Donaldson's Dairy the two words swinging creakily in the wind were emblazoned in Westcott Donaldson’s mind for all eternity. Originally his store sign was supposed to read: "Donaldson's Dairy, Produce & Assorted General Goods". A mouthful but an accurate portrayal of proprietor wide range of wares: milk, cheese, fruit, vegetables, herbs, and hardware.
For a precisian such as Westcott, it wasn't sufficient for his sign to simply say "store" or "supplies" or even "shoppe" yet as an erudite man of the world, he was well aware that life is lived in the margins between what you want and what you get.
The proof in the pudding - an over-egged one at that - was erstwhile sign writer, Riley Fawlty. Westcott theorised his true name was Really Faulty and that he'd simply spelled it incorrectly his entire life. Proper spelling, oft considered a prerequisite of the profession, apparently lay beyond his limited capabilities. It was a small mercy Westcott's sign said "Dairy" rather than "Diary" - he'd intercepted the simpleton scant seconds before he could dot the "i" that would spell disaster. Not that he'd left enough space to ink in "disaster". An utter absence of forethought had left absolutely no room on the board for the four other titular words - living proof that 'failing to plan is planning to fail'.
In the face of Westcott's righteous umbrage, Fawlty hadn't given a tinker's damn. In fact, he'd brazenly suggested that a second sign with the second half of the title could simply be tacked on underneath. That's when the saying "as thick as two short planks" sprang to mind and almost to Westcott's lips. To add insult to injury, Fawlty blithely insisted on charging like a wounded bull for his first failure then sought another arm and a leg to for his rough and ready remedy - refused in short order and no uncertain terms.
Westcott could've saved himself a heap of grey hairs and silver coins if he’d only beheld Fawlty's own "shoppe" sign, prior to acceding to his exorbitant fees.
"Fawltys' sign righting and ingraving for plagues, trophys and busyness signs" was stunning in the scope of its stupidity.
It wasn't only Westcott suffering, the illiterate idiot had left his mark all over town: The butcher, the baker, the chandler, the tinker, the tailor, the cooper, the farrier, the keeler, the lederer, the milliner, the scrivener, the wainwright and the apothecarist had all suffered under his dyslexic brush. Still, a shy bairn gets nowt and Fawlty had built a small fortune by blagging his way through business.
While bristling at the first impression the inept signs gave visitors, Westcott couldn't, in all fairness, condemn it as a false indicator of its nefarious denizens.
Most Norwoodians - or Norons as they were colloquially and locally known - were as thick as mince and similarly illiterate. The rest didn't give a toss.
Westcott shook his head, to clear the clinging cobwebs of his bitter memories. This morning, it was a completely different sign which had him concerned... And curious. The wily store-owner noticed goings-on outside his window, particularly people and especially strangers. Minutes ago, soldier types, travelling as trader guards, had come into his shop for supplies. Stranger still, they were Sarkian.
During the last Sarkian incursion Westcott had been a sergeant. Subsequently he loathed them a good deal less than the great unwashed of Norwood's muddy streets. They say, if you want to understand a man you need to walk a mile in his shoes. In a humanitarian effort to empathise, Westcott had slain as many Sarkians as he humanly could, picking up several pairs of their boots in the process. He soon found them to bring out blisters much the same as his Perugian issue had. Thus, had a great understanding been born - all men were equal-ish - as in equally screwed over by those giving orders.
In the last invasion, seven out of every ten Sarkian soldiers were conscripted - the Emperor's Envoys as they were dubbed were essentially slaves. They hadn't wanted to be here at all. However, this new breed clearly did, carrying themselves with confidence and certitude. Westcott could tell their hearts were in it, making them all the more menacing. Furthermore, they all spoke Perugian passably well and out of the eight of them, only one was an obvious moron - an utterly unlikely occurrence in any collection of common men. This told Westcott they must be upper-echelon soldiers, selected especially. In a word: spies. And judging by their shifty behaviour, up to mischief - plain as a pikestaff.
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Stroking his thick beard thoughtfully, Westcott observed as six of the party headed south. The remaining two split up, heading north-east and north-west respectively. The southbound six hadn't purchased enough supplies to suffice until Southwell. On shanks pony, as they were, it was a full four or five days away and they appeared to be on a day-trip only. Within that radius there were only a few farmsteads and a deserted forest. It didn’t make a lick of sense. Still his dander was up, but he couldn’t quite place why.
Thrumming his fingers across the counter, Westcott considered his next move. It was a crying shame his friend Kennison was away on caravan duty. The captain and he would give them the short shrift! Just like in the good old days ...
In the meantime, he’d keep his eyes peeled and his ear to the ground. He reached under his coin drawer and drew out his old sword with one hand and a whetstone with the other. He'd also keep his blade sharp. There was no telling what their old foes were up to, but they'd surely flutter the dovecotes before they were done. Of that he had no doubt.
"They were Sarkian weren't they Westcott?" Wee Jak stepped out of the shadows. Westcott having forgotten all about the boy got the fright of his life. Stealthy little bugger he was.
"Ooh, is that your service sword? Can I see it?"
"No, it's not a toy," He shoved it back under the counter. "C'mere let's straighten that nose out.”
The boy didn't even wince as Westcott wrenched it back into place with a pop. Never did. Tough little bugger. He grinned wolfishly as Westcottt grabbed a handful of boiled lollies and held them out.
"Skip along home now lad," he said. "Get your other battle scars looked at. Your gran will know better than I what to do.
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Jak sucked on the barley sugar as he walked. It put a spring in his step. He had six more but he was saving them. Spread them out as treats. It would be a months before he had to go back to town again. He always ate one right away though, because he'd bloody earned it.
He'd come close today. Got Girly Tong a good one. Right on the ol’ snoz. He’d bet Jak wasn't the only raccoon in town with a busted beak. Should have pulled tufts of his golden locks out. That'd hurt him more. Practically in ringlets now... Caring about hair... Jak snorted in disdain, blood bubbling out his nostrils.
Ahead a tranquil clearing basked in the muzzy, mustard haze of the afternoon sun. The last of his eight trap sites. He also had four supply caches spread far and wide across the forest. "You can't be too careful..." his gran had told him time and again.
"Or too thorough, " Jak finished the saying aloud. All these years she'd been preaching to the converted, Jak had seen the sense in it from the first.
Again it was empty. He'd been checking them all. It didn't add up. It was still autumn, there should have been plenty of plump, dumb bunnies bounding about. His whole forest felt off somehow. Frowning in concentration, he knelt and deftly reset the twigs of the trap, despite it not being sprung.
He consulted the shadows of his stick sundial he'd constructed. He had one at each of his sites. Nearly five o’clock. Best be getting back to the Grey Grove, where Gran would have dinner ready. He'd been taking his sweet time to avoid his history and language lessons but hopefully he’d still be allowed out for twilight hunting. Hopefully bring back some real meat, a doe or a boar to tide them over the coming winter.
He set off without further ado. It was half-an-hour home from any of his traps. Jak kept them equidistant on purpose, to provide a perimeter of his inner territory - his daily trap checking doubling as a border patrol.
Named the Fair Forest for its fae inhabitants rather than any innate niceness, in Jak's head, it was clearly split into sectors. The selfish elves held sway in the south, all the way to the sea. The goblins dogged the Dragon Spine range to the east. The Ankans, known locally as Eagle Clan, roamed the northern steppes around to N'dor, the salt lake, leaving the whole west to Norwood and the Great Swamp for Gran and him.
Visitors weren't welcome. Not that there were any prying eyes of any shape, size or colour. His gran's wards kept the stupid men, dumb beasts and even creepy crawlies at bay. The elves by their selfish nature never left their southern sanctuary and goblins... Well, Jak had never glimpsed a goblin, but, his gran insisted, "that don't mean they ain't there".
Gran would know...