The slow chase

The glowing orb of light led up the track. Runt followed from a distance in the dark, silent and watchful. Tyron grunted at the trooper standing at the crossroads and continued on. They passed several buildings, all familiar now, until, up ahead, he saw a cluster of lantern lights surrounding a loaded cart.

“The stables,” Runt thought to himself, “it figures.”

Runt crouched at a distance and watched. He could see the men, nine of them, and Tyron and Gunther, all holding lanterns and talking nervously. The dogs whined and grumbled as if they sensed the tension. All except Stripes, standing a head taller than the others. Runt’s pup didn’t seem bothered by any of it.

Tyron jerked the leads and began tramping down the hill. Once or twice, he was forced to lay the boot into one of the dogs to stop it scrapping with Stripes. Gunther slapped the horse’s rump and then legged himself up into the cart with weasel-like agility. A couple of the men jogged up ahead to the rocks of the outer fence line and rolled several out the way. The rest of the men stayed near the cart. The party rolled on out towards the farmlands.

Staying hidden was not a problem for Runt. The cart rattled and bumped along the crude track. The men held torches aloft and talked in low mutters to one another. The pace was slow. Runt increased his speed a little to get closer. He could make out, now, the contents of the cart. There were crates stacked upon crates of empty, rattling bottles. There were piles of empty buckets stacked next to them. Also, several bulging sacks were heaped near the front, behind the driver.

Up ahead, in the moonlight, Runt saw the shadow of a farm cottage, but when they drew near he saw that it was deserted and crumbling into ruin. The cart turned here and now headed on, directly towards the Wilds Beyond.

From a distance, the edge of the Wilds looks like a neatly drawn line of trees. Up close, Runt saw that it was more messy than that. There were trees, shrubs, long grasses, and ferns. The cart quickly disappeared into the scrub. The shadows cast by the lanterns became twisted giants frantically leaping to-and-fro. The talking mostly stopped and the men trudged on in nervous silence. The scrub, though, was anything but silent. Crickets chirped, frogs croaked, the bushes rustled with unseen travellers, and all kinds of night bird sang, squawked, and hooted.

Runt knew they were close when the smell of the scrub changed. It began as a faint tickle in his nose but rapidly developed into an overpowering odour of bread, and apples, and oily whiffs of grog. He heard Gunther call the men to a halt and one of the horses whinnied as he pulled in the reins. The cart stopped in a clearing up ahead. Runt crept to the edge of the scrub and watched.

The men methodically unloaded the crates of empty bottles off the cart and into a crudely built shed. The doors were flung open wide and, inside, Runt saw a confusing assembly of iron tanks, pots, and wooden barrels connected by pipes. A small fire burned under one of the tanks and the smell of bread, apples and booze was much stronger here. As soon as the crates were unloaded, the whole process was repeated, in reverse. Near the back of the shed, in the flickering lantern light, glimmered hundreds of bottles of neatly stacked booze. The men started lugging the crates out, one by one.

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Gunther, meanwhile, had alighted from the cart. Several of the sacks he carried into the shed. Runt guessed they contained ingredients for making more of the booze. Another of the sacks he carried around the back of the shed. Runt was forced to scramble around the edge of the clearing to see where he took it.

A small, dingy cottage, no more than a hovel, stood behind the shed. It was roughly made with irregular sized planks of wood and small, unsplit logs. Gunther rapped on the door, but it didn’t open. Instead, a curtain was flung aside, and a pale face appeared in the nearby window.

Well, it was something like a window. In reality, it was just a place where the planks were spaced a little wider apart allowing small gaps to see through. There was no glass, and Runt saw that the curtain framing the gap was made of an old rotting sack.

“You gonna open up, or what? I brung your food and whatnot.” Gunther growled.

“Just… just leave it there. I’ll get it in the morning. In the daylight. No, actually, leave it in the shed. In case… in case they get it. They might steal it.” The man’s high pitched voice wavered desperately and his fingers were clenched over one of the planks. His face was not much more than a silhouette.

Gunther shrugged and started to walk away.

“Wait… w-wait! I… I want to come back with you guys.” Runt saw the man licking his lips nervously.

“Huh? You ain’t due back for another month. Who’s gonna work the still if you come back?”

“To hell with the still! And to hell with the booze! I… I’m done with it! I’m coming back with you guys. I can’t take it out here anymore.”

Gunther’s head tipped back and he brayed with laughter.

“What’s the matter? You need more money? You’ll have to sort that with the boss when you get back. Here’s your pay for this week, though.”

Gunther pulled a leather pouch out his pocket and poked it through one of the gaps. The gold coins clinked together as they tumbled to the floor inside the cottage.

“It’s not the money,” the man whined, and his fingers gripped the wooden planks tighter till the knuckles turned white, “there’s weird stuff going on out here in the scrub. I hear… noises. And I’m seeing things. Shadows. Creatures in the treetops staring with big bright eyes. And when I turn to look at them, they disappear. Sometimes I hear things flying overhead. And it’s not just at night, anymore. I tell you, there’s something out there and it’s going to get me! Please – “ and, at that, the man burst through the door, “please! Take me with you. Here –“ his shaking hands scrabbled in the dirt, picked up the pouch of gold, and forced the coins back into Gunther’s pocket, “take the money. It’s yours. And take me with you.”

Gunther grabbed two handfuls of the man’s collar and thrust him up against the wall.

“Get a bloody grip of yourself, son.” He hissed through gritted teeth. “You’re out here another month, right? Cooking up some booze. Four. More. Weeks. Then we take you back. We’ll turn up with another bloke and they’ll take over. Just like you did before. Got it?”

The man slumped down and started sobbing. Gunther stood back, hesitated, then threw the pouch of gold through the door into the cottage. He left the sack of food where it lay and walked back to the cart.