September 24th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

The farm was as he left it. He knew every inch of the twilit property, so even in the shadows of imminent night, Mak was certain there was no cause for concern. Orange light spilled from the tiny windows of his home, and even from afar, he could feel its warmth. He patted Butterhoof’s neck. The skin was slick. His shoulders fell, and he patted her again, apologetically.

Butterhoof panted and clopped down the pathway. He’d urged her to an unsustainable pace after finding the overturned carriage off the road, and only increased her speed after meeting the dying centaur. With what the northerners did to Daun, his wife Valli, and the children who fled, there was nothing on Mak’s mind but hurry to get to his family.

He looked over both shoulders and found the road clear in each direction. He continued down the path and passed the tool shed. His heart jolted. An odd shape was loitering in his field. He yelped and nearly fell from the saddle. Something ugly and vicious like a Westen Freight train towered in the midst of dry dirt. It was only the steam plough. His heart settled, and he exhaled his fear. He looked around to make sure no one had seen his shame from the windows. Butterhoof, who had not been frightened by the plough, finished their journey and halted before the closed barn door.

“Don’t you tell anyone about this.” He hopped off the saddle and opened the door. Butterhoof entered with newfound energy and stepped through the open gate of her stall. “Hold on, girl.” Mak followed her and removed her tackle. He almost thought he heard her sigh in relief. The mare gulped warm water desperately from her bucket. He hadn’t stopped by the river to let her drink since finding the carriage. “Sorry, girl. I see why you prefer the boy.”

Milli was the only other barn resident awake. “You alright?” He brushed her nose that leaned on her stall gate. She regarded him with an unchanging face. “The pain’ll pass.” He scratched her limp ear. “Konni’s been through the very same and she pulled through.” He bade the milk cow goodnight and left the barn. The items in the saddlebags could wait till morning.

He eyed the steam plough and tilted his head in thought. Had the boy truly taken responsibility for once? He raised his chin for a better view of the field. It was difficult to see in the descending darkness, but the earth was indeed tilled in the perfect lines only attainable by steam plough. Maybe I’ll hold off on scolding him about the sheriff’s daughter.

The fire between barn and house was extinguished. A light plume of smoke rose from the ashes. He was just in time for supper. He sauntered toward the house on legs aching from a long day’s ride.

“Pa’s home.” Net’s tiny voice rushed out the open window.

“He’ll be in shortly.” There was a sadness in Konni’s voice. “Be patient and eat your supper.”

He stopped by the remnants of the cooking fire and peered across the river. His eyes settled on the graves just beyond the little bridge. Brownie, as Skylde had named Milli’s stillborn, was buried not far from Duke in the row of non-human graves that ran parallel to Mak’s pa, ma, grandparents, and nearly a dozen aunts, uncles, and cousins, some of which he’d never met. He’d buried the calf before leaving for Picklewood and was almost certain the poor thing was the cause of Konni’s sorrow.

A shadow emerged in the field across the river not five yards past the graves. Mak tensed. He recoiled and wished Lady Marlay was in his hands. The silhouette shifted and darted north on four legs. Its quick movements brought a tingle to Mak’s scalp. Only a deer. A skinny thing. Farmers and barkeeps weren’t the only ones affected by the dry summer. Mak leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and took heavy breaths to calm his nerves.

Burnt pine tingled in his nose. He smirked at the rising smoke. Sherik must have started the cooking fire and once again forgot to use the heffor wood. Pine was not for cooking, but for heating the house. He’s no doubt heard enough tonight. I’ll give him a break. It was natural for a boy of his age to run around chasing gals. So long as it didn’t result in Sheriff Meadows holding a grudge against Mak, he saw no reason to end it. If the boy ploughed fields and started fires for his mother, albeit with the wrong wood, Mak would allow a bit of play amongst his work. All he truly wanted was for Sherik to show some interest, and the tilled field suggested he had.

Skylde and Net shouted greetings when Mak entered the home. The smell of freshly baked bread and seared meat shouted an even louder greeting. “Fish?” Mak rustled the two youngest’s hair. “Sherik was busy today I see.”

Konni forced a laugh. “Hardly.” She met him half way to the table and kissed him. Her clothing was drenched in sweat and she smelled of it, which was unusual.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re in trouble now.” Jerri prodded her older brother’s arm with a fork.

“Be quiet.” Sherik waved her away, his eyes were fixed on his half-eaten plate.

“Boy?” Mak eyed his two oldest sitting side by side at the table.

Sherik looked up. “Good evening, Pa.”

Mak turned to Konni. “Who ploughed the fields?” The sweat that soaked through his wife’s clothes suddenly made sense. He faced his oldest son with half a snarl. “You made your mother plough the damned fields?”

“It’s easy with the steam-plough,” Sherik pointed to the window.

Skylde and Net returned to the table and stared into their plates in silence, careful not to attract their father’s ire. Jerri watched Sherik with a nasty smirk.

“That’s not the point,” Mak said. “You’re the man of the house when I’m gone. You got responsibilities, boy.” He remembered the smell of burnt pine. “You cooked at least?”

Konni scoffed. “I left the fields, drenched in sweat. The sun was going down quick and I hadn’t even started supper. I asked him, at the very least, to get a fire going so I could cook those fish of his. Went to the river to cool off for a moment and came back to a God-forsaken—”

“Pine fire,” Mak interrupted. “I smelled it. Boy, how many times have we told you to use the heffor wood for cooking?”

“They look the same when their cut,” Sherik scrambled what remained of his supper with a fist-held fork.

“No, they don’t,” Jerri said.

Sherik shot fiery eyes her way.

“Boy, look at me.” Mak snapped his fingers. “Little lady, you stay out of this.”

Jerri’s eyes fell to her plate, and she joined Skylde and Net in silence.

“Even if they did look the same, just smell them, you could tell right away,” Mak said. “Anyway, that’s not the point. Did you spend the whole day fishing?”

Sherik was silent, but he maintained eye contact.

“He took his rod not half an hour after you left,” Konni said. “Didn’t return till an hour ago.”

“That’s a steaming pile from a horse’s ass, boy, and you know it,” Mak said.

A smirk grew on Net’s face, and he struggled to contain laughter.

Sherik shot to his feet, dropped his fork onto the plate, and started for the door. Mak pointed a finger at him. “Sit down,” he commanded with a voice that filled the house. Sherik obeyed and finished his supper, his face red with anger, or shame.

Mak turned to his tired wife. “Kon, I could have ploughed the field tomorrow. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It was Net’s idea,” Konni took a chair beside her youngest and scratched his cheek playfully. “I was cleaning clothes in the river and he approached me with the idea. He was clearly more interested in seeing the steam-plough than doing work, but he was there by my side all day.”

“They started after I left.” Sherik wasn’t ready to give up. “How was I supposed to know?”

“You must’ve heard the plough from your fishing spot,” Mak said. “And the point is your supposed to be present when I leave. Look over things.”

He put a hand on Konni’s shoulder. “Share my portion amongst yourselves, except Sherik. You’ve worked hard and deserve it.”

“What about you?” Konni clutched his hand.

“I’m not that hungry.” Mak hoped the rumble in his gut wasn’t audible. “I’ll take a piece of bread to the coop. I need to think. I’ve had a long day.”

“Don’t be too long.” Konni split the appealing fish on what would have been Mak’s plate. “I want to hear about your day.” She dumped succulent portions onto other plates.

* * *

The bird pen adjacent to the chicken coop was the only building on the land that Mak had built himself. It had started with nursing a baby quail to adulthood after killing its mother in a hunt with his pa. “One with no compassion for beasts likely has none for his fellow man,” Pa had said when he found Mak feeding the chick from his palm. He’d taken to roaming the woods in search of vulnerable or helpless birds. Injured birds were brought to a small cabin he’d built somewhere amidst the trees and were fed and nursed until strong enough to return to the wild.

When he inherited the land from Pa, Mak built the pen and collected birds of all sorts as companions. His current collection consisted of three black-winged canaries, a few blue jays and a couple red jays, four swallows, and the Dames. The Dames were a pair of plump black turkeys. They stood nearly to his knees and were wide as Milli when side to side, which they always were. They marched abreast no matter where they went, overlooking the rest of the coop’s inhabitants as if they were the dregs of the farm. Konni had come up with the name when she first saw them.

The prize of the pen, however, was Plucker, the exotic bird from the South. He was a violet fowl with a long, thick neck that held up a tiny, fragile head adorned with what looked like flowers that grew naturally like the horns of a native. His beak was black, his eyes golden and encircled with bright yellow. His wings were made up of small purple feathers, overlapped like snake scales cascading down his sides. Most impressive were his tail feathers. He could stand them up and spread them in a massive semi-circle, like a sun of many colours setting over the horizon. Plucker was a regal creature. The only one who could look down on the Dames.

Mak refilled his glass with Larryk’s whiskey. The bottle was supposed to last weeks but was already a quarter way through. His day had been taxing. From Milli’s stillborn to the strangers on his land, Daun’s situation, the wrecked carriage, the northerner’s infestation of Picklewood, to the mayor’s complicity in their plans to take land, it was enough to drive any man to the bottle.

He stuffed the cork back in its bottle. The birds slept. He’d be better off in the house. Konni would want to hear the news of the day, though perhaps he would keep certain parts of it to himself. The severity of Daun’s situation, and more specifically what may have happened to his children and Valli would only upset her and, worse, frighten her. He needed the family to keep calm. Once the situation was sorted, he could tell them everything and they could mourn and grieve together, but not until then.

He exited the pen and halted at the sound of Skylde’s voice from the open window. “No, Ma, we can’t.”

Mak approached and leaned on the window frame, the early night sky at his back. Jerri’s nose was jammed in one of her books, her mouth moved as she read. Net tended to a small potted plant, carefully plucking unwanted leaves from his wilting sunflower. Konni and Skylde were washing dishes together over the basin, their backs turned to him. The duty of helping Konni with the dishes was split between Skylde and Jerri. They alternated day by day, just as Mak’s sisters had when he was a boy. On their days of leisure, they were free to play as much music or read as many books as they wanted.

Konni’s retort was incoherent as she dropped a heavy pot into barely-soapy water.

“But I don’t want to leave the farm, Ma,” Skylde replied.

Mak’s eyes narrowed and shifted to his wife’s back. Her white apron was tied in a bow, Skylde’s doing. “Who said anything about leaving the farm?” Mak said.

Everyone in the house jumped and their heads spun his way. Jerri nearly dropped her book but caught it. “I lost my page,” she complained.

Net smiled, then returned his attention to his plant.

Konni scrubbed a pot vigorously. She was the only one in the house not regarding him. He sighed and started for the door. This wouldn’t be the first time his wife suggested leaving the farm, but to persuade the children to her side behind his back was a new low.

“So, we’re leaving the farm?” Mak remembered the state of Daun’s home. It might not have been the worst idea, but he refused to consider it any further. A man’s not a man unless he bleeds for land or family.

Skylde smiled at him and shook her head. She turned quickly and scrubbed a long wooden spoon.

“Ma says we should go live with grandpa Heran,” Net said.

This again? “That so, Kon?” Mak eased himself onto his redwood chair. The aches of a long day made it a slow process. He squeezed Jerri’s thigh, just over the knee through her thick, grey woolen skirt. She gave him a quick but genuine smile then returned to her book. Most likely another historical account of some knight from the old country. Missus Brelda’s father copied books in the city, and so the baker had no shortage to flood Jerri’s collection with.

Mak stared at Konni’s back, awaiting an answer. She only shrugged.

“We don’t need his charity,” Mak said. “We’re fine where we are. It’s been a rough year, I’ll grant you that, but everyone is dealing with it just as we are.”

“We seem to have bad harvests every two years.” A few strands of Konni’s hair came loose from her tight bun. He found her attractive in such a state, but it meant she was angry at someone, usually him. “My pa is offering a bigger property, more land to farm, where we can actually make money off our crops.” She didn’t turn away from her scrubbing. “I’d like to go where it rains occasionally.”

She spoke as if the past summer represented their whole lives on the farm. As if she’d forgotten the dozens of years of rain and successful harvests they’d lived through. He dropped the argument. She clearly wasn’t in the proper mindset.

Sherik lay on his bed beneath a thin blanket, half asleep.

“Hard day, boy?” Mak’s voice boomed.

Sherik twitched, then came fully aware. “Sorry. When can I sleep?”

It was a pitiful question, but one that showed Mak there was nothing else to be done for tonight. The boy would learn eventually, Mak was sure of it, but it would take time. “Goodnight, boy.”

“Night, Pa.” It wasn’t long before the thick breathing of sleep was heard.

Mak closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The sounds of the house came alive in the blackness. Konni hummed as she scrubbed, and Skylde tapped her foot. There was a slight whistle in Net’s breathing, and a faint whisper escaped Jerri as she flipped through pages.

Mak half-dreamed of his grandpa finding the small plot of land, bare between two rocky hills, and envisioning a life there. He thought of the man’s toils, his battles with the natives, him passing the land to Mak’s pa, and then he to Mak. There was too much invested in the land to simply leave because of bad weather and a greedy company. Each of his siblings had left for the city. The maintenance and protection of the land had fallen to him alone. He opened his eyes, yawned, and regarded each of his children in turn. “What do you all think?”

They looked to him, but none spoke. Sherik propped himself on his elbows and blinked heavy, tired lids.

“About leaving the farm, I mean.”

“I love the farm.” Skylde put a cautious step between herself and Konni. “I would miss the animals.”

“They’d come with us, dear,” Konni finished with the pot and had moved on to a fistful of wooden spoons.

“I don’t want to go.” Net’s potted sunflower rested in the circle of his crossed legs.

“I’ll go wherever you go, Pa.” Sherik said. Mak was hard on him, yet he remained loyal. There was also the possibility that the boy simply said what he thought would lessen future punishments. Mak settled on the former.

His eyes moved to Jerri, who had resumed her reading. “Well?”

She looked at him, her large blue eyes wide in feigned ignorance.

“Your thoughts on the matter, Little Lady?”

She shrugged and brought the book closer to her chest like a shield. “I’ve always wanted to see the North.” Mak rolled his eyes and let his head fall back. Jerri raised her voice but kept calm. “We’d still have our animals, it would be more land, more fertile, and we’d be closer to the city.”

“What’s so great about the city?” Mak donned a sour look on his face. “Nothing but a bunch of self-loving rich folk calling you ‘good man.’ It seems respectful until you realize they consider themselves great. Great is better than good.”

“I think it’s all in your head,” Jerri said. “Of course, there are the stuffy, pompous types, but there’s culture and innovation there, too. I could attend the Colony House debates one week and go to the library the next. There’s also Whistle Street, where unimaginable inventions run on steam.”

“And the orchestra,” Skylde added with a dancer’s twirl.

“I thought you were on my side.” Mak shot her a smirk and turned back to Jerri. “We’ve got a plough in the tool shed if you want to see steam so bad. I’ll teach you to use it. You can till the soil next spring and see all the steam you could ever want. God knows your brother won’t do it.”

“It’s not the same,” Jerri said. “Everything here is so practical. Even something as great as steam power is only used to dig up dirt. In the city, they have steam organs, puppets that move and dance from steam, and so many other things. It would seem like magic at first glance.” She embraced her book like she’d done with her doll before Duke had gotten to it. “I haven’t even mentioned the clock tower.”

“What makes you think you’d be allowed to go to the city just because we live at your grandpa’s?” Mak arched a brow. “There’ll still be as much work to do on that farm as on this one. More, in fact. It’s larger, ain’t it?”

“You send me to Picklewood for supplies all the time,” Jerri said. “You’ll still need those supplies at the new place. The only difference is I won’t dread fetching them for you.”

Konni finished the cleaning. She smirked at him and shrugged, victorious.

He was going to tell Jerri about Handyman Jak’s request, but he decided it could wait.

“I’ve heard enough.” Mak got up from his chair and started for the door. “Skylde, come.”

“Yes, Pa.” She skipped along behind him.

He stepped outside and closed the door. The air was cool, and a brisk wind swept in off the western hill. “Bundle up,” he said. Skylde wrapped her tiny arms around herself and shivered. “Don’t worry, we won’t be out here long.” Crickets chirped, and the river gurgled in the distance. He led her to where he’d left the saddlebags leaning against the barn and reached inside. He feigned disappointment by dropping his head back and sighing. “I couldn’t fix your fiddle. The prices were too high.”

Her shoulders dropped, but she managed to keep a smile on her face. “It’s alright.” She spoke in a frail voice that barely carried through the dark. “I can wait until next time.”

He’d never known a child her age who could take bad news so well. He couldn’t keep the joke going any longer. It broke his heart to see the pain she tried to hide. “I got you this instead.” He drew Jo’s fiddle from the bag.

Skylde screeched and bounced on the balls of her feet. She ran past the outstretched hand that held her dusty gift and embraced her father. These were the moments all the hard work was for. He squeezed her tight and held her a bit longer than she might have wanted. “Well, let’s hear it.” He handed her the fiddle.

She turned and ran for the house, leaving him alone in the night. His heart filled with guilt over how he had acquired the instrument. I was going to return it to you, pal. You weren’t there. I hope you’re safe wherever you are.

* * *

September 25th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Skylde sawed at the fiddle and stomped a foot to the rhythm after another hard day’s work. Her song was an explosion of joy and cheer in the early evening. Mak smiled and nodded his head to the beat. The others clapped or stomped their feet. It was the perfect event to get Mak’s mind off of the previous day.

Sherik, Jerri, and Net sang along to the music. The words were from a folk song, born in the old country. It told of the north-men who’d come to conquer. A heroine of Albentenia, the wife of a knight, rallied the kingdom together and successfully defended against the invaders. The lyrics to the song weren’t so blunt, but they implied the story if listened to closely. It was Mak’s pa’s favourite song.

Jerri stopped singing and returned to her book, her foot continued tapping along. She had such a beautiful voice and didn’t even seem to know it. She was more interested in books and clock towers. He shrugged and turned his attention to Skylde, who was now stomping both feet in turn in an odd little dance. It warmed his heart to see her so happy.

Konni leaned close and spoke lightly. “Nice try, using the kids against me. Of course, they don’t want to leave the farm.”

Mak chuckled and ignored the fact that she’d attempted the tactic first. “It backfired on me, anyway. I should’ve known not to ask Jerri. Everything was going well until she convinced Skylde.”

“It was a dirty trick” Konni returned a smile, but her hard eyes told that she wasn’t completely joking.

“Sherik’s old enough to make his own decisions,” Mak said. “He’ll be the man of the house one day, and it looks like he wants it to be this house.”

“Oh, please,” Konni waved a dismissive hand. “He didn’t make his own decision. He made the one you wanted to hear. That boy would follow you off a cliff.”

“Yeah, but he’d be two hours late doing it.”

They shared a genuine laugh. Sherik sat across from them, slapping his knee to the beat. Konni leaned even closer. Mak perked up, thinking he was going to receive a fabled, spontaneous kiss. Instead, she spoke, almost a whisper. “What did you learn in town?”

Mak resented her for a moment, then snapped out of it. His face grew sombre when he focused on her question. He thought of everything that had happened since the stillborn calf and didn’t know where to begin. He’d never lied to Konni, nor had he withheld any truths. “Don’t keep things from your wife,” his pa would say, “they’ll just find out later and be angry two-fold.” But something was different this time. He tried to convince himself that his reason for silence was to protect them, but in truth, he knew fleeing the farm was the best course of action and did not want to embolden Konni’s insistence on leaving.

“The mayor signed off on our land,” Mak said, careful about which information to divulge. “There were a bunch of northerners in town, staying in Missus Brelda’s bakery. I spoke with one of them at the…” She didn’t like him going to Larryk’s saloon, “on the street. He seemed like a decent man, Mister Androck, he called himself. Said he’d take our issue up with the governor.”

“That’s awfully nice of him.” She clapped and sang along for a moment when Skylde looked her way.

Mak’s face darkened. “I stopped at Daun’s.” He had to tell her. She was friends with the family as much as he was. “He… they got his land, too.”

Her eyes widened, and she raised a hand to her chest. “Good Lord, are they…” she searched for a better way to ask it. “Is that how you got the fiddle?”

“No, everyone’s fine.” He chose to withhold the overturned carriage, abandoned property, and the dying centaur. “He gave me the fiddle to repay a favour.”

“The incident with the plough?”

“That’s the one. He was the same old Daun, but they…” He rubbed a hand over his face, “they beat him pretty bad.” He needed to keep his mouth shut. The pain in his heart urged him to talk. The information would only hurt and frighten them.

“Beat him?” Konni asked as if the words were spoken in some unknown language.

Mak nodded. “He’s fine. Everyone’s fine. He tried to fight them off, but they were too strong. He was forced to take their deal.”

“They’ll do that to us.” Konni’s voice rose.

Mak’s eyes shifted to the children who were still enthralled by the festive song. “No, they won’t. I won’t let them.”

“How?” She stared into his eyes. “You’re only one man. These folk sound like they get what they want. The mayor signed off on us. We’re the criminals if we fight.”

“My pa used to say that a man isn’t a man unless he—”

“I know the damn quote,” Konni interrupted. She sighed and let her head collapse onto Mak’s aching shoulder.

He winced but liked feeling her there. He knew he was stubborn. Not because people told him such, but because he was the only soul in the world who could make Konni give up on a passionate idea. He wasn’t proud of it. He put an arm around his wife, held her tight, and watched the children. Fire burned inside her. She wasn’t convinced. He wanted to assure her that everything would turn out right, but he wasn’t sure of that himself. “Hate me now, thank me when I succeed,” Pa’s words went.

Mak leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fell asleep to the sounds of his peaceful home.