September 24th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Mak stormed toward his two eldest at the barn’s entrance. “Stay inside, all of you. Sherik, you come with me.” Jerri glared at her brother. The boy shrugged. Her lips moved, but she said nothing. She swiped the blankets and returned to Milli’s stall.

Mak strode toward his stout wooden house that had stood for three generations and the hunting knife within it. He took in a rush of cool air and surveyed his property along the way. The birds in his private coop were calm. The intruders must have been on the far end of the land, if they were there at all.

The dry soil of his barley field, recently harvested of its meager crops, showed no fresh footprints or disturbances. The barn and the tool shed prevented view of the property beyond the field. The river on the north-end, lined by a new fence built during the summer to deal with receding waters no longer deep enough to dissuade the animals from crossing, presented nothing to confirm Sherik’s claim.

Was Sherik’s report of strangers on the farm another excuse for his being late? Mak turned to make sure the boy was following. No one there. He exhaled in frustration and entered the house.

Residual heat from the recently extinguished hearth at the far wall greeted him. He rubbed his hands together, unsure if the shivers were from the early autumn air or nerves. He stepped past Konni’s cookery and over Jerri’s stack of books, wrapped his fingers around the handle of his hunting knife, hung-up on the wall out of reach of the younger children, and froze. His eyes wandered to his dusty old musket.

The gun leaned in a seldom used corner of the house. It was a bland looking weapon, relative to most firearms. A long barrel of black steel led to an intricate flintlock system. Dark walnut wood made up the buttstock and finish along the barrel. Above the nickel trigger and below the flashpan was the faint engraving of a buxom woman holding a similar gun and the word: “MARLAY.” It was an Albentenian brand, imported from the old country across the sea.

There were no problems he couldn’t handle with Duke and the hunting knife, but now, he supposed the dusty musket might see more use. It was last fired to scare off a small band of the native Aquin brought by the river’s current on their thick leaf canoes, in their thick leaf garments. He had watched them, gun loaded, while Konni sheltered Jerri and Sherik. Both had barely learned their words at the time. The natives had banked their flimsy-looking boats and skulked toward his crops, bone knives drawn. “Scare your enemy before killing him, if you can,” his pa’s words had rung in his ears. He’d fired Lady Marlay at the moon. A cloud of smoke formed around him. The natives retreated to their boats and the current swept them away before the echoes of the shot had died.

Skylde’s fiddle leaned over the musket. The instrument was cracked at the neck and riddled with marks from Duke’s teeth. Mak had joked that the dog didn’t like her song, but it had done nothing to console the weeping Skylde. He displaced the fiddle, hoisted the gun, shook cobwebs from the fur-lined leather strap, and slung it comfortably over his shoulder. “Hope I’ve still got my aim.”

He opened a few wooden crates in the cluttered corner looking for ammunition. Most were stuffed with old blankets and baby clothing that’d had no use since Net and Skylde grew out of them. Konni meant to turn them into something useful, but Mak convinced her their days of having babies weren’t necessarily over. He found a small sack of coins, which he pocketed, a few rusted fishing hooks, and in the depths of the largest crate sat two small boxes of bullets, and a pouch of gunpowder. The fancy all-in-one cartridges used by the army weren’t available to citizens. He had to do things the old way.

Mak poured a hastily measured scoop of black powder down the barrel of the gun. The possible presence of dangerous intruders rushed his movements and drew beads of sweat from his brow. Strangers who meant well knew better than to step on someone’s land without knocking first. He brushed powder that had missed its target from his lap. Sherik should have been by his side, eager to help deal with the intruders, whoever they might be. He dropped a heavy lead ball wrapped in paper wadding into the tight muzzle, drew the ramrod, and packed the charge with three solid thrusts. He returned the ramrod to its place beneath the barrel and opened the flashpan to prime the musket. Rich city folk used a finer powder in the flashpan, but he only had the one type, so he poured a small amount of coarse powder into the pan, closed the steel, or frizzen, as the city folk called it, and cocked the hammer. Ready to fire. He retrieved and belted the hunting knife.

Sherik barged into the house, short of breath. Brown eyes locked onto Lady Marlay, and a breath caught in his throat. “Is that necessary?” his voice was strained.

“Better too much than not enough,” Mak repeated his pa’s words. Sherik nodded. “What took you so long to get here?”

“I closed and secured the barn door.” Sherik scratched the back of his neck. “I gave Ma the scythe. Just in case, Pa.”

The boy’s reasoning was acceptable. Mak drew the hunting knife and handed it to his son.

“What about you?” Sherik slid the knife between his belt and pants.

Mak selected a nasty looking meat cleaver from Konni’s cookery. It was too wide to fit in his belt loop. He fastened the cleaver around his waist with rope, adjusted the musket’s strap, and led his son out of the house.

“Don’t brandish your weapon like a fool, boy. Act like you don’t intend to use it. They’ll see what we have, and that should be enough.” Sherik nodded.

They moved past the barn from which came hushed, muffled voices. Konni was singing a song with Skylde, presumably to keep the mood up after a few too many curiosities by Net. Mak imagined he could see the boy’s face even through the opaque walls of the barn—pursed, furrowed, and unconvinced by mere melodies.

Mak skirted the tool shed, his son close behind. He stopped at the sight of distant movement, raised his bristled chin, and narrowed his eyes. The boy hadn’t lied. Figures moved about where his fence met the forest, each one aloof like a fox in the night.

“Men in suits,” Sherik said, revealing he had already gotten a closer look—sneaking on strangers before warning him. Mak wasn’t impressed. Disappointment and pride in his son would interchange as frequently as sun and moon. “Real northern stench to them,” the boy finished with a grimace.

“That so?” Mak started for them at a quick pace but leisurely posture with gun in hand. “Their stench can’t be much worse than this.” He pointed his chin to his grey wool overcoat, covered in dust and stained in some places with Milli’s birth liquids. They must have transferred during his embrace with Konni.

Mak leaned the musket on a broad but aching shoulder to appear neutral. They were still quite a walk from the intruders, who seemed oblivious that they had been spotted. Mak sighed. “We needed you in the barn, boy.”

“The calf didn’t make it?” Sherik’s face softened. The legs of their pants were soaked with dew from the early morning field, almost an insult after the drought-stricken summer.

“Stillborn,” Mak’s hard expression did not waver. The intruders were unloading crates from a horse-pulled carriage. Mak’s jaw tightened, and he shifted the gun to his other shoulder. “You couldn’t have seen these fools with the barn in your way if you’d come straight from the house like you were supposed to. We needed those blankets. What were you doing?”

He wasn’t angered because of the blankets themselves, as they had managed without them. It was the constant tardiness or absence, along with the fact that the boy never showed any signs of pride in his work or the farm.

“I was, uh…” Sherik stammered, “I was on my way when I thought I’d heard something. I went to inspect it, and, well…” he pointed to the men ahead of them.

“Lazy boys make lazy men,” Pa’s words rang.

With enough distance closed, it was clear the men were on Mak’s side of the fence. They walked about aimlessly and talked aloud, pointing here and there. Trespassers. Mak snarled.

Once in earshot, Mak jammed two fingers between his lips and spat out an echoing whistle. The three men jumped and gave their attention, each one a caricature of city-folk. Two were plump, and all three had round faces canopied by dark grey top hats. Thick moustaches sheltered chapped lips, unaccustomed to the dry weather this side of the mountains, and their clothes were a deep, spotless black, fitted perfectly with brass buttons in a line from neck to belt, slightly off-centered.

“You should probably loiter somewhere else if you aren’t in the market for a good trampling,” Mak said. It was an empty threat. A single mare and a few cows weren't enough to trample anyone even if they had a vicious bone in their bodies.

The three exchanged long looks and mumbled incoherent words in the pompous, self-important melodies of the North. One stepped forward. His hands were tucked in pockets too high on his coat, making his stance awkward. “You the owner of this land, good man?” He spoke as if Mak were a child or a native who did not know the language. The man was taller than the others and broad. Long, thick hair, the kind most women would kill for, flowed down his back like a black river.

“What do you think?” Mak said. He adjusted the musket on his shoulder, making sure it caught the early sun’s gleam. He widened his stance and spat to the side, feigning an indifference his sweaty palms would betray.

“This your boy?” the man ignored the retort.

Mak turned to regard his son. Sherik’s dark eyes were set on the intruders, his fists were balled, but trembled, and his legs were spread and uncertain—the stance of a man ready to flee.

“Good-looking lad,” the man said. He looked around the property. “Good-looking land.”

“One gets it from my blood, the other from my toil,” Mak said. The northerner wouldn’t dare laugh or even smile at the remark. Mak may have been nervous, but these men were frightened and tense.

“You own up to here?” one of the others raised a hand. He blinked stupidly when Mak eyed him.

“That would explain the fence you hopped over,” Mak said.

The two in the back removed their hats and brushed a hand over greased hair simultaneously. It couldn’t have been more synchronised if they’d planned it. Mak stifled a laugh, but Sherik let his free.

“What’s this doing here?” Mak pointed to the two-horse carriage and the crates on and around it. “What are these? Why are they on my land?”

The first man stepped forward, lush hair waving in the breeze. Mak dropped his musket to a half-ready position. The man raised his hands submissively. “Hold on, now,” he said. “I mean you no harm. I am unarmed. Not so much as a letter opener. None of us have any weapons, right men?”

The last man yet to speak shook his head. “My pockets carry nothing but coin.”

Mak wasn’t sure if it was a jest or just the natural smugness of a northerner. “I still want answers to my questions.”

“Of course, good man,” the first said. He extended a hand. “May I?” he paused. “Shake your hand, that is?”

Mak shifted his eyes to the hand and back to the man’s face. “You may not.”

“Very well.” His hand returned to his high pocket. “I am Aldren Knester, a prospector for the Westen Freight Railing Company, and let me say that I admire your choice in firearms.”

“My pa bought it,” Mak said. “Wasn’t my choice, but it’s served me well.”

The man nodded nervously. “Indeed, it would. Your father, then, has great taste. The Lady Marlay was designed by one of my distant cousins back in the old country. It is named after a legendary temptress from an era long before guns. In fact, I myself am named after a former king, the great—”

“I’ve work to do,” Mak interrupted. “Why are Westen Freight prospectors sniffing about my land?”

“Well, this is Donim Mar—”

“I don’t care who they are.” Mak aimed the musket. “Answer my question or you’ll attest to your distant cousin’s work first hand.”

The man scratched his cheek and stared blankly until his brown eyes fell upon the musket, primed and ready to fire.

“Listen, good man,” he brushed a finger through the strand of hair that ran over his shoulder and down his chest. “Our bosses at Westen Freight have sent us out here to unload supplies and take notes on the land.”

“What sort of notes?” Sherik asked. Mak wanted him to remain silent, but the question was harmless enough.

Aldren pulled a fold of paper from his pocket and waved it like a flag. “Westen Freight has received legal rights to lay rail through this sector of land. I would have thought you would have been consulted before the company acquired its legal warrant to do so. Are you sure you are not forgetting? You must have agreed or signed something.”

“I agreed to or signed no such thing, nor would I ever consider it.” Mak kept calm despite the steam building up within him. “My grandpa founded this farm. He discovered a perfect patch of flat, fertile land nestled between two hills and purchased it, cared for it, bled for it. It passed down to my Pa, who did the same, now to me. I don’t intend to lose it, or to let noisy trains chug through my fields scaring my horses and cattle and interrupting my family’s sleep after a hard day’s work.”

Aldren shook his head, the beginnings of turkey jowls beneath his chin shook with it. “There has clearly been some misunderstanding here, good man, and I apologize. Unfortunately, we have all the legal documentation necessary to continue with this project. I do not know what to tell you,” he cleared his throat, “good man.”

“You should’ve knocked on my door and asked me first,” Mak said. “Hearing ‘no’ from the start would have saved y’all a lot of time.” He shifted his weight to release tension from his posture. “Well, gentlemen, it was nice talking business with you this morning, but I have a lot of work to do. Go ahead and load your crates back up on that carriage, and I’ll lead you to the quickest way off my land.”

Aldren’s lips moved in an odd way, as if he was wrestling with a snarl or trying to supress a vulgar outburst. Mak assumed the man hadn’t heard the word “no” often. Most northerners would go their whole lives without hearing it, or so Pa told him.

The two plump northerners inched toward the carriage, ready to pack up and leave, but their defiant leader stood his ground. “You will, of course, be compensated fairly,” Aldren said. “Not that I have to convince you. We have the legal papers. The rail will be laid, and the trains will come. You must have signed. You must have forgotten. Regardless, this process has been set in motion, and it rarely stops after this point.”

“Rarely isn’t never,” Mak said. He shifted Lady Marlay again, just as a reminder. “You be on your way now, boys.”

The plump men loaded the carriage. Aldren Knester stood motionless, staring Mak in the eyes, and smirked. His fear of the gun had vanished. He spat in the same direction Mak had earlier, an out-of-place gesture from one who wore such a stately uniform. The northerner finally turned to leave but not before saying, “You and your family take care, now, good man. We shall see you again, soon.”