The Last Black Eye of Antigo Vale

1

As the horse-drawn cart jostled and stopped at the gated outpost, two burly men approached. They offered a greeting as they checked for subtle indicators this visitor had any affiliation with the embargoed Trade League.

"Where is your tribute and what is your purpose in Antigo Vale?"

The hooded driver tossed a canvas sack of miscellaneous goods to pay the gatekeepers. "I have personal business with Master Jervis, one of the village Elders." Eyes darted to the rapiers tucked inside the guards' cloaks, but were careful not to linger long enough to cast suspicion.

Nodding, the gatekeeper waved to his partner who worked the pulley system, raising the gate. He warned, "Stay on the path that leads over the bridge and beyond the gorge. Do not stray into the woods, friend; I tell you this for your safety. The road remains harmless till dusk. See that you're inside the village by then."

With a grin, the traveler nodded. "This is not my first time to Antigo Vale."

The guard lowered his gaze. "Let's see that it's not your last, then."

Cracking the reins, the driver urged the horses forward, across the sheer ravine cliffs and on towards the destination. The wagon meandered into the gnarled, black trees that buffered the town, and disappeared.

* * *

Antigo shrugged at his buddy Flick while the eligible women of the village ignored them. The preened ladies followed village tradition; before the harvest dance, they paraded before the males in a ritual performed by many of their parents. The pageant announced eligibility for suitors.

Flick returned Antigo's sardonic look, screwing up his facial features to match. Not one of the women glanced their way. Flick shrugged and poured a flagon of euphoric djat-berry ale, the second most exported resource produced in their secluded community.

Scowling, Antigo shook his head as the last lady walked past; she cut a line for the young soldier nearby. Antigo looked down and glanced at his smaller stature and thin limbs. He had too few qualities that women found desirable. Named after his heroic ancestor, "Antigo" was synonymous with strength; he was anything but.

As the ladies flocked around Franco, Antigo looked past the girls and frowned. Franco, the town's most eligible bachelor, had all their attention. They practically swooned when he adjusted the way his sword hilt fit at his hips.

Antigo sauntered over and poured his own cup as Master Jervis stood to pronounce the beginning of the festival dance. Antigo paid no mind until he'd filled a tall stein. He held little hope of finding a wife.

Clinking his cup against Flick's, Antigo suggested, "Let's get out of here?"

Flick blew away the ale froth. "I'm game. Where to?"

"Anywhere. Maybe the Precipice?" Antigo shrugged.

"So long as I can bring my ale."

"I'll do you one better." Antigo rolled a ten liter keg onto a hand truck and motioned for Flick to follow. Neither felt at home during the celebration; they barely had a place in the community. They were both outsiders and orphans.

A band struck up a tune in the center square eliciting applause from the dancers. The uproar distracted Antigo and Flick and they almost collided with Master Jervis.

Jervis had to shout over the music. "Young Antigo, sad to see you leaving so early."

He merely shrugged. "There seems no interest in me as a suitor this year, again."

Jervis nodded slowly, hesitant and methodical. "Nevertheless, it is imperative that we find you a mate—and soon."

Antigo shrugged and waved the notion off.

Again, Jervis leaned forward, closer this time. "We must find you a wife... before it's too late."

Something about the way the old man spoke rattled him, perhaps the urgency in his eyes. Antigo nodded to the Elder.

"I will stop by to see you sometime during the harvest. We have important matters to discuss." Jervis slapped Antigo on the shoulder and slipped back into the crowd of revelers.

The friends shrugged and wheeled their keg away from the festival tents. Fireworks crackled a farewell behind them while their cart rattled between the worn ruts of hard-caked earth.

Sweating, they finally collapsed against the stone altar atop the Precipice, a natural rock outcropping at the village's outskirts. Catching his breath, Antigo ran a thoughtful finger along the grooves etched into a natural stone slab where glyphs and symbols covered the stone face.

Flick turned from the small fire he'd coaxed to life with flint and tinder.

Antigo nodded to the engravings. "They tell a story reminding us of the pact made when Antigo Vale was founded. They're ancient rules that keep the unmentionable ones at bay." Master Jervis taught him that bit of history long ago, after his family perished in a fire; his parents and both siblings died.

Fireflies skittered lazy trails through the forest's edge as the two watched the celebration fireworks from afar; only the insects remained brave enough to tempt the beasts of the forest. With minds swimming in the gentle hum of ale, they cast sidelong glances to the murky wood; it consumed their minds if looked at, like it called to them.

Antigo stood to stretch. His friend had slumped over the cask, completely pickled. Shuffling off the Precipice, he stumbled to the trail, and saw a group of nearly-drunk teenagers roving through the deep-violet illiac fields, daring their peers to step into the sinister woods. At first they lacked any reverence for the forest's sinister reputation. One boy jostled another and tripped, scattering a pile of stacked stones at the tree line, near the moss covered Old Woods Gate. They all joined together to hastily restack them, leaving the rock smeared with animal blood atop. Quickly finished, they departed solemnly.

Antigo waved to his snoring friend and stumbled homeward. It was a warm night with a red sunset. Flick would be fine till morning, and Antigo's bed called.