September 24th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

It was noon, early autumn, yet the air was hot and dry as it had been for months. Mak rode along the seldom-used road once flanked by meadows of strong, lush grass and timothy, dotted with flowers and hopping with rodents and birds. Recent summer heat and lack of moisture, however, left a mess of gnarled tangles of what looked like parched hay that even Butterhoof ignored.

Daun’s property came into view at the peak of a gradual incline in the road. His land was vast, but mostly consisted of hills and uneven ground. The crops were scattered in odd patches all about the property. It took a full day to water the fields. Daun didn’t have access to the river, instead, they relied on the rain. But it had abandoned him that summer, and so his fields looked no different than the parched wild meadows.

Their house was a small square at the base of a hill. They couldn’t afford to expand over their limited flat lands, so when the family grew, they built upward. It stood three storeys, about the same height as the hill beside it. A ditch ran between hill and home to both reroute and capture rainwater. The ditch, like everything else, was bone dry.

With a heavy heart, Mak rehearsed breaking the news of the stillborn. Daun and his family were relying on him as he was the only farmer in the area willing to sell them a cow at such a low price. Mak wished he could help in any way, but he had his own family to think about. It was a difficult summer.

Activity at the far end of Daun’s land caused Mak to slow Butterhoof’s pace with a gentle tug of the reins. He lowered the brim of his hat to shield his eyes from the sun and peered across the rolling territory. Piles of crates were stacked near a troop of working centaur slaves. They wielded massive hammers no man could ever lift and slammed them onto what looked like the early bones of train tracks. Fat foremen stood behind them, dressed in the northern black with brass buttons. They barked orders, short muskets in hand.

Two carriages parked beside the worksite bore the Westen Freight logo—a red X of rails encircled by golden rope, knotted at the very top. There were no horses. Once the centaurs were done laying rail, they’d be pulling the northerners and their carriages home.

Mak pulled the reins, halting Butterhoof farther from Daun’s front door than initially intended. He hitched her to an out-of-sight tree on the shadowed side of the hill. “Be patient,” he whispered. “I’m sure its nothing, but you’re a big gal and I’d rather get to Daun’s door without being seen.”

Butterhoof blinked and lowered her head to graze.

Mak moved at a brisk pace down the path to Daun’s front door with his head low. The house loomed ahead, embracing him in its cool shadow. Each storey was built of different coloured bricks—red for the first, grey for the second, and the third an odd blend of both.

He stopped before the door. The familiar voices of Daun’s daughters, speaking only quick phrases to each other, came through the open window to his right. Satisfied that no Westen Freight men were inside, he took a deep breath, brushed the dust from the clean shirt he’d changed into before leaving and knocked. The voices quieted, and nothing happened. He knocked again, a light tap, as friendly as such an act could sound.

The door cracked open. “It’s me,” Mak said when he saw Daun’s eye peeking through.

Daun opened the door. He stood motionless, without any of the welcome Mak was accustomed to. His left eye was swollen shut, raw and purple. His bald scalp was riddled with scratches and scabs, and lines of blood leaked into the crown of dark hair. One of his earlobes was missing, the wound crusted, and his lip was split and still bleeding.

“What happened?” Mak recoiled.

“Come in,” Daun said.

He entered. The door shut silently, closing them into a room that was dark and cold. Not a lantern or hearth burned. Daun’s wife, Valli, one son, and two of their daughters, all younger than twelve, huddled in the far corner of the room. They regarded Mak with no expression, then returned their attention to the center of their huddle, from which Mak caught the scent of smoke. There must have been a twig fire there, too small to emit any light from within the huddle. Their two oldest, a boy and a girl, were absent. Mak’s heart sank as he assumed the worst.

“You walk here?” Daun’s usual deep, booming voice was hoarse and subdued, barely audible.

“Took the horse,” Mak said, still in disbelief of the state of his friend’s homestead. “I hitched her back closer to the road.”

Daun nodded and took a seat. He signalled for Mak to do the same. “Wise choice. They would have come running up here to inspect had they spotted you.”

“What’s going on?” Mak took a seat, placed his hat on his lap and looked his old friend up and down. A large lump pushed up the skin on Daun’s left wrist. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Daun bit his bottom lip and winced. “None of this is alright.”

“Your oldest…?” Mak left the question hanging.

“No, no,” Daun pulled at his collar. “They’re fine, thank God. They went off northward with the horse and carriage. Gave them enough coin to rent two more of each. Should be enough to bring the rest of us and our things north, away from this.” He cleared his throat, grimaced, and rubbed a hand over his bruised neck. “That was the coin for your cow,” he said. “I’m sorry you spent ten on that bull. You know I’ll pay you back eventually. I needed to act.”

Mak put a hand up. “Don’t worry about it. You do what you need to protect your family, pal.” He lowered his eyes. “The calf didn’t make it anyway. Stillborn.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Why up north?” Mak scratched his chin. “Why not local work? Jak makes fine wagons. I think he’s got a few for sale.”

“I’d rather my coin go to Jak,” Daun said, “but Picklewood’s full of Westen Freight boys. Figured I’d send them north instead.”

“A lot of northerners up north, too”

Daun smirked. “The ones on our side of the mountain aren’t like those Dogford fools.” His face darkened. “Not like these railers.”

Mak bobbed his head in absent-minded agreement. “What happened here? I had some Westen Freight boys on my property this morning, too.”

“They’re expanding,” Daun waved dismissively. “This Guvson kid. I’m not sure who he is exactly, the owner’s son, heir to the company maybe. He’s something else. Get’s what he wants, that’s for sure.”

“He who did this to you?” Mak eyed his friend’s wounds.

Daun shook his head. “He never touched me. Did kill Runner, though.” Tears pooled in the deep corner of his injured eye.

Stolen story; please report.

A few sobs emitted from the huddled family. Runner was their dog. Mak remembered a time when the hound would prance alongside Duke for days on end, never far from the children. He made a fist.

“His men roughed me up,” Daun struggled to keep composed. “I gave them a good go, but they were too many. Came here with all the legal papers. Papers I know I never signed. I refused them, but they just started building. Tried to stop them and, well…” He pointed to his eye.

“Same thing happened to me,” Mak said, “with the papers, that is.”

It was Daun’s turn to nod absentmindedly. “You need anything, pal?”

“No,” Mak said, “I came to tell you about the calf, but it looks like you’ve had enough bad news.”

“We’ll be fine,” Daun glanced to his huddled family. “We accepted their deal. We’ll be leaving soon. Everything will be fine. You should do the same, Mak.”

The thought of leaving his land to these monsters brought sick to Mak’s stomach. “My Pa once told me that a man is not a man unless he bleeds for land or family. You’ve done both. I wish you never had to, but you should be proud of yourself.”

Daun laughed. “I feel many things right now, but proud ain’t one of them.”

“Don’t worry about the favour you owe me,” Mak smiled. “I’ll give you a pardon on that one.”

Daun’s laugh was genuine and mirthful. He no doubt remembered when he’d gotten too drunk and tried to handle his new steam plough. His oldest son, Parren, had come galloping down to Mak’s house for help. Mak rode alongside the speeding engine, laughing all the way. He finally lassoed the drunken Daun and pulled him to the ground. Parren had hopped in to stop the chugging machine. “Didn’t I pay you back for that already? I gave you the damn plough and a nice nugget of fizzore with it.”

“Valli gave me the plough. That was your punishment, not a gift.” It felt like old times again for the shortest of moments.

Daun nodded, his face mirrored the same receding emotions Mak felt. “Thanks, pal. You headed back home?”

“Was on my way to Picklewood.” Mak redonned his hat, ready to leave. “Skylde’s fiddle needs fixing, and I was thinking of stopping by the mayor’s. See if I can get some answers on all of this.”

They stood and shook hands. “I’d advise you to get out of here as quick as you can.” Daun said. “Don’t matter what your Pa told you. He never faced anything like this.”

Mak’s eyes narrowed. He suspected there was more to what happened than Daun was willing to share. He tapped his old pal on the shoulder. “You take care of yourselves. You know where I live if you need anything.” He reached for the door handle and his heart jolted. It rattled before he touched it. Two figures blocked light from entering beneath the door. A loud pair of knocks sounded, draining the blood from his face.

“I’ll be right there,” Daun called to the figures outside. He grabbed Mak by the shoulder and directed him toward the stairs, almost violently.

“What’s going on?” Mak whispered.

“Hide,” Daun had him by both shoulders now. “I beg you, Mak, stay silent. Don’t let them know you’re here.”

Mak nodded. He bent and allowed Daun to push him through the short door and into a small room beneath the stairs. Daun eased the door shut behind him then hurried back toward the constant, slow knocking.

Mak sat on a small bed, his breathing noisier than he would have liked. The air in the tiny room was stiff and musty and tinged with an odd metallic scent that did not sit well in his lungs. The bed was disheveled, and clothing was strewn about the place, making it impossible to step on floor instead of cloth.

The front door swung open. A draft of dry wind rushed into the house and rattled the door of Mak’s tiny hideout. He pushed an eye against a small crack and swallowed hard.

Two men entered. “Do not ever make me wait again,” one of them said.

Mak recognized the other. It was Aldren Knester. His long flowing mane could not be mistaken. He moved behind the other and kept silent. It was much different behaviour than he’d displayed that morning.

The northerner who spoke was garbed in the usual northerner’s clothes, but instead of black, he wore a light brown, the colour of whiskey mixed with milk. His pants were thick, but tight, the colour of cream, and his shoes were short crafts of dark brown leather, nearly black.

“What took you so long?” The cream-clad man said.

Daun stood small and slouched. “Nothing, sir, I was just resting upstairs. Slept a bit later than I would’ve liked.”

“And why did no one else answer the door?” The man motioned toward Daun’s family, who Mak could not see.

Daun stammered for a moment then found an excuse. “I forbid them from opening the door if I’m not with them. I should’ve told them it was fine if you were the one knocking, sir. My mistake.”

“I think you are hiding something,” the man said. He was young. Maybe eighteen. Only a few years older than Sherik, yet he moved about with an air of power.

“I’m not,” Daun’s voice shook. “I swear it. I’ve done everything you’ve said. I’ve broken none of your rules. None of us have, I swear it.”

The man held out a hand and looked away in disgust. “I do not believe you,” he said, “nor do I care. There is no need to go off snivelling about it.” He turned his attention toward Daun’s family. Mak tensed. The man whistled, then beckoned one of them.

Valli came into view, her head down. The brown loosely made bun slumped over her ear, as strong and stiff as her posture.

“You are too pretty to mope,” Aldren said. “Come now, let us see that smile.”

Valli raised her head and stared straight ahead, no emotion on her tired face.

“Never mind,” Aldren laughed. “You are a lot uglier than I remember.”

Mak released the tension he’d been holding in his jaw through a slow, quiet breath. Any bit of civility the man named Aldren had showed during their prior encounter had been a fabrication. Pa had warned him of northerners and their acting.

The cream-clad man stepped between Valli and Aldren. He was awfully close to her. Their chests brushed against each other. Valli flinched but did not move. Neither did Daun. Mak imagined a stranger doing the same to Konni. He wouldn’t be long standing.

A spider crawled onto his lap. He jumped slightly, causing his foot to slide an inch and softly thud the thin door. Sweat glazed his skin. Was it loud? He flicked the spider into the far wall, not visible in the darkness, then pushed his eye against the crack again.

The sweat chilled as Aldren glared in his direction. Mak recoiled. He kept his face a few inches from the crack. His vision was cut significantly, but he didn’t want to risk anything further.

“The men are hungry,” the cream-clad man said to Valli. “Make us food. There are ten of us in total. I expect all to be filled and satisfied.”

Ten? Mak had only noticed five and the centaurs. The others must have been out of sight behind the house.

“You’ll have it, sir,” Daun said in a submissive voice.

Aldren released his focus from the crack in the door and regarded Daun. “We had better.” His eyes slid to Valli. “Well, go on now, get to it.”

He slapped her ass with the strength one would use to send a horse off. The sound was muffled in the silent house. No one spoke after.

Daun laughed nervously. Mak’s blood boiled. Had something similar happened to Konni, he would’ve driven the man threw the nearest wall. Daun was bigger and stronger than Mak. It was odd to see him dominated.

Valli waited a moment, studied her husband, then dropped her head and moved to her cookery once it was clear that her honour would not be defended. She pulled pots, pans, bowls, knives, and spoons from cupboards, along with countless ingredients from the pantry and prepared a meal with vigorous movements at first, then she softened, and her shoulders bobbed as she wept.

Mak gripped the sides of the bed until pain shot through his fingers. This was a family that had grown alongside his own. Not a month passed where they didn’t at least share one feast, or a night of music, laughs, and drinking.

“I should have had a squeeze,” Aldren said. He ran a finger along his guilty palm and smirked as he eyed the cooking wife. “That is a good ass.” He exchanged a look with the cream-clad man. “There is always tomorrow, eh?”

The cream-clad man rolled his eyes and ignored his apparent underling. “This is no way to treat a guest, good man.” He said to Daun. “You will, of course, be compensated for the food. I expect no objections next time.”

Daun bowed his head, like a captured bandit to a circle of deputies.

“I will be back in an hour or so,” the cream-clad man said. “Have the food ready, and, good man, keep a little for yourselves.”

“Thank you, sir,” Daun said, his head bowed.

It was difficult to watch. The shame in Daun thanking a man for a small portion of the food he and his family worked to produce was enough to make Mak’s stomach churn. He imagined the same thing happening on his lands. All the work done by Konni and the kids just to feed rich northerners. He shook his head. There was time yet to put an end to it. The mayor would have answers.

After long looks in the direction of Daun’s children, Aldren and what seemed to be his superior left. Daun stayed frozen before the door, his head still low. Mak shot out of the small room. “What was that?” His voice quiet but intense.

Daun said nothing. Valli was too ashamed to look away from her cooking, and the children remained locked in their huddle, the void left by their mother closed over.

“There’s something you haven’t told me.” Mak said. He meant for it to be a question, but the words exited him as an accusation.

Daun rubbed a hand over his face and coughed. He sent a red, itchy-looking eye Mak’s way. “You should leave, pal. And it’s probably best you don’t come back.”

“I’ll figure this out, Daun,” Mak said. “Keep hope.”

“Hope,” Daun scoffed. “Don’t go nosing around, Mak. Just leave. Leave your house. Leave the district.”

Mak pursed his lips and eyed the man’s wounds. “Like I said before. You know where I live if you need anything.”

Daun nodded and turned away. Mak left without goodbyes.