Holt’s ranch sat at the top of a squat hill. A hard-packed trail meandered down to the river basin and flattened about a mile from the village of Farstead.  By the time Kara and Jack finished their descent, the afternoon sun had settled behind the rocky ridge to the west.  A soft breeze tugged gently at hair and clothes, carrying with it the dusty smell of sage and the music of uncountable rustling leaves.  On the path ahead of them a rabbit perked its ears and scurried into the bush.

“I love this time of year,” Kara said, sniffing the air. She gazed at the blazing sunset and smiled. 

I suppose,” Jack said.  “It seems like I haven’t had time to do anything but work.”

“Well, you go right on being a grouch if it makes you feel better.”

Jack glared at her but stifled a retort.  She would only take it as confirmation.  They continued on in silence for a while, their footsteps scuffing the dirt.  Jack was surly and Kara ignored his suffering.

After a while he glanced over at her. She walked with her head down, fiddling with something in her hand.  It was small, dark, and round.

“What’s that?”  

“I found it near the old ruins,” she replied.  She held it out so he could take a closer look.  “I cleaned it with pearl ash. Isn’t it strange? ” 

“It looks like obsidian.”

“Maybe, but when have you ever seen a piece of obsidian like this?”

“That’s true, I guess.”

“Look closer.”  She handed him the stone and he held it up to the waning light.  It was black as the void and strangely cold to the touch.  Etched onto one face was the head of a bird.  A crow?  He had to hold the stone at exactly the right angle to see it.  Apart from that image the surface was nearly perfect in its inky uniformity. A chill ran up his back.  

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

He nodded.  “Someone spent a lot of time polishing it.” 

“I’ll wager it’s really old.  Maybe from before the first kings!”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Why not?  Oren says no one knows how old the ruins are.”

“Yeah, but they were picked clean a long time ago.  Maybe someone dropped it passing through.”

“Really?”  She snatched the stone back from him and dropped it into a pouch on her belt.  “It’s ancient,” she declared.  She raised her chin and started back up the path.

He grinned and skipped ahead of her. “Is it magical, too?”

“Shut up, Jack.” 

“If you insist.” He’d only been joking. He wasn’t going to get in a fight with her over some rock. “When did you find it?”

“I hiked out there with Alfred a few weeks ago.”

With Alfred? Who was Alfred? 

Alfie?  What was she doing pairing up with Alfie?  And why was she calling him "Alfred" now?  And why did that revelation fill him with the desire to punch Alfred in the face? 

“With Alfie?” he said, as mildly as he could manage.

“He’s grown up a lot lately. You should be nicer to him.”

This conversation had definitely taken a wrong turn. Jack resisted the urge to ask if he was going to be invited to the wedding.  “Why the sudden desire to go to the ruins?  We’ve been there a few times.  It’s not all that exciting.”

“I don’t know. It seemed like something to do.” 

She wasn’t telling him everything.  He wanted to press the issue, but it would only end in an argument.  The ruins were nearly three leagues to the northwest, out past the decrepit old ferry crossing, which meant Kara and Alfie had spent the better part of a day together.  What had they gotten up to?  Jack was afraid it was more than digging for old rocks.

Maybe he was being foolish. He offered her a change of subject. “How’s everything at the smithy?” 

Jack thought he sensed relief in her voice as she updated him on the goings-on with the Steward family business.  As the last flickers of sunlight winked out in the consuming darkness they walked more quickly, immersed in banter of the sort only two long friends can understand.  Eventually they crossed the stone bridge that spanned the river Erialle into Farstead.

Jack hadn’t completely shaken his grouchiness as they stepped up to the door of Kara’s house.  It was a big house, as houses in that part of the world went; big enough that Kara had her own room.Made mostly of red-orange clay around a wooden framework, sitting atop a high stone foundation, the house stood out from the rest of the buildings of Farstead, most of which were made entirely of wood with broad, flat facades.Throughout his life Jack had spent nearly as much of his waking time in Kara’s house as his own. 

The door opened into the common room where Kara’s mother stooped over her stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon.  Jack detected lentil stew and bacon, with a touch of garlic, along with the waft of fresh baked bread.  His stomach growled. The woman turned and smiled when they entered.  “Hi Jack!”  She wiggled her fingers at him and returned to her stirring.

Sara was in her early thirties, tall and quite thin.  She and Kara had the same triangular faces, with narrow chins and cheekbones just slightly higher than normal.  Holt said their look was typical for folks from the far North.  Kara thought her nose was too big, though it seemed fine to Jack.  Unlike Kara, her mother’s hair was dark, almost black.

“Good eve, Ma’am.” He couldn’t bring himself to call her Sara, even though she’d long ago commanded he do precisely that. 

“Jackie?” a piping voice called out from the upstairs loft.  An earnest little face peered sideways into the common room.  That face smiled with unconcealed delight.  “Jackie!! Hi!  It’s my birthday, Jackie.  Papa made me new shoes and… and mama made me a new tunic.  And we have honey cakes…” The little boy rambled, not pausing his chatter even for the climb down the ladder.  As soon as his feet hit the floor he ran to Jack and embraced his legs. 

“Happy naming day, Bobo,” Jack said as the last of his grouchiness disappeared. “Did you get your new name yet?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?  I can’t wait to start calling you Bobo Bunnyrabbit.”

“Not Bunnyrabbit!” Bobo objected, stamping his little foot.

“No?  How about Bobo Tickle-tickle Steward?” Jack grinned, going after Bobo’s armpit. 

“Nooooo!” the little boy giggled.

“When are the other kids coming?”

“I don’t know,” Bobo replied, looking questioningly up at Kara and then back to Jack. “Jackie!  Look at my…look at my shoes!”

“Bobo,” Kara said, combing her fingers through his curly blond hair.  “Go get into your new tunic!  Your friends will be here soon!”  Bobo smiled and climbed back up the ladder to the loft. 

While Bobo prepared for his grand entrance, others of the Farstead children began knocking at the door. Jack stopped counting at eight, not including the mothers. Bobo came down from the loft and basked in being the absolute center of attention. 

Jack ate his fill of lentil stew and dark bread with butter.  He also ate a few too many of Sara’s honey cakes.  He and Kara sat on a bench near the door and talked.  Mostly the children were on about their own games and ignored the adults watching over them.  It occurred to Jack he needn’t be there to help Kara chase children around.  There were enough adults between Sara and the pack of mothers who, between them, were at least as loud as the children.  It seemed the women of Farstead were eager to have a distraction from all the talk of war and the worry over their absent men. 

It was Bobo’s fifth birthday, an important day for a child in Rodera.It meant he received his new name—his middle name—and little Bobo became Bobard Willem Steward. 

Jack had a bit of fun pretending to be upset the name “Bunnyrabbit” was rejected, causing six children at once to explain to him very gravely why Bunnyrabbit wasn’t a good name for a person, though a few dissenters seemed to think it would be an excellent name.  One little girl told her mother in no uncertain terms that when her naming party came she wanted to be named Bunnyrabbit. Jack shrugged at the mother apologetically.

All the children were given gifts of baubles and figurines, lead images of the heroes of legend, all made by Oren in his smithy. Bobo came up to Kara and Jack in turn to show them each of the gifts he had received and to jabber delightedly, after which he bounced back into the circle of children. Despite the noise Jack’s attention drifted and his eyes began to feel heavy.  He’d worked a little too hard, eaten a bit too much, and the room was a touch too warm.  He nodded off. 

The jaws of a fierce creature snapped its teeth into his face with a snarl. 

He awoke with a start. The children had gathered around Bobo and were watching him open another gift.  Oren had returned home.  The big man was moving the long table out from the center of the kitchen towards the far wall with a persecuted look on his face.  He slid one end of the table and the wooden leg growled as it scraped across the floor.

Jack shuddered and shook his head.  He needed some fresh air.  He turned to Kara, who was looking downward at her cupped hand, studying that small black stone with a look of fascination.  “Do you want to take a walk?”

She looked up from her reverie.  “What?”

“Do you want to go outside, take a walk?”

“Oh, sure.” She absently dropped the stone back into its pouch. 

Once they were back out in the fresh air, Jack’s sleepiness left him.  He grabbed a torch from a sconce on the wall, held it against the flame of the old iron lamp dangling from a pole outside the front door, and then held the torch in front of them to light their path.It was a moonless night, and only a few windows around the village shone with lamplight.

They walked without any particular purpose, making a general circuit of the town.  In the center of the square was a stone fountain, burbling away but invisible in the darkness. On the other side of the square, facing the smithy, was a line of stocky wooden buildings.  Aloof from the others, was the mercantile, and next to it a warehouse.  There was an empty expanse between it and the barn where ranchers frequently brought cattle or fowl, depending on the season, and which sometimes served as the town hall. 

From there, proceeding downward towards the river, was a row of more-or-less evenly spaced buildings. The inn was the largest building in Farstead. Those who paid to stay there were mostly travelers heading into the mountains looking for gold or game, miners working Black Harvest, or traders looking to buy and sell goods. 

There was no tavern in Farstead, a fact which engendered few tears from the women of the village, but the innkeeper Dowd was also a brewer. Jack was quite sure Dowd made most of his money selling casks of ale and wine to Oren and Holt. 

Around the village were several farms and ranches, extending as far as the Old Mill, about a half-day’s ride.  Most of the farmers, especially those who lived beyond the rapids, kept to themselves and only came into the village once or twice a month. 

At this time of year, with the business of summer done, one might think the village nearly abandoned at night.  This year the effect was even greater with so many of the young men gone.  The village was dark.  No one was about and even the wind had fallen silent.  Only a few windows around the square glowed with lantern light diffused through a settling mist.

“You’re quiet, tonight,” Jack remarked as they neared completion of their circuit of the village.  Kara wasn’t chatty even in the best of times, but she hadn’t spoken two words since they’d left the house.  It was the second time tonight he’d sensed something was off about her.  She’d been acting ever more strangely since her coming-of-age.  Sometimes that made him uncomfortable, but this was different.  She was detached, almost sad.

She murmured something inaudible and smiled up at him.  “Aren’t you glad you came?” Bobo was so happy.”

“Sure. That was the best meal I’ve had in…”

Kara abruptly stopped walking.  The light from the torch illuminated her face.  She stood wide-eyed and motionless.

“Jack, I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” He looked around in alarm. 

“You can’t feel it?” Her voice was a mix of confusion and fear. 

Jack squinted around the dim light of the village.  He saw nothing but grey silhouettes of buildings buried in shadows.  He felt nothing apart from the nip in the air.

Then, from the edge of the torchlight, there was a glint of two golden eyes watching them in the darkness.  There came a low growl, deep.  The hair on Jack’s neck stood on end.  Those eyes bounded forward and into the torchlight. 

“Is that one of Rom’s dogs?”

“I don’t think so,” Kara said in a miserable voice. 

It was the largest dog Jack had ever seen.  It had deep black fur and a grey muzzle.  Its tail was a mangled stump and its paws were as wide as Jack’s hands.  It had a broad head and a stubby, wrinkled snout.  Its lips drew back into a snarl. The creature locked its eyes onto Kara.

Jack stepped in front of her, holding the torch out in front of him.  The animal’s lip turned up revealing teeth as long as Jack’s thumb.  Its eyes again fixed on Kara as it circled.  “I’ll distract it,” Jack said without turning his head.  “When I do, run to the smithy.”

“No,” she said as she backed away. 

The dog sank on its forelegs.  Jack lunged and thrust the torch at the animal’s snout.  With startling speed the dog leaped at him, its jaws snapping with an audible click. 

Jack blocked his face as he fell backward under the creature’s weight. A bitter taste filled his mouth as a surge of panic washed over him.  He kicked upward with both legs.  The dog had the torch in its jaws and shook it furiously from side to side. The flame singed its ear and the dog yelped.  It dropped the torch and retreated into the shadow.

Jack snatched the torch out of the dirt.  The animal went back to its low crouch. Once again, its eyes were on Kara.  Jack jumped in front of her. “Run!” he shouted.  “Get Oren!”

Ignoring him, she threw a rock, striking the dog on its neck.  It staggered briefly.  She hurled a second, larger rock.  This time the dog saw it coming and snapped at it, but the throw was off the mark and the rock sailed over its head.  Enraged, it spun towards Kara and crouched to attack.  Jack once again jumped between her and the beast, thrusting with the torch.  The dog had learned to respect the flame and backed away.  “Come on!  You want to fight?” Jack shouted.  His fear spun into exuberant rage.  His heart pounded in his ears.  His eyes registered the creature’s every twitch with crystal focus. “Come on!”

There was a large stone on the ground a few feet to Jack’s right.He transferred his fiery weapon to his left hand.  Taunting the animal, waving the fire from the torch into its face as it retreated, Jack worked his way to the rock and crouched to pick it up.  He felt its weight, more than he’d thought—too much for him to throw very far.

The dog, seeing its adversary in a crouch, lurched forward with snapping jaws.  Jack swung the torch in an arc in front of him and straightened.  The dog backed away.  He held out the rock, waving it enticingly.  Those hateful eyes followed the new threat.  Jack lobbed the rock directly into its face.  The animal again snapped at the projectile, this time taking the full weight of unyielding stone directly in the snout with a sickening crunch. 

Stunned, the dog fell to the dirt where it rolled convulsively.  Jack lurched forward, pressing the flame of the torch directly into the animal’s neck.  The flame hissed and popped as it ignited fur.  The creature spun in the dirt, yelping, and found its feet.  Standing now on unstable legs, it snarled at Jack, its teeth bloody. 

Jack had just begun searching for another rock to throw when he heard a loud thunk!  The dog gave a single, high-pitched yelp and toppled onto its side.  The shaft of an arrow protruded from behind a twitching foreleg.

“Why did you do that?” Jack shouted into the darkness.  “I almost had it!”As his shout faded, Jack realized the dogs around the village, penned in by their owners, were yapping and barking excitedly.  One of them started a low, aching howl, and the others all around took up the call, until all had become part of a ringing chorus, singing their longing for the hunt.  Jack’s breath caught in his chest.  Some visceral part of him was stirred deeply by that song. He smiled into the darkness. A few seconds later, the howling died away.  Jack exhaled. His breath was loud in the sudden hush.  Around the village, previously darkened windows glowed with light as families roused from their suppers to investigate the din.

Oren stepped into the torchlight where Jack stood panting.  He had an arrow knocked and aimed at the now motionless animal.  “I figured I’d end it before you decided to take it on with your teeth,” he said angrily, lowering his bow.  “What were you thinking?” 

“What was I thinking?  I was thinking someone ought to do something about the animal trying to kill your daughter!”  Jack’s heart still pounded and a ringing sound filled his head. He wanted to fight. 

“The question was for Kara,” Oren said.  “Why didn’t you run?  That thing might have ripped out both your throats!”

Kara didn’t answer.  She stared down at the dead dog, her eyes inscrutable.  She had that black stone in her right hand, slowly rolling it between her thumb and fingers.  There was no hint on her face of fear or sympathy. She stepped towards the animal and prodded it with her foot. 

“Be careful!” Oren growled. 

“Dead,” Kara said.  Her tone was strangely satisfied. Then she turned and smiled at Jack, a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.  Jack shuddered.

“Kara!” Oren barked.  She shook her head and looked around. Her eyes caught the dead dog at her feet and she recoiled with a startled cry.

“What’s wrong with you?” Oren asked. Kara ran to him and threw herself into his arms.  The big man wrapped his free arm around her.  The anger fell from his face as he looked at Jack.  “You’re bleeding,” he observed.

Jack lifted his right hand.  Blood dripped from his fingers.He traced the blood to several deep cuts on his forearm where the dog had clawed him.  Strangely, he felt no pain, though he shivered at the thought of how close his arm had come to the dog’s teeth.  The torch in his left hand was deeply gouged and splintered where the dog had shaken it in those powerful jaws. 

Behind him, Sara and a few of the mothers from the party came warily into the torchlight.  Sara went to Kara and pulled her from Oren’s arm.  Oren walked to Jack and snatched the torch, then grabbed Jack’s wrist and shone the light on his arm.  “They’re pretty deep.  We need to tend to this.”  As if to confirm those words, a stinging pain began to throb in Jack’s forearm.

“What’s all the shouting about?” came a man’s call from beyond the fountain.  Dowd the Innkeeper and Lamdrow Goodhaven were approaching side by side.  Dowd held a torch in front of them and Lamdrow had a small cudgel clenched in one fist.  They stopped abruptly as they noticed the dead dog lying in the dust of the square. 

“Settle down,” Oren called back.  “This one was hungry, but it’s over now.  Everyone’s safe.”

One of the mothers, the Innkeeper’s wife, Meryn, approached and put her hand on Jack’s cheek, then looked at his bleeding right arm. “Let’s go in around the back,” she said.  “The children are already frightened.  If they see this they’ll have nightmares for a month.” 

As Oren talked with Dowd and Lamdrow, Jack followed her around the perimeter of the house.  He shook his throbbing arm and blood sprayed from his fingertips.

They entered the house through a back door leading into a large pantry adjoining Sara’s kitchen.  Once inside, Meryn sat him on a stool and disappeared into the common room, shutting the door behind her.  Through the door Jack heard the questioning voices of frightened children, and Meryn’s replies had the tone of dismissal, as if to tell them it was nothing, there was no need to fear, everything was fine.  Jack smiled, then winced in pain.  Everything was fine, thankfully.  What if the dog had waited until the mothers were heading home with their children? That thought sent a chill up his back. 

On the other hand, the dog had seemed interested only in Kara.  Had it been hunting her?  Why? 

Before he could consider the answer, Meryn returned with a basin and towels.  She washed his wounds with water that turned red beneath his arm.  She opened a bottle of amber liquid, poured it liberally on the wound, and pressed a clean cloth over his arm.Jack winced as the liquid did its stinging work, and recoiled at the pungent odor of whiskey. Meryn brandished a sewing needle.  Jack’s heart skipped, and he squeezed down a whimper.  Did the needle really need to be that big?And wasn’t that thread rather thick?  You could repair a sail with that thread!  He inhaled sharply and looked away as she stitched his arm.  He ground his teeth and stifled the tears that welled up as the metal shaft pierced his skin. 

Thankfully, only one of the cuts required stitching, and Meryn worked quickly.  After washing the wound once more in whiskey, she smiled, her brown eyes warm.  “All done,” she said.  Then she rubbed a waxy unguent on his arm and began carefully wrapping it with clean linen. 

She hadn’t yet finished the bandage when the door opened and Sara squeezed through carrying a small teapot on a tray.  “How does it feel?” she asked. 

“It stings, but only a little,” he lied.

Sara laid the tray on a small table and began preparing some concoction.  “I bought this from old Ygana,” she explained.  “It’s called River root. Oren’s used it when he’s been burned at the forge.”  Then she looked at Meryn. Her eyes twinkled.  “And once just for fun.” 

She spooned a fine black powder into a metal cup and filled it with steaming water.  “It tastes vile, but it works.”  She stirred the mixture and handed the cup to Jack.  “Drink it all.” The brew was bitter and had an aftertaste like spoiled mushrooms.  Jack started to gag twice, but he managed to get it all down.  He smacked his lips, wishing he had some clean water, or even whiskey, to remove the aftertaste.  “Where’s Kara?”

“She went to bed,” Sara said.  “She felt sick.” 

“I see. Did you make her drink this horrible tea, too?” 

“No,” Sara replied, smiling broadly.  “That was just for you.”

“Now I see where Kara got her evil side.”

Sara smiled again and placed her hand on his cheek.  “Thank you, Jack.”

He nodded awkwardly. All of his pain, the vile flavor in his mouth, and the preceding months of frustrating labor seemed suddenly unimportant.  “Anytime,” he replied.

A few minutes later he found himself nodding on his perch.  The stool seemed wobbly.  What was in that drink?  The pain in his arm subsided, leaving a dull ache.  His feet and hands were far away.  His head was heavy and his shoulders sagged.

Sara watched his progressive tipsiness.  She gently guided Jack off the stool and walked him over to the corner of the room to sit in a big wooden chair.  “Is it supposed to feel like this?” Jack asked, his words sounding remote in his own ears.

“Mm hmm,’ she murmured, her tone amused. “Sit there for a bit.  Oren will take you home.”  Then she brushed his hair away from his eyes and patted his cheek fondly before turning to leave.

While he sat there, the events of the fight began to play back in his memory.  He felt no fear, no surge of panic; it was like he was watching someone else’s dream.  He observed every detail, critically assessing each move, each dodge and dart. He concluded they had performed rather well, all things considered. 

He couldn’t have guessed how long he sat there, rehashing the fight over and over in his mind when the back door opened and Oren stepped into the pantry.  The man looked tired, Jack reflected lazily.  Oren explained he’d had to hitch up the wagon and give rides to the three mothers who had come to the party from outside the village.  The man’s words fell on Jack’s face like so many raindrops, soaking into his muddy awareness where his mind tried to piece together their meaning. 

Then Oren was looming over him, his hands on his hips and his round face amused.  What was so funny?  “You look comfortable,” Oren observed.

“I guess,” Jack replied, finding it difficult to string together more than two words.

“Trust me, I know.” Oren chuckled and held his hand out.  “Come on.  Time to take you home.” 

The ride home was uneventful, apart from the several times when Jack nearly leaned off the wagon bench and Oren had to reach out from the reins to set him upright.  The winding trail leading up to the ranch was particularly perilous, with Oren finally choosing to hold Jack up by the shirt-collar with one hand as he steered.  Finally, the trail levelled out and the lights of Holt’s house flickered ahead. 

Holt was waiting for them outside.  It wasn’t every night a wagon came by.  “What happened?” he asked, looking at Jack with concern. 

“Jack decided to bite a dog,” Oren replied, tugging the reins to stop the horses.  “But it’s alright.  Jack won.”  Holt reached up to help Jack get off the wagon, and grunted as Jack fell into his arms and peered up at him with an unsteady smile. 

“Is he drunk?” Holt asked, his tone incredulous.  “He smells like whiskey.”

“Not precisely,” Oren answered as he hopped from the bench.  “Sara gave him one of Ygana’s concoctions.  And trust me, it’s not the same as being drunk.  You should try it sometime.  Anyway, Meryn used whiskey to clean up his wounds. Be careful of the bandage.”

“Yeah,” Jack slurred, helpfully holding up his arm so Holt could see his nice clean linen. 

The two men helped Jack stagger into the house as Oren rehashed the night’s events for Holt.  Once or twice Jack wanted to interject some detail or correction, but by the time he’d formulated the words Oren was well beyond that point of the story.  Finally, Jack gave up.  It was far easier to say nothing. 

Once in Jack’s room, Oren sat him down on the bed, and pushed him gently by the chest.  Unable to resist that powerful force, Jack fell back onto his pillow.  Holt grabbed his ankles and levered his legs up onto the mat, pulling off Jack’s boots and tossing them on the floor. 

“Let him sleep,” Oren said.  “Do you have any ale?”

The two men departed the room, leaving Jack to stare disinterestedly at the ceiling until sleep finally overtook him.  His dreams were strangely denuded of emotion, even though they were filled with blood, fire, and snapping jaws.

© Copyright 2025 T.C. Austin. All rights reserved.