Wix’s father drove the cart forward to the end of the block and made a right. Now that they’d finished the negotiations and paperwork with the store, it was time to head around back and load up.
They traveled another half-block before making another right, down the alley behind the establishment. Steep, red brick walls enclosed the cart on either side, turning the sky into a constricted bar of blue above. Eventually the alleyway widened, opening up into the store’s loading bay. Steps led up to a platform that was used to offload stock from the supply wagons.
The shopkeeper, Gorvan, wore a long apron with pockets sewn on, and a pair of glasses with noticeably thick lenses. He had a hairline that had receded sharply every year since Wix had started going with Kedrik into Roldart, and at this point only a couple bushy vestiges at the back of his head remained.
It took mere moments for the three of them to load up the four sacks of corn seed. Kedrik counted out fifty Alveranderan dollars. The price had hiked significantly from last year, which Gorvan claimed was due to inflation, as well as shortages caused by the war.
Gorvan tried to make conversation with Wix. More than once he mentioned how much Wix had grown, and how he barely recognized him anymore. Both times, Wix tried to cut the talk short, and had become suddenly and intently interested in a stretch of brick wall on the opposite side of the alley. Older people could be so embarrassing, sometimes.
Wix distanced himself from the conversation. He walked the length of the alley, flicking and throwing small pebbles and pieces of gravel various holes and gaps between the bricks. Often, he was successful in wedging them there.
Until, of course, Kedrik snapped at him. Told him to head back to the cart and wait for him. Wix grudgingly obeyed.
Eventually, there was a lull in the conversation. Gorvan, arms folded, began nodding to himself, smiling at each of them in a cordial, satisfied way.
Kedrik shook hands, said that they’d best be off. Gorvan waved them off before heading back into the shop.
As soon as Wix’s father was back in the cart, he said, “Oh, and don’t think I didn’t remember your birthday.”
Wix glanced sideways at him. “Did you?”
Kedrik nodded, looking straight ahead. He leaned forward and took hold of the reins. “You’ll get your gift. Soon enough.”
Though his father kept his gaze forward, Wix studied the man’s face, looking for any telltale signs of sarcasm. The last time he’d received a gift from his father had been...well, never. He also couldn’t remember a time when his father had ever mentioned his birthday without being snarky about it. On his thirteenth birthday, he had suggested taking Wix out back and giving him his thirteen beatings with his belt. A joke, of course, but not one that Wix found particularly funny.
Was this like that? Some kind of prank?
“You’ll get your gift. Soon enough.”
It was so out of character. Wix couldn’t bring himself to quite believe it. It seemed more reasonable to think that he must have done something wrong, and that this was his father’s way of saying that once they were home, he would be punished for it.
But had he actually disobeyed, somehow? He couldn’t remember doing so. And there was none of that characteristic gleam in Kedrik’s eye. The one he had when Wix asked ‘Why?’ and his answer was ‘Because I said so.’ That self-satisfaction with the fact that he was the parent. He was in control.
Okay, so the look was sort of there. It almost always was. But there was something different about it, now. Wix couldn’t quite interpret it, but it made him both excited and uneasy about what lied ahead. The unknown potential of it.
Though the sidewalks were crowded with people, the paved roads were mostly clear, except for the clusters of pedestrians crossing the street here and there. Occasionally Kedrik pulled back on the reins, adjusting to the flow of traffic. Always eventually followed by another impatient slap of the reins. Ahead, the heads of the two horses—Dusty and Willow—bobbed as they trotted along.
Roldart was a sort of hub city, located a relatively equal distance between several local mining towns, none of which Wix had ever visited. Even so, it was easy to pick apart the townsfolk from the city-folk in the crowds. He felt a sense of kinship with those wearing clothes that were dusty and dirty from travel and work. The people with freckled faces and sunburnt skin. The people that couldn’t afford to bathe themselves every day, or perhaps even every other day. In a way, these were Wix’s people.
Then, of course, there were the rich folk. Ones like the man who’d walked past Wix earlier, with his pretentious chimney hat and his solid black cane, smooth and lacquered to a shine.
Of course, without the rich folk, Roldart wouldn’t exist. It was founded and bolstered by investors from the north, traveling south and west to the frontier, looking to stake their claims in the western expansion.
The northern people had traveled south. And they had tried, to the best of their ability, to bring the north with them. In a way, that’s what Roldart was. A portal into another world, with it’s tall, brick buildings and smoothly paved streets. Its fancy shops with exorbitantly priced goods. One could say that the skyline of the city was a statuesque marvel, clearly visible for miles. While Wix appreciated the work and craftsmanship that had gone into the construction of the structures, ‘marvel’ seemed like a bit of a strong word. Roldart was more like a ‘giant zit’. A protruding sore on the western range. One he could see clearly while lying back on the slant of the roof of his house, and could imagine popping between his index finger and thumb.
It could be an exciting place to visit. But never for too long. Neither he nor Kedrik ever felt any desire to explore or ‘experience’ the city at any extended length.
Kedrik kept the cart on the main drag. Within minutes they were exiting the city proper and catching the dusty trail, heading west toward Tantern.
As the sounds and sights of Roldart faded, Wix had a sinking feeling. A sense that he’d forgotten something.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
This happened every year. They made the trip so infrequently that, despite his dislike for the city, he felt this immense pressure to shop while they were there. Buy himself a treat, or some new clothes, or a book to help pass the time. Once they were out of the city, this chance was obviously gone.
Of course, this year Wix had specifically made sure to leave his savings at home. They were safely tucked away under a false drawer bottom in his cabinet, where he wouldn’t be tempted to spend it. The more he blew his money on things he didn’t need, the harder it would be to move out once the opportunity arose. What that chance might be, he didn’t know. But if—or when—it happened, he wanted to be ready, and not kicking himself for any shortsighted expenditures.
Wix put Roldart out of his mind and leaned back in the seat of the cart, adjusting his hat so as to shield his eyes from the sun. There was something satisfying about the open trail, and the and calm and quiet of the southwestern frontier, especially after the noise and hubbub of the city. Even the occasional blackhawk which passed overhead seemed to refrain from its usual caws and shrieks, as if reluctant to break the tranquil silence of the range. Silent except for the cadent stomp of horse hooves on the trail and the grinding turn of the cart’s wheels against the dirt.
Dustclouds billowed up from somewhere further ahead along the road. It was probably the wagons carrying the Kaine company slaves that had been on the train. That girl would be on one of them, being rocked and jostled as the wagon was pulled fast along the bumpy trail.
Did she know where she was being taken? What she would soon be going through? Wix almost wished she didn’t. It was better to wonder and hope than to be stuck contemplating a future you already knew. Perhaps she still had a few more hours before the reality would finally hit home. Perhaps that was at least something. Sometimes it was better not to know.
And sometimes, he thought, It’s better not to obsess over things you can’t control.
In life, you looked out for yourself, and you looked out for your family. It was a saying of Kedrik’s, but he was right about at least this much. When you had limited resources, it payed to focus them, hone them in a specific direction. Right now, Wix’s goal was to leave home, get away from Kedrik’s, and finally start to live his own life. Be his own man. He could not save himself and everyone else. Not at the same time.
Just as he considered this, Kedrik began to pull back on the reins, slowing the cart. Hours had passed on the road, and the sun was just beginning to ride downward toward the ridgeback hills to the northwest. It wasn’t dark yet, but within a couple hours, or perhaps even less time, sharp shadows from the mountains would begin to etch their ways across the plains.
Kedrik began to veer the cart off the trail.
“What’s this about?” Wix said. It didn’t make to stop for a break now, not when they still had a chance to get home before dark.
“You’ll see,” Kedrik said, focusing on steering the horses.
Once again, there was something ominous about those words. Or perhaps just the way he said them.
It was as if a tight ball of muscle had started to form somewhere in Wix’s chest. His next breath came shallow and forced.
Which was silly, of course. He shouldn’t be afraid. He wasn’t going to get hurt. He wouldn’t let it happen.
Kedrik could be hard to predict, sometimes. There were times when his outbursts seemed to come out of nowhere. But that didn’t mean that Wix had to stand there and take it. He wasn’t going to let that happen, anymore. He’d made that promise to himself.
Kedrik brought the cart to a stop a short ways off the trail. Ahead, at a distance further away than they were from the trail, were some rises of bright-colored, crenellated rock.
He hopped down from the cart. “Come on,” he said, waving Wix over.
Wix turned so that his father wouldn’t see him taking a deep breath. He jumped down off the cart. By the time he had walked around the cart to his father, Kedrik had removed his gun belt. It was fashioned from tanned leather and had little loops ringing the outer edge for ammo storage.
Normally, belt removal was a bad sign. Sometimes—although this hadn’t happened in a couple years—Kedrik would remove the revolver from the holster and hold it in one hand while he whipped Wix with the other.
Wix reminded himself not to cringe or physically brace for what was coming. Shows of weakness provoked and emboldened Kedrik, making the outbursts even worse.
He would fight back. Maybe he would see if he could catch the belt in mid-swing. But he wouldn’t flinch. And he wouldn’t run.
Kedrik held up the belt. However, he hadn’t removed the revolver. It was still sitting in the holster. And he appeared to be holding it out toward Wix. One end of the belt hung down limply between them like a dead snake.
“Take it,” Kedrik said. “It’s yours.”
Wix looked to his father’s face for confirmation, then back to the gun belt. It was angled with the revolver’s handle turned toward him. The grip was composed of a sort of marbled wood, obsidian and caramel colors swirling together. The surface of it was lacquered smooth, and almost shined in the light.
The gunmetal had a dark, muddy look to it, with a slight hint of green.
The revolver was positioned so that if Wix wanted, he could simply reach over and pull it out of the holster. And the very thought of that sent bits of bile slowly crawling up the back of his throat.
He swallowed, and fought a shiver originating somewhere in his upper back.
He had no problem looking at guns. Or seeing them used. He’d read a number of technical books with special sketches and diagrams, showing how various firearms worked. Everything from six-guns to shoulder-rifles, to artillery cannons. He’d studied them, memorized their components. He understood the mechanics.
But he didn’t take the belt. Couldn’t.
Kedrik’s teeth locked together, flexing the back corners of his jaw.
“Why don’t you ever tell me what the hell this is?” He said.
The answer was that Wix didn’t know. But saying so would only make Kedrik angrier. So he said nothing.
Kedrik leaned. He took a step, closing the gap between them a little.
Wix didn’t move. Didn’t avert his eyes.
“Jenny protects you,” Kedrik said. “She says I need to be...sensitive.” He cocked his head. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. In precisely the way that I instruct you. Anything less is disobedience, in my book. It’s disrespectful!”
He wasn’t just angry. He was...hurt, somehow. He didn’t understand. But perhaps he wanted to. Perhaps he really cared.
Still, even though he could feel his own defenses lowering, Wix resisted the temptation to speak. Experience, as well as his own personal instincts, told him not to engage. Anything he would say would make things worse than nothing at all.
Kedrik cocked his head. “Do you really think the Federation will accept some kid who can’t even hold a gun?”
Wix’s face must have betrayed some surprise, because Kedrik crept even closer. His response to his father’s words, even if it had been a slight shift in expression, had in some way validated this interaction they were having. It was fuel to his fire.
Just when Wix was sure that the revolver was to be removed from the holster, and the whipping was about to commence, Kedrik stepped closer once again. Close enough to smell the woody notes of tobacco smoke residue on his shirt and face and hands. There had been a time when that smell was a comfort to Wix. When it made him feel safe.
Kedrik shoved the gunbelt, with the revolver still in it’s holster, against Wix’s chest. Wix instinctively reached up to grab it, rather than let it fall, though he kept his fingers far clear of the gun.
“Use it. Don’t use it. Whatever,” Kedrik said. “Just know that it’s yours. And there may come a time when you’ll need it.” He took a step back, still facing Wix. “Next time, don’t disobey me.”
And then he was gone, heading back to the cart, boot heels crunching on the gravelly dirt.
Wix took a moment to collect himself. For a moment, while he had been looking at the gun, it had been difficult to breathe. But he could feel the air starting to come easy again.
Clutching the belt, he turned and followed after his father.