Jack Of All Trades ✓ | steampunk, dragons, trickery

Chapter 2.2: A Sisterly Phone Call

"Finally!" a woman shrieked at the other end. "The line was busy all morning."

Jack scowled. His day had been going so well. Only siblings could really ruin it. "Well, Margorie," He sneered, "if you haven't noticed, there's an opening next Tues—"

"We have to talk about the will."

There it was, another thing in life he hated to deal with along with the Slingers that wanted to expose his dark side—the will, specifically, his father's will. While his father was still alive, it was his wish to write up the will and figure out who would get how much of the estate. 

But Jack was the son. The first and only. Traditional thought was that Jack would inherit the estate—although in truth, it was more about inheriting the farmland. Last he checked, the will said the land was his.

"Will the will, include the mill?" Jack chuckled. It was a good one. What could he say?

"Smartbuggle," Margorie said, "the mill belongs to the baron, you know that."

Of course, he did. He just liked rubbing her the wrong way. "But what's there to talk about? Pops said the land was to me."

"He didn't."

"Did."

"Didn't," she insisted with a huff into the phone. After a pause she said, "Come down to the house and we'll talk." Then she lowered her voice. "His forgetful is getting to him. You have to come down. He's fretting. You're good at talking sense to him. I..." Her voice faded and Jack knew he should comfort her like the brother he was, but he didn't feel like it.

"If he forgets, he'll go with the original will. My land, Margorie. It was decided."

"Jack Emmett Ogswold!" she scolded him like their mother used to. "You take that back!" She lowered her voice again. "Pop forgetting means he would forget us. You need to come down here. I know you're done work. You know how? Simon called because he remembered that I wanted to talk to you about the will since yesterday. He cared to call me. You knew I wanted to talk, but you didn't care."

"I don't care," he lied. He did care, but it wasn't in him to admit to that. Of course, his sister saw through it.

"You do care, admit it, smartbuggle. You come down here, you hear?"

Jack considered it. He really didn't want to go down if he could help it. Margorie could be a handful. She was younger than him by five whole years and acted like she was older all the time. He was the son and the will said he would get everything as traditions went. And he could sure use the extra land. He was thinking of getting into aviation, too. He'd piloted an airship once and enjoyed the thrill of it.

Flatten the farmland. Build a factory. The next big business. Jack could already envision it. It was right there and all that stood in his way was his nosy sister. Traditionally, women had no say whatsoever in the will. It was a man's thing, although times were changing. But Jack wasn't ready to change that just yet. Once he got the land, then he was willing to change.

"Well?" Margorie pressed with a growl in her voice.

"Fine. If you'll make dinner." Jack smacked his lips into the phone. Margorie had learned the art of cooking and was good at it.

"Smartbuggle. Fine then." She hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

* * *

Jack in his smart suit was out of place in the farmlands of Guther. Hobbersmead had three farmlands. Guther down south. Empther up north. And last, Twin Trutther east and west considered as one. 

Guther was the lowest of lows. It was a wonder to the tailor, the tinker, the seamstress, and everyone else that worked in Guther that from such a low-life, low-living, gutter-hugging, farmland-digging, goat-dung bathed, dirty little lad called Jackie Emmett could turn his life around so drastically. They always brought this up whenever he visited home.

"Jackie Emmett!" the tailor called as he unloaded a swath of cloth from his carriage. "Jackie boy, my good man," he said and grinned ear to ear, "hobblin' off to visit the old man?"

"Aye, hobblin'," Jack tipped his hat, "and you, sir?"

The tailor snickered tickled pink being called 'sir'. Usually those in Guther were called 'gutterson.' Basically, the son of a gutter.

"Big job. Big job. You want in on it?" He came up to Jack and took off his hand revealing his balding head. Two tufts of hair stuck out above his ears. "I'll tell ye, Jackie boy, my good man. Big job come to all of Hobbersmead. Palestone wants an airship with his name sewn on it. Know the 'lection's coming?"

Jack nodded. That was why Minister Palestone had his face flags all over the station. Palestone did like his own face and made sure everyone else saw it as much as he probably stared at himself in the mirror, so Jack thought it was just to show people his face more. But he did remember that the fifth term was the final term, and the ministers would be having a change soon.

"When's that, mind?" he said.

"Next Monday."

"Pretty soon."

"Aye. We gotta work. He's sure to win."

"Despite the bad mouths, you think, Johnny?"

"Aye. There are many like us who want no one else." Johnny paused as a woman called his name from his shop. "Gotta get stitchin'. Tailors and seamstress, workin' together for this. See you later, Jackie," he said and tipped his hat. Jack gave a nod and headed off down the road.

Next week has two big things. No, three. He counted on his fingers. Minister election. The gallery. Slinger threat that I'm not worried about.

Soon, his childhood house came into view as stone roads turned to dirt and then to unkempt grass. The grass grew taller as he made his way up the old road that he used to bike up and down all the time when he was a kid. 

The house with its copper roof and wooden body always looked like two eras clashed. Two pipes stuck up the top and gray smoke puffed out. Here, at least the air was clear and not hazy like the city, but still the sky was no better.

Behind the house was the farmhouse and as the hill sloped upward behind that, it naturally made his eyes find the mountains and the sky. Or what sky was visible today. Cloudy with a chance of haze coming over the jagged mountains. Hobbersmead's over-the-jagged-mountains neighbors was Fairwicken and Fairwicken had mountains behind it. Beyond those mountains was Birdbury, the haziest city of haze.

Buries birds because they drop from the sky, Jack grimaced. That wasn't where the name Birdbury came from, but it sure made sense now. Fairwicken, he often cursed. Fairwicken, in a valley so deep that the haze from Birdbury passed over it and reached Hobbersmead.

Fairwicken, Jack cursed. Dungs and apples, Fairwicken.

"Jack!"

There she was. His sister. The spitting image of him, just a girl and with long hair. She had her hands on her hips. The perpetual scowl persisted even when he flashed her a smile. His 'charming man' smile he knew he had didn't work on her.

Suppose because we're siblings.

"Dungs and apples."

"Is that what you say to your sister you have not seen in three whole months? What in the name of Mother Mary were you doing ignoring me when I called, telling Simon to call you back at so and so time and when I did, you would ignore me and then tell Simon—"

He muffled her voice in a hug, taking care not to touch her left side. "Just the cursed gift," he whispered in her ear. He heard her sigh. Apart from his father, Margorie was the only other one that believed in his cursed gift.

"You're not let off the hook easily, smartbuggle. Now get inside." She huffed up the hill to the house. Jack groaned and prepared himself for his father. He didn't want to think about it, but his father had been getting more and more forgetful. Margorie was right in that he would soon forget his own children.