"Resurrecting the Scarlet Avenger, Ch. 1.2" by Jon Midget

Chapter 1, continued ...

I wasn't leaving. Too much of my life had already been decided by Tom Ghundie and his perfect, spotless, goddamned black vest. I walked toward the center of town.

There were no trees along the road. Just houses. All wood and stone, two stories high, one after the other in a neat line. The western part of town had been built when there had still been a kingdom to belong to, when there had been important visitors to impress, when taming the wilderness had still mattered.

And the families who still lived in these ridiculous, two-story houses still cut back any trees that sprouted along their porches. Alcon Valley had been left alone for more than twenty years, and they still had to push the forest back, outside of town and behind the fences, in order to feel civilized.

I walked down the center of the road. There wouldn't be any traffic to dodge—no wagons, no horses, no travelers. Later, when morning approached midday, a few people would no doubt be out, but it was empty when I walked down. There were never any visitors from the west anymore.

There are never any visitors from the west anymore.

My father had said the same thing time and time again. His only customers were townsfolk who came to drink and loyal patrons. The occasional traveler from Upland Falls or beyond always stayed at the Moonshined Coon, but they had become very scarce in the past twenty years. My father had considered moving the inn to the southeastern part of town a couple of times, but never seriously. His grandfather had built the Moonshined Coon, and my father was determined that it would stay where it was for as long as he lived.

The scent of bacon drifted through the air. A few dogs ran across the road, barking at a flock of canyon loons perched on a rooftop. Clatter rang from behind the homes. My footsteps were silent.

A window opened, on the second story of one of the homes, and a woman dumped out a pot. She had been whistling "Every daisy's someone," a folk song from Upland Falls, but stopped when she noticed me. I stopped walking and stared at her. She glared back. Finally, she disappeared inside and slammed the window shut. A pot, set on a sill just below the window, fell to the ground and shattered.

By the time I reached the center of town, the morning market was setting up. Most of the shops, along the eastern and northern walls, had opened their doors. Carts from Waxonville, filled with apples, peaches, and corn, lined up along the southern end. A wagon from Villers' Canyon, filled with tins of milk and squares of cheese, parked near the center of the square. Men and women walked back and forth, ducking into the shops, checking the fruit for bruises, chatting with the vendors. A few boys threw acorns at a cat.

What am I doing here?

I wanted answers, of course. I wanted to know how the inn had burned down, who was responsible, why they had let him died, why they had left his body out to rot and feed the carrion birds. But what did it matter? I wouldn't get any answers from them. They were too busy discussing the apricots and whether there would be an early frost.

Across the square, Tom Ghundie talked with a merchant just outside Alcon Hall, an old stone church that had been turned into the mayor's offices about twenty years ago. A sculpture of Julias, god of ... something, stood just outside the door. It had been more than thirty years since the last priest had visited Alcon Valley. Nobody paid much attention to religion anymore.

Ghundie started turning my way, and I quickly stepped toward the carts from Waxonville, knocking over a young woman and her baskets of apples.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying to pick up the spilled apples and help her back to her feet.

"Well that's fine," she scolded. "Just throw them back in the baskets. That way you'll be sure to bruise any that escaped it when you dumped them all on the ground."

"Look, I didn't mean to knock you over," I said, careful to put the last few apples in the basket gently.

"Well, you did."

"And I'll buy all the ones that I bruised, so you won't lose any—"

"And what exactly are you going to pay me with?" she rolled her eyes at me. "Do you even have any money?"

I looked down at myself. Mud caked my boots and pants, and my shirt, which had once been blue, was the same mucky grey as the dirt road. My travel cloak had several patches, none of which quite matched its dark green fabric.

"Of course I have—" I reached into my pack, which held only another pair of pants and a shirt. I closed my eyes and turned my head away. "Sorry. You're right. I don't have any money with me."

"Gods!" She walked away. "I don't even know how you city people choose whose house to burn down and whose to leave standing."

I looked back toward Alcon Hall. Ghundie and the merchant were now staring at me. Careful not to run anyone over this time, I hurried to the shop just a few yards away: Garrett's Butchery.

The familiar bell rang as the door closed. For a moment I felt like a boy again, picking up an order for my father. I had once asked him why he always bought meat from Garrett's He had told me that you stick with your friends.

"I'll be right with you," Garrett's voice called from the room behind the counter.

Two men sat on a wooden bench. I didn't recognize the first, a rough-shaven man with a coarse brown coat and rough skin. Probably from one of the nearby farms. He nodded to me off-handedly and in mid-sentence when I walked in.

But I knew the second. Harlan Davis was one of the wealthiest men in Alcon Valley. He owned a tanning shop, a loom, and one of the large homes on the west end of town—only a few minutes' walk from the Moonshined Coon. His eyes narrowed as soon as I walked in, and he immediately cut off the stranger's rambling.

"I hear you had a storm out at Sallison Farm two nights ago," Davis said to the stranger, eyes still fixed on me.

"Yeah, but that don't seem bigger news than this burnt down inn—"

"I hear you lost several milking cows," Davis cut him off again.

"Yep. That's why I'm here," the stranger said. "We have extra beef to sell."

"That's big news," Davis said. "Waxonville got rid of most of their cattle a few years ago, you know. You and Villers' Canyon produce most of the milk in the whole valley. We might not have enough to go around."

"I don't know about that," the stranger said. "We only lost a couple milkies. It's not like the whole herd died off. It's hardly as big a deal as when that hail storm ripped through Upland Falls a couple years back. Now that was bad. Lost half their barley crop. We didn't have good beer for months."

Davis and the stranger started laughing, and I walked to a window. Outside, more people walked around the market. Several were buying apples from the woman I had knocked over. No matter what happens, I supposed, people need to eat, and fruit always sells.

"Sorry about the wait."

Garrett stood behind the counter. His eyebrows, like bushy grey moss hanging from a slab of wet granite, had grown even wilder that I remembered. His face and arms were still reddish and strong, but his eyes and cheeks were lined and suddenly made him look much older than I knew he was. The stranger walked up, already negotiating prices for the Sallison Farm cattle. Without responding, Garrett looked at me and took a deep breath.

"Martin ..." his voice trailed off. "I thought you'd come by when I heard you were in town. Why don't you come to the back room for a minute?"

"But we ain't even talked about a price for the cows yet," the stranger said. "You want me to take them somewhere else?"

"I'll be right back," Garrett told him. "And you'll get a good price for your time and cows."

"I'm sure that whatever you want to talk about could be said in here," Davis spoke up. His eyes looked black in the dimly lit shop—like a pair of dung beetles bored into his face.

"You're right," I smiled coldly at him. "We could talk out here. But we're not."

Davis chuckled. "Oh. Been to see your old man already, have you?"

Garrett put his hand on my shoulder and led me to the back room. "If you weren't so damned rich I'd throw you out," he muttered at Davis, loud enough to make himself happy but quietly enough that nobody else would notice.

As soon as the back door had shut, Garrett spoke:

"You've been to your father's place already, right?"

"Well, I had thought about strolling down James' street to mingle with the townfolks," I said, irritated with the question, "but then I realized nobody had ever sent me an 'I miss you' letter. So yeah. I went to the inn first thing."

"I know this will sound cruel," Garrett said, ignoring my sarcasm, "but you need to get out of here. Now, if you can."

"What happened?"

Garrett shook his head. "Rumors are flying around like a drunk beheaded goose, and I've heard everything you could possibly imagine. All I know for sure is that, a couple nights ago, Mayor Ghundie led a mob down to your pa's inn and burned it down."

"But why?" I demanded. "Look—I know Ghundie's a son of a bitch, and I know he's hated my dad for years. And I'm not stupid. I know my dad wasn't the most popular chap in Alcon Valley—"

"Martin," Garrett cut me off. "I hate saying stuff like this, 'cause you're a good kid and you've always been a good kid. But your pa's had this coming ever since he came back from the war."

"Ever since he brought me back from the war, you mean?"

Garrett sighed and his eyes looked away from me. "Yeah, that's what I mean. A lot of families sent their boys off to fight, but your father was the only one that came back. And he came back with ... you. That didn't sit right with a lot of folks."

"But why now?" I demanded again. "I haven't even lived in town for years."

"I don't know, Martin. Like I told you, I've heard everything and nothing really makes any sense. All I know is that I tried to convince your father to leave years ago, but the stubborn gontweed wouldn't do it. Now look at him. So I'm going to say the same thing to you. Get out of here while you still can. Build a life somewhere else. Nobody knows what the rest of the world is like anymore, but there has to be places that'll treat you better than this."

"You sound like Ghundie," I snapped at him. "He tried to convince me to leave too. At least you make it sound like it's for my own good." I reached for the door, but Garrett pulled me back before I could open it.

"Damn it, Martin, your father was my friend! I was one of the only ones that stuck with him after he brought you here. I didn't want him to leave, and I don't want you to leave either. But it would be better than seeing you dead."

I pulled away from him and kicked a stool against the wall. I felt like ripping apart the wooden walls, but all I could do was hold my head and listen to my angry, deep breaths. Garrett, his mouth pulled tight and his eyebrows sagging with his sad eyes, simply watched.

"I'm sorry I said you sounded like the mayor," I said dejectedly.

"Don't even worry about it."

"You really think I should leave?"

"Martin, half the town watched the inn burn down. I can't tell you any names because nobody's talking about it, except as if they just heard about it from someone else, but we're still talking about half the town. And I'm afraid they're not much different than a rabid dog—that once they've killed once it won't take much to get them to kill again. If you stayed around—even as far as that cabin you built up Grouse Canyon—I wouldn't give you much more than two weeks."

I said nothing.

"At least think about it," Garrett said.

"Okay," I whispered.

Garrett opened the door and led me back out to the front room. Harlan Davis and the stranger from Sallison Farm were still there, and a younger couple I recognized but didn't know were also waiting.

"So, can we start talking about the cows now?" the stranger demanded, his eye twitching with irritation.

"I'm sorry about your father," Garrett called to me as I left. "He was the only person from that part of town that treated me like someone worth discussing the weather with."

Just before I walked out, I turned around and peered at Garrett. "You said that you had heard I was in town. How did you hear that? I just got here this morning—maybe an hour ago."

The stranger held up his hands in frustration, anxious to get on with his business, and the young couple backed away, eyes suddenly widened, as they saw who I was. Harlan Davis, smiling, stood and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Oh, we've all heard that you're back in town," Davis said. "We needed to know so that we could give you a nice 'welcome home' that we've been planning."

I shoved his hand away and walked out.