October 25th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Guvson, Meadows, and his deputies rode out of sight in the Sheriff’s Gold Star Carriage. Konni clawed Mak’s shoulder and turned him around. “How dare you not take that deal?” Her voice was loud. “It’s more than we could ever make on our own. We could have perfect harvest, and no stillborn,” she pointed to the barn, “for fifty years straight and still not earn as much as his offer.”

Skylde watched them, her eyes slightly wide at the commotion. Jerri pretended to read over the papers, but Mak knew she was listening. Net scampered from the outhouse to Skylde’s side. It wasn’t a conversation for the children to hear.

Mak looked over what he could see of his land. Where’s Sherik? The barn door was half open. Must’ve hopped on Butterhoof and left during our little visit. I shouldn’t be surprised.

He put a hand on Konni’s shoulder. “Let’s talk inside,” he looked to the children, “alone.” Konni tensed beneath his touch, and they moved into the house, leaving the children to their chores. Mak leaned Lady Marlay in her corner.

“How could you refuse that offer?” Konni reworded the question in a more civil fashion.

“This is our home, Kon,” Mak extended his arms. “My grandpa—”

“I know,” Konni interrupted, “I know the history. You tell me all the time. It has nothing to do with what that man just offered.”

Mak moved to his redwood chair and collapsed onto it blowing out a deep breath. “We’ve got everything we need here. Crops, animals, family…”

Her eyes followed him to the chair. “We would have all that and more at my pa’s. Is it a pride thing? He won’t bother us. He lives miles away from where we would. You forget just how large that plot of land is.”

“Be grateful for what you have ‘cos some men sleep in the mud,” Mak repeated his pa’s words. Konni rolled her eyes. “It’s true, Kon,”

“If that man laying in the mud was offered ten dollars and a chance to sleep on a thin layer of hay, he would accept it,” Konni said. “I don’t think he’d stay in the mud just because there are starving, diseased people. He’s a smart man. He wouldn’t ignore such an opportunity.”

“If he’s so smart, why’s he laying in the mud?” The comment would get him nowhere. His arguments were based on personal feelings and thus useless when it came to discussing an issue that concerned the whole family. They’d be better off on the bigger, more fertile land, there was no doubt. The offer was more than they could ever make on their own, and things might get dangerous if they stayed. One look at Daun’s busted face was enough to confirm it, let alone the rest of the evidence. But Pa’s words rung in his head. A man is not a man unless he bleeds for land or family.

Konni stared at him after the remark and simply sighed. It was a desperate, hopeless sound that broke his heart. He knew leaving was the right thing to do, but what would Pa and Grandpa think of him in the afterlife when they learned he’d sold the land they fought so hard to protect for some coin and a fancy carriage that didn’t even exist in their day?

She stormed off to her cookery and pounded small, sharp fists into a heap of dough. She beat it harder and longer than usual, causing Mak to flinch with every strike.

“Come in,” Mak shouted. Konni didn’t react, nor did the others. “I know you’re there.”

The door creaked open. Jerri, followed by Net and Skylde, entered the home. Jerri came straight to the chair beside Mak. Skylde and Net scuttled to their mother and offered to help with the dough. He was going to order them to return to their chores but decided they might’ve been frightened of the visitors. He left the kids alone.

Jerri flattened the papers on her grey-clad lap. Mak frowned at the letters. Hundreds of tiny symbols danced on the page, meaning nothing. He recognized some but understood none. Jerri was the only one in the house who could read. She’d pestered Missus Brelda whenever they went to town. Before she had been forced to run the bakery on her own, Missus Brelda would often take long breaks on the front porch and read. Jerri was fascinated and ran to her whenever she saw her there, leaving Mak alone with his errands. She’d learned to read quick. It was a city skill, but a useful one, Mak supposed.

“What’s it say?” Mak leaned in.

She skimmed over the pages, though Mak assumed she could already recite both stacks from memory. “One is the deed to build the rail.”

“Read it,” Mak said. “I want to hear every word.”

She nodded and read the pages. Most of it was city folk fancy talk. Their documents rarely made sense to Mak. The language was not the same used between decent folk when speaking. It was complicated for nothing, like everything else in the North.

The transition between two of the pages seemed awkward, even more so than usual. It spoke of the regulations of the track and standards that the company must reach in order to build in the colony, and the next page changed immediately to the legalities behind dealing with native lands.

Mak snatched the stack. Jerri rolled her eyes, no doubt wondering why the man who couldn’t read would want the document. The bottom corners of the pages were numbered. He’d learned his numbers out of necessity to deal with buying tools and selling crops. “It goes from page three to page five here.”

Jerri snatched the stack back quicker than he had. Her pale face turned red with anger. “How did I miss something this simple?” She read the end of page three and the beginning of page five a few times over. “What could be missing?”

“Why’s it missing is the better question.” Mak scratched his bristly chin.

She finished the reading, her face puckered in thought. The document ended with the Westen Freight logo—crossed rails encircled by rope—stamped in faded black ink, and a signature beneath it. The ink was just as faded, but the penmanship was impressively precise. “Whose name is that?” Mak asked.

“It’s Mayor Bass’ signature,” Jerri said.

The mayor signing off on his land was an already well-known fact, but seeing the signature with his own eyes infuriated him. Betrayed by his own mayor. “That damned new governor. Gallon Water. What kind of name is that?”

Jerri giggled.

“What?”

“It’s Gallon Water.”

“That’s what I said.”

It took her a few moments to explain that his name had only sounded like “Gallon Water,” but was truly “Gallan Wadder.” There was a slight difference in the way “Wadder” was pronounced. It was an odd name, a real northern stench to it.

A whiff of baking bread reached him as he mulled over the new governor’s name. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been sitting there with Jerri. Maybe close to an hour.

“This is just a copy of the original file,” Jerri pointed to a spot on the page. “You can tell by how faded the stamp and signature are. That northern fellow doesn’t want us to see what’s on the fourth page, but it’s out there somewhere. I want to find it.”

“You will do no such thing, little lady.” Mak swiped the second stack from her lap and pushed it onto her chest. His nerves made him push a little harder than he’d intended. “Read this one, please.” He added the last word when he saw her furrowed brow.

“I already have.” Her face turned grim. “It’s an allocation of men from the Colony’s army. It also gives Westen Freight the right to hire their own militia independently in the case that their right to someone’s land is contested.”

Mak’s heart sank. What kind of governor would send soldiers to deal with something that should be settled between two men? Gallan Wadder seemed similar to the Guvson boy. He got what he wanted, no matter what it took. Had Konni heard what Jerri read? He could never convince her to stay if she did. He could barely convince himself after hearing it.

The bottom of the page was marked by two dog heads, each holding their respective end of the Dogford bridge over water—the colony flag— in red ink. “No signature needed on this one?” Mak asked.

“I suppose the owner of Westen Freight didn’t need to sign since he was the one asking for a service,” Jerri said.

Mak shook his head. “I took a loan from a traveling banker once. I was real young. Just got the land from my Pa. The man had made it sound like a great idea, you know how northerner’s can convince you with that musical way they speak. Anyway, I had to sign even though I was the one asking for services. I don’t see why this would be any different. Signatures are a northerner’s handshake. One hand can’t make a deal without another.”

“There’s something odd afoot, that’s for sure.” Jerri skimmed over the pages again, shaking her head. “I have a feeling something isn’t quite… legal. Maybe that’s just what I want to think, but the odd missing page, the signatures,” she paused. “I think it’s all in my mind. There’s most likely a simple explanation for all of it.”

“A simple explanation and foul play don’t have to be exclusive, you know,” Mak said. “What’s on the last page?” It was slightly smaller than the other two stacks. The paper itself was old, wrinkled, and rough. It looked like it would dissolve into dust if handled improperly.

Jerri was silent. Her blue eyes looked up at him, teeming with innocence. It was the face she’d used as a child to avoid a scolding. A chill crawled up his spine. “What is it?” He asked, a bit louder than he intended.

“It’s a proof of purchase.” Jerri’s voice was soft, reverted to childhood as her face had.

“Purchase of what?” Mak gripped the arms of his redwood chair.

“Centaur slaves,” Jerri whispered. “Ten of them.”

Mak remembered the size and power of the creature that chose not to attack him. “Let’s hope to God that’s for labour purposes only.”

“I’m scared.” Net’s voice snapped Mak out of a slight daze. He hadn’t realized until then that Konni, Skylde, and Net had settled around them. How much had they heard? Mak put his face in his palms and sighed.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, son,” he lied.