The Stonegate Sword

Chapter 19: Storm Clouds

CHAPTER XIX

 STORM CLOUDS

             They did not actually stay in Junction.  They made their temporary base at a small stable and inn in a small crossroad settlement, called Waverly,  a few miles to the north.  Aaron had often stayed there before.  The food was plain but good, and the rooms were clean.  The horses had good hay and oats, besides.  They all had a pleasant evening, except Bobby, who slept in one of the wagons.  Aaron insisted on a 24-hour guard over the trade goods, particularly in the Prophet’s land.

            The next day was spent running errands.  Bobby and Aaron took one wagon into town to deliver the stone statue.  Philip remained at the stable to watch the other wagon and mend some harness.  Don and Eric took the two saddle horses and went for a ride.  They wanted to scout the area, though Aaron told them to stay on the main roads.

            Philip watched them go with a bit of a flutter in his stomach and sweaty palms.  Despite what he had said about going on to Junction by himself, he had no idea how he would go about it.  Even being left alone in the stable was bad enough, although the stable hands were friendly. 

            He looked over at the other two men.  They both looked ancient to him, gaunt and white haired.  One was considerably taller than the other.  They seemed to be in no hurry as they cleaned the barn with pitchforks and a rickety wheelbarrow.  Their voices came to him in a dull murmur.  Though one of them glanced his way, as though they were mildly curious, they did not seem to be overly interested in him.

            Aaron had shown him how to use needles and thread to stitch several places on the teams’ harness where the old thread was worn and the leather was separating.  He had given him an awl, some beeswax, thread and several needles.  Philip began to work, enlarging the old holes with the awl, then, using two needles he began re-sewing the leather.  He was slow at first, but as the morning progressed, he began to fall into the rhythm of the work, and made good progress.

            He had plenty of time to think as he worked.  A few good meals had made a great change.  Though he was still thin, he had made his way out of the dull, passive mental fog that had been his companion.  When he had finally stumbled out of the hills and reached the road he had hit a wall.  His capacity to plan or reason had been nearly gone.  When the stranger had walked up to him and invited him to eat, he had at first not understood a word.  It was not his accent, though Philip could tell that he was not from the valley.  He simply had not been able to focus on what the stranger had been saying.

            But that was past.  He had eaten his fill for the last several days.  Before that, he could not remember when his belly had been full.  Probably not since he had left the strange mountain people that he had so briefly met.  He remembered that Aaron seemed to place significance on that part of his story.  But he was not sure why, exactly.  But it was clear that these new friends were not just a simple group of traders selling their wares.

            The loreman, Donald, was more than he seemed.  Philip’s old teacher, Benjamin, was the only loreman that he had ever actually met.  Donald did not resemble him, not really.  He had heard Donald and Aaron exchange some words in the old tongue.  Donald did not look like a soldier, but there was something about those gray eyes that did not seem to go with a man of books.  He did not have the deep tan and weathered look of someone who had spent his life out of doors.  He was not a particularly large man.  But he clearly had sword scars on his right arm and his horse was a beautiful, large sorrel that looked more like a war horse anything else.

            Bobby, on the other hand, looked like a guard should look.  He was well over six feet tall and big. He wore a sword like he knew how to use it.   The only feature in which he resembled Donald was his eyes.  They were also light gray.  But Bobby’s hair and full moustache were pale blonde, while Donald’s hair was raven black.  Philip could tell that Bobby understood horses, and he was a good rider – somewhat surprising for a big man.  At least, Philip was surprised.  It seemed to him that most really big people sat a horse like a sack of potatoes.

            Eric did not seem complicated.  He was also a large man, but not as big as Bobby.  His brown hair and blue eyes were not unusual.  He kept his hair and beard close-cropped.  He said that he had been a teamster all his life, but yet he was soft-spoken and pleasant.  He was also a good rider, mounting his horse with the grace of a cat.  He seemed placid and pleasant, yet he seemed to notice small things. 

            “Still water runs deep,” said Philip to himself.  “That’s what Dad always said, anyway.  There is more to all of them than meets the eye, that’s sure.  Donald seems to be the strangest of the lot.  An unbeliever, yet more like a believer than most.”

            And then there was Aaron.  Clearly a man in charge, and the missing arm hinted at much.  Of course a man could lose an arm in a farming accident as easily as in war.  It was not hard to see that Aaron was the key to the mystery of the group. Philip had no doubt that he was the organizer.   But what did it matter?  Clearly none of these were friends of the Black Prophet, and they had treated him like a human being.  Why did he need to know more?

            Lunch was simple.  Bread and honey, a glass of cool buttermilk, and a bowl of beef stew.  It still seemed like a waking dream somehow.  The thought that he could have as much to eat as he wanted had an air of fantasy.  But when he had asked for a second helping, the innkeeper’s wife had refilled his bowl with a kind smile.

            He struck up a conversation with the elderly stable hands.  It seemed to be a bit strange that there were no young men to be seen.  Philip did not comment about that, though, but asked about entertainment.  The older men found the question amusing and told him about a restaurant known for its chilled chokecherry juice, including special jars that had loosened lids.  “Best chokecherry juice in five counties,” said the tall one.  His companion laughed, “Kicks like a mule, that juice does, but no one complains.”

            Don asked if the Bishop held with that kind of beverage.  They shrugged and said that there were many things that the Bishop might not know about.  Then Philip asked about work farms.

            “Don’t worry, youngster,” said the short man.  “You won’t go there for drinking chokecherry juice.  Work farms are for troublemakers and criminals.”

            “Are there many of these farms nearby?” asked Philip.

            The two conferred.  The tall one, whose name was Andy, finally answered.  “Hard to say.  We know of two, but there might be more.  There is one to the west of town that seems to be for troublemakers.  People who don’t pay their taxes and such like.  The one south of town is for thieves and such.”

            “What about murderers?” asked Philip.  “They would be in the one to the south?”

            “Hardly,” chuckled Andy.  “Killers have their throats cut.  That is so their blood can help wash their sin away.  So don’t even think about getting in trouble.  Things may be lax upcountry where you are from, but not down here.”

            With that, the two drained that last of their drinks and returned to the stable, leaving Philip alone.  Remembering that he was supposed to keep an eye on things, he returned to the yard, and crawled up into the back of the wagon, in the shade of the canvas top.  It was hot, but not uncomfortably so.  He lay down on a pile of bedrolls, and promptly fell asleep.