gaëlle where to throw water. Gully put her hand up, signaling to Garon to stop pushing her forward. The flames made by the marriage of the Black Fire Beetle to the tree were flying in Gully’s face, consuming her but leaving her unscorched. The Firethread suit wasn’t taking notice of the heat and fire keeping its wearer safe. She reached for the tongs pinning the Black Fire Beetle and went to work releasing it.
While Garon focused on Gully’s task, he was struck in the back. He fell into the hot muddy ground bracing himself with his hands. Forester stood over him with a shovel gripped in his hands and the unmistakable asparagus tip coloured cloak flapping in the hot air currents.
“Yuz again!” shouted Forester with gritted teeth and wide eyes flashing white and black, “Yuz can’t seem t’wanna die do ya!” he raised the shovel above his head for another strike, but Garon rolled away giving the shovel a meal of mud.
“I like being alive, being newlywed and all,” said Garon flashing a little smirk as he pulled his dagger out of its hiding place. He thrusts his blade to his adversary’s thigh, but Forester parry’s the attack and strikes Garon in the shoulder with the butt of the shovel. Trying to regain his footing, Garon rolls to the side to avoid a chopping strike from Forester. Forester throws the cumbersome shovel aside in frustration and draws his sword. The two shuffle from side to side looking for an opening to strike. Garon’s nerves were on the absolute edge of fraying, knowing that he’s facing off against a seasoned fighter when he hasn’t done more than throw a punch or two in a boyhood brawl. He used his dagger last to filet some cod. They turned and turned to where Forester faced the flames, his visage drawn with fire light as the mask of a madman intent to kill. He lunged at Garon with a fierce howl. Knowing what else to do and with no sense of finesse, Garon rolled his body forward into Forester’s legs sending his would be killer bowling over into the mud.
“Once I’m dun wit yuz,” growled Forester, getting back on his feet as muck slides off his garish clothes, “I’ll get t’wurk burnin’ this ‘ole bloody village t’the grown an’ sieur d’Gamont promised me a cassle atop yuz and yoorz wife’s corpses!” Forester stopped in his attack, realizing that the sound of the raging fire had ceased, and the heat that lifted his cape was now a cool breeze that simply ruffled the end of it. Releasing his en garde stance, Forester turned to see Gully, in her suit holding the Black Fire Beetle, Gaëlle, Inez, the Garnier’s covered in soot and ash and the villagers of Bucktoo looking right at the villainous Northerner.
It was a villager who started the chase that sent Forester into the nearby rice paddies where he waded and slipped in the mud until he was quickly overtaken by the mob of Bucktoo. Forester was then trussed up and hauled to the Guard’s Arm small barracks, on the road leading out north of the village. He was put in jail after several villagers attested to witnessing his crimes. As his man sat in a cell, Ansellus d’Gamont was nowhere to be seen, not in Bucktoo nor in the neighbouring village of Shedac a touch to the northwest.
*
“We’ve ridden this horse so often, we may as well buy it,” said Garon, to Gaëlle sitting behind him on the mare that they’ve become well acquainted with these last hectic days. They’re making their way to a little cottage a short way south of Bucktoo at the beckoning of Henri Garnier and his family. Gaëlle was in no hurry to answer her husband. She’s taken in by the sights around her on their lazy way to the countryside. South of Bucktoo there unfolds the Montune Rainforest where oaks, maples, pines and many other trees thrive under the abundance of rain clouds pushed over it by the warm southern winds coming from Gozal’s Sea, a day’s ride further south of the Montune. Today there was no rain, instead they were granted a boon of sunshine. The trail they use runs through a lush meadow where the birds and bugs try their best to harmonize while red cosmos and purple asters flick the heels of their boots. After yesterday’s hot and deadly commotion, they were in no hurry to reach their destination.
“We would need to have a place to put the horse,” said Gaëlle.
“We would need gold to have a place to the horse,” said Garon, “And maybe a baby.” Garon braced for a little loving jab from his wife, but instead she tightened her embrace. The gable of the Garnier’s cottage was in view and Garon slowed the horse down to soak in the moment.
Finally reaching the cottage, Henri and Coralie greet Garon and Gaëlle in wonderful spirits despite losing their farmhouse in a blaze of relentless magic fire. Henri hugged them both at the same time giving them a profuse amount of thank yous and bless yous.
“Our veritable heroes,” exclaimed Henri shuffling the couple into the cottage. Inside they were again assailed by the hugs and praise of the remaining Garnier clan. So overcome with emotion and blushing like red apples, Garon and Gaëlle took a seat at the kitchen table, lest they fall hat over boots from the wave of the Garnier’s gratitude. The kids were shooed out of the cottage to the back under orders from their parents to tend to the chickens. The Garnier’s settled down across from the Pellerin’s with tea and cakes placed on the table.
“I don’t know how many years it’s been since we’ve taken a rest from the farm,” said Coralie, joyfully munching on a chunk of walnut rum cake.
“I’ve even taken a few days to myself,” said Henri, “but I’ll be returning tomorrow to aid in the construction of the house and a new hoist for the House Toad. Most of the crops weren’t harmed by the fire, so the harvest is still on schedule. I’ll even lend Thibolt a hand with his rebuilding.”
“Happy days are ahead!” cheered Garon raising his tea toasting to his hosts, “I only wish that Forester met some justice.”
“I’m not entirely surprised,” said Gaëlle, “d’Gamont did boast of having a magistrate in his pocket and he put him to use freeing his Forester.”
“Here’s to having all we need and to not covet what isn’t ours,” said Carolie raising her tea and all four at the table clinked mugs in agreement, “Speaking of needs, we’d like to discuss your payment in helping us find the House Toad and confronting that unscrupulous landlord and his thieving goon.”
“You’ve lost your home in the process,” said Garon blushing from surprise, “We couldn’t possibly ask for payment.”
“Nonsense!” said Henri hoisting himself up from the table. He made his way to the hearth and grabbed something small hanging from the side of the kitchen oven. He walked back and slammed his palm on the table as he sat down. Garon and Gaëlle looked at what Henri had deposited. It was a key. Gaëlle took it in hand and Garon had a look of confusion on his face as his mind spun about for an answer.
“What is this for?” Gaëlle asked the Garniers, holding up the key between her thumb and forefinger. Henri smiled wider and Caroli looked at her husband, knowingly amused. Henri raised his arms and gestured around him.
“It’s a key for all of this,” said Henri. Caroli giggled gleefully after her husband finished his pronouncement. Gaëlle was so surprised that she dropped the key on the table as if it burned her. Garon was stunned into silence instead of being confused. His wide eyes moved over to meet those of Gaëlle, both in denial over what they just heard.
“Certainly, you can’t give us this cottage,” said Garon as he took off his hat to rub his head.
“Certainly, we can and will,” said Carolie, “as soon as our farmhouse is rebuilt.”
“We lived in this cottage when we were first married,” said Henri, his cheeks reddened from smiling, “We’d like to see this home go to another young couple.”
“But what about your children? Shouldn’t they inherit this from you?” asked Gaëlle. Carolie and Henri looked at each other in a knowing way that parents do.
“We’re getting older and so are our children,” said Henri, with a softness known only by his wife, “Our eldest daughter is two years away from being able to own land. When that time comes, we’ll be splitting the farm into thirds. One piece for each child. That means this cottage will sit empty as they’ll be too busy farming and we’ll be too busy fussing about them.”
With this news, their visit to the Garniers turned into an impromptu celebration where the children finished the cakes without hesitation, and a little dance was had to the tune of Henri’s guimbarde and his daughter’s drumming. Garon and Gaëlle saddled up on their borrowed horse and made their way back home before sunset, feeling as light as a breeze and full as barrels. They could do nothing but have an exciting talk about their new home and their future.
“Looks like we’ll have a place to put this horse then, uh?” said Garon, his voice smiling.
“Looks like we’ll have a place to put a baby as well!” said Gaëlle kissing her husband on the back of his neck. Garon immediately brought the horse to a full gallop.
“What’s gotten into you?” said Gaëlle holding on to her bonnet as she’s jostled about.
“We need to get home in haste,” said Garon with vivacious excitement, “there’s much work to be done if we’re going to put a baby in that home!”
THE END.
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