Chapter VI
‘On the first day, let all feast and make merry.
But before nourishing the body,
Let there be a more generous banquet for the soul,’
- ‘The Prism of Heaven’, Chapter 6: Verse 22
It was by all accounts a fine Sunday meal, though perhaps ‘feast’ was too strong a word when compared to the overgenerous banquets of the prosperous east. This was the only regular occasion of merriment to be had in those lean times, in the far west. Things were improving now that spring had come, but it had been a terrible winter indeed. Even now they were still recovering from the bitter season; a toast was made to honor the departed souls of Arthur and Delilah Heathrow, so cruelly taken by the chill of deep winter. In the closing days of the year, the assailing winds had finally swept over the barrier of the eastern hills and came howling down into the sunken valley which housed Dormis. The Winter of 338, as it inevitably became known in the lore of the village, was almost the worst in living memory, second only to the terrible Winter of 308, which had taken four lives.
Jed had not been around to see it, but Marcus had once assured him that it ‘hadn’t been as bad as all that,’ Presently, the passing chill of the winter was the furthest thing from Jed’s mind as he was handed a plate laden with as fine an assortment of victuals as ever the village had on offer. Jed took it with relish and a grateful ‘Ma’am,’ from the offering hands of Helena Cooper, the daughter of a well-to-do merchant who had retired to Dormis out of desire for peace and quiet. The woman, now in early middle age, evidently still harbored memories of her youth spent exalting herself high among the social circles of her home city of San Marcone, far away to the southeast. Trapped in this isolated locale, she had therefore made it her business to be at what she supposed was the top of the local social ladder – she was among the most active devotees of the church, to such an extent that the priest often remitted more mundane tasks to her purview – clerical matters, the priest would say with a congenial chuckle at his own wordplay.
Chiefly Helena Cooper organized social events such as the current feast, leaving the hired servants to care for her elderly father in the capacious Cooper homestead, and leaving Gawain Falmer more time to minister his holy craft to the pious people of Dormis. Jed had not seen the priest since the frantic planning of the night before, but he did notice aged Cornelius Cooper at the less crowded side table flanked by his ever-present valet. The retiree’s dedicated steward was a rather likeable, if bookish, fellow – in many ways much like the old man he waited on – who had come with the Coopers from San Marcone, and whose name Jed had never had the occasion of learning. The retired merchant was chatting amiably with red-haired Ben the baker, who as always was not shy about indulging in his own handiwork. The baker’s plate was stacked high with, among other things, a sort of golden brown crescent which appeared to be filled with jam, and which Jed confirmed with a quick glance were gratifyingly present on his own plate. The stout baker was universally agreed to be a master of his craft, and on this matter the sheriff had no disagreement.
Jed took his usual seat away from the eagerly chatting masses of the villagers, where he could keep an eye on things and slip away unnoticed when he felt need to return to his duties. Chiefly the townsfolk were seated at the long wooden tables which had been hewn expressly for the purpose of the weekly feast. The sheriff set his tray at the sparsely populated end of the side table, some few seats away from Cornelius Cooper and the baker seated across from him. “sheriff,” Ben said with a nod which Jed returned. “Jed,” commented the retired merchant, who Jed had seldom had dealings with. “Cornelius,” Jed said deferentially, for the old man seemed alright to him, if a bit urbane. “Sir,” nodded Cooper’s valet beside him, not wishing to seem rude. Jed thought to nod in response, but he decided to be more friendly and stuck out his hand, leaning across the table.
“Don’t think I ever caught your name before,” The sheriff said, shaking the steward’s hand. “Jed Marcusson,” He added, by way of introduction. “I’m the sheriff ‘round these parts, if’n you ain’t figured that out yet,” The valet gave him an affable smile. “I do apologize for any apparent unfriendliness on my part. My name is Alford Weathering, formerly of San Marcone. I manage Mr. Cooper’s personal affairs, as I’m sure you know, and occasionally travel to represent what remains of his business interests,” The steward glanced at his uncaring employer, who was fixated with relish upon the fine fare before him. “Of course, a man of action such as yourself wouldn’t want to hear about such mundanities,” He added sheepishly.
The old man amiably elbowed Alford in the ribs, only half paying attention to the exchange. “Oh, lighten up, will you Al? You act as though we’re still dining with the upper crust at the Golden Finch. Jed’s a good old fellow, ain’t you sheriff?” The old man laughed and Jed chuckled in return, noting the amusement the merchant seemed to take in interjecting a sprinkling of rural colloquialisms into his otherwise sophisticated mode of speech. He was appreciative of the old man’s levity; this was, after all, meant to be a time of rejoicing, and the valet did seem so terribly serious. “It’s good to know you, Mr. Weathering,” The sheriff commented lightly. “And sheriffin’ isn’t so exciting as all that. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but its mostly a lot of walkin’ around. Ain’t been but two or three times as I’ve ever needed to pull my gun out, other than for target shootin’,”
This grabbed the valet’s interest, though the man seemed to stop himself from leaning over the table to look. “Would it be terribly unseemly of me to ask if I could have a look at it? Your weapon, that is,” He questioned. Jed looked up at him with a mouthful of jam – the crescents were just as good as he had imagined – and chewed out a reply, covering his mouth with a hand. “Might be as I could. You had some kind of dealings with guns before? Wouldn’t figure you for the shootin’ type, no offense meant,” The steward nodded with a polite smile, keenly aware of this fact. Demure in his black suit, he was of a plain and unassuming appearance with his combed black hair and spectacles. “None taken, sir. Might be as – you might say that, rather – its an academic interest. I took a natural philosophy course on the art of gunsmithing one semester in my university days and it has remained a side hobby of mine to study firearms. Fascinating devices, wouldn’t you agree?” Jed considered this, sipping at his cup to wash down his food.
“Can’t say as I’ve ever thought of it that way,” The sheriff admitted. “Always seemed to me the same as a steam train or a windmill – it just works. But then, I’m no natural philosopher. Studying to be an alchemist, were you? Sounds like a mighty fine job, being in the natural sciences,” Jed commented while he cut into the side of roast beef that the thoughtful hostess had provided him with. Weathering shook his head, examining the jam crescents that he had saved for last among the meager servings to which he had helped himself. “Oh, no. Far from it. I was studying to be a train engineer, since you mention it, not a proper natural philosopher like an alchemist. I merely took the course as my elective study to meet certain requirements of the university,” The valet interrupted himself to sample the jam crescent. “Oh my,” He commented with relish. “These are delightful,” Jed nodded in agreement. “That they are. Good job, Ben. As always,” The sheriff told the Baker, who was rather busy eating and merely inclined his head gratefully in response.
“Although actually, Mr. Marcusson – may I call you Jed? – that’s a common misconception; alchemists only make bullets, not the guns themselves. That falls under the purview of the gunsmith,” Jed was genuinely interested, and he looked up from his meal. “That a fact? It’s news to me, I always figured alchemist, gunsmith, same thing really. And sure, you can call me Jed if’n I can call you Al,” The sheriff commented offhand. The steward nodded and went on, seemingly grateful to have an outlet of conversation for his hobby. “The trade of gunsmithing is considered to be more of an art than a natural philosophy such as Alchemy, and the course I took covered only the most basic aspects of it. Most gunsmiths study as an apprentice under a master, rather than by formal education at a university such as, by way of contrast, one might attend for the study of alchemy. That requires more than a few years of formal schooling,” Jed nodded interestedly throughout this explanation. “Y’don’t say. That’s just about how you become a sheriff,” He commented, savoring a few bites of the roast beef before going on. “Anyways, if you’re interested in seeing my service weapon, I’ll do you one better and you can join me and the boys for shootin’ practice. I’m aimin’ to do it tomorrow when I show the deputies a thing or two to help ‘em in their new duties,”
Alford agreed eagerly, looking to his employer for confirmation, but Cornelius Cooper was looking elsewhere. The old man turned to the valet, grabbing his sleeve and gesturing across the main table with his eyes and his head. The valet followed the old man’s gaze, leaning forward slightly to look at whatever had been so important. Jed couldn’t see what the retired merchant was indicating in his unsubtle manner, but the sheriff saw Weathering’s brow crease in discomfiture as the valet flustered and sat upright again. The steward said something that Jed did not catch over the din of the feast, but which made Cornelius begin to laugh vigorously with the uncaring mirth of age.
Alford shook his head, dabbing his forehead with a damp handkerchief. Pretending not to notice, Jed stood up to refresh his drink with a ‘Pardon me’, discreetly passing through the old man’s line of sight to see what all the fuss was about. Melissa Owens, wed last spring, had just stood up from a position leaned over the large banquet table, where she had been distributing to plates the fresh pastries that had just come from the ovens. Having seen in passing the rather generous bust that the young woman displayed even while upright, Jed had a reasonable guess as to what Cooper had been so unsurreptitiously indicating to Cooper’s rather amusing embarrassment. Despite himself, he smirked at the old lecher, whose raucous laughter the sheriff could still hear as he reached for the steaming teapot on the serving table to fix himself a mug. His hand crossed another over the handle of the pot, and he looked up to see the apothecary stood on the opposite side of the table, wrapped in her green linen shawl despite the growing warmth.
“Pardon, ma’am, I didn’t see you there,” Jed said deferentially, retracting his hand. The apothecary waved it off, lifting the kettle to pour a measure of steaming water into the mug the sheriff had in hand. He placed the cup gratefully on the table to allow her to pour, and then added a measure of tea leaves to steep while Tomasic began to speak, pouring her own cup. “You and Huber didn’t see anything of note upon your excursion this morning, I take it? I was expecting to see you again before the feast. I caught only the tale end of your little ceremony there in the square,” She gave him a wry grin, not often seen on her wrinkled features. “You’re a born leader, Jed. I don’t think you see how much those boys look up to you,” Her eyes twinkled in a way that Jed had seen before, when he was a boy in her occasional instruction and had finally worked out the correct answer to one of her esoteric questions. The sheriff shook his head dismissively, adding a touch of sugar to his tea and stirring it with a spoon, regarding the swirling liquid impassively.
He turned to look at the banquet table, where with a glance he saw a few of his volunteer deputies, digging into their food with a will. “I’m well aware of the way they look at me, all keen-eyed. They thinks a bit of brass on their chests makes ‘em lawmen, and they’re fixin’ to fight to defend their families. I know exactly how them boys feel, it ain’t easy for a strong young man to feel helpless to defend his pretty new wife,” He regarded Melissa Owens across the crowd, and the girl was gazing wistfully toward the baker’s shop. Briefly Jed regretted assigning her husband to take first guard duty. “And now they’ve signed up they reckon they’re gonna do something about the trouble everyone’s in a huff about,” The apothecary met Jed’s gaze as he turned to look at her. No one knew the trouble to which the sheriff referred better than the two of them, and Tomasic regarded him with patient wisdom as she breathed deep of the fragrant steam of her tea.
“That kind of thinking can get a man killed if he doesn’t know what he’s doin’,” Jed finished, and the apothecary sniffed in amusement. “And I suppose you’re more qualified to risk your life in our defense, are you Jed?” The sheriff regarded her seriously. “That I am. I know what I’m doin’,” Tomasic nodded deferentially. “Granted Marcus trained you well, Jed. But those boys – your deputies, lest you forget – are going to do all they can to protect their homes and their families. What they lack in training they make up for in courage, I assure you. You need only lead them wisely. They knew what they signed up for when they repeated your oath,” Her tone was one of consolation, and Jed could see the wisdom of her words but still he was troubled. “Did they? I’m not so sure. This could get bad, Maria. You know that as well as I do, or so I hope. What are they gonna do when they see a full-grown Borean in front of ‘em with claws like knives and murder in its cold eyes? Hearin’ about it is one thing, but..,” The sheriff worriedly trailed off, gazing into the darkening depths of his mug. He looked up and noticed that the apothecary seemed to have a look of hesitation on her face, as if she could not decide whether to speak up on a matter.
“…What?” He inquired gently. “Something the matter?” The apothecary said nothing for a time, sipping her cooling tea. She changed the subject, or so Jed thought. “I rather think you should talk to Gawain when you have a chance, Jed,” He nodded, testing his own drink. “Falmer? I aim to, soon as I can find him. Ain’t seen him since last night though. I reckon he’s been busy consoling folks and whatnot after breakin’ the news to everybody,” Tomasic still bore a pensive look, but was not obliged to say anything more on the subject. “Well, I’ll leave you to return to your meal. Good day, sheriff,” Taking her mug and a small plate of vittles, the aged healer strode off. “Ma’am,” Jed acknowledged, moving to return to his own table. He could see from where he stood that it was rather more full than when he had left it. As he made his way around the intermeaning table, his course was interrupted by the passage of a young man whose dark hair and lanky build Jed immediately recognized.
“Deputy Hawksly,” The sheriff said with a slight authorative emphasis as the wiry hunter brushed past him. The younger man took a moment to register the title but snapped to attention thereafter, straightening the brass shield whose shiny face stood in stark contrast to the motley greens and browns of his clothing – evidently Darek Hawksly did not own any particularly formal clothing aside from his dully camouflaged hunting tunic, as he was one of few not in some formal state of dress. “Yes sir, sheriff!” Hawksly said with enthusiasm. Jed eyed the empty plate the hunter had been carrying back to the serving table, he assumed for a second helping. “Enjoying the feast?” He asked over the din of forks and knives scraping plates. The younger man nodded vigorously with a grin. “Didja try the jam crescents, Jed – er, sheriff, sir? That ol’ Ben’s a genius, huh?”
Jed nodded in agreement, broaching the subject he had stopped Hawksly for. “Listen, you’ve already ate, right? I want you to find another deputy – I see Culler over there chattin’ up one of the serving girls – and go relieve Owens and Fisher on top of the bakery. They’re like to turn in their badges if they don’t at least catch the tail end of the feast. Take some food with you if you like,” With obvious reluctance Darek nodded and set his plate with the rest of the dirty dishes, heaping a few items from the serving table in his arms and striding off. “You can count on me, sheriff. Hey, Clyde, we got work need’s doin’!” Satisfied, Jed continued on his way, returning to his seat at the side table across from one of the new arrivals. It was Gawain Falmer, and the middle-aged priest in his white robes was engaged in pleasant small talk with Cornelius Cooper. Jed sat, placing his steaming mug carefully upon the table. “Father,” He greeted politely when a lull happened to appear in their smalltalk. “I trust your sermon went well? A shame I wasn’t able to attend,”
The priest nodded to him, the habitual look of calm wisdom upon his care-lined face. “sheriff, so good to see you,” He commented with a smile that seemed by all appearances genuine but that Jed had doubts about. “The sermon went well as can be expected with the dark tidings I was obliged to bear,” The priest’s mood took a turn for the maudlin. “I will rest the easier knowing that I provided whatever comfort I could to our harried flock. But we need not speak of such grim things during this time of merriment,” Jed nodded his tacit agreement, not caring to say otherwise under the public eye. The sheriff had expected to find an ill mood in the air after the pronouncement they had all agreed was necessary, and he had indeed sensed some tension amongst the villagers as he observed the celebration. Yet the people, for the most part, moved with a fixity of purpose about them that he had not expected, overcoming the despair of their besiegement with apparent ease. If that were so, Jed thought, he envied the villagers either their ignorance or their stalwart courage – or perhaps some mix of both.
If the villagers were, if not at peace then at least no more worried than they appeared to be, then the sheriff reckoned they all owed Falmer some debt of gratitude, for the priest’s apparent wisdom was surely seeing them through this storm with admirable efficacy. Jed, although thinking no particular ill of the priest, found this somewhat hard to stomach. He had seen his people nominally in the grip of panic a few times before, and the superstitious townsfolk had been high-strung throughout each supposed catastrophe.
During the previous winter, tempers had flared at the meeting of the town council, and emotions had run especially high following the discovery of the Heathrows’ frozen bodies in the wake of the bitterest cold yet seen in those days. There had been a bickering and a quarreling then that had begun feuds fated to last generations. Surely here was an equally terrible catastrophe, with potential for many more to lose their lives if Jed was any judge, and yet the people were what passed for merry in these grim times. Not that he was complaining, but what, then, had the priest told them to effect such a reaction? Stunned by the sudden thought, Jed began to wonder how much the priest had elected to tell the crowd after all. Had his showing the crowd the frostbite scars been the first folks had known of his journey to rescue Huber Hawthorne? Maybe it was more ignorance and less courage that explained the strangely even mood about the village.
That didn’t quite strike a chord with the sheriff, however. The feast was merry, by all accounts, but as he had observed the crowd, some instinct had gnawed away at Jed that did not align with this theory. He could not avoid the thought that each toast and each round of laughter from the merrymakers was an act, like folks putting on a play, and not the blissful merriment of the ignorant. To Jed’s keen eye, each villager bore a mask. Each smile was fake, each laugh forced. When all the food was gone and the feast was drawing to a close, the accompanying dancing seemed terribly unenthusiastic to the observing sheriff. He could not definitively put his finger on quite what was off in the manner of the townsfolk, but through long years of training, his father had impressed upon him to trust his instincts. This he struggled to do, however, and the sheriff began to consider if perhaps he was imagining things. He thought back to the night before, to the creeping sense of dread that he had carried with him through the forest. His mind drifted back to the accursed valley, with the sinking sun at his back slowly fading to reveal the abominable fluorescence of the blighted earth beneath his feet.
He had scarcely before experienced such self doubt as he now felt. Surely he had been victorious in the cursed valley, and had done as well as any could be expected to in the circumstances. But now he doubted his memories of the night before, the lambent glow of the ground chief in his misgivings. Had his mind been playing tricks on him, and was it now? The sheriff had felt strange since ever he had entered that lonely place in search of the wayward farmer. He wondered if Huber felt the same. Once the adrenaline of combat had faded, he had felt bleary and detached, as if he were merely watching as his body fled in mortal terror with the panicked farmer at his heels. The flight from Ricker’s homestead was a blur of fluorescent mist and dark forest, accompanied by the snapping of branches and the hideous bestial screeches that echoed through the night. The sheriff tore his mind forcibly from those disquieting memories, even the thought of which were renewing his anxiety. He founds the hairs on the back of his neck standing, and he began to feel slightly dizzy.
Jed slowly let out a breath that he realized he had been holding in. There was a stuffy air that had been slowly building beneath the wooden pavilion, or so he thought, but seeing suddenly that his cup was empty, he decided to put the feeling down to having imbibed the hot beverage too quickly. Adjusting the suddenly chafing collar of his long coat, Jed stood with a murmured “ ‘Scuse me,” and walked off to get some air among the adjacent gardens of the church. He breathed in a few deep breaths, and sat down on one of the stone benches scattered throughout the immaculate yard. It was unlike him to let such anxieties get the better of him, yet here he was unable to so much as consider the strange happenings of the night before. Still there had been no mention of the witch-light in Ricker’s accursed valley, even between he and Huber, who had no doubt seen it in their flight from the barn. Jed pondered this, wondering just how far the superstitions harbored by the villagers would carry – so far as to believe what would no doubt sound like an outlandish tale?
Harried as they were daily by whisperings of the eldritch and the macabre from the gossipers and storyspinners, what would these people do faced with a true horror right upon their very doorstep? Had the priest been open and forthright with the people, and was it therefore merely denial that the sheriff was seeing? He’d no idea, and he resolved to glean whatever subtle information he could from the common folk. If the priest had already approached the troubles from some particular angle in his sermon, it wouldn’t do for Jed to countermand any of the his words. He had borne that in mind when making his own brief announcements before the feast, assuming that the priest had been utterly forthright about the Boreans and Huber’s kidnapping, and yet being vague enough not to contradict any possible edicts Falmer had made of his own accord.
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‘On the first day, let all feast and make merry.
But before nourishing the body,
Let there be a more generous banquet for the soul,’
- ‘The Prism of Heaven’, Chapter 6: Verse 22
It was by all accounts a fine Sunday meal, though perhaps ‘feast’ was too strong a word when compared to the overgenerous banquets of the prosperous east. This was the only regular occasion of merriment to be had in those lean times, in the far west. Things were improving now that spring had come, but it had been a terrible winter indeed. Even now they were still recovering from the bitter season; a toast was made to honor the departed souls of Arthur and Delilah Heathrow, so cruelly taken by the chill of deep winter. In the closing days of the year, the assailing winds had finally swept over the barrier of the eastern hills and came howling down into the sunken valley which housed Dormis. The Winter of 338, as it inevitably became known in the lore of the village, was almost the worst in living memory, second only to the terrible Winter of 308, which had taken four lives.
Jed had not been around to see it, but Marcus had once assured him that it ‘hadn’t been as bad as all that,’ Presently, the passing chill of the winter was the furthest thing from Jed’s mind as he was handed a plate laden with as fine an assortment of victuals as ever the village had on offer. Jed took it with relish and a grateful ‘Ma’am,’ from the offering hands of Helena Cooper, the daughter of a well-to-do merchant who had retired to Dormis out of desire for peace and quiet. The woman, now in early middle age, evidently still harbored memories of her youth spent exalting herself high among the social circles of her home city of San Marcone, far away to the southeast. Trapped in this isolated locale, she had therefore made it her business to be at what she supposed was the top of the local social ladder – she was among the most active devotees of the church, to such an extent that the priest often remitted more mundane tasks to her purview – clerical matters, the priest would say with a congenial chuckle at his own wordplay.
Chiefly Helena Cooper organized social events such as the current feast, leaving the hired servants to care for her elderly father in the capacious Cooper homestead, and leaving Gawain Falmer more time to minister his holy craft to the pious people of Dormis. Jed had not seen the priest since the frantic planning of the night before, but he did notice aged Cornelius Cooper at the less crowded side table flanked by his ever-present valet. The retiree’s dedicated steward was a rather likeable, if bookish, fellow – in many ways much like the old man he waited on – who had come with the Coopers from San Marcone, and whose name Jed had never had the occasion of learning. The retired merchant was chatting amiably with red-haired Ben the baker, who as always was not shy about indulging in his own handiwork. The baker’s plate was stacked high with, among other things, a sort of golden brown crescent which appeared to be filled with jam, and which Jed confirmed with a quick glance were gratifyingly present on his own plate. The stout baker was universally agreed to be a master of his craft, and on this matter the sheriff had no disagreement.
Jed took his usual seat away from the eagerly chatting masses of the villagers, where he could keep an eye on things and slip away unnoticed when he felt need to return to his duties. Chiefly the townsfolk were seated at the long wooden tables which had been hewn expressly for the purpose of the weekly feast. The sheriff set his tray at the sparsely populated end of the side table, some few seats away from Cornelius Cooper and the baker seated across from him. “sheriff,” Ben said with a nod which Jed returned. “Jed,” commented the retired merchant, who Jed had seldom had dealings with. “Cornelius,” Jed said deferentially, for the old man seemed alright to him, if a bit urbane. “Sir,” nodded Cooper’s valet beside him, not wishing to seem rude. Jed thought to nod in response, but he decided to be more friendly and stuck out his hand, leaning across the table.
“Don’t think I ever caught your name before,” The sheriff said, shaking the steward’s hand. “Jed Marcusson,” He added, by way of introduction. “I’m the sheriff ‘round these parts, if’n you ain’t figured that out yet,” The valet gave him an affable smile. “I do apologize for any apparent unfriendliness on my part. My name is Alford Weathering, formerly of San Marcone. I manage Mr. Cooper’s personal affairs, as I’m sure you know, and occasionally travel to represent what remains of his business interests,” The steward glanced at his uncaring employer, who was fixated with relish upon the fine fare before him. “Of course, a man of action such as yourself wouldn’t want to hear about such mundanities,” He added sheepishly.
The old man amiably elbowed Alford in the ribs, only half paying attention to the exchange. “Oh, lighten up, will you Al? You act as though we’re still dining with the upper crust at the Golden Finch. Jed’s a good old fellow, ain’t you sheriff?” The old man laughed and Jed chuckled in return, noting the amusement the merchant seemed to take in interjecting a sprinkling of rural colloquialisms into his otherwise sophisticated mode of speech. He was appreciative of the old man’s levity; this was, after all, meant to be a time of rejoicing, and the valet did seem so terribly serious. “It’s good to know you, Mr. Weathering,” The sheriff commented lightly. “And sheriffin’ isn’t so exciting as all that. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but its mostly a lot of walkin’ around. Ain’t been but two or three times as I’ve ever needed to pull my gun out, other than for target shootin’,”
This grabbed the valet’s interest, though the man seemed to stop himself from leaning over the table to look. “Would it be terribly unseemly of me to ask if I could have a look at it? Your weapon, that is,” He questioned. Jed looked up at him with a mouthful of jam – the crescents were just as good as he had imagined – and chewed out a reply, covering his mouth with a hand. “Might be as I could. You had some kind of dealings with guns before? Wouldn’t figure you for the shootin’ type, no offense meant,” The steward nodded with a polite smile, keenly aware of this fact. Demure in his black suit, he was of a plain and unassuming appearance with his combed black hair and spectacles. “None taken, sir. Might be as – you might say that, rather – its an academic interest. I took a natural philosophy course on the art of gunsmithing one semester in my university days and it has remained a side hobby of mine to study firearms. Fascinating devices, wouldn’t you agree?” Jed considered this, sipping at his cup to wash down his food.
“Can’t say as I’ve ever thought of it that way,” The sheriff admitted. “Always seemed to me the same as a steam train or a windmill – it just works. But then, I’m no natural philosopher. Studying to be an alchemist, were you? Sounds like a mighty fine job, being in the natural sciences,” Jed commented while he cut into the side of roast beef that the thoughtful hostess had provided him with. Weathering shook his head, examining the jam crescents that he had saved for last among the meager servings to which he had helped himself. “Oh, no. Far from it. I was studying to be a train engineer, since you mention it, not a proper natural philosopher like an alchemist. I merely took the course as my elective study to meet certain requirements of the university,” The valet interrupted himself to sample the jam crescent. “Oh my,” He commented with relish. “These are delightful,” Jed nodded in agreement. “That they are. Good job, Ben. As always,” The sheriff told the Baker, who was rather busy eating and merely inclined his head gratefully in response.
“Although actually, Mr. Marcusson – may I call you Jed? – that’s a common misconception; alchemists only make bullets, not the guns themselves. That falls under the purview of the gunsmith,” Jed was genuinely interested, and he looked up from his meal. “That a fact? It’s news to me, I always figured alchemist, gunsmith, same thing really. And sure, you can call me Jed if’n I can call you Al,” The sheriff commented offhand. The steward nodded and went on, seemingly grateful to have an outlet of conversation for his hobby. “The trade of gunsmithing is considered to be more of an art than a natural philosophy such as Alchemy, and the course I took covered only the most basic aspects of it. Most gunsmiths study as an apprentice under a master, rather than by formal education at a university such as, by way of contrast, one might attend for the study of alchemy. That requires more than a few years of formal schooling,” Jed nodded interestedly throughout this explanation. “Y’don’t say. That’s just about how you become a sheriff,” He commented, savoring a few bites of the roast beef before going on. “Anyways, if you’re interested in seeing my service weapon, I’ll do you one better and you can join me and the boys for shootin’ practice. I’m aimin’ to do it tomorrow when I show the deputies a thing or two to help ‘em in their new duties,”
Alford agreed eagerly, looking to his employer for confirmation, but Cornelius Cooper was looking elsewhere. The old man turned to the valet, grabbing his sleeve and gesturing across the main table with his eyes and his head. The valet followed the old man’s gaze, leaning forward slightly to look at whatever had been so important. Jed couldn’t see what the retired merchant was indicating in his unsubtle manner, but the sheriff saw Weathering’s brow crease in discomfiture as the valet flustered and sat upright again. The steward said something that Jed did not catch over the din of the feast, but which made Cornelius begin to laugh vigorously with the uncaring mirth of age.
Alford shook his head, dabbing his forehead with a damp handkerchief. Pretending not to notice, Jed stood up to refresh his drink with a ‘Pardon me’, discreetly passing through the old man’s line of sight to see what all the fuss was about. Melissa Owens, wed last spring, had just stood up from a position leaned over the large banquet table, where she had been distributing to plates the fresh pastries that had just come from the ovens. Having seen in passing the rather generous bust that the young woman displayed even while upright, Jed had a reasonable guess as to what Cooper had been so unsurreptitiously indicating to Cooper’s rather amusing embarrassment. Despite himself, he smirked at the old lecher, whose raucous laughter the sheriff could still hear as he reached for the steaming teapot on the serving table to fix himself a mug. His hand crossed another over the handle of the pot, and he looked up to see the apothecary stood on the opposite side of the table, wrapped in her green linen shawl despite the growing warmth.
“Pardon, ma’am, I didn’t see you there,” Jed said deferentially, retracting his hand. The apothecary waved it off, lifting the kettle to pour a measure of steaming water into the mug the sheriff had in hand. He placed the cup gratefully on the table to allow her to pour, and then added a measure of tea leaves to steep while Tomasic began to speak, pouring her own cup. “You and Huber didn’t see anything of note upon your excursion this morning, I take it? I was expecting to see you again before the feast. I caught only the tale end of your little ceremony there in the square,” She gave him a wry grin, not often seen on her wrinkled features. “You’re a born leader, Jed. I don’t think you see how much those boys look up to you,” Her eyes twinkled in a way that Jed had seen before, when he was a boy in her occasional instruction and had finally worked out the correct answer to one of her esoteric questions. The sheriff shook his head dismissively, adding a touch of sugar to his tea and stirring it with a spoon, regarding the swirling liquid impassively.
He turned to look at the banquet table, where with a glance he saw a few of his volunteer deputies, digging into their food with a will. “I’m well aware of the way they look at me, all keen-eyed. They thinks a bit of brass on their chests makes ‘em lawmen, and they’re fixin’ to fight to defend their families. I know exactly how them boys feel, it ain’t easy for a strong young man to feel helpless to defend his pretty new wife,” He regarded Melissa Owens across the crowd, and the girl was gazing wistfully toward the baker’s shop. Briefly Jed regretted assigning her husband to take first guard duty. “And now they’ve signed up they reckon they’re gonna do something about the trouble everyone’s in a huff about,” The apothecary met Jed’s gaze as he turned to look at her. No one knew the trouble to which the sheriff referred better than the two of them, and Tomasic regarded him with patient wisdom as she breathed deep of the fragrant steam of her tea.
“That kind of thinking can get a man killed if he doesn’t know what he’s doin’,” Jed finished, and the apothecary sniffed in amusement. “And I suppose you’re more qualified to risk your life in our defense, are you Jed?” The sheriff regarded her seriously. “That I am. I know what I’m doin’,” Tomasic nodded deferentially. “Granted Marcus trained you well, Jed. But those boys – your deputies, lest you forget – are going to do all they can to protect their homes and their families. What they lack in training they make up for in courage, I assure you. You need only lead them wisely. They knew what they signed up for when they repeated your oath,” Her tone was one of consolation, and Jed could see the wisdom of her words but still he was troubled. “Did they? I’m not so sure. This could get bad, Maria. You know that as well as I do, or so I hope. What are they gonna do when they see a full-grown Borean in front of ‘em with claws like knives and murder in its cold eyes? Hearin’ about it is one thing, but..,” The sheriff worriedly trailed off, gazing into the darkening depths of his mug. He looked up and noticed that the apothecary seemed to have a look of hesitation on her face, as if she could not decide whether to speak up on a matter.
“…What?” He inquired gently. “Something the matter?” The apothecary said nothing for a time, sipping her cooling tea. She changed the subject, or so Jed thought. “I rather think you should talk to Gawain when you have a chance, Jed,” He nodded, testing his own drink. “Falmer? I aim to, soon as I can find him. Ain’t seen him since last night though. I reckon he’s been busy consoling folks and whatnot after breakin’ the news to everybody,” Tomasic still bore a pensive look, but was not obliged to say anything more on the subject. “Well, I’ll leave you to return to your meal. Good day, sheriff,” Taking her mug and a small plate of vittles, the aged healer strode off. “Ma’am,” Jed acknowledged, moving to return to his own table. He could see from where he stood that it was rather more full than when he had left it. As he made his way around the intermeaning table, his course was interrupted by the passage of a young man whose dark hair and lanky build Jed immediately recognized.
“Deputy Hawksly,” The sheriff said with a slight authorative emphasis as the wiry hunter brushed past him. The younger man took a moment to register the title but snapped to attention thereafter, straightening the brass shield whose shiny face stood in stark contrast to the motley greens and browns of his clothing – evidently Darek Hawksly did not own any particularly formal clothing aside from his dully camouflaged hunting tunic, as he was one of few not in some formal state of dress. “Yes sir, sheriff!” Hawksly said with enthusiasm. Jed eyed the empty plate the hunter had been carrying back to the serving table, he assumed for a second helping. “Enjoying the feast?” He asked over the din of forks and knives scraping plates. The younger man nodded vigorously with a grin. “Didja try the jam crescents, Jed – er, sheriff, sir? That ol’ Ben’s a genius, huh?”
Jed nodded in agreement, broaching the subject he had stopped Hawksly for. “Listen, you’ve already ate, right? I want you to find another deputy – I see Culler over there chattin’ up one of the serving girls – and go relieve Owens and Fisher on top of the bakery. They’re like to turn in their badges if they don’t at least catch the tail end of the feast. Take some food with you if you like,” With obvious reluctance Darek nodded and set his plate with the rest of the dirty dishes, heaping a few items from the serving table in his arms and striding off. “You can count on me, sheriff. Hey, Clyde, we got work need’s doin’!” Satisfied, Jed continued on his way, returning to his seat at the side table across from one of the new arrivals. It was Gawain Falmer, and the middle-aged priest in his white robes was engaged in pleasant small talk with Cornelius Cooper. Jed sat, placing his steaming mug carefully upon the table. “Father,” He greeted politely when a lull happened to appear in their smalltalk. “I trust your sermon went well? A shame I wasn’t able to attend,”
The priest nodded to him, the habitual look of calm wisdom upon his care-lined face. “sheriff, so good to see you,” He commented with a smile that seemed by all appearances genuine but that Jed had doubts about. “The sermon went well as can be expected with the dark tidings I was obliged to bear,” The priest’s mood took a turn for the maudlin. “I will rest the easier knowing that I provided whatever comfort I could to our harried flock. But we need not speak of such grim things during this time of merriment,” Jed nodded his tacit agreement, not caring to say otherwise under the public eye. The sheriff had expected to find an ill mood in the air after the pronouncement they had all agreed was necessary, and he had indeed sensed some tension amongst the villagers as he observed the celebration. Yet the people, for the most part, moved with a fixity of purpose about them that he had not expected, overcoming the despair of their besiegement with apparent ease. If that were so, Jed thought, he envied the villagers either their ignorance or their stalwart courage – or perhaps some mix of both.
If the villagers were, if not at peace then at least no more worried than they appeared to be, then the sheriff reckoned they all owed Falmer some debt of gratitude, for the priest’s apparent wisdom was surely seeing them through this storm with admirable efficacy. Jed, although thinking no particular ill of the priest, found this somewhat hard to stomach. He had seen his people nominally in the grip of panic a few times before, and the superstitious townsfolk had been high-strung throughout each supposed catastrophe.
During the previous winter, tempers had flared at the meeting of the town council, and emotions had run especially high following the discovery of the Heathrows’ frozen bodies in the wake of the bitterest cold yet seen in those days. There had been a bickering and a quarreling then that had begun feuds fated to last generations. Surely here was an equally terrible catastrophe, with potential for many more to lose their lives if Jed was any judge, and yet the people were what passed for merry in these grim times. Not that he was complaining, but what, then, had the priest told them to effect such a reaction? Stunned by the sudden thought, Jed began to wonder how much the priest had elected to tell the crowd after all. Had his showing the crowd the frostbite scars been the first folks had known of his journey to rescue Huber Hawthorne? Maybe it was more ignorance and less courage that explained the strangely even mood about the village.
That didn’t quite strike a chord with the sheriff, however. The feast was merry, by all accounts, but as he had observed the crowd, some instinct had gnawed away at Jed that did not align with this theory. He could not avoid the thought that each toast and each round of laughter from the merrymakers was an act, like folks putting on a play, and not the blissful merriment of the ignorant. To Jed’s keen eye, each villager bore a mask. Each smile was fake, each laugh forced. When all the food was gone and the feast was drawing to a close, the accompanying dancing seemed terribly unenthusiastic to the observing sheriff. He could not definitively put his finger on quite what was off in the manner of the townsfolk, but through long years of training, his father had impressed upon him to trust his instincts. This he struggled to do, however, and the sheriff began to consider if perhaps he was imagining things. He thought back to the night before, to the creeping sense of dread that he had carried with him through the forest. His mind drifted back to the accursed valley, with the sinking sun at his back slowly fading to reveal the abominable fluorescence of the blighted earth beneath his feet.
He had scarcely before experienced such self doubt as he now felt. Surely he had been victorious in the cursed valley, and had done as well as any could be expected to in the circumstances. But now he doubted his memories of the night before, the lambent glow of the ground chief in his misgivings. Had his mind been playing tricks on him, and was it now? The sheriff had felt strange since ever he had entered that lonely place in search of the wayward farmer. He wondered if Huber felt the same. Once the adrenaline of combat had faded, he had felt bleary and detached, as if he were merely watching as his body fled in mortal terror with the panicked farmer at his heels. The flight from Ricker’s homestead was a blur of fluorescent mist and dark forest, accompanied by the snapping of branches and the hideous bestial screeches that echoed through the night. The sheriff tore his mind forcibly from those disquieting memories, even the thought of which were renewing his anxiety. He founds the hairs on the back of his neck standing, and he began to feel slightly dizzy.
Jed slowly let out a breath that he realized he had been holding in. There was a stuffy air that had been slowly building beneath the wooden pavilion, or so he thought, but seeing suddenly that his cup was empty, he decided to put the feeling down to having imbibed the hot beverage too quickly. Adjusting the suddenly chafing collar of his long coat, Jed stood with a murmured “ ‘Scuse me,” and walked off to get some air among the adjacent gardens of the church. He breathed in a few deep breaths, and sat down on one of the stone benches scattered throughout the immaculate yard. It was unlike him to let such anxieties get the better of him, yet here he was unable to so much as consider the strange happenings of the night before. Still there had been no mention of the witch-light in Ricker’s accursed valley, even between he and Huber, who had no doubt seen it in their flight from the barn. Jed pondered this, wondering just how far the superstitions harbored by the villagers would carry – so far as to believe what would no doubt sound like an outlandish tale?
Harried as they were daily by whisperings of the eldritch and the macabre from the gossipers and storyspinners, what would these people do faced with a true horror right upon their very doorstep? Had the priest been open and forthright with the people, and was it therefore merely denial that the sheriff was seeing? He’d no idea, and he resolved to glean whatever subtle information he could from the common folk. If the priest had already approached the troubles from some particular angle in his sermon, it wouldn’t do for Jed to countermand any of the his words. He had borne that in mind when making his own brief announcements before the feast, assuming that the priest had been utterly forthright about the Boreans and Huber’s kidnapping, and yet being vague enough not to contradict any possible edicts Falmer had made of his own accord.
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