The Jarl's Son, Chapter 13-1
A Meeting in the Mind, Part 1
Looking to start from the beginning? Read Chapter 1-1 here.
Petrichor filled the cool evening air, its heady aroma thickening as Marten and Varro put distance between themselves and Halvfjord. A pleasant fragrance, both earthy and wooden, it signaled the return of rain. Blessedly, the previous two nights had been free of any storming. Though the clouds had been quick to gather after sundown, just as they were quick to do so on this evening, the only rain Marten had seen thus far came on the night of Gaiur’s disappearance.
Looking west to the fast moving clouds which had gathered over the ocean, he knew tonight would be different. Unlike the previous storm, this one would be truly fierce. They wouldn’t be able to wait this one out in a camp, proper shelter was needed. Fortunately, Marten knew of an old farm that had long gone fallow. Unused for decades, it had briefly become a staging point for a troop of southern bravos roughly seven years ago.
That was the last time it saw any use, the family who owned it having passed on from this life years before he was born. It was also the first time Marten had been given the authority to lead men. They performed admirably, as had he, clearing out the southern dastards without a single casualty on their side. Granted he and his were better armed and armored. The bravos were nothing more than poorly armed former mercenaries, ill equipped to stand against a team of a dozen men armed with spears, swords, shields, and mail. Nevertheless, Marten’s decisive leadership ensured that none of those glorified robbers escaped, leaving the house empty once more.
“Come, Varro!” he said. Clicking his tongue, he gave his mare a gentle kick with his heels, setting her into a swift canter and turning away from the direction of the forest. The old house lay to the northeast. Riding at a quick pace, it took less than a quarter hour to reach the fallow fields. They reached the house scant minutes later.
Dilapidated through its decades of abandonment, the farmhouse was worse off than he’d anticipated. Built with a long sloped roof that reached all the way down to the ground, its western side had partly collapsed. A hefty conifer had fallen on that part of the house, its thick trunk having snapped many of the birch logs used to construct the roof. Given that the conifer’s trunk was gray and needleless, as well as the fact that no such tree had struck the house when those bravos held up here, Marten guessed it probably fell sometime in the last two to six years. Sadly, much of the sod that helped seal the roof was ripped off when it fell, too, though the eastern half of the roof appeared intact.
Inside wasn’t much better. He knew there wouldn’t be much in the way of amenities. Most of the furniture there was destroyed either by age or during his raid against the bravos. Any of the metal tools which were in there, be they cookware, farming tools, or the family’s weapons, had long since rusted to the point of uselessness. Gaps could be seen in the roof, particularly on the side where the tree fell, and in the walls as well.
Still, the house remained mostly solid. The fire pit was undamaged, held minimal debris, and between the fallen tree and broken furniture he had plenty of wood to last him the night. It wasn’t perfect, but that old, empty home would provide Marten and his bestial companions with suitable enough shelter to wait out the storm. Not a moment too soon, either. By the time he stepped back out to shelter his mare, the first fat drops had already begun to fall.
Having hitched her to an age-and-weather-worn fence that ran beneath the eastern awning when he arrived, Marten now led her underneath that awning to keep her dry and at least a little bit warmer. It wouldn’t provide perfect shelter. While the sod along the roof was still intact on this side, there were multiple gaps where water leaked through. Even so, it was better shelter than he was able to give her in the woods a couple nights back.
Hitching her once more to a central support post, Marten quickly inspected the fences on the north and south side. Like the rest of the house they were old and dilapidated, but remained sturdy enough to keep her penned. Removing her saddle and bridle, he gave her free reign of the small space. There was some risk in that considering a couple spots along the fence were low enough for her to jump, but he trusted that the shelter the roof-to-ground awning provided would discourage her once the rain arrived.
Moving quickly, he brought his riding gear and the rest of his supplies inside. His bags and cloak were dampened by the heavy rain but not nearly enough to become soaked and waterlogged. Varro watched him from a far corner of the house, suddenly yelping when a split in the roof spilled a stream of water on his head. Jumping to his feet, he skidded to the other side, nearly bowling Marten over in the process. Marten couldn’t help but laugh. Conscious though he was of how disastrous it could be for an elk sized wolf to barrel into him, a near miss was still a miss and a wet hound was still chuckle worthy.
Within the next quarter hour Marten had cleared the fire pit of its debris and built a small but sustained fire. Half an hour later and that small fire had grown large, its heat reaching every corner of the house. The flames popped and cracked, adding their melody to the drumming patter of the rain. That melody soon took on a third note; the fatty sizzle of a roasting springjack haunch, skewered on three pieces of a broken floor plank that Marten had split and crudely sharpened. He smeared it with a paste made from grinding herbs he found outside with some coarse salt he kept in a shallow oaken box that wasn’t much larger than his palm. Wild garlic and scallions, early blooming field mustard, and wild chervil all added their distinct aromas to the roasting meat and filled the abandoned house with pleasant scents.
As his meal cooked, Marten set about a few other tasks. First among them was to feed Varro. Unwrapping a second haunch, he tossed it to the hungry animal who was swift to begin devouring it. Springjacks weren’t particularly large creatures. Roughly the size of lynxes, they appeared as something of a cross between a hare and a field mouse. Their bodies were lean and didn’t have much meat in most places, but their muscular haunches were an exception. Cooking them slow over an open fire made them tender and delicious, especially when rubbed with fresh herbs. The pair he took with him when he left would make filling meals for both of them.
While Varro gnawed away, Marten then began preparing his sleeping area, starting with setting up his rain tarp. The spot he’d chosen to sleep in didn’t have any leaks that he’d notice, but there was no saying whether one might start sometime during the night. Next he set up his tent, the opening of which faced the fire pit, and lastly he laid out his bedroll. All that done, he checked on the roasting springjack haunch, turning it over so it wouldn’t burn.
To an outside observer, Marten’s actions would’ve doubtless appeared fussy and pompous. For most Stenisians wanderers, be they weary traders on the road or itinerants like Gaiur, to find an empty house in a storm was blessing enough. In reality this was true for Marten as well. Between the fire and the roof over his head, leaks and all, he had all he needed to rest through the night. Thus was the question begged, why go through all this extra trouble?
Two reasons dominated Marten’s mind, one conscious, the other its opposite. His conscious reason involved Renald. Knowing that he was most likely to encounter the loquacious fox in his dreams, he determined that comfort had become something of a situational necessity. Greater comfort meant deeper sleep, and that might help increase his chances of a nighttime meeting with Gaiur’s vulpine companion. Even so, the idea still sounded a bit absurd to him, and he felt more than a little ridiculous erecting his tarp and tent indoors.
Marten’s second, unconscious reason had to do with quieting his mind. Gaiur had dominated his waking thoughts across the last two days. He worried a great deal about her situation, and that worry intensified whenever he thought about his inability to find any sort of trail leading to her. Such thinking left him anxious and stressed, and that hampered his ability to sleep. He’d spent numerous hours the previous nights staring past his campfire into the darkness, his mind sleeplessly wandering from one grim possibility to another. He couldn’t allow that to happen tonight. He needed to sleep and sleep well, and thus, he needed to be as relaxed as possible.
The meal helped. Both the tending and the eating of it kept Marten busy enough for his mind to be occupied. Wonderful as springjack could be when it was properly cooked, it required close attention be paid lest it overcook. If he let that happen the tender and succulent meat would instead become tough and stringy, not unlike trying to chew thin cords of boiled leather. That was an unpleasant experience he didn’t wish to relive in any shape or form, so he carefully tended to both the roasting haunch and his fire over the next couple hours. Growing as he stoked and refueled them and dying back down over time, his fire provided an inconsistent heat that required him to move the roast back and forth depending on how intense the heat was. The higher the heat, the further back it needed to be. In addition to this he rotated the haunch every quarter hour, ensuring that the herbs and outer meat were well browned but didn’t burn.
It was tedious work, and Marten wondered if it might be more trouble than it was worth. Springjack was a common food for Stenisians. Most regions of the vast northern land featured some variety of the hare-like animal. Fast to breed and mature, they were among the most plentiful wild game around, especially in springtime. Travelers of all stripes valued them for the meat and furs they provided. Springjack meat preserved well and was typically light enough that a couple days worth of fresh cuts were often included among the supplies either for short journeys or the start of longer forays.
Cooking methods made a significant difference with springjack meat. Properly roasted over an open flame, what little fat did run through the lean haunches would slowly render, keeping the meat moist, tender, and flavorful. However the process was time consuming, requiring close to three hours of attentive cooking to ensure it neither burned nor overcooked. This amount of time was too steep an ask when traveling. Stewing was far more reliable, taking about half the time and generally resulting in larger portions that were more easily preserved for future use. By contrast, roast springjack was typically seen at feasts, festivals, and major celebrations.
Marten’s stomach grumbled. Taking his knife from his belt, he began shaving off bits of the exterior which had finished cooking. While the strips he sliced hadn’t quite achieved that light char he enjoyed on roast meats, that didn’t take away from their deliciousness. Rich and tender with just enough chew to be satisfying, the slightly gamey meat had a slight sweetness to it that went well with the spice of the wild mustard and the gentle pungency of the onion and garlic greens.
The cook finished across the next half hour, and Marten continued to carve away at that tender haunch, enjoying every bite. The whole thing was only a little more than was needed to satisfy him. He finished it a bit overfull, but that feeling would settle within the next hour. He’d try to sleep after that.
Until that time came, he sat watching the fire and listening to the rain. The patter on the roof had grown into a heavy cascade. Water spilled in through the holes in the roof near the fallen tree, pooling and flowing along the western wall of the house. It wasn’t immediately visible, especially in the low light, but it appeared that the floor was uneven on that side. Marten guessed that the ground beneath had become washed out thanks to water leaking in through those gaps over the years. Stable as it appeared, the house might not last too much longer if that kept up.
Flashes of lightning were visible through the gaps in the roof. They were distant, their booms of thunder coming many seconds after the flashes faded. He wondered how bad the storm had been on the night Gaiur disappeared. The rains had been enough to thoroughly wet the soil, but had they become this intense? Had the lightning worsened as he’d been asleep? He tried to push these thoughts out of his mind, but they refused to leave him. Slumped forward with his arms resting limply on his knees, he stared at the undulating flames before him and gave up his vain attempts to block out his thoughts and worries.
Gaiur.
She was out there somewhere, caught up in all of this. Not in the storm perhaps, but even if that were true, it was little comfort in the face of what he knew. What else could’ve happened but the Red Bear stealing her away? Nothing else explained the completeness of her disappearance. Whatever that reaver truly was, be he a man meddling with powers beyond comprehension or a shadowy fiend like the serpent which tormented young Erik, Marten couldn’t deny the power he wielded, not anymore.
Likewise, he couldn’t deny the deep feeling of lonesomeness that had come over him. In a way, it felt rather silly. He and Gaiur hadn’t known each other for more than a couple weeks, yet he quickly found himself taken with her, and her with him. It wasn’t long before she began to dominate his thoughts, invading his mind with neither rhyme nor reason nor consideration for where he was or what he was doing. He couldn’t shake free of her, and when it came time for her to fulfill her duty and save his brother’s life? When she succeeded where all before her had failed? Her hold upon him only strengthened.
Now that she was gone, she gripped him harder than ever, and he felt her absence keenly. How ridiculous it was to feel so deeply for someone he’d only known for a matter of days. Such is what he tried to convince himself of, but there would be no convincing. Deny though he might in his desperate bid to quiet his thoughts, the truth had already been made plain. He’d fallen for her, and she for him. So it was that honor, duty, and love alike compelled him to keep searching, no matter what may be required of him.
Right now that search demanded sleep, that he might have the chance to commune with her vulpine companion. Though his thoughts still roiled, the good meal, warm shelter, and soothing sounds of the storm managed to lull him into a state of relaxation. Lying back on his bedroll, Marten’s eyes swiftly grew heavy. Soon after, the recent long days and sleepless nights took their toll. Closing his eyes, he slipped into a hazy torpor as the world around him went dark.
Thank you for reading.
The Jarl’s Son sees Gaiur the Valdunite return to embark on a new adventure and acts as the follow-up to my dark fantasy mystery tale, In the Giant’s Shadow. The previous story isn’t required reading to understand and enjoy this tale, but doing so will enhance the experience.
My first novella, In the Giant’s Shadow, is available for purchase! Lured to the sleepy farming community of Jötungatt by a mysterious white raven, Gaiur the Valdunite soon finds herself caught in a strange conspiracy of ritual murder and very real nightmares.
Purchase it in hardback, paperback, or digital on Amazon now:
A good story should always have downtime for the characters. Sleeping, eating, reading, dreaming, and cooking all add depth to the story. Springjacks being a rabbit the size of a lynx. Very descriptive. And Marten thinking about Gauir all day.
This shows humanity. Great job, Dave.