Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

When he had drawn far enough away from the wagons that they wouldn’t catch up to him for at least an hour, he began to hunt.

Colin returned to the wagons at midday, two prairie dogs in his satchel, and found his father waiting. Someone had forewarned him; he stood on a knoll, arms crossed over his chest. Colin halted when he saw him, then changed course to meet him. As he trudged up the slope, the wagons came into view, trundling down into the shallow fold of land behind his father.

He stopped a few paces away, noting the creases in his father’s forehead, the set expression on his face.

“Don’t ever run off like that again,” his father said.

Colin stiffened defensively. “I was hunting-”

“No! Hunting alone while we were in Lean-to was fine. The land around Portstown had been explored. But once we pass beyond the last farmstead, once we pass onto the real plains, you can never hunt alone. We don’t know what’s out there, what the dangers will be. And we don’t have that many men. We can’t afford to lose anyone.”

Colin drew breath to protest, but the seriousness in his father’s voice forced him to stop. This wasn’t a lecture, spoken to a child. His father meant it.

He released the pent up breath. Looking at the ground, he said grudgingly, “I won’t hunt alone.”

His father relaxed, but he wasn’t finished. “I didn’t expect Sartori to give this expedition over to Walter, but he’s part of it now. This isn’t Portstown. This isn’t even Lean-to. Officially, Walter is in charge of this expedition. His word is final; he is, in effect, the Proprietor of the wagon train.”

His father glanced toward where Walter rode at the head of the wagons themselves; they’d begun making their way up the ridge they stood on. The tension-the sternness in his expression-suddenly lessened.

“But that’s only what’s written on paper. We have nearly eighty people here-thirty men, nearly twenty women, and twenty-seven children-and none of us will be inclined to follow his orders if they don’t make any sense. I haven’t had a chance to speak to Arten, the commander of Walter’s escort, so I don’t know how the Armory will react if we disagree, whether they’ll side with Walter or with us. But it doesn’t matter.” And here his father turned back to him. “I don’t want Arten to have to make a choice. Walter hasn’t caused any problems so far. He’s been content to lead the train with his escort, talking with Jackson. But once we reach the last farmstead tomorrow, that will change. So leave him be, Colin. Don’t provoke him, don’t speak to him, don’t even interact with him if you can manage it. Agreed?”

Colin had spent the entire morning venting his anger on the prairie dogs and the defenseless grass. He still shook with rage when he thought of the penance lock, of what Walter and the others had done to him while he was trapped in it, but he didn’t need to do anything about that now. He could wait.

So he looked his father in the eye and said, “Agreed.”

His father held his gaze a moment, lips pressed together, as if he didn’t quite believe him, but then he nodded, his features smoothing out. “Good.” He motioned toward Colin’s satchel with one hand. “Now, what did you catch?”

They passed the last farmstead deeded by Sartori as the sun began to sink into the horizon the next day. The farmer’s wife appeared in the doorway of the small wooden house, wiping her hands on the folds of her dress. Four small children ranging in age from a little over a year all the way up to seven crowded around her legs to watch the wagon train pass. Dust rose on a field behind the barn, and if Colin shaded his eyes, he could see someone turning the soil on a new field.

And then they passed beyond, the farmstead falling behind.

“Looks like we’re going to have company,” Sam said, and pointed with his chin toward where Arten and one of the other guardsmen had broken away from Walter’s escort and were riding toward them.

Colin’s father merely grunted. They continued walking, even when Arten and the guardsman arrived and drew the horses up alongside them.

“Walter Carrente would like to know when you intend to stop for the day,” Arten said, his tone formal.

“Were those his words?”

Arten’s mouth twitched. “I’ve… paraphrased them slightly.”

Colin’s father grunted. “We’ll stop when we hit the river, where we’ll restock on fresh water. Also, it makes sense to follow the river upstream. If we’re going to settle somewhere, we’re going to need a readily available water source. It seems likely we’ll find something suitable if we keep to the river’s edge.”

Arten nodded. “You’ve thought this out.”

“As much as possible, given the time we had to prepare.”

Arten looked at Colin’s father a long moment, thoughtful. But all he said was, “I’ll inform Walter.”

They camped on a rise above the river, the wagons forming a rough boundary surrounding the tents that those from Lean-to erected on the grass, even though most chose to sleep on pallets under the open night sky. Fire pits were dug, and whatever had been caught during the day was skinned and cooked. The pelts were set to dry on stakes near the fire. The women organized the meals while the men cared for the horses and inspected the wagons. The priest Domonic blessed the meal and the campsite. Sentries were posted-two of the Armory along with a few men from Lean-to, alternating in two-hour shifts-but the night was cool and quiet.

They followed the river for the next week, sometimes moving far from its banks in order to find safe passage for the wagons but returning to it as evening approached. The novelty of the expedition wore off the second day, and by the end of the sixth, two families had decided to turn back. They departed on the morning of the seventh day, a rough group of nine-four adults and five children- that faded into the distance along the edge of the river with a sack of provisions and whatever belongings they could carry.

“They’ll drop half of it before the end of the day,” Sam said, shaking his head.

Tom had already turned away, looking at the sky and the clouds scudding across it from the northeast with a frown. “It’s going to rain before nightfall. We’d better get moving.”

By noon, the clouds had thickened, the wind gusting, but the storm was still distant. The group had paused to ford a stream, Colin splashing through the knee-deep cold water at the side of the wagon, when one of the scouts returned in search of Colin’s father. Colin watched from a distance as the scout was intercepted by Arten. An argument ensued, and by the time Colin had gotten the wagon safely to the far side of the stream and jogged over, Walter and Tom had arrived.

“They shouldn’t be there,” Walter proclaimed, anger in his eyes. The anger increased when he saw Colin arrive, the Proprietor’s son shooting him a hate- filled glare, but he focused his attention on Colin’s father. “My father hasn’t given any land to anyone beyond the Grange estate, and we passed that days ago! This man-and his family-are squatters on Carrente lands!”

“They aren’t Carrente lands yet,” Tom said, trying to keep his voice level. But Colin could hear the irritation underneath.

Walter growled in annoyance. “I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you. Arten, take the Armory and go arrest those squatters.”

Arten froze, a flurry of mixed emotions crossing his face before it settled into blandness. In a perfectly reasonable voice, he asked, “And what do you want me to do with them once they’re arrested?”

“I don’t know, send them back to Portstown.”

“With an escort? I don’t think the expedition can afford to lose any of its guardsmen at this point.” When Walter only glared at him in response, he stiffened. “Tom Harten is right. We’re too far out for this land to rightfully belong to the Carrente Family, not without argument. But-Carrente lands or not, squatters or not-there isn’t much we can do.”