October 30th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Skylde’s fiddling had greatly improved over the last month. Mak had barely heard her play since gifting her the new instrument, but she must have found time for it somewhere. She stood in the center of a ring of chairs, surrounded by Mak, Konni, Sherik, Net, and Daun. She played the song she’d created to accompany Jerri’s poem, but there was no singing, just the sawing of the fiddle.

Daun had requested the song, claiming it had been too long since he’d heard music. It was a welcome sound. There’d been nothing but gun shots and moans of pain of late.

Her little fingers showed exceptional dexterity, and she hit every note with precision. She’d also mastered sliding the bow over the string she intended to hit and no others, avoiding that strange conflicting sound heard often in her early days of playing. She even danced as she played, which she’d been barely able to do before.

Mak watched his daughter, clapping his hands to the rhythm. Daun had yet to speak. He told them at the barn that he would open up about what transpired, but he’d stayed silent all throughout supper and ever since. Mak thought it better not to press him, though the curiosity burned.

Skylde’s song came to an end, and she curtsied to a round of applause from all but Daun.

The man’s eyes were locked on Skylde, emotionless. “They’re all dead.”

Konni put a hand over her heart. Skylde began to play another song, but Konni used her other hand to stop her. “Not now, dear.”

“Please,” Daun waved a hand. “It’s nice to hear such beautiful music again.”

Skylde seemed unsure, but a curt nod from her mother got her playing again. She sat on a chair and played a slow, emotional tune.

Mak left his favourite redwood chair to sit closer to Daun. He spoke low. “What happened?”

Konni bent toward them, trying to hear their quiet voices. Sherik and Net watched Skylde but threw quick glances toward Daun here and there.

“They killed my wife and each child,” Daun said, no emotions on his red face. “Hanged. Each of them was hanged on their own property. The world’s falling apart, Mak. They killed them all, even though I accepted the bastard’s deal.”

“I’m so sorry to hear it,” Mak said. He nearly asked about Parren and Jo, whose overturned carriage he’d found off the road, but he let it slide. Westen Freight must’ve brought their bodies to Daun’s just to make sure their father saw them hang.

“How did you escape?” Konni asked.

He stared absentmindedly at the young girl and her fiddle.

“Daun?” Mak put a soft touch on his friend’s shoulder.

Daun coughed and shook his head, as if waking from a soft sleep. “Escape? No. I was set free.”

“Why?” Konni asked.

“Kon, don’t pressure him with questions.”

“It’s alright,” Daun put a hand up. He never took his eyes off Skylde. “The little prick ordered my family hanged. One of his goons grabbed me from beneath the arms, but Guvson stopped him.” Daun stared at Skylde as his words trailed off.

Mak waited patiently for a moment before clearing his throat loudly.

“He thought it best to let me live with the memory,” Daun said. His face stayed the same, emotionless. “Told me that letting me die would be too merciful for one who defied him. He built his rail and left. That’s when I came here.

Mak had gone to Daun’s after returning from Picklewood, after he’d found Parren’s carriage destroyed, and no one had been there. Daun’s story didn’t make much sense in Mak’s mind, but he let it slide. He couldn’t imagine the images and nightmarish sounds that resided in the man’s mind.

Mak thought of his own losses. Jerri, the animals... Added with Daun’s losses, Westen Freight was building up quite a count. He rose. “I knew I was saving this for a reason.” He grabbed the bottle of Larryk’s whiskey from the table and split the remaining liquid into two cups. He thought of Sherik. If anyone in the house deserved a sip of Larryk’s whiskey, it was Sherik.

He took another cup and poured a bit from the other two until all three held the same amount. Sherik accepted the drink with a grand smile. It was the same one he’d wore when catching his first fish so long ago.

“For you, pal,” Mak offered the cup to his old friend. “I can only imagine the pain of such a loss.” He thought of Jerri. Perhaps “imagine” wasn’t the right word.

Daun’s rock hard stare finally broke from Skylde as he eyed the cup. “No, I couldn’t…”

“I insist,” Mak said. “It’s the very least I could do for you. You’ll always have a home here. We may not share blood, but you’re family, pal.”

“Cheers to that,” Sherik raised his glass, as if he’d done it before.

Mak clinked his son’s glass, softly not to break the expensive glassware, then Daun’s who only held his in place, never joining in the cheers. Sherik pushed his cup toward Daun and drained it. He did not grimace or react at all. That damn boy’s drunk before. Mak smirked.

Daun drank his whiskey unenthusiastically, clumsy like a child fresh off the teat. He winced at the burning of the liquid before his face quickly returned to the emotionless state it had kept since arriving. His stare returned to Skylde, and an odd smile crept onto his lips. It was faint, but his head waved side to side subtly as he watched the girl play her melancholic song.

Mak allowed the strange behaviour. He wouldn’t want to know how he’d behave if his family had been taken from him in such a way. He left Daun alone and sipped his whiskey, savouring every last drop.