NO CROSSROADS FOR ME, THANKS.
Countess Bohdi was hard at work back in the castle, she’d predicted the possibility it would come to this a while ago, and so the groundwork was laid out. So many “concerned citizens” and a few carefully worded letters to newspapers (not the papers themselves, of course, the opinions column was far more useful if you really wished to destroy a person socially without pesky calls for a retraction, and with enough of the proper fertiliser (bullshit) the seeds of mistruth could grow so well until they were practically considered a conclusive fact.)
Of course, the initial cultivators of the rumours thought it was all their idea and, of course, had been destroyed socially when it was linked back to them. But they had just reaped what they had sown, and now the possibility of “proper guidance” in case of the king’s death was out there and had firmly taken root. Others from the guild acted rather like an axeman, swinging wildly until they succeeded in a hit. She considered herself more akin to a scalpel, a careful slice here and there, and a well-executed removal of the problematic area was far more effective in her eyes.
Though this particular removal was proving quite challenging, especially now that gossip of a Gods blessing had taken hold. There are some things that tend to stymie a political scheme, and one of those is religion.
Well, at least her other scheme had worked out; poor tragic Countess Bodhi was about to become a widow after her husband met with a terrible accident on the road tomorrow. She couldn’t help but chuckle quietly to herself, wondering how long it would take before they found the new will.
************************************************************************
John Peters (you know, The farmer?) was rather peeved to find after all his effort to go back to a slow and steady driving speed that he had somehow managed to crack a wheel and even break a spindle. he was completely up the road, without a wagon (which achieved the same result as being up the creek without a paddle, which was even more fitting when you consider the road was Schitt’s Lane.) His usual maintenance routine would, of course, not work with this much damage. But given that his usual repair routine consisted of a thorough examination (eyeballing it), a verbal assessment of the situation (swearing at it and a sucking of the teeth, like that, would magically let him know exactly what to do,) and percussive maintenance, (kicking the god’s damned thing,) and a secondary round of verbal reassessment (swearing again because despite this routine being standard for him he never learned that kicking half a tonne of wood and metal-bloody hurts.) Followed by a careful consideration of the situation and further actions. (sitting down in the seat for a sulk and a smoke.)
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Going my way?” asked the hooded stranger who had popped up from the gods alone knew where. Nearly giving John a heart attack in the process.
“Not going anywhere, more like.” Grumbled John, “cracked a wheel, and in case you hadn’t noticed, this place ain’t exactly swimming in wheelwrights.”
“Mind if I take a look?” The stranger asked.
John was not much liking this situation, hooded strangers on the road offering assistance? This was a cautionary tale waiting to happen. He looked around carefully to make sure he was far away from any crossroads; hooded strangers at crossroads were a special kind of bad news and one he wasn’t particularly keen to deal with. But he was in the clear, miles from any crossroads and multiple bends along the way, so he couldn’t be got on a technicality. After all, demons were practically the first protolawyers (John couldn’t help but shudder at the thought.) Not that he minded the thought of becoming a great and famous musician (though the ability to eventually stop singing was a personal requirement of his, as was retaining his immortal soul and avoiding the whole hellfire scenario. He was picky like that.) But this was just a wonky wheel, so he could afford to be cautious.
“Sure, knock yourself out.”
The hooded stranger carefully walked around the wagon, examining it, then stopped at the wheel, muttering to himself.
“Looks fine to me,” he said.
“What do you mean it looks fine? If that wheel were any more knackered, it’d be in halves.” He hopped down and took a look, finding to his shock that the wheel was indeed completely intact.
Now John wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth (apart from anything else horses bite at one end and shite at the other, and the bits in the middle somehow kick, you couldn’t trust them at the best of times, let alone when they were free.) But this entire situation was making him really uncomfortable.
“So what do you want for your help? Because if it’s my soul, I’ll leave the bloody wagon and walk.” Not like Bessie and Bertha will mind being led, and you only helped with the wagon anyway.”
The stranger gave a chuckle at that, “I’m not the soul-stealing kind, so you can relax.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, I asked what you wanted in exchange for the help, and I would appreciate a straight answer, mister.”
“Nothing at all really but a lift down the road a ways; I’m sick of all this walking, and to pre-empt your next question, I’ll set a distance limit of a mile if it reassures you.”
“And you won’t curse me, drag me off to retrieve any slumbering knights, no strange destinies. Swords in stones, or vanishing from the seat a mile down the road with an eerie laugh, or anything like that?” Asked John cautiously.
“I swear in Gods name that I will not curse you, trick you, manipulate you, swap you with a changeling (John flinched, hadn’t even thought of that one,) lead you into hell (another one he hadn’t thought of, this was not reassuring him.) Or in any way do anything but travel a mile in your wagon with you, then disembark.”
“Which God,” John asked.
“Which God indeed,” replied the hooded figure with an amicable laugh.