Haven Magic (3 page)

The final reddening rays of sunlight streamed down from the heavens to touch mountains, sea, leafy treetops and thatched roofs. Near the western border of the River Haven, at the foot of the Black Mountains, the dying light illuminated a rain cloud. Silvery-gray droplets fell from the cloud’s belly and shimmered into arcs of crimson, orange, amber, green, blue and violet. Together, the arcs formed a brilliant rainbow. Everyone in the Haven who saw it knew that somewhere, at the impossible foot of the rainbow, danced a ring of the elusive Faerie.

To the east of the rainbow lay the Berrywine River. There the sunlight fell upon the backs of Brand Rabing and his older brother Jak. The warmth of the sun was slight, but it felt good on Brand’s bare head and helped keep him from shivering beneath his cloak of gray, homespun wool. Brand glanced to the west and shivered at the sight of the rainbow. Its presence chilled him anew. For the River Folk rainbows were bad omens indeed, not due to superstition, but rather due to the beings that gathered promptly when rainbows appeared. He hunched over his pole and worked harder.

Brand and Jak were speaking little now, saving their energies for punting the loaded skiff quickly to safety before the light failed completely. They had gotten a late start, and the trip had taken most of the afternoon. The short mast at the center of the skiff was unadorned by a sail as the wind was blowing upriver and into their faces. They had only the current and the power of their limbs to move them downstream.

Jak was three years older, but Brand was taller. They didn’t bear much family resemblance, Jak being blond and brown-eyed, while Brand was dark-haired with eyes like clear blue water. Both, however, had well-muscled shoulders from long years of battling the river’s currents and eddies. They wore tunics of buckskin, the wet sleeves and leggings of which were stained nearly black by the splashing water.

Brand blinked at his brother for a moment, reminded of first his father and then his mother, both dead these last seven years. In years past, they had all traveled to Riverton for the offering as a family. Now only the two brothers were left to farm the family Isle and transport their bounty to the Faerie.

Their hardwood poles glinted wetly. A dragonfly landed on the tip of Brand’s pole, making him smile and pause briefly before it flittered away with a shimmering movement of its translucent wings.

They rounded the last of the Thorn Rocks and entered the deep, slow-moving eddies on the far side. Brand thrust his pole down to where his hands touched the inky river in order to reach the bottom. Soon, they were able to do little more than drift between the spots where they knew the bottom was in range of their long poles.

So busy were the two young men with their task that at first Brand missed the movement of a shadow in the white-barked birch trees on the west side of the river. The second time, however, the water seemed disturbed, and he looked up. What he saw amongst the trees left him gaping.

The shadowy figure of a man on horseback stood there—at least it was man-shaped—but obscured somewhat by the long afternoon shadows of the trees. His surprise was not in the sight so much, although it was strange to see a man in the River Haven clad all in black and staring silently, but rather in the feeling that overcame him. Later, he could only describe it as dread—the feeling of a cornered rabbit that turns to face the fox’s teeth. Instinctively, he hunkered down, losing his grip momentarily on his pole as fear numbed his fingers.

He saw a silvery glint of something in the shadow’s hands. Something long and bright.

“You’re losing your pole!” shouted Jak, turning back to see what the matter was.

Sure enough, it had slipped completely from his hands and was drifting away. Brand made a grab for it, caught it, and nearly fell in as the skiff wallowed with the sudden movement. After a precarious moment, he regained his feet, saved by years of boating experience. He turned back to the shore, ignoring Jak’s perplexed frown.

“What’s gotten into...” began Jak, but he halted, following Brand’s wide-eyed stare.

They looked together at the trees along the western shore. There was nothing there.

“What was it?” hissed Jak, stowing his pole and unlashing the crossbow. “Was it a merling?”

Brand shook his head. “It’s gone.”

“That’s the edge of the Deepwood and the Deepwood is full of merling dens. It probably slipped into the water. You get the boathook. If I see its froggy eyes pop up, I’ll chance a shot at it,” said Jak, hurriedly putting his foot into the stirrup of his crossbow and cocking it.

“No, no merling...” said Brand. “It was a man—maybe.” He quickly described what he had seen, leaving out only his feeling of cold dread.

Jak stared at him for a long moment, and Brand feared that even his brother was not going to believe him. It did seem very odd, even to him. But finally, Jak nodded, placing a bolt into the slot of the crossbow.

“It’s been a strange autumn,” was all that he said.

They watched the water and the trees for a time, but nothing else happened.

“We must get our offering to Riverton before dark,” said Jak when it seemed clear that the shadowy figure would not return. “The Harvest Moon is almost full tonight.”

Brand quietly agreed.

They spent the rest of the trip tensely watching the western shore. The river moved below them, carrying the skiff rapidly downstream in the narrow portions, barely creeping or swirling backward in the wide slow parts. They knew every mile of the river, every deep, backwashing eddy and pole-catching snag. More importantly, since the river changed somewhat with the seasons and the years, they knew how to tell a new snag just by the way the current wavered as the water passed over it. Like all the folk that lived in the River Haven, they felt most at home when near running water, or preferably
on
running water.

Feeling the chill breath of the night that lay ahead, Brand half wished he had worn his newest thigh-high boots, dreading the intrusion of river water and squishy delta mud when they had to wrestle the cargo up to the docks. These older boots were no longer thigh-high as he had grown so greatly this past year. He had not yet been able to bring himself to wear his new boots on the river, wanting both to keep them clean and new, and at the same time wanting to savor the comfortable softness of the old ones.

Autumn had come early this year, very early. It seemed that winter was already on its way, hard on autumn’s heels. The Black Mountains to the east and the higher peaks of Snowdonia to the north were already dusted with caps of snow. Hail had damaged much of the crops, ending hopes of a good harvest. Worse still, there had been many signs that things were not right in the River Haven. Rainbows occurred almost daily, earning frowns and concerned looks cast over hunched shoulders. Reports of wolves, merlings and worse things had become commonplace. All over the Haven, from the High Marshes to the Glasswater Lake delta, came word of things appearing from the forests and mountains, and even out of the Berrywine River itself. Fisherman and hunters made sure they were home by dark, and the shepherds hurried their flocks into their pens early each evening. Up on the Isle of Harling, as far up the river as Haven folk ever ventured, a hill giant was said to have wrecked a farm with his two great fists. Many scoffed, though all were given to glancing back at the trail behind.

Brand looked down at the crossbow and the boathook that lay atop the skiff’s netted cargo of broadleaf melons and berrywine casks. He wondered if a single steel-tipped bolt could stop a hill giant. When he looked up, his brother Jak was eyeing him sidelong.

Jak huffed at him then and he was reminded that he wasn’t punting, nor was he watching for trouble as was his assigned task. Worse, they were close to the Talon Rapids, where the going became the toughest. Blushing, he put his back into it and turned to watch the shores again. Jak returned to his work in the prow, shaking his head.

Both heaved a sigh of relief when they rounded the final bend into the wide slow section of the river that surrounded Stone Island. In the blue-white twilight, Stone Island was an impressive sight. On three sides the island rose up on cliffs of hard granite, twenty to fifty feet high in most places. Atop this gray wall perched a hilly land of forests and glens. The fourth side, the eastern side, dipped down to the water and cradled a lagoon and the village of Riverton. Chosen long ago as a good site for a community as it was well-protected from storms and floods, Riverton had been the prosperous center of the Haven for as long as anyone could remember.

* * *

Darkness fell swiftly as they drifted toward the island. The first anchored buoy clanged its bell in greeting and they exchanged smiles. Their faces were now illuminated only by the light of the lantern that swung from the mast. They let the current take them now, lifting their poles from the water and saving their energies for the final push to the village docks at Riverton. Both were tired, a bit shivery, and glad the journey was almost at an end. It seemed to Brand that their home island was further away from Riverton this autumn than ever before.

Tonight, Stone Island was a towering shadow of blackness. Only the twinkling lights from the outlying houses that were sprinkled along the cliffs and the warm diffuse glow that came from Riverton relieved the darkness. It wasn’t long before the skiff slipped into the lagoon and nudged up against the docks. Brand and Jak were lucky; there was plenty of space at the high public docks. There was no need to jump down into the cold squelching mud of the river to pull the skiff up to shore. A lone cart waited for them at the docks. A chestnut carthorse stood, tail flipping. The cart’s driver climbed down from the board and held aloft a heavy brass lantern in greeting.

“Hey there, Corbin!” shouted Brand to the driver. “Give us a hand, man!”

With deliberate steps that suggested bulk, the man approached. Brand noted that the man had the hood of his cloak pulled up and that the lantern failed to penetrate the gloom within. He frowned. Was this truly his cousin, Corbin Rabing? Or was it someone good at imitating his slow, stumping gait? Thoughts of the shadowy horseman back on the river sprang to mind.

“What’s wrong with you, Brand?” asked Jak. He was a bit short-tempered after the three hour journey. “Take this cask, will you?”

Brand clambered up onto the dock and took the proffered cask. He set it down on the creaking boards while still eyeing the approaching figure. Then he shook his head, chiding himself. Of course it was Corbin. No shadow man could walk like that.

Corbin stepped closer and threw back the hood of his cloak. “It’s a cold one tonight, isn’t it? It took you gentlemen quite some time to get here. Couldn’t use the sails?” he asked. His wide face split with a smile that showed his strong white teeth. “Good to see you, in any case.” He was the same age as Brand, both of them being about twenty, but looked older with his heavy reddish beard and big-boned shoulders. Corbin was as wide as Brand was tall. As was often the case with young hard-working men, there was no fat on either of them.

Although he felt a bit silly, Brand grabbed Corbin’s free hand and shook it. He couldn’t help but feel relieved. “Good to see you too, my cousin.”

Jak, standing in the skiff, was looking up at them with his fists on his hips. He said nothing, but Brand could tell what he was thinking:
You’ve been acting jumpy all day, ever since...
there was no need to finish the thought.

With renewed energy, Brand jumped back into the skiff and began handing up the cargo with Jak. Corbin stacked the casks two at a time and piled the melons beside them with easy, deliberate movements.

Soon they were finished unloading, and after securing the skiff for the night they carried the cargo to the cart and loaded it. Lastly, they tossed up their rucksacks with their fresh clothes and gear. “I wish that Tator would come out on the dock,” said Jak. “Although I can’t say that I blame him for being skittish about the water.”

The chestnut carthorse tossed his head, perhaps recognizing his name. Corbin patted him as he loaded two more broadleaf melons. “Tator knows what’s best for him,” he said gently. “And falling into the lagoon ain’t it.”

While Jak climbed up onto the board next to the driver’s seat and Brand tried to get comfortable perched on the wine casks, Corbin fed Tator an apple from his pocket. Then he heaved himself into the driver’s seat and they set off. The horse pulled the cart slowly but gamely up the hill toward Riverton.

The first houses they passed were mounted on spindly-looking stilts. Neither the stilts nor the rickety houses themselves appeared to be in the best of repair. Most of these belonged to the less reputable clans among the Riverton folk, which meant the Hoots, who were the most numerous, as well as the Silures and the Fobs. They inhabited the dock region primarily because the land was cheap, as no one else wanted to live on stilts that may or may not hold up in the yearly floods. It was even cheaper if one simply squatted on the land and built a shack there, which was what many of them did. Brand always disliked the first part of the road up from the docks as it wound through this section of town. It was no fun passing beneath the sour eyes of the Hoots and the Silures who had made a family tradition of sitting out on the raised porches of their shacks in the evenings. There they would sit, some rocking, most smoking long-stemmed clay pipes, all with a large corked jug of fruit wine at their feet.

Years ago, when Jak and Brand had been children and their parents had still lived, the Silures had tried to take Rabing Isle from them with an ancient writ of inheritance. The writ, supposedly discovered among the effects of old man Tad Silure, had turned out to be a forgery. The entire Silure clan, and the Hoots, who counted the Silures as close kinsfolk due to excessive intermarriage between the two clans, had never forgotten the loss of Rabing Isle, which they still regarded as rightfully theirs. Brand looked at the others on the driver’s board, and noted their determined postures. They leaned forward, hunching over without glancing from side to side. He could imagine the grim look of distaste on their faces. No one in the Rabing clan would give a Silure or a Hoot the time of day. The Fobs alone were decent dock-dwellers, a cut above the grasping Hoots and Silures.