Forest Mage

“I had some questions for the colonel. And I wanted to do some shopping. Do either of you know anyone who’s headed west on the road soon? I’ve got a package I’d like delivered.” I stirred the stew in my bowl. A quarter of an onion, three carrots, and some crumbling lumps of potato. There were two gristly lumps of meat coiled defensively in the bottom of the bowl and little slivers of meat in the flour-thickened broth. And pepper. Lots of pepper. I think it was the only spice they used. I chose the carrot first. It had been cooked too long; its texture was gone. But the flavor had lingered and I savored it.

“Delivered where?” Kesey demanded, breaking into my food reverie.

“Dead Town. There’s a woman named Amzil there, with three kids. She put me up for a while and loaned me a rucksack. It’s time to send it back to her.”

“Oooooh, Amzil. Yessir. That’s a nice bit, when you can get it. I’m surprised you don’t want to ‘deliver’ that yourself.” Ebrooks waggled his tongue appreciatively.

“It’s nothing like that. Just a return for hospitality.” I tried not to let my annoyance show.

“You’re out of luck, Fats. All the carters have stopped for the winter. If a winter storm catches you on the road this time of year, you’re a dead man. Snow comes down, wind blows it smooth, and whoops, where did that road go? Most of them won’t chance it. There won’t be much traffic until spring. You might find a scout heading out that way, but good luck getting a favor from any of them. You might have to make the trip yourself if you want it delivered. Just go. Who’s to know?”

“I might,” I lied. My feelings about Amzil were decidedly mixed. I wanted to send her the gifts, not just for the children’s joy but to make her think well of me. At the same time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see her again. I’d heard too many men casually refer to her as the Dead Town whore. I wasn’t sure I could visit her without her seeing that in my eyes.

“I think that one of the scouts might take it for you. Hitch, or that new fellow, Tibber, Tiber, whatever his name is.”

“Lieutenant Tiber? He’s here?”

“You know him?” Ebrooks looked surprised.

“Not really. I’ve heard of him.”

“What did you hear?”

“Oh, just rumors. He’s a noble’s son, isn’t he? Didn’t he go to the academy?”

“Who cares? Jumped-up bastards.” Kesey sounded disgusted that I’d even give it a thought. As far as they knew, I was a common soldier’s son, as they were. They expected me to share their disdain for officers who were born to that calling. That stung, but I nodded and went back to my food. The potatoes were as overcooked at the carrots. The bread was good, though. I tore the bread and used the pieces to mop up the peppery broth. I thought about the food, not about Tiber and the ambitions we had once shared. The jealousy of the old nobles’ sons had dashed his hopes. My brush with Speck magic had stolen mine.

Ebrooks broke into my thoughts again. “What’d you ask the colonel?”

“I asked him if we could stockpile more coffins. We know the plague is going to come again. It comes every summer. And from what I can see, every summer, we run out of graves and coffins and the time to make more, and end up burying our dead in a trench. I just thought we could admit what happens, and have coffins ready. I’ve been doing my part. I dig a new grave every day.”

“Aye. See. I told you he wasn’t going to go off like Rheims did.” Ebrooks addressed this to Kesey.

“Who’s Rheims?” I demanded.

“Last fellow who had your job.” Kesey paused to suck noisily at the gaps in his teeth. “He come to town three times, begging the colonel to put someone else out there. Then he killed himself. Or so some say. Some fellows said they saw him dead over his gun, then come to town to report it. When they sent us out there to see, there wasn’t anything there. No gun, no body.”

“No blood?” I asked them.

They looked at one another and shrugged. They didn’t know. They probably hadn’t looked for it. I suspected they’d felt only relief at not having a body to bury. They weren’t curious in that way, I suppose. I’d met them the second time I’d come to the mess hall to eat. They’d sat down beside me and introduced themselves as gravediggers and caretakers of the cemetery in summer. The graveyard was the common bond that made us friends.

“Was his body ever found?” I asked. I expected that to be a negative.

Again, they exchanged a glance. “We found it. Finally. And we brought him back and buried him.”