October 10th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Heffor planks snapped and crackled atop faint flames. Pale blue of the sun’s first touch stretched across the sky with—as usual of late—not a cloud in sight. A spit of black ashes rose from the burning pit to join an itchy pack of flies. Mak watched as dragonflies swooped in and out to feed on the pests.

He’d woken earlier than normal and left the others asleep. They were amidst one of the short periods throughout the year where none of their work was too pressing. The family deserved the rest. Even the boy.

What he’d seen at Daun’s made it difficult to sleep in the last couple of weeks. Mak had thrown glances over his shoulder several times per hour since the strangers had first stepped foot on his land, but there’d been no sign of Westen Freight.

Konni had suggested taking the kids to visit Daun and Valli. Sherik and Parren were friends enough, but it was Jerri who looked forward to seeing Daun’s oldest the most. She thought her love well hidden, but Mak and Konni had been her age. It didn’t bother them. Daun was a good man, and Parren was raised well. They were gone, however.

Mak had agreed to Konni’s suggestion and told her they would go when the work load lessened. It had. Mak expected to be asked again any day now. Perhaps it was time to tell the truth.

Konni was not herself of late. She’d busied herself with work when there was still enough to occupy her day, but with the list of chores dwindling to small tasks doable within a couple hours, she’d taken to spending nearly full days in the barn with Milli.

It was easy to discern the reason. Milli’s stillborn had stirred up memories of Konni’s own. It would’ve been their first child, a boy. Mak struggled to handle such emotional situations. Konni needed time to sort her thoughts and to deal with the pain, but she could not be allowed to dwell too long lest the thoughts consume her.

Milli was finally producing again. Each of their cows had been pregnant before and were therefore able to produce milk, though Milli’s had strangely stopped after her stillborn. Thankfully, their stores of butter and cheese were growing. They were imperative for the winter.

A door creaked open out of sight, easily audible in the peaceful morning. Konni turned the corner and joined him at the fire. Mak threw on another log to make sure the heat reached them and exchanged a smile with his wife.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Mak leaned back in his chair.

“I slept fine.” Her eyes were still puffy from the night. “Better than in a long time.”

“Kids still asleep?”

“Mhm.”

They sat in peace for a long while.

When she wasn’t spending time with Milli, Konni was making small repairs on their wagon when she thought Mak wasn’t looking. There was only one reason she would want the wagon ready for a long ride.

“You aren’t thinking of taking the kids and leaving me, are you?” Mak asked bluntly. It had been bothering him for a few days now. “That’s real northern behaviour.”

“God, no,” Konni said sincerely. “I do want to leave, that I won’t deny. I assume you saw me working on the wagon. I want to go to my pa’s, but I want you there with me.”

He looked into the fire and said nothing.

“My wanting to leave this land has nothing to do with my feelings for you,” she continued. “I think we could have a great life up there. We don’t have to become northerners. Jerri won’t be splotching her face with green paste. Sherik wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those black coats. We would all be the same people with the same values. Only with more land, more food, and more safety.”

His mind went to Missus Brelda, the baker. She was a northerner when she’d moved to Picklewood. If a stranger conversed with her today, he’d think her born and raised in the South. There was no certainty that the same thing wouldn’t happen to them. Skylde and Net were most at risk, being so young. “I can’t do it, Kon. This is our home…”

She closed her eyes and whispered, “I know.”

A cold hand gripped his aching shoulder, relieving it instantly. He loved that hand. He remembered when he first saw it, caked in clay as a young Konni participated in Picklewood’s annual pot-off. She’d come in second to the mayor’s daughter, and Mak had made sure he was first to confirm what she’d undoubtedly thought. “The true winner is who comes after the mayor’s daughter,” he’d told her. “You never stood a chance. She’s related to three of the judges, and the other is the sheriff’s wife.”

Konni had laughed and thus began a short period of courtship. He’d asked her pa for her hand not long after, and the man agreed in exchange for a good amount of labour on his farm. It was easy work for Mak, nothing different than his everyday life.

The work, other than granting him and Konni permission to marry, had been for nothing, as her pa purchased a massive plot of land up north not long after. He’d been offering them a piece of it ever since.

Mak thought he heard a voice. He turned but was caught in Konni’s grasp half way there. A cold hand on either side of his face, followed by a warm, lingering kiss. It was enough to melt the worry away.

“Sorry,” Konni said coyly. “I was just thinking about the pot-off…”

“So was I.” Mak smiled.

“What would those young lovers have wanted by our age?”

“Four children, their own land, some cows, chickens, and crops. Most importantly, each other.” Mak squeezed her hands. “I think those young lovers would be happy with what they’ve become.”

“I suppose they would.” Konni’s eyes hopped joyously from the house, to the barn and coop, to the river and the field beyond it. For the first time in many years, Mak’s wife seemed content.

A thunderous thud and clank of a hammer broke the peace. Mak spun. They’d finally come. A few shapes moved about at the far end of his land, the same area where Aldren and the others had come weeks before.

Mak ripped his hand from his wife’s and rushed for Lady Marlay.

* * *

What looked like the same group of men who’d been on Daun’s farm were now on Mak’s. However, only one centaur was with them, compared to five, and it was solely in charge of unloading heavy-looking crates from the carriage.

Another group caught Mak’s eye. White-shirted men tied ribbons around trees a quarter-mile west of the Westen Freight wagon and had already marked more than Mak would have liked. Shabby clothing suggested they weren’t from the city.

The centaur’s shoulders, despite their obvious strength, were slouched as it worked. It dropped a crate carelessly under the influence of fatigue and shook its thick, matted fur, sending frothy clumps of sweat through the air. A northerner raised his cane, as they did not have rifles like they’d had on Daun’s land, and struck the centaur in the back of the head. The beast lurched forward and yelped something like a pathetic pup. Its massive hands clung to where it was hit and unloaded the next crate gently.

Mak approached with Sherik in tow and Lady Marlay slung over his shoulder. His grip on the stock tightened. Aldren Knester stood amongst them, grinning at the moaning centaur. “You’re back, I see,” Mak said. There were four northerners, including Aldren. Each wore black suits with off-centered brass buttons and fancy black hats. Six men worked on Mak’s trees, and the one centaur sniffled, almost like a child as it worked.

The northerner who’d struck the centaur came forward, his brows crooked in a smug look. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Mak rolled his eyes. They seemed to think paper was some type of shield that warded off bullets or fists. Mak decided he might prove them wrong if any further brandishing of documents took place. Pa had told him never to strike a child, but he never said anything about pampered northerners.

“Stop where you are,” the northerner said. “You are about to step onto land owned by the Westen Freight Railing Company.”

Mak stopped, not from the order, but shock. He expected the man to spew some diplomatic line before calling him “good man.” He got nothing of the kind. Mak’s shock wore off and the urge to step forward to spit before the man’s fancy, brown leather shoes was strong, but he refrained.

“I’ll ask you, just once more, to leave my property.” Mak adjusted the gun on his shoulder. “Westen Freight will not build on my land.”

Aldren stepped forward, his lush hair flowed behind him like a black cape. He put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder and took the paper from his grasp. “This paper says otherwise.” Aldren brandished the document causing Mak to grit his teeth. Aldren’s size surprised him every time they met. He was used to northerners being small, frail, and weak. But there was a strength to Aldren that made Mak thankful for Lady Marlay. “I know the situation here. You did not sign it, but it matters not. Under Governor Water’s rule, it is enough that your mayor did. We own this bit of land.” He turned toward the centaur and shouted. “Did I tell you to stop working?” He held up his cane threateningly.

The centaur yelped as if struck again and worked quicker than it had been before. It was the same centaur Mak had seen tied up in town. The beads on its dulled horn were identical, and no two centaurs shared a pattern.

Dried blood tipped Aldren’s cane, even though he’d not been the one to strike the centaur in Mak’s presence. Mak regarded the creature with pity, but Aldren’s flailing papers quickly reclaimed his attention.

“Rule or not, I won’t let it happen,” Mak said. “My rights don’t change based on one man’s whim.”

Aldren stepped forward, his face—still half cocked toward the centaur—reddened with rage. “You are threatening me.” Thick brows dropped more than an inch on his round face. “You are threatening the rule of your governor. That is treason.”

“I’m not threatening or disobeying the crown,” Mak said. “That would be treason.”

“You disobey the rule of an official appointed by the crown,” Aldren grinned. “That. Is. Treason.”

“I don’t accept the law. You’re on my land. Leave.” Lady Marlay had lowered into a fire-ready position without his knowledge. Mak leaned the rifle against his shoulder hoping it wasn’t noticeable.

“Take two more steps and you will be on Westen Freight property,” Aldren said. “Risk it, if you like, but we protect our land.”

“So do we.” Sherik strode forward and passed the invisible barrier. Mak reached to stop him but the boy was too quick. Aldren raised his lip and bared his teeth. He looked like an overfed dog defending a pile of food. Sherik moved past him and stopped, his arms raised as if he expected an embrace. “Nothing’s happened to me. Must mean I’m standing on my land.”

Aldren rushed forward with surprising speed and ploughed a broad shoulder into Sherik’s chest. The impact closed Sherik’s arms around the man as if he truly was embracing him. Sherik fell to the ground, his lungs lost their air, and he gasped desperately.

Mak dashed forward and caught Aldren with a fist as his round face turned to meet Mak’s. The impact was enough to drop the northerner like a bag of grain. His cane was swallowed by the long, dried grass. Mak jumped back, expecting the man’s companions to attack. They stood frozen. The loggers watched from the forest but showed no sign of intervention. The centaur continued its work, never looking away from the current crate. Sherik coughed. Mak moved toward his son. His eyes shifted between each intruder as he moved. “You alright, boy?”

Sherik got to his feet, the air returned to his chest. He smiled at the sight of the dropped intruder. “You got him good, Pa. I could have taken him. He caught me by surprise is all.”

Mak ignored the remark. Aldren stirred and groaned as he got to his knees. He fished through the grass and retrieved his blood-stained cane. Mak readied his gun but kept his finger away from the trigger. An overreaction in such a situation could bring him a world of trouble. The northerner hopped to his feet, acting as if the blow had barely hurt, but his eyes were glazed and unfocused. He adjusted his hat and threw his black mane over his shoulder. He raised the cane, ready to fight.

Sherik drew the hunting knife. The blade was curved and half the length of the cane. Mak gestured an aggressive wave of his hand, ordering his son wordlessly to sheathe the weapon.

Aldren’s eyes drifted downward and settled on Lady Marlay’s barrel. He took a dizzy step back and turned to the over-worked centaur. “Oi!” The beast flinched and regarded its master. “Attack this man. He has harmed me. Attack him. Kill them both.”

Mak’s skin prickled. He stood firm and ready, aimed Lady Marlay, and pulled her hammer. The centaur sighed and shook like a wet dog out of a river. It charged at a frightening speed. Clumps of dirt shot up from its thundering hooves.

Mak aimed Lady Marlay at the beast’s chest, his finger trembled over the trigger.

The centaur stopped at the sight of the rifle. Strong muscles in its face collapsed in what looked like fear. Its eyes widened, the black circles shrank, and its jaw dropped. Strings of parched drool frothed along the corners of its lips.

“Shoot it, Pa!” Sherik’s voice was agitated and concerned.

“Shut up, boy!” Mak kept his eyes locked with the centaur’s. The eyes reminded him of Milli’s. He couldn’t imagine slaughtering her for meat after seeing how fond his children had grown of her. The beast before him now was more intelligent than a milk cow. It had a name, a family, and language. It had memories. It knew love, sorrow, joy, and now, because of Mak, it knew fear. He lowered the rifle but kept his eyes on the massive slave. “You’re not my enemy.”

The centaur closed its mouth, its eyes reverted to docility. It regarded Mak for a moment, then turned its attention to its cane wielding master. It nodded to Mak, then turned away and started for the carriage, shoulders slouched.

“What are you doing?” Aldren shouted. A lump was forming on his jaw where Mak’s fist had struck. “I ordered you to kill them!”

The slave continued for the wagon and resumed its work unloading crates. The other workers had made their way from the forest and hopped into the cargo area of the wagon. “The trees are marked, boss,” one of the workers said. “We’ll chop them down next time.”

Aldren frowned and swung a fist through the air at nothing. He turned to his colleagues “Kill these two. They are impeding our company from doing its task. They are treasonous.”

The men ignored him. They started for the carriage, as frightened and small as the centaur had been.

“You are all cowards!” Aldren’s voice echoed over the land. He took a final look at Sherik, Mak, and Lady Marlay and retreated for his seat at the helm of the wagon. He whistled a piercing sound answered by birds. The centaur moved promptly at the signal and harnessed itself to the front of the wagon. Aldren got to his feet, whip in hand, and put his strength behind a severe lashing. The centaur cried out like the screeching of titanic metal hinges and pulled the wagon forward.

Sherik settled at his father’s side. The centaur continued at a leisurely pace, not in defiance, but exhaustion. Its chest heaved, and strings of thick sweat hung from its fur like a ribbon-decorated tree. Aldren cracked the whip a few more times, but the centaur stayed silent.

The intruders rode out of sight, back whence they’d come. The squeak of the wheels remained a short time after. Mak exhaled and stood Lady Marlay on the ground, leaned against his knee. He looked to the sky and thanked God. It was something he hadn’t done in a long time, but after being spared of an attacking centaur, it seemed like the right thing to do.

“You got him good, Pa.” Sherik stood proudly at his father’s side and grinned. “He was strong, and you dropped him with one punch.”

He had to admit the boy’s praise straightened his posture a bit, but he could not ignore the dark feeling brewing within. “Don’t be too excited about what happened here today, boy. This ain’t over.”