The Fur Trader (2 page)

Garrin stopped.

He watched the rust and white fur bounce into the trees and strained his ears to listen and see if he could mentally picture where she was. Her large, cat-like paws made her flight so quiet that Garrin lost track of her within seconds. He knew only that she had not growled before lunging into the woods, which meant she was not going after a threat. She was hunting.

Sure enough, a minute later she came back with a large snow hare in her mouth, blood streaking the sides of her mouth and staining the rabbit’s white fur.

“What, the deer wasn’t enough?” Garrin asked pointedly.

Rux dropped the snow hare on the road and looked up to Garrin with a pleading sound in her throat.

“Go on then, we still have a ways to go,” Garrin told her. He knew that rabbit was a split-tail’s favorite quarry. Rux could have eaten an entire moose and still would have chased the rabbit.

Rux dropped her head and there was a flurry of fur and the sound of crunching bones. Garrin shook his head and moved along down the road. He knew it wouldn’t take her long to finish the meal.

Within minutes she was back at his side, face split wide with a large, blood-covered smile.

Unfortunately, that didn’t sit well with the first few villagers they came across in town.

As the small road joined a larger path and the duo made their way into Cherry Brook, Garrin had to stifle a chuckle as he watched a trio of women bedecked in heavy fur coats point at Rux and hurriedly move into a nearby house. Garrin turned to the window and waved at the three women who were now watching him from inside the safety of the log cabin. No sooner had he done so than the women threw the shutters closed and pretended not to have been watching him.

On the other side of the street, inside a yard bordered with a two-rail, pole fence, stood a pair of young boys throwing snowballs at each other. They both stopped their game and ran up toward the fence to get a better look at Rux.

“Boys, come on back!” their father shouted from his station chopping wood near the side of the house. The two young boys frowned, but turned and obeyed their father.

Garrin reached over and patted Rux on the head. She stuck close to his leg as they turned down the main road in Cherry Brook that led away from the houses at the edge of town and into the heart of the settlement. Here, there were a few crowds of people. Some were chatting upon wooden porches in front of various stores, and others were hurrying about through the streets. Garrin heard more than a couple of snide remarks about Rux, but he didn’t pay them any attention. He had never really cared much for what others thought of him. So long as he got a fair price for his skins, life was as good as he could hope for. Quieter too, now that he was far away from the borderlands and the incessant wars that plagued the people there.

Still, he wasn’t entirely looked down upon by all within Cherry Brook. Neither was Rux for that matter. The trapper and his companion pushed their way into Jacop’s General Store. The bell jingled above as the door swung into it. Garrin and Rux moved through the open aisle and made their way to the counter. Jacop sat behind the counter upon a tall, wooden stool, reading a well-worn book with edges rounded from age and yellowed pages. He looked up and beamed widely with his blue eyes from behind his silver-rimmed spectacles, and set the book down carefully upon the counter, placing a length of brown ribbon into it to mark his place.

“Pleasure to see you again, Garrin, and you, Rux,” Jacop said. He bent down and pulled a small bit of dried meat from under the counter and then looked to Garrin for permission.

Garrin nodded and smiled.

“I’m sure she’ll take it,” he said.

Jacop’s smile widened and he leaned over the counter, stretching out his hand and offering the bit of meat. Rux carefully reached up and gently took the treat from Jacop, then curled up on the floor in front of the counter.

“You are the only one she takes food from by hand,” Garrin said.

“Yes, well, I have a way with animals,” Jacop said. “I have had many animal friends in my lifetime, but your split-tails are by far my favorite. Where is Kiska, watching the homestead again?”

Garrin nodded and took a look around the store.

“What can I get for you?” Jacop asked.

Garrin eyed the traps, tools, and various cans of dry goods, but he wasn’t really looking for anything to buy specifically. His silence must have given him away, for Jacop smiled and took his spectacles down to polish them on his shirt.

“You know, you could just ask to call on her,” Jacop offered. “It would be cheaper than buying coffee beans every other day just to catch sight of her.”

Garrin balked and looked curiously at Jacop.

“I could use another can of coffee,” he said, trying to change the subject.

Jacop shook his head. “Unless your split-tails are drinking it with you, I doubt you need another one already.”

Garrin slipped his hand down under his coat and reached for his coin purse. He pulled out a few coins and set them on the table whilst Jacop unceremoniously plopped a can of coffee beans on the counter, eyeing him expectantly.

“Thanks,” Garrin said.

“She’s in the pub,” Jacop called out after Garrin as he headed for the door.

Garrin turned and waved, but Jacop was already pulling his book back up and situating himself on his stool.

Garrin and Rux walked down the road past a few large, skeletal almond trees growing on a hefty mound nestled inside the clear, cackling brook that ran through the town for which the almond blossoms had erroneously provided a name. Garrin’s heavy boots thumped along the wooden bridge as Rux trotted over to the brook and took a few quick laps of water with her tongue.

A middle-aged man carrying an armload of firewood nearly fell all over himself on the bridge as Rux rushed by to catch up with Garrin.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack!” he shouted.

Garrin smiled, but he didn’t offer any apologies. Most of the folk living in Cherry Brook now had moved into the area only two or three years ago. Garrin was one of the few that had been living here for a decade, back when Cherry Brook was first getting started. It was little more than a trapping outpost then. Still, the newcomers always gave the best reactions when Rux or Kiska followed Garrin into town.

A heavy line of smoke wafted out of the dual chimneys at the Sockeye Tavern. It was a beastly log building with a roof that looked as though it belonged on a barn. Pine pitch had been slathered on so thickly between the logs when the tavern was being erected that great gobs of dried, amber-colored tears hung frozen over the logs, forever dripping and never able to reach the ground. A gaudy, wooden sign hung over the door, with silver inlay in the letters that stood over a line of painted, red stones that somewhat resembled a flowing creek running to a large depiction of a cherry tree with a trunk made of amber and blossoms of painted pink and red stones.

When the sign had first been hung, only the finest rubies had been used in shades from dark red to a light pink. That was Mr. Grables’ first mistake when he moved in and built the tavern. The first two times the gems were stolen, Mr. Grables had replaced them with like stones. He had even hired a pair of guards to watch the sign in shifts. After the third theft, Mr. Grables packed it in and left Cherry Brook to return to his life in Richwater, the capitol city, and a massive trading port at that. Jinny Perkins had taken over the pub since then, replacing the stolen gems with painted stones found along the brook. She brought a better charm to the place too, replacing the fine vintage wines with sweet mead and pleasant beer.

Yet, despite the fact that Jinny was a long time resident of Cherry Brook, Rux had to remain outside while Garrin went in. She took up her place around the corner of the building where he knew she would wait patiently until he emerged later that evening.

Entering through the red, painted door, he pulled his hood back and began to unfasten his heavy, outer coat. He pried his left mitten off with his teeth and then removed the right with his hand, tucking them into the coat pockets. He moved to a table in the far corner on the left, slinging his coat over the back of a wooden chair and taking a seat.

At the table next to him, a trio of bearded trappers were playing bones. One of them nodded in Garrin’s direction. Garrin returned the greeting. Before long, Jinny Perkins was making her way toward him, weaving through the tables, holding a pitcher high up over her head and sidestepping quickly when a patron leaned back in his chair suddenly and bumped into her side. Despite her best efforts, a bit of amber colored liquid sloshed out and splatted on the man’s head. He turned, grunting and looking mad as a raccoon caught by the tail, but Jinny wasn’t having any of it.

“Watch yourself, Manks, or next time I’ll poor the whole thing in your lap and charge you to boot!” Jinny swung her hips out to push him back and then kept walking. The others at the table laughed as Manks just shook his head and tried to use a handkerchief as best he could to mop his head.

“Hi Jinny,” Garrin said with a smile.

“Mead, Garrin?” she asked as she set a mug down on the table and began to pour before Garrin nodded his head. “Supper too?”

“What’s on for tonight?” Garrin asked.

“Mutton stew.”

Garrin smiled politely and nodded, though he had to wonder if there was ever anything else on the menu. It had been mutton stew the last few times he had come in for dinner. The flavor was nothing to complain about, but the sheep that lived up in Cherry Brook were tough as mountain goats, and that hardiness transferred into the meat and became more of a chore than a pleasant meal no matter how long the stew was in the pot.

“I’ll fetch you a bowl,” Jinny said.

Garrin eyed the room, recognizing almost every face in the pub that night. Mayor Krooks was standing near one of the fireplaces, sucking on a pipe and speaking with Hendo and Paen, two of the three council members. Farmer Grill and his older sons were all seated at a table, busily engaged with a game of cards. Old Mr. Burtle, who was at least in his seventieth year and barely had any of his white hair left atop his liver-spotted head, was nursing a drink at the bar and doing his best to flirt with Jinny every chance he got. Jinny was pretending not to notice as she went about her work. Her husband, on the other hand, was quick to refill Mr. Burtle’s tankard any time he tried to open his mouth and speak to Jinny. If there was one thing Mr. Burtle was good at besides flirting, it was drinking, and he always tipped generously.

Jinny made her way back to Garrin’s table with the stew and set it down in front of him. Garrin slapped a few coins onto the table and then pulled a long, cylindrical canister up from a belt around his waist. He placed the canister onto the table and looked up to Jinny.

“Perhaps some bread as well?” he asked.

Jinny nodded, glanced to his cylinder, and then shook her head, muttering something about crazy trappers. Garrin smiled and looked down to the red and black canister.

“Now, don’t go anywhere,” he told it. One of the trappers at the adjacent table scrunched up his eyebrows, looking between Garrin and the canister, puzzled as to why Garrin might be talking to it. Garrin offered only a wink, and then took his first spoonful of stew. The food had a rich, earthy flavor to it. Onions, potatoes, and garlic swirled around the hunks of brown, thick meat in the reddish stew that was chocked full of peppers and chili powder. He swallowed the first bite and then took a drink of his mead as his eyes wandered out over the room once more.

That’s when he saw her.

Belinda Graye, a woman in her thirties who had moved to Cherry Brook only the summer before. She wasn’t like the other newcomers. She took to the hard lifestyle with a smile and a brightness that was almost impossible to look away from. She wasn’t built terribly stocky, as some of the women in the mountain villages could be, but she was not frail either. She wore dresses with colors and designs usually only found in the cities, but she was just as able to put her hands to an axe or any other tool commonly found in Cherry Brook. She was a rose growing among weeds on the mountainside, and she was the only woman that had managed to catch Garrin’s eye.

At the moment, she was laughing, tugging at the curled lock of reddish-brown hair that fell over her left cheek. Brent Smygl was with her. Brent was something of a notorious bachelor, or at least he passed for one in Cherry Brook, though it was doubtful any women back in Richwater would have looked at him twice. Brent, a handsome, dark-haired man in his late twenties, had spent some time in one of the fancy colleges in one of the southern cities, though Garrin couldn’t recall exactly which one. He had studied the history of magic, and now he used that knowledge to regale any woman willing to listen to him for longer than two minutes. Brent was the only man in all of Cherry Brook who could discuss such things, as all the other men here were either trappers, farmers, woodsmen, or back country traders.