David Farland - Beyond the Gate

Thomas went to his wagon, got out his walking stick and half a skin of stale water. His joints felt loose, and his head was a bit foggy. And he found himself watching the gray woods, wishing that Gallen was here now. The men of town were spooked, sure enough, and he convinced himself that was good news, for it meant that perhaps there was something for him to find out in those woods. Perhaps he’d find more than he could handle.

He headed north, walking to the edge of the forest, and a shout went up from some of the boys. Soon there were forty people walking behind him, children and women, curious fold, but most of them stopped at the edge of the wood, frightened to go in.

Thomas turned and addressed them. “If any of you older boys have a mind to come with me, I’ve a mind to go and collect some artifacts. I’ll be looking for the skulls of demons or angels, any of their clothing or weapons. I’ll pay a pound for each boy that comes with me to pack the bounty out.”

Many of the boys looked around a bit as if trying to think what business they might have elsewhere, but one young lad stepped forward on shaky legs, a tough-looking boy with a broad chest and intelligent eyes. “I’ll help, for five pounds.”

“Five pounds then, if we find anything,” Thomas said.

The boy nodded in agreement.

“Good lad,” Thomas said, and he turned, leading the way. The boy rushed across the street, grabbed a hatchet from the doorstep of a house-tree where someone had been chopping kindling, then hurried up, walking right at Thomas’s heel, gripping the hatchet in white fingers.

They walked under the pines for a hundred yards, until the limbs of the tall trees began to block the sun. The humus was thick and held a print, and in no time at all, they came upon a trail that held stunningly odd prints: some of the tracks came from booted feet that couldn’t have been less than eighteen inches long and ten wide. Other tracks were handprints of some creature with a span of twenty inches, but the monster had only four fingers.

Thomas stopped and surveyed the prints for a long time, found his breath coming ragged, and his mouth felt dry. He took a swig of his stale water.

“Those are demon tracks, certain,” the boy said. “The ones that look like handprints are from the creature that walked on all fours.”

“By all that’s holy!” Thomas mouthed. “To tell you true, I wasn’t certain we’d find anything.”

“What do you plan to do if we get a demon skull?” the boy asked.

“I’ll mount the damned thing on a wall in the inn,” Thomas said, perhaps being too forthright.

“Aye,” the boy breathed, “that would be something! I’ll tell you, the reason I came is I want some of this stuff, too. A demon head maybe, or something from an angel. When the angels came through town, I climbed the steeple of the church and looked out over the woods. That night, there was smoke and fire coming from the forest, flashes of lightning. I reckon there was a fearsome battle, and I prayed to God and the saints something fierce. But what happened out here, no one knows-only Gallen O’Day. He came out to battle with an angel at his side, and he’s not breathed a word about what happened. But no angels came back, and no demons, either. I figure Gallen bested them all.”

Thomas glanced up at the boy, saw that his face was pale, frightened. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Chance,” the boy answered.

“Well, Chance, if we find a demon skull, it’s mine and I’ll pay you the five pounds I promised. But if we find two, the second is yours. Beyond that, if we find the mother lode, I’ll give you some of the booty.”

Chance smiled at that, and they took a pee, then hurried down the trail.

Thin high clouds were coming in, making it darker and cool, promising rain. Thomas hurried, and the forest went silent. No birds sang, no squirrels leapt in the trees. It was a strange, ominous quiet. Even the trees seemed to refrain from creaking in the small wind.

Thomas had been in the woods plenty of times when the forest was just as quiet, but this silence got his heart beating. He kept stopping, looking behind him. He felt as if he were being watched.

“Sure this is an unholy silence,” Chance breathed at one point, loosening his collar.

And Thomas stopped, his heart was beating too hard. He kept thinking of that nice warm inn, with its mugs of beer, and he wished he was back there.

But they followed the tracks over a long hill, up a ridge, and back down to a creek. There the trees opened up, letting in more light. Still, the deathly silence reigned in the forest.

Chance began slowing, and to hurry him, Thomas said, “Pick up your pace, you old cow-it’s not as if you’re pulling a plow!”

The boy picked up his pace, and ten yards farther he grabbed a stick and walloped Thomas in the back of the head.

Thomas turned so fast that he fell on his butt. The boy was so mad he was in tears. “I’ll not have you talkin’ down to me, like I was some cur. My name is Chance O’Dell, and you’ll address me proper, or you’ll find yourself in trouble with me and my clan! I’m Mister O’Dell to you!” The boy shook his stick in Thomas’s face, and Thomas took a moment, trying to think how he’d offended the boy. His mind was still foggy from too much rum, and it took a few seconds for understanding to burn through the haze.

“I’m sorry if my rudeness wounded you, young Mister O’Dell,” Thomas said. “I meant nothing by it. I say such things by force of habit. And if you think me evil for it, think on this: what is in another man a vice, is in me a virtue. As a satirist, I walk behind the proud men of the world, making rude noises. And the louder and ruder I get, the more good folks like you pay me. So, it’s true that I’ve got no common sense when it comes to addressing decent, honorable folk like yourself.”

“Well,” Chance growled. “If you make more rude noises about me, I’ll pay you fair, all right. I’ll pay you with a stick!” He shook the stick in Thomas’s face, then threw it aside.

Thomas laughed. “Well, next time I want a good spanking, I know who to come to. Come now, friend, help me up, and let’s go find us something grand!”

The boy gave him a hand up, and they hurried along, and the boy seemed to calm down quickly. In minutes the whole incident was perhaps forgotten by the boy, but Thomas filed it away in his brain. A boy who was that brutal and quick to take offense likely came from a family with a strong sense of honor, and it wouldn’t be wise to ever cross one of them O’Dells again, or else Thomas would end up in a blood feud. And with only two Flynns left in the world, it would be a short feud.

At the foot of a mountain, in the shadow of a glade, they came upon some booted footprints that were more proportioned to the size of a man.

“See,” Chance muttered. “This is where the angels came on their track. It looks like there were four, maybe five of them, and they came stalking the demons.”

“Some say that it was the sidhe who came, not angels,” Thomas ventured.

“Angels, I think,” Chance whispered. “You’ve never seen people so beautiful, so regal. And Gallen said it was the Angel of Death that walked at his side.”

Thomas just grunted. He had a hard time imagining angels that wore boots-slippers maybe-but he didn’t want to argue. Besides, he wondered, would an angel even need to walk? Didn’t they have wings? He thought it more likely that they would just flap about like giant white crows.

They followed the trail along the creek, both of them stalking warily, looking about. Suddenly the brush exploded just before them, and Thomas’s heart nearly stopped. A stag leapt off through the forest, but Thomas had to stop to let his pounding heart rest.