Chapter V
‘Honor the lawman, that selfless soul who shields his people from all foes.
But armed though he is with iron and righteous thunder, he is only one man.
When his need is great, those of able body and dutiful mind must answer his call of justice,
And stand in arms alongside him to cast down the wicked.’
- Gareth Falmer, former Rector of Dormis
All Dormis was gathered in the streets before the now-empty chapel, chatting and gossiping among themselves and dressed in their Sunday best. The warm sun was almost directly overhead, and the after-service Sunday feast would soon begin, to the delight of all the hungry and complaining children. The impatient peoples milled about the street, all the village but for those who had gone to prepare the food and drink. Sweating from the exertion of his climb, Jed strolled with purpose down the dirt path that was the village’s main byway, wiping his forehead on the red kerchief he habitually wore about his neck. Huber Hawthorne trailed along behind the Sheriff dutifully, bearing a large wooden box that the two had picked up on the way back down through the outskirts of the village.
The people noticed them as they approached the town square before the chapel, and some of the crowd waved their greetings to the pair. Nodding in reply, Jed passed the chatting crowd, marching up to the crier’s stage: a simple wooden platform for the use of what few town officials the small village had, if they had a need to make public announcements. The Sheriff was one such official, and he took his rightful place on the raised dais, affording him a view of every man and woman of the milling crowd. There was Urma Larkin, surrounded by the few of her sixteen children who were grown. Jed presumed the eight young sons and three young daughters were off somewhere among the crowd playing, being shepherded by the two middle sons, Offram and Abel, who had the misfortune of being too old for playtime while not yet being old enough for adult business. Consequently, the rather serious adolescents were relegated to permanent role of babysitter for their unruly siblings.
Jed smiled, seeing that his guess was right as a veritable swarm of toe-headed children ran by, trailed after by their weary brothers. He knew the family well enough to put a name to most of the faces as they ran by. They were but a few of the familiar faces of the crowd, every one of which Jed knew at least in passing. There by his shop was Bernace Shaffer, the barber, talking congenially with his neighbor Tim Cook, who ran the adjacent butcher shop. Nearby Myron Bishop the saloon owner was chatting with Tim’s grown daughter Mary-Sue, though whether the old lecher was merely offering the girl a job as a waitress or had something more salacious in mind, Jed could not tell from that distance. A few faces the Sheriff looked for were not present among the crowd, but he presumed the folks they belonged to were off helping to prepare the feast. Like everyone else, Jed was looking forward to the generous meal, having had a pair of exhausting treks through the wilderness within the last day. He heard Huber Hawthorne’s stomach growl audibly over the din of the crowd, and he didn’t blame it. You didn’t need the farmer’s famous appetite to be ravenous after the kind of hikes they had been on in the last day or so.
A bright glint of light in the crowd caught in Jed’s sight, and he shielded his eyes from the sun to see what it was. There was Martha Covington, the young schoolteacher, and something green glinted brightly in the sunlight at her neck, hanging from a fine chain. Jed didn’t know what it was, but he found himself suddenly eye-to-eye with the – he had to admit – fetching lady, and she smiled as she looked up from the unruly children she was trying with some success to calm. Jed tipped his hat to her in silent greeting across the crowd, and he quickly turned to look at the expectant Huber Hawthorne standing before the small wooden platform of the stage. He nodded, and the farmer turned to face the crowd, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Y’all gather ’round, the Sheriff’s about to speak!” The farmer yelled as loud as he could contrive, and it seemed to have the desired effect. The milling people began slowly to gather around the immediate area of the stage, and the chattering died down to a low murmur of interest as their attention turned to Jed standing tall upon the raised dais. He didn’t hold up his hands for silence, for he had not the practiced showmanship of the priest. Jed merely waited, silent, upon the platform until the people were for the most part still and quiet, and then he began to speak, quietly at first but raising in volume. “Thank you kindly, Huber. Ya’ll listen up, now!” If any had been still murmuring among themselves, he now had their full attention as his voice became that of authority.
The Sheriff continued, his deep voice carrying to the back of the crowd with some effort. “I don’t need to tell y’all about the dangers we’re facing, since Falmer already spoke about it, at some length I’m sure. He already went over the curfew, and I won’t mention it except to say that it has the full backing of the law, and that anyone damn fool enough to be out on their own in the dark should be glad if I find them and throw ‘em in jail for the night. The curfew is for your own good, folks. If anyone doubts what they were told in the sermon this morning, you listen here! Me and Huber Hawthorne have seen that horror with our own eyes, and we’ve got the scars to show for it.” Jed lifted his head to let the sun fall below the wide brim of his hat and show the black lines of frostbite scars across his face. There were a few gasps from the audience, and the Sheriff was met with stunned silence as he scanned the crowd, seeing looks of disbelief turn to amazement.
Jed continued. “That ain’t a story y’all need to hear, but I’ll just say bullets will solve this problem just fine.” His hand brushed over the wooden grip of the revolver at his side, the smooth metal frame of which shone in the bright sun. “That’s all I’ve got to say about that. Now we gotta talk about our defenses.” He was met by looks of confusion from the crowd, and he continued without breaking stride. “A curfew alone ain’t enough to ensure our safety. I am hereby instituting a town watch, to be carried out in shifts by armed watchmen who will each be issued a brass bell such as this one.” He snapped his fingers and Huber threw him up a bell from the wooden crate the farmer had carried. Jed rang the bell sharply four times, and the sound carried through the streets of the village. “Four bells means we’re under attack, everyone got it? If’n you hear four bells, take up arms and get to safety.” There was a chorus of acknowledgements from the crowd. “Good.” Jed said with finality.
Glancing about the crowd, Jed went on. “I got me a few names of folks whose help I am formally requestin’. After that I’ll take any able-bodied volunteers who are fixin’ to help out.” Already he could see a few men jostling to the front to sign up, and that pleased the Sheriff. Ignoring them for now, he adjusted his hat and called out the first of his names. “Huber Hawthorne!” The farmer stepped up onto the platform with Jed, handing the Sheriff a small cloth sack from the box they had brought. Jed fished in the bag and pulled out something yellow that shined in the sun. “Huber Hawthorne.” He repeated. “Do you swear to uphold justice and defend your people so long as they be in danger?” He asked Huber seriously, holding his hand out with the shiny item cupped loosely so that it shone in the bright light. The Sheriff looked the farmer dead in the eye. Huber seemed to hesitate a moment but he did not back down from Jed’s gaze and nodded his assent. “I do so swear.” He said, loudly enough for the crowd to hear him.
“Then by the power vested in me as Sheriff of these lands, I hereby proclaim you a deputy of the law, with all the duties that entails. So long as you serve fairly and justly, you shall be backed by my full authority as Sheriff in all that you do.” Jed reached out and pinned a brass shield onto the farmer’s coveralls, identical to the one that was fastened to his own lapel. “Let this shield be your badge of office and so be armed as a giver of law, Senior Deputy Hawthorne. You will stand in defense of this town, armed and armored as best we can contrive, for still it is my duty to defend those who stand alongside me. If, by tragic happenstance, you do fall in my service, you will be buried in a place of honor and forever remembered as a hero of Dormis.” He clapped the farmer on the shoulder as he finished, grimly reminding all of the danger they faced. Jed turned back toward the crowd as Huber hopped down from the stage.
“John Richard Coleman!” The Sheriff called suddenly, and one of the young men jostling for the front of the crowd stepped forward and climbed purposefully up to the crier’s stage where Jed stood. “I’m proud to serve my people, Sheriff. Call me J.R.” Coleman was only a few years younger than Jed, though the Sheriff’s serious demeanor tended to make folks think he was older than he was – in truth, he had only just seen his twenty-sixth winter. J.R. was around the same height as Huber Hawthorne – significantly shorter than Jed’s tall frame – and he shared the farmer’s wide shoulders and strong back, though his wiry hair was black like coal smoke where Huber’s was a lighter brown. He made a living as a miner, as it happened. Dormis was not possessed of much in the way of mineral resources, but there was enough coal and other such sundries to be found that with some shrewd prospecting and a bit of bartering, one could easily enough make a living off it. J.R.’s father Jonathan had made a living of it, if an austere one, though by the time the old miner had retired, he’d had little enough to pass on to his only son but the age-worn iron pickaxe and shovel that J.R. still used. This suited the pragmatic young man well enough.
“J.R. Coleman.” Jed said deferentially. “Do you swear to defend the peace and uphold justice wherever you go? To put the good of the common people before your own? To act with decency and honor, so long as you wear this badge of office?” Jed held up another of the shining badges so that the crowd could see it. He turned to the kneeling J.R., who had his head bowed respectfully. “I do so swear, Sheriff. May I suffer twenty lashes on the back if I fail you.” Jed snorted at this but said nothing, nodding and motioning for him to stand. He pinned the gleaming badge to the young man’s shirt. “I hope everybody’s as eager as you, when they gotta stand watch in the rain at midnight.” The Sheriff said half in jest. “You got first watch, Senior Deputy Coleman. Be ready tonight.”
The eager young man nodded and thanked the Sheriff, stepping down off the stage. Jed looked about the crowd, catching the eyes of a few people he knew. He caught a glimpse of Martha Covington chasing quietly after one of her stray schoolchildren, trying to keep the hungry kids reined in. Clearing his throat, Jed called his next name. “Edmain Larkin.” He announced. No one shuffled to the front of the crowd and all were silent. “Edmain Larkin!” Jed repeated, louder. Still there was no response, and Jed swept his gaze back and forth over the crowd until he found the Larkin clan, all gathered together at last. Edmain was the oldest of the children second only to the eldest daughter Edwinna. Notably, as far as Jed was concerned, he was also the keeper of his late father’s prized hunting rifle, and a crack shot with it to boot. Jed hoped it wouldn’t be necessary for the boy – so he thought of the younger man, but in truth Edmain was eighteen and therefore an adult – to squeeze off any of the expensive big game rounds in defense of the village, but just now he didn’t see the blonde-haired young man standing near his mother Urma as he had expected to find him.
The matron’s head was bowed and she was choking back tears, comforted by her tall daughter Edwinna beside her. The girl met Jed’s gaze and called back to him in a soft voice of forced calm. “He’s sick, Sheriff. We do apologize.” Jed swore under his breath, having been counting on the rifle in their defenses. “How sick? I need every crack shot I can get, and your brother’s near best in the village.” The Sheriff asked Edwinna, the tall girl’s long blonde hair blowing in the breeze, and her clear blue eyes met his with a habitually serious expression. “He’s bed-ridden, unfortunately… He’s got the scarlet fever.” Jed shook his head sadly and held out the shining badge he had been waiting to pin to Edmain’s chest. He tossed it underhand over the heads of the crowd, and Edwinna reached up and caught it with easy grace, nodding in respectful understanding. “Soon as he’s better…” Jed began, but the girl cut him off. “We couldn’t keep him in bed, I assure you, especially once he sees this.” The badge shone in her hand for a moment more, and she slipped it into her pocket before returning to comforting her grieving mother.
Jed nodded slowly, moving on. “Before I put badges on the volunteers, I just want to remind all the healers we got among us that their services will likely be called on before this is done. Y’all best be ready and keep your medicines close at hand. If you’re wanting for any supplies, see me directly and I’ll provide an armed escort for you to go and pick what herbs as you require. I’ll take this opportunity to remind all of y’all that nobody is to be out in the woods alone, under any circumstances. Go in pairs if you need to go – armed pairs, mind you – and be careful besides! Any questions?” Jed glanced briefly about the crowd. “Good. Now then, all who want to volunteer to be deputies, step forward now!” They did, and the Sheriff performed a quick headcount. Plus or minus a few whose efficacy Jed questioned, he figured he had about six and ten watchmen, not counting the draftees he had requested by name. Jed nodded in satisfaction, reckoning that would be more than enough to keep a good watch on the village.
Without preamble, Jed tossed the cloth sack he was holding to the volunteer furthest to the right, one Parker Bringham. The young scholar was one of those who Jed was concerned about, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to be turning down help and he said nothing. “Go ‘head and take yourself each a badge out of that sack. I reckon there should be just enough.” He waited a until they had each fished one of the brass shields out and pinned them on. “Everybody got one? Good. Alright, now y’all repeat after me.” Jed took a deep breath, pausing to make sure they were ready. “By my house and my honor, I do swear to uphold the law and guard my people against all threats within and without. I will not shirk in this duty, until such time as my aid is no longer required. I will not sleep while my people are endangered, and I will not rest until those who prey upon them are brought to justice. By all the Lords Above and by my father’s name I do so swear. May I be struck dead by the gods if I swear falsely or if I break this covenant.”
He spoke haltingly, waiting in turn for each man to repeat his words. Finally they had all sworn their oath of law, and the Sheriff looked over this rabble in satisfaction. “Y’all should do as a militia right enough, I reckon. If all goes to plan, none of y’all will ever be in any danger, but you better be ready for trouble all the same. Ignoring the rest of the crowd, who were by and large chatting among themselves in any case, Jed hopped down from the stage and motioned all his new deputies up to the wooden crate the Sheriff had brought with him from his house. “Everyone come and get you a bell. I already went over the signal for danger, four bells, but there’s a couple more special signals I want to tell y’all. Two bells in quick succession means possible trouble sighted but you ain’t quite sure and you want backup.” He demonstrated the signal quietly with one of the brass bells. “Two bells slow means everything’s fine. You can use that as a general alls-well or to cancel a previous call for backup.” He demonstrated, rocking the clapper of the bell slowly back and then forth.
“Another thing.” Jed added to the crowd of deputies amid their practice-chimes with the heavy bells. They all quieted their bells, looking to the Sheriff. “Five bells means the train is here, y’all probably know that already. One bell don’t really mean nothin’, so don’t sound one bell…” He continued on to detail a few other signals and tips for ringing the bells loudly and clearly, until he was interrupted by a tentative “Sheriff?” He looked over at the short lad. “Yes, Deputy Bringham?” He said patiently. “What’s three bells mean?” The studious lad inquired, pushing his eyeglasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Three bells, everyone knows that…” Jed began, hearing the high-pitched chime of the lunch bells in the distance. “Three bells means food’s ready.” Their murmuring coming to a halt, all the crowd raised hands to their ears to listen, hearing the chime of the lunch bells. Now the feast was ready – and none too soon in the opinion of the hungry villagers. Leaving the equipment crate – and in some cases, their bells – behind, the deputies as one turned to make their way to the feast pavilion whence the bells were sounding.
“Deputies Fisher and Owens!” Jed barked with a tone of absolute authority. The young men cringed, turning guiltily back to the Sheriff, who regarded them acidly from under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. “A man of the law is never without his tools of office.” Jed told them, holding one of the abandoned bells in each hand. He tossed them underhand to their respective owners, shaking his head. “Y’all just volunteered to hold the watch during the feast. You can eat when the rest of us are done.” They looked profoundly crestfallen, and Jed patted their shoulders, ushering them along toward the pavilion as their stomachs growled audibly. “The lawman’s work is never done.” He told them in consolation, leading them to their watchpost on the roof of the baker’s shop, where each could look over one side of the high roof and see a goodly portion of the surrounding village.
“Stay vigilant, men.” Jed said seriously. “You might be all that stands between this town and destruction.” The deputies gulped, no doubt less eager than they had been a short time before, and their stomachs growled as Jed lowered himself onto the ladder to climb down from the roof. “Besides,” the Sheriff continued, calling up to them as he climbed down. “How do you expect to look a Borean in the eye if’n you can’t hold off against hunger for a while?” He said it in the tone of a jest, but Jed was all too serious. The two deputies said nothing, and the Sheriff shook his head as he reached the ground and strolled off to join the feast, sure that he was hungrier than Owens and Fisher combined.
Mitch Owens turned to his companion once the Sheriff was out of earshot. “Ford… What in the heck’s a Borean?” He murmured, confused and disquieted. Fordham Fisher shrugged, having no idea and too distracted by his growling stomach. “Some kinda heathen devil that serves you know who, I reckon. The great blasphemer.” Ford speculated with wide and wary eyes. Deputy Owens scoffed. “Now how would you know anyhow? Like as not you heard that from one of them muckrakers that are always spreadin’ rumors. I heard them talkin’ after the sermon; bunch of nonsense! You heard Father Gawain, it ain’t devils that we gotta be worried about, its men. Ain’t no such things as monsters.” Fisher nodded, mindful of his own superstition. “I reckon you’re right, Mitch. The Sheriff was probably just makin’ some kind of joke. He’s a funny one in his way, too much of the book learnin’ in him I say. He’s always up there talkin’ to that witch lady.”
“Witch lady?” Said Deputy Owens skeptically, taking a tobacco pipe out of his pocket along with a small bag of leaf. “What’s-her-name, Tomasic. Everybody know’s she’s a witch,” said Ford Fisher, clarifying. Owens packed up the small corncob pipe and struck a match, puffing the tobacco into light. He blew out a ring of smoke with a sigh, handing the pipe congenially to his partner. “Bunch of nonsense. Just who is ‘everybody’, I wonder?” He demanded. Fisher shrugged, puffing on the pipe. He blew out a long stream of smoke, returning the pipe. “I just heard is all. They say she puts spells on you and…” He paused, considering his words. “And whatnot.” He finished lamely. Deputy Owens again looked skeptical, puffing lightly on the pipe and scanning the surrounding town as per their duty. “Ain’t no such thing as witches. My pappy says so.” Owens said definitively.
Deputy Fisher did not seem convinced, though he took the pipe back from his partner nonetheless, drawing gratefully from the glowing ember within. “Your pappy also says a dragon stole three of his hogs. I reckon he’s had one too many a pipe-full.” Ford said, exhaling the coiling smoke as he mocked Owens. The latter took immediate offense, snatching his pipe back. “What do you know anyway? Maybe one did. There’s three hogs missin’ in the last month, and we found another one all tore up like he been clawed or bit by somethin’. How do you explain that?” Owens spat, puffing his pipe in consternation. Deputy Fisher shrugged, seeming to ponder this seriously as he scanned the horizon for anything amiss. Suddenly he spoke in a conspiratorial murmur, turning to his partner. “You know what it could be…” He speculated, looking seriously at Owens. The other deputy looked at him gravely, prompting him to go on.
“Well, its nothing really, just a rumor. I know how you feel about rumors.” He looked warily from side to side, glancing back at Owens, who looked interested. “Dang it, are you gonna tell me or not? What stole my hogs?” He demanded. Fisher held out his hand for the pipe, taking it and puffing on it slowly. The tension built as he drew of the tobacco and slowly exhaled a perfect smoke ring before handing the pipe back as he finally spoke. “There’s this new rumor.. There’s these beasts, they says, that go abroad in the woods, mostly at night because they can see in the dark and their thick hide protects ‘em from the cold anyhow.” Owens looked skeptical but said nothing, and Fisher continued. “They got long, sharp claws and teeth that are even nastier. They’ll bite your throat out soon as look at you, to believe the gossip.” Owens raised an eyebrow, beginning to give some credence to Fisher’s story.
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‘Honor the lawman, that selfless soul who shields his people from all foes.
But armed though he is with iron and righteous thunder, he is only one man.
When his need is great, those of able body and dutiful mind must answer his call of justice,
And stand in arms alongside him to cast down the wicked.’
- Gareth Falmer, former Rector of Dormis
All Dormis was gathered in the streets before the now-empty chapel, chatting and gossiping among themselves and dressed in their Sunday best. The warm sun was almost directly overhead, and the after-service Sunday feast would soon begin, to the delight of all the hungry and complaining children. The impatient peoples milled about the street, all the village but for those who had gone to prepare the food and drink. Sweating from the exertion of his climb, Jed strolled with purpose down the dirt path that was the village’s main byway, wiping his forehead on the red kerchief he habitually wore about his neck. Huber Hawthorne trailed along behind the Sheriff dutifully, bearing a large wooden box that the two had picked up on the way back down through the outskirts of the village.
The people noticed them as they approached the town square before the chapel, and some of the crowd waved their greetings to the pair. Nodding in reply, Jed passed the chatting crowd, marching up to the crier’s stage: a simple wooden platform for the use of what few town officials the small village had, if they had a need to make public announcements. The Sheriff was one such official, and he took his rightful place on the raised dais, affording him a view of every man and woman of the milling crowd. There was Urma Larkin, surrounded by the few of her sixteen children who were grown. Jed presumed the eight young sons and three young daughters were off somewhere among the crowd playing, being shepherded by the two middle sons, Offram and Abel, who had the misfortune of being too old for playtime while not yet being old enough for adult business. Consequently, the rather serious adolescents were relegated to permanent role of babysitter for their unruly siblings.
Jed smiled, seeing that his guess was right as a veritable swarm of toe-headed children ran by, trailed after by their weary brothers. He knew the family well enough to put a name to most of the faces as they ran by. They were but a few of the familiar faces of the crowd, every one of which Jed knew at least in passing. There by his shop was Bernace Shaffer, the barber, talking congenially with his neighbor Tim Cook, who ran the adjacent butcher shop. Nearby Myron Bishop the saloon owner was chatting with Tim’s grown daughter Mary-Sue, though whether the old lecher was merely offering the girl a job as a waitress or had something more salacious in mind, Jed could not tell from that distance. A few faces the Sheriff looked for were not present among the crowd, but he presumed the folks they belonged to were off helping to prepare the feast. Like everyone else, Jed was looking forward to the generous meal, having had a pair of exhausting treks through the wilderness within the last day. He heard Huber Hawthorne’s stomach growl audibly over the din of the crowd, and he didn’t blame it. You didn’t need the farmer’s famous appetite to be ravenous after the kind of hikes they had been on in the last day or so.
A bright glint of light in the crowd caught in Jed’s sight, and he shielded his eyes from the sun to see what it was. There was Martha Covington, the young schoolteacher, and something green glinted brightly in the sunlight at her neck, hanging from a fine chain. Jed didn’t know what it was, but he found himself suddenly eye-to-eye with the – he had to admit – fetching lady, and she smiled as she looked up from the unruly children she was trying with some success to calm. Jed tipped his hat to her in silent greeting across the crowd, and he quickly turned to look at the expectant Huber Hawthorne standing before the small wooden platform of the stage. He nodded, and the farmer turned to face the crowd, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Y’all gather ’round, the Sheriff’s about to speak!” The farmer yelled as loud as he could contrive, and it seemed to have the desired effect. The milling people began slowly to gather around the immediate area of the stage, and the chattering died down to a low murmur of interest as their attention turned to Jed standing tall upon the raised dais. He didn’t hold up his hands for silence, for he had not the practiced showmanship of the priest. Jed merely waited, silent, upon the platform until the people were for the most part still and quiet, and then he began to speak, quietly at first but raising in volume. “Thank you kindly, Huber. Ya’ll listen up, now!” If any had been still murmuring among themselves, he now had their full attention as his voice became that of authority.
The Sheriff continued, his deep voice carrying to the back of the crowd with some effort. “I don’t need to tell y’all about the dangers we’re facing, since Falmer already spoke about it, at some length I’m sure. He already went over the curfew, and I won’t mention it except to say that it has the full backing of the law, and that anyone damn fool enough to be out on their own in the dark should be glad if I find them and throw ‘em in jail for the night. The curfew is for your own good, folks. If anyone doubts what they were told in the sermon this morning, you listen here! Me and Huber Hawthorne have seen that horror with our own eyes, and we’ve got the scars to show for it.” Jed lifted his head to let the sun fall below the wide brim of his hat and show the black lines of frostbite scars across his face. There were a few gasps from the audience, and the Sheriff was met with stunned silence as he scanned the crowd, seeing looks of disbelief turn to amazement.
Jed continued. “That ain’t a story y’all need to hear, but I’ll just say bullets will solve this problem just fine.” His hand brushed over the wooden grip of the revolver at his side, the smooth metal frame of which shone in the bright sun. “That’s all I’ve got to say about that. Now we gotta talk about our defenses.” He was met by looks of confusion from the crowd, and he continued without breaking stride. “A curfew alone ain’t enough to ensure our safety. I am hereby instituting a town watch, to be carried out in shifts by armed watchmen who will each be issued a brass bell such as this one.” He snapped his fingers and Huber threw him up a bell from the wooden crate the farmer had carried. Jed rang the bell sharply four times, and the sound carried through the streets of the village. “Four bells means we’re under attack, everyone got it? If’n you hear four bells, take up arms and get to safety.” There was a chorus of acknowledgements from the crowd. “Good.” Jed said with finality.
Glancing about the crowd, Jed went on. “I got me a few names of folks whose help I am formally requestin’. After that I’ll take any able-bodied volunteers who are fixin’ to help out.” Already he could see a few men jostling to the front to sign up, and that pleased the Sheriff. Ignoring them for now, he adjusted his hat and called out the first of his names. “Huber Hawthorne!” The farmer stepped up onto the platform with Jed, handing the Sheriff a small cloth sack from the box they had brought. Jed fished in the bag and pulled out something yellow that shined in the sun. “Huber Hawthorne.” He repeated. “Do you swear to uphold justice and defend your people so long as they be in danger?” He asked Huber seriously, holding his hand out with the shiny item cupped loosely so that it shone in the bright light. The Sheriff looked the farmer dead in the eye. Huber seemed to hesitate a moment but he did not back down from Jed’s gaze and nodded his assent. “I do so swear.” He said, loudly enough for the crowd to hear him.
“Then by the power vested in me as Sheriff of these lands, I hereby proclaim you a deputy of the law, with all the duties that entails. So long as you serve fairly and justly, you shall be backed by my full authority as Sheriff in all that you do.” Jed reached out and pinned a brass shield onto the farmer’s coveralls, identical to the one that was fastened to his own lapel. “Let this shield be your badge of office and so be armed as a giver of law, Senior Deputy Hawthorne. You will stand in defense of this town, armed and armored as best we can contrive, for still it is my duty to defend those who stand alongside me. If, by tragic happenstance, you do fall in my service, you will be buried in a place of honor and forever remembered as a hero of Dormis.” He clapped the farmer on the shoulder as he finished, grimly reminding all of the danger they faced. Jed turned back toward the crowd as Huber hopped down from the stage.
“John Richard Coleman!” The Sheriff called suddenly, and one of the young men jostling for the front of the crowd stepped forward and climbed purposefully up to the crier’s stage where Jed stood. “I’m proud to serve my people, Sheriff. Call me J.R.” Coleman was only a few years younger than Jed, though the Sheriff’s serious demeanor tended to make folks think he was older than he was – in truth, he had only just seen his twenty-sixth winter. J.R. was around the same height as Huber Hawthorne – significantly shorter than Jed’s tall frame – and he shared the farmer’s wide shoulders and strong back, though his wiry hair was black like coal smoke where Huber’s was a lighter brown. He made a living as a miner, as it happened. Dormis was not possessed of much in the way of mineral resources, but there was enough coal and other such sundries to be found that with some shrewd prospecting and a bit of bartering, one could easily enough make a living off it. J.R.’s father Jonathan had made a living of it, if an austere one, though by the time the old miner had retired, he’d had little enough to pass on to his only son but the age-worn iron pickaxe and shovel that J.R. still used. This suited the pragmatic young man well enough.
“J.R. Coleman.” Jed said deferentially. “Do you swear to defend the peace and uphold justice wherever you go? To put the good of the common people before your own? To act with decency and honor, so long as you wear this badge of office?” Jed held up another of the shining badges so that the crowd could see it. He turned to the kneeling J.R., who had his head bowed respectfully. “I do so swear, Sheriff. May I suffer twenty lashes on the back if I fail you.” Jed snorted at this but said nothing, nodding and motioning for him to stand. He pinned the gleaming badge to the young man’s shirt. “I hope everybody’s as eager as you, when they gotta stand watch in the rain at midnight.” The Sheriff said half in jest. “You got first watch, Senior Deputy Coleman. Be ready tonight.”
The eager young man nodded and thanked the Sheriff, stepping down off the stage. Jed looked about the crowd, catching the eyes of a few people he knew. He caught a glimpse of Martha Covington chasing quietly after one of her stray schoolchildren, trying to keep the hungry kids reined in. Clearing his throat, Jed called his next name. “Edmain Larkin.” He announced. No one shuffled to the front of the crowd and all were silent. “Edmain Larkin!” Jed repeated, louder. Still there was no response, and Jed swept his gaze back and forth over the crowd until he found the Larkin clan, all gathered together at last. Edmain was the oldest of the children second only to the eldest daughter Edwinna. Notably, as far as Jed was concerned, he was also the keeper of his late father’s prized hunting rifle, and a crack shot with it to boot. Jed hoped it wouldn’t be necessary for the boy – so he thought of the younger man, but in truth Edmain was eighteen and therefore an adult – to squeeze off any of the expensive big game rounds in defense of the village, but just now he didn’t see the blonde-haired young man standing near his mother Urma as he had expected to find him.
The matron’s head was bowed and she was choking back tears, comforted by her tall daughter Edwinna beside her. The girl met Jed’s gaze and called back to him in a soft voice of forced calm. “He’s sick, Sheriff. We do apologize.” Jed swore under his breath, having been counting on the rifle in their defenses. “How sick? I need every crack shot I can get, and your brother’s near best in the village.” The Sheriff asked Edwinna, the tall girl’s long blonde hair blowing in the breeze, and her clear blue eyes met his with a habitually serious expression. “He’s bed-ridden, unfortunately… He’s got the scarlet fever.” Jed shook his head sadly and held out the shining badge he had been waiting to pin to Edmain’s chest. He tossed it underhand over the heads of the crowd, and Edwinna reached up and caught it with easy grace, nodding in respectful understanding. “Soon as he’s better…” Jed began, but the girl cut him off. “We couldn’t keep him in bed, I assure you, especially once he sees this.” The badge shone in her hand for a moment more, and she slipped it into her pocket before returning to comforting her grieving mother.
Jed nodded slowly, moving on. “Before I put badges on the volunteers, I just want to remind all the healers we got among us that their services will likely be called on before this is done. Y’all best be ready and keep your medicines close at hand. If you’re wanting for any supplies, see me directly and I’ll provide an armed escort for you to go and pick what herbs as you require. I’ll take this opportunity to remind all of y’all that nobody is to be out in the woods alone, under any circumstances. Go in pairs if you need to go – armed pairs, mind you – and be careful besides! Any questions?” Jed glanced briefly about the crowd. “Good. Now then, all who want to volunteer to be deputies, step forward now!” They did, and the Sheriff performed a quick headcount. Plus or minus a few whose efficacy Jed questioned, he figured he had about six and ten watchmen, not counting the draftees he had requested by name. Jed nodded in satisfaction, reckoning that would be more than enough to keep a good watch on the village.
Without preamble, Jed tossed the cloth sack he was holding to the volunteer furthest to the right, one Parker Bringham. The young scholar was one of those who Jed was concerned about, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to be turning down help and he said nothing. “Go ‘head and take yourself each a badge out of that sack. I reckon there should be just enough.” He waited a until they had each fished one of the brass shields out and pinned them on. “Everybody got one? Good. Alright, now y’all repeat after me.” Jed took a deep breath, pausing to make sure they were ready. “By my house and my honor, I do swear to uphold the law and guard my people against all threats within and without. I will not shirk in this duty, until such time as my aid is no longer required. I will not sleep while my people are endangered, and I will not rest until those who prey upon them are brought to justice. By all the Lords Above and by my father’s name I do so swear. May I be struck dead by the gods if I swear falsely or if I break this covenant.”
He spoke haltingly, waiting in turn for each man to repeat his words. Finally they had all sworn their oath of law, and the Sheriff looked over this rabble in satisfaction. “Y’all should do as a militia right enough, I reckon. If all goes to plan, none of y’all will ever be in any danger, but you better be ready for trouble all the same. Ignoring the rest of the crowd, who were by and large chatting among themselves in any case, Jed hopped down from the stage and motioned all his new deputies up to the wooden crate the Sheriff had brought with him from his house. “Everyone come and get you a bell. I already went over the signal for danger, four bells, but there’s a couple more special signals I want to tell y’all. Two bells in quick succession means possible trouble sighted but you ain’t quite sure and you want backup.” He demonstrated the signal quietly with one of the brass bells. “Two bells slow means everything’s fine. You can use that as a general alls-well or to cancel a previous call for backup.” He demonstrated, rocking the clapper of the bell slowly back and then forth.
“Another thing.” Jed added to the crowd of deputies amid their practice-chimes with the heavy bells. They all quieted their bells, looking to the Sheriff. “Five bells means the train is here, y’all probably know that already. One bell don’t really mean nothin’, so don’t sound one bell…” He continued on to detail a few other signals and tips for ringing the bells loudly and clearly, until he was interrupted by a tentative “Sheriff?” He looked over at the short lad. “Yes, Deputy Bringham?” He said patiently. “What’s three bells mean?” The studious lad inquired, pushing his eyeglasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Three bells, everyone knows that…” Jed began, hearing the high-pitched chime of the lunch bells in the distance. “Three bells means food’s ready.” Their murmuring coming to a halt, all the crowd raised hands to their ears to listen, hearing the chime of the lunch bells. Now the feast was ready – and none too soon in the opinion of the hungry villagers. Leaving the equipment crate – and in some cases, their bells – behind, the deputies as one turned to make their way to the feast pavilion whence the bells were sounding.
“Deputies Fisher and Owens!” Jed barked with a tone of absolute authority. The young men cringed, turning guiltily back to the Sheriff, who regarded them acidly from under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. “A man of the law is never without his tools of office.” Jed told them, holding one of the abandoned bells in each hand. He tossed them underhand to their respective owners, shaking his head. “Y’all just volunteered to hold the watch during the feast. You can eat when the rest of us are done.” They looked profoundly crestfallen, and Jed patted their shoulders, ushering them along toward the pavilion as their stomachs growled audibly. “The lawman’s work is never done.” He told them in consolation, leading them to their watchpost on the roof of the baker’s shop, where each could look over one side of the high roof and see a goodly portion of the surrounding village.
“Stay vigilant, men.” Jed said seriously. “You might be all that stands between this town and destruction.” The deputies gulped, no doubt less eager than they had been a short time before, and their stomachs growled as Jed lowered himself onto the ladder to climb down from the roof. “Besides,” the Sheriff continued, calling up to them as he climbed down. “How do you expect to look a Borean in the eye if’n you can’t hold off against hunger for a while?” He said it in the tone of a jest, but Jed was all too serious. The two deputies said nothing, and the Sheriff shook his head as he reached the ground and strolled off to join the feast, sure that he was hungrier than Owens and Fisher combined.
Mitch Owens turned to his companion once the Sheriff was out of earshot. “Ford… What in the heck’s a Borean?” He murmured, confused and disquieted. Fordham Fisher shrugged, having no idea and too distracted by his growling stomach. “Some kinda heathen devil that serves you know who, I reckon. The great blasphemer.” Ford speculated with wide and wary eyes. Deputy Owens scoffed. “Now how would you know anyhow? Like as not you heard that from one of them muckrakers that are always spreadin’ rumors. I heard them talkin’ after the sermon; bunch of nonsense! You heard Father Gawain, it ain’t devils that we gotta be worried about, its men. Ain’t no such things as monsters.” Fisher nodded, mindful of his own superstition. “I reckon you’re right, Mitch. The Sheriff was probably just makin’ some kind of joke. He’s a funny one in his way, too much of the book learnin’ in him I say. He’s always up there talkin’ to that witch lady.”
“Witch lady?” Said Deputy Owens skeptically, taking a tobacco pipe out of his pocket along with a small bag of leaf. “What’s-her-name, Tomasic. Everybody know’s she’s a witch,” said Ford Fisher, clarifying. Owens packed up the small corncob pipe and struck a match, puffing the tobacco into light. He blew out a ring of smoke with a sigh, handing the pipe congenially to his partner. “Bunch of nonsense. Just who is ‘everybody’, I wonder?” He demanded. Fisher shrugged, puffing on the pipe. He blew out a long stream of smoke, returning the pipe. “I just heard is all. They say she puts spells on you and…” He paused, considering his words. “And whatnot.” He finished lamely. Deputy Owens again looked skeptical, puffing lightly on the pipe and scanning the surrounding town as per their duty. “Ain’t no such thing as witches. My pappy says so.” Owens said definitively.
Deputy Fisher did not seem convinced, though he took the pipe back from his partner nonetheless, drawing gratefully from the glowing ember within. “Your pappy also says a dragon stole three of his hogs. I reckon he’s had one too many a pipe-full.” Ford said, exhaling the coiling smoke as he mocked Owens. The latter took immediate offense, snatching his pipe back. “What do you know anyway? Maybe one did. There’s three hogs missin’ in the last month, and we found another one all tore up like he been clawed or bit by somethin’. How do you explain that?” Owens spat, puffing his pipe in consternation. Deputy Fisher shrugged, seeming to ponder this seriously as he scanned the horizon for anything amiss. Suddenly he spoke in a conspiratorial murmur, turning to his partner. “You know what it could be…” He speculated, looking seriously at Owens. The other deputy looked at him gravely, prompting him to go on.
“Well, its nothing really, just a rumor. I know how you feel about rumors.” He looked warily from side to side, glancing back at Owens, who looked interested. “Dang it, are you gonna tell me or not? What stole my hogs?” He demanded. Fisher held out his hand for the pipe, taking it and puffing on it slowly. The tension built as he drew of the tobacco and slowly exhaled a perfect smoke ring before handing the pipe back as he finally spoke. “There’s this new rumor.. There’s these beasts, they says, that go abroad in the woods, mostly at night because they can see in the dark and their thick hide protects ‘em from the cold anyhow.” Owens looked skeptical but said nothing, and Fisher continued. “They got long, sharp claws and teeth that are even nastier. They’ll bite your throat out soon as look at you, to believe the gossip.” Owens raised an eyebrow, beginning to give some credence to Fisher’s story.
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