Ch: 233 Workin’ For A Livin’
The house and baths appeared from a huge cloud of steam just as people began gathering, attracted by the noise. ‘Sweet Home Chicago’ no doubt made absolutely zero sense to the orphans and pensioners who also appeared from the drifting steam.
Gary kept his shadow friends inside, it was bright and sunny in the garden, he didn’t want to mess with the vibe.
“It’s hard being naturally spooky sometimes.” He mumbled quietly.
“Ye were a good boy, my sweet.” Shai whispered back, nudging him with her shoulder gently. “That’s one fer thee…”
“Ooo, I like this game, the prizes can’t be beat!” His wicked grin almost made her want to root for him, the poor fool.
“Aye… play well, lest ye find what the forfeit fer losing be.” She swished her hair across his face, when she dipped in for a chaste kiss.
“Heartless vixen…” He mumbled happily. “You know what that does to me!” She slipped away, keeping just out of reach until they disappeared into the house, still giggling like foolish kids in love.
While those two and their little cluster of kids vanished inside, Ivy took charge. “Brothers, sisters… These bathing facilities are open to all, so please, enjoy for as long as we are in town.” The huge man and his small companion strolled away with a parting wave to the confused crowd of elders and orphans.
“Leave the house alone, our friends are probably not ready for visitors.” The ginger man called loudly. “They are… unpredictable.”
#
Staying on the boat was fun, a real adventure, but Amy liked the fluffy pillows and always perfect bedding of home better. Wilf didn’t care, he was just happy to be able to sleep again. A mid morning nap after marching through an exciting new place was just the thing, but now it was time.
“C’mon Rio, let’s wake up the geezers and go ‘splorin! We’re in a whole new town!”
Amy had Wilf dressed in his new kilt, old leather jacket and ‘Ward Instrument Co.’ t-shirt without any trouble at all. “Really Wilf? No panties?” She demanded gently.
“Boys don’t wear panties, Amy. Wilf, please put on some shorts.” Rio said with a grin.
“Regimental. It’s the only way.” Wilf grumbled and crossed his arms in defiance. He made his point by putting on his own long silly socks and tucking his feet into his slippers himself. “I’m not a baby.”
“No brother, you’re not. Come on… let’s wake up Gary.” Rio took them both by the hand and headed for the door. “I want a snack too…”
“Better be snacks.” Wilf took the stairs one hop at a time, he liked the way his kilt billowed and swirled. “Pants are lame.”
The happy couple were already up and moving, they looked flushed and excited, almost as though they hadn’t napped at all. They were in the kitchen, working on snacks, so the day was saved. Shai had hot cheesy biscuits coming out of the oven, while Gary was slicing a muskmelon and a grenadier pear.
“Ivy and Tallum are on their way back from shopping; they have some stuff they wanna show us. Yay for tour guides!”
He grinned at Wilf and shook his knees back and forth, swishing his own pleated garment. “Kilt buddies for the day!”
“Aye kids, Gary be in fine form… dinnae encourage his foolishness, though that kilt be marvelous fine…” Shai gave his bottom a swat as he passed by with his tray of fruit.
Liam came slouching in looking very satisfied with himself, just as the biscuits hit the table.
“I’ve never really used bureaucracy as a weapon before… The man’s books are a shambles. I don’t think it’s really corruption, just devastating incompetence. I’m ashamed to say, I let him think that I think it’s criminal graft… You are a bad influence on me Gary.”
“He’s a bad influence on everyone.” Tallum rumbled as he came through the door with Ivy. “Your bath is pure chaos right now, brother.”
“I can feel it…” He sighed happily.
“Tis my bath, brother… dinnae forget it!” Shai spun past with another tray of hot biscuits and plopped down in a chair among the kids, across from her fool. “An I feel it as well… ‘tis like I hae a legion of tiny kitties inside me playing wit the string that I am…” She mused, as Gary served the kids.
“New friends in the bath for the first time, they make it… effervescent!” He giggled a little and slathered goat cheese whipped with honey and a hint of thyme on Rio’s biscuit. “It’s one of the perks of being an agent of chaos and madness. Eat up, we have a new town to see!”
#
Damsen, the Crimson Harp was still enjoying her journey to ‘Wheatford’, far to the south and inland. Since it was going to be a long, long trip, she relaxed into her own mind and let her fingers roam over her instrument, scattering music into the wilds. Laced with a stream of her power, it would serve as a warning to any monster or fool who might seek to interrupt the task at hand.
That task was distasteful, but choices and personal preferences were for the living. Her instructions dragged at the remnants of her humanity, twisting like a knife in her ‘guts’ whenever she considered any delay or disobedience. Her mistress’ demands were as inflexible as iron bars: ‘Travel to the town of Wheatford and slay the ruling noble family and its heirs to the last soul, particularly one Trelawny Belen and any mortals in her company’.
Wheatford… Her only recollection of the place was of a dusty, simple farm town ruled by a minor noble house with some eccentric ideas about inheritance and nobility; it was hardly a place of consequence.
It took another three days and nights of marching to reach the shore of the Shallow sea, slogging over wet, muddy tracks, where once roads had run unbroken for miles uncounted. Likewise the towns and villages she vaguely remembered seemed to have evaporated like morning mist. It was shameful to see how far the kingdoms of man had fallen, while she lay in her grave of garnet sand and sorcery.
Not that she had a vested interest in humanity and its doings, being sold off into eternal slavery to an unclean demonic cult had soured her opinion of mankind in general.
With a disdainful snort, she turned her boots south and started walking, strumming her harp as she strode for her destination.
The first village she came to on the coast was little more than a collection of temporary huts, cobbled together from driftwood and flotsam.
Only the central cookfire and a few tiny lights revealed the tiny shantytown, as she strode along on her mission, still scattering songs in her wake. Children and oldsters poured out of the hovels in surprising numbers, drawn by her music.
She didn’t pause there, among the much mended nets and shabby rowboats, despite the village elder’s offer of their meager hospitality.
“My task cannot be delayed, elder; I must continue on.” She answered the most insistent geezer. “I’m working for a living…” She murmured, as her unending song shifted into a faster tempo. “Mm, there’s a song there, I think…”
The geezer watched in silence as she walked into the darkness, strumming and plucking a strange song in the night.
Some days won't end ever,
And some days pass on by…
I'll be working here forever, at least until I die,
Damned if you do, damned if you don't…
I'm supposed to get a raise next week, you know damn well I won't!
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
The music and lyrics flowed so easily, it almost felt as though she had heard it a thousand times before… damn catchy too! She danced down the road by the light of the moons, riding her new, familiar song through the night… “Moons?” She asked aloud, when the incongruity hit her like a falling boulder.
“Fucking two moons? How long was I out?” She demanded of the darkened wildlands all around.
#
Frank and Violet were happy to be back home, they were even in time to supervise most of the spring bottling and the culling of the vines, though his mind kept drifting back to lady Emma’s smile…
Sir Frank Pangbourne’s morning training ride with his squire Trent, was seldom eventful. The lad was steady and sure; even more so, since their foray into the undead teeming wilds with that madman… and Emma… so it was a surprise to hear strange, sweet, raucous and oddly familiar music approaching from the north.
I'm taking what they giving 'cause I'm working for a livin'!
Workin' for a livin', livin' and workin'...
I'm taking what they giving 'cause I'm working for a livin'!
Workin' for a livin', livin' and workin'...
Stonedale was too far north, among the towering sequoias and mossy forested hills to receive much casual foot traffic. Thus, it was even more startling when a figure swathed in crimson from head to toe, strumming a scarlet harp mounted with silver, came strolling down the road in the morning mist.
Their vestments seemed to tell of master rank in a guild, but not one with which he was familiar. Likewise, the other indicators of rank signified a noble retainer of a minor house, though the badge and knot were unfamiliar.
He dismounted at a slight widening of the road as the stranger approached, still playing and singing her exuberant song.
“Greetings, traveler…” Frank called, as his mount and Trent’s, twitched in discomfort at the person’s gaze.
“Greetings, sir knight… I am simply passing through.” She sang, her voice clear and feminine through her veil. “I journey to Wheatford on guild business.”
“I am lord Pangbourne, baronet of Stonedale, this is my domain; those who travel in peace have nothing to fear in my lands.” He said confidently.
“Wheatford, you say… I have just come from visiting there.” He fell in beside the strolling musician, curious now about this person. “What guild do you serve? I don’t recognize your robes.” Frank asked with a smile that faded as he turned to his horse.
“Hush Violet, be polite.” He whispered to his familiar. “They are probably one of Gary’s friends…”
“Is the College of Bards guild, no longer active in these parts?” She asked, with surprise evident in her voice, though the music continued unabated. “That is my guild, The Bardic College.”
“I’ve never heard of it.” the lord murmured. “Have you, Trent?” He turned to the young man in light armor walking his horse a half pace behind.
“Never, sir Frank.” He admitted, while soothing his own horse.
“This Wheatford place… I seek transport there. By ship if possible. I mislike horses.” She seemed far more interested in the pair suddenly.
“I had been considering a jaunt down the coast…” Frank murmured softly. “Walk with us to my home… We will see what arrangements can be made… are you a friend of apprentice Adventurer Gary Ward, of Wheatford? He is also a musician.”
“I know of no one by that name, if he is in the guild, perhaps we will meet.” She answered vaguely. “Lead on, lord Pangbourne of Stonedale.”
Approaching his own family manse in the company of a chance met stranger on the road felt odd, but he shrugged it off. His home’s tall stone foundation rose from a low hilltop, timber and plaster took over twenty feet up, rising three stories to a roof of mossy slates. The old familiar bronze bell sang two times as they were removing their shoes in the entry.
“This is a new conceit of mine, forgive me…” Frank blushed slightly as he explained. “A recent journey introduced me to this concept, please try the slippers.”
Frank’s cobbler had been amused by the request for a few dozen pairs of shearling sheepskin slippers for the lord’s mansion… but most crafters found paying taxes in kind beat paying in coin any day. The fashion had begun taking hold all over town, so his cobbler had stumbled into a nice windfall that would reap some additional taxes anyway.
Frank shook off his economic maunderings and focused on his guest. “Be welcome, you may unveil if you wish, or not. Take your ease, I’ll have someone fetch refreshments.”
The woman never stopped playing gentle, soft music, nor did she respond to his offer to unveil herself. “Thank you, lord Frank, I will await you here.” She sang softly.
Upstairs, Frank had a tense conversation to manage… one he finally had a half assed excuse to force into the open. “Father, great aunt Frances, I’m taking the yacht to Wheatford for a few days. A lady of my acquaintance requires escort there, and I plan to propose marriage to lady Emma Fernlowe.” He blurted out from the head of the stairs. “Make your complaints and protests now, I depart within the hour. Trent and Violet will remain here and Paisley will accompany me with my guest.”
Paisley squealed with delight and dashed out of the hall to pack her things for a journey. At fifteen, she was desperate to see more of the world than the orchards, meadows and vineyards of home…
“Francis Delano Pangbourne, you will do no such foolish thing!” Auntie Frances spoke quietly, biting off each word as though she wished to hurl them at him.
“I will do that very thing and I’ll do it with a smile. If she’ll have me, you’ll be having a new lady of the house.” Frank crossed his arms and leaned against the wall with a smile of absolute surety. “I’m pretty sure she’ll have me.”
Frank stood there and smiled while auntie Frances went round and round the problem like the donkey that turns the fruit press.
“An unknown girl from an unknown house!”
“...a total stranger in our home!”
“...violates a long held family tradition!”
“To think I raised such an ingrate!”
Paisley came thundering down from her chambers dragging a small trunk, with a duffel slung over her shoulder. “I’ve been packed for a week, brother! Let’s go!”
Auntie Frances finally exhausted herself some fifteen minutes after the pair had vanished downstairs and out to the shore, leading a tall, red veiled figure to the family yacht.
“Is he gone?” She gasped at Ferdinand Pangbourne, still sitting silent with a vague smile on his lips. The disobedient young lord’s father smiled and nodded, remaining quiet throughout the ordeal.
“Thank the gods… I thought that boy would never sack up. Someone fetch me some wine.”
#
“You never told me your name, friend.” Frank leaned back against the bench with the tiller under his elbow and a mug of tea in his hand. A gentle wind hurled their little boat downstream, with old Gunny Tallo sitting at the bow, calling the breeze.
“Damsen, lord Frank. Just Damsen.” She murmured.
“Shush Frankie. She can remain anonymous if she wishes.” Paisley smiled hopefully at her new friend. “Don’t mind my brother, he’s been odd since he got back…” She elbowed her brother and grinned. “I hear, there's a girl he likes, down south…”
“It’s not too late to put you ashore, sister dear.” Frank bumped her with his shoulder, rocking the boat just a little.
“No grabass on the water!” Old Gunny shouted back, in a voice made irascible by age and salt spray. “I’ll put both of ye ashore and sail yer guest to Wheatford in peace.”
“Yes, Gunny.” The two young nobles sang in harmony with Damsen’s harp, which had yet to fall silent.
Somehow, even the familiar ritual of being scolded by the aged sailing and weapons master felt odd to the young lord. Something was tickling the back of Frank's mind, like a loose thread in his collar. Thought’s of Emma and anticipation, drove those niggling worries to the side as they sailed down the coast.
#
Sir Frank the baronet was surprisingly resistant to her musical inducements and influence. He displayed the kind of fortitude she usually expected in only the most seasoned veterans. It was almost as though he had been exposed to similar gifts and glamors for an extended period… Of course that was… inconceivable!
These rubes had never even heard of the Bardic College, how could they have been exposed to the subtle arts. Surely no backwoods skiffle band, whomping on homemade instruments could have touched the harmonies that resonate in the mortal soul.
#
“Nothing moves the soul like a good, tight skiffle band in the afternoon!” He shouted over the ruckus exploding all around.
“Washtub bass and jug band section, watch for my left foot if you lose time. Pots and pans, keep up and make them bright. Nice and crisp, give me a roll on the pan lid cymbals when I signal.” Gary explained to thirty orphans gathered in Shai’s garden. “Most of my real instruments got trashed by a rampaging dillhole, kids.”
“Gary, that was a dullahan, not a dillho…-” Liam’s mad brother raised his baton and drowned out the young warrior’s complaints with a wall of noise.
“We're going right into ska! Hold on tight!” Gary shouted at the band of grinning noise makers.
Black coat, white shoes, black hat, Cadillac!
Yeah, the boy's a time bomb!
Well, he's back in the hole where they got him living,
Like a rat but he's smarter than that nine lives!
Like a cat 15 years old, take him to the youth authority home
First thing you learn, you got to make it in this world alone!
Shai leaned into her hips and took the ride. Her boy was back to his old, mad tricks and she was over the moons, both of them. He had Cab’s baton out, dazzling the eye with every tap and swish of the enchanted wand. The group of freshly washed and clothed teens was rumbling along like a freight wagon on a downhill run… where this was headed only her fool boy knew for sure.
“I have a bad feeling about this…” Becky shouted, with a grin that said she was looking forward to whatever catastrophe was incoming.
“What’s a ‘cadeelak’ or a ‘timebomb’?” Someone demanded loudly from the back of the band. Nobody answered so the questions just got swept away in the tide of sound.
Her boy was throwing everything at these kids, working himself into a sweaty, delicious mess. They’d strolled, shopped and wandered from one side of town to the other, following Tallum and Ivy, now they were thundering towards naptime.
“Tomorrow…” He gasped, as the music wound to a close.
“Tomorrow we will be productive… I swear!”
I’ll worry on ‘productivity’ another time, lad of mine. We hae done much an need tae ease our burdens, ere summat new arise…” Shai halted and sighed in exasperation. “Fie, now I hae put the jinx on it!” She opened the sliding door that led down to the workshop and her forge with a grumble. “Best I sharpen me swords an Becky’s.”
#
Pear Blossom skimmed over the wavelets under the steady hand of the old salt, freeing The passengers up for smalltalk, so Frank lit into the tale of his recent journey. Paisley had been demanding every detail since he’d returned, now she had him cornered.
Their guest spoke little, though she continued to play and sometimes sing softly. She seemed to pay little mind to their talk, until lady Trelawny’s name came up.
“I have business with lady Trelawny Belen… you say she is going to Port Sunderland?” She asked abruptly.
“Yes… that was what she said when we parted ways.” Frank murmured, nonplussed by her sudden interest.
“Take me to her, please.” Damsen sang softly, as her music shifted into a new and strange key. “Change course and take me to this… Port Sunderland, sir Frank.” Her voice was insistent and urged compliance.
Frank shook his head to clear the cobwebs and pawed at his face in exhaustion. “I have urgent business in Wheatford, but I will help you find passage to Port Sunderland, when we reach Port Fallon.” She didn’t reply, she just kept playing, lost in thought. They anchored in a sheltered cove for the night and bedded down, letting the small ship rock them to sleep, secure and peaceful.
Old Gunny Tallo was a distant great uncle of some kind to the Pangbourne main family; a commoner, but he was absolutely loyal and the most powerful wind caller in the north of the Shallow Sea. He’d been plying the ‘waves’ since Frank’s great grandfather was the baronet, the old coot was the unofficial skipper of the family yacht...
Waking and finding the ship under way before dawn didn’t worry the young lord, it did bother him though. He clambered out of his tiny cabin and popped out on deck through a hatch.
“Gunny… why are we out of sight of shore?” The young lord asked.
“Better wind, now pipe it lad, get below, storm’s coming.” The old man’s clipped speech left no room for argument, so he slipped back below, joining Paisley and Damsen in the combined galley and mess.
“Storm’s coming.” He murmured, unable to shake an odd feeling in the back of his mind.
#