Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

It worked. The creature lost its footing for a moment, time enough for Renna to gain those critical few paces on the drooling beast. Stealing another quick look back, Garec saw that the bull had started down the dirt trail leading towards the cliffs. There would be no time to take the precipitously terraced switchbacks down to the river; the turns were too steep.

‘We’re going to have to jump for it, Rennie,’ Garec shouted to the mare, who seemed to understand. She lowered her head and, with her last strength, ran without slowing off the edge of the cliffs. The grettan, close behind, also leaped into the morning air.

Danae’s Eddy had been formed by several large rocks below the surface on the north bank of the Estrad. Right at the point where the river made a lazy turn south, the submerged formation forced the water’s flow back on itself and carved a deep pool from bank to bank.

In the vivid morning sunlight Garec could see the rocks, a russet blur beneath the surface, and feared for a moment that Renna’s momentum would carry them too far and they would land on that inhospitable bed – but as they began to fall, he realised they would barely clear the rocks and trees on the south bank beneath them. He flailed his arms and legs in an effort to get off Renna and as far from the mare as possible before they hit the water; he was still pulling at imaginary lifelines when they did. Although the fall was not great, the impact was powerful enough to force the air from his lungs as he plunged deep beneath the surface.

Gasping for breath, Garec clawed for the north bank. He could see Renna well ahead of him; by the way she was moving it looked as if she had come through the fall unscathed. He was not as certain about himself. His ribs hurt and he could already tell he’d damaged his right knee.

‘Relax,’ Garec told himself, in an effort to calm down, ‘you’ll be fine. Just relax.’ The hunter allowed the current to carry him a short distance downstream while he caught his breath; when he looked back, he could see the grettan struggling onto the south bank and up the cliff trail, the twin arrows askew in the monster’s neck. The bull stopped several times to face the river and scream, an unholy cry that chilled Garec, even though he knew that thanks to the grace of the gods of the Northern Forest, they had made it out of harm’s way.

Renna had clambered out of the river and was trotting along the bank, anticipating where he would come ashore; she gave him a knowing toss of her head as she sidled gracefully towards the water. Favouring his ribs and sore knee, Garec began swimming for the distant bank.

The almor waited silently on the south bank of the Estrad River. It had observed the young man’s flight through the forest, and the small herd of unshapely black beasts that pursued him; now it watched as the snarling, frothing creatures returned. Several stopped to drink from the shallow pool while others went back to the bloody remains of the fallen deer. The almor’s hunger was maddening. It had been summoned early that day by a bold and powerful force, and its mission was clear. The hunt would soon begin, but first it needed to feed, to replenish its energy and to gather knowledge of the surrounding forest.

The largest of the beasts, the great bull that had nearly captured and killed the young man, struggled to the pool for a drink. Two of the man’s projectile weapons were lodged in the animal’s throat and it would soon fall from loss of blood. Several of the other creatures waited nearby, ready to attack the large male as soon as they were certain death was imminent. The almor did not wait for them. Stepping into the river, it shimmered for a moment, then melted away. An instant later, the bull grettan stiffened sharply, as if struck by a seizure, and then collapsed on the muddy riverbank. While the others prepared to leap on their fallen leader, the grettan’s eyes sank back in its skull, its coat turned a light shade of grey and its great mass expanded slightly before shrivelling down to an ashen shell. The grettan was gone, sucked completely dry in a matter moments by the starving almor. Garec’s arrows, a skeleton and a wrinkled, leathery putrefying husk were all that remained of the great beast.

‘I don’t get why it has to be a square unit,’ Myrna said as the door closed behind the only customer to visit the bank that morning. ‘I mean, wouldn’t they have measured the area of a circle in circular units? Isn’t a circle a perfect shape?’

‘Yes, but it isn’t the right shape for area, and the Egyptians knew that,’ Steven answered from his office. ‘Anyone who dealt with the area of regular and irregularly shaped polygons had to come to the conclusion that area would best be measured in units that could accommodate the angles inherent in their buildings, towns, fields, or whatever.’ He outlined the corner of his leather desk blotter with a fingertip. ‘So they decided on a square, because circular units don’t interlock, nor do they fit into corners. Squares were easy to conceptualise and, having four equal sides, they were easier to use.’ He paused for a moment, considering what he had said, and went on, ‘At least I think that’s the way it worked out.’

Steven had received another maths quandary that morning from Jeff Simmons and had shared it with Myrna Kessler, his colleague; it was one way to pass time at work. He had already figured out an answer, but teased Myrna as she struggled to piece hers together. Myrna was a self-proclaimed ‘mathsophobe’ – she was going to study liberal arts or humanities once she’d saved enough money for college. She’d graduated from Idaho Springs High School three years earlier, but her parents weren’t able to help finance a degree.

The bank manager refused to play along with Steven and Myrna unless the problems dealt with compound interest or real estate speculation. ‘I had a maths concepts class for a year in high school,’ Griffin told them, ‘and I still don’t know what the hell that class was about. Derivatives – what the hell’s a derivative when it’s at home?’

‘We’ll tackle that one tomorrow, Howard,’ Steven promised. ‘Today we’re dealing with the Ancient Egyptians.’

Steven read the e-mailed problem aloud to Myrna: ‘Ancient Egyptian architects established the height of the pyramids using the diameter of a circle whose area equalled that of the square footprint at the pyramid’s base. How did they calculate the diameter’s length?’

‘You know, all this maths problem stuff makes you look like a geek,’ she said. ‘You need to find another hobby.’

‘He is a geek, and he’s found the perfect geek hobby. Leave him alone.’ Griffin’s voice resounded from somewhere inside his office.

‘I am not a geek,’ Steven defended himself. ‘All right, I might be a bit of a geek, but it’s certainly not maths’ fault. If I’m a geek, I’ve done it to myself. At least I’ll be a noble geek.’

‘And this problem is boring. I like the last one about the phone and the calculator. I haven’t been able to figure it out, though.’ Myrna went silent as the front door of the bank opened and a customer approached her window.

‘Neither have I,’ Steven answered to himself. He hadn’t thought much about that question in the weeks since its arrival; it was more difficult than it appeared at first. He pushed a few buttons on his telephone keypad, but was interrupted when Griffin poked his head into the office.

‘Aren’t you heading into Denver tonight?’

‘Yeah, I’m hoping to get out of here a bit early this afternoon so I can make it to South Broadway before the antique shops close. Why?’

‘Mike Thompson at First American Trust has an extra ticket to the game Sunday. Could you stop on your way down and get it for me?’ Griffin was no great football aficionado, but any excuse to drink beer while eating grilled bratwurst would bring out the fan in his boss.