Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

‘Well, you did interrupt my carefully planned schedule of seven hours’ courage-building before twelve seconds of stumbling over myself and two hours of grovelling, but all things being equal, I’m glad you did.’ He grinned. ‘I’m really glad you did.’

‘So am I,’ she said as she reached across the table to take his hand. As before, Steven’s heart leaped as he felt her fingers wrap around his for a moment. Then, feeling awkward, as if she were moving too fast, Hannah pulled back, waved for their server and ordered a cup of coffee.

Steven changed the subject. ‘You know, I’m halfway through that jar. It’d be a shame to have those cabinet keys sitting there near the bottom, never to be reunited.’

‘Well, I look forward to helping you in your search,’ she told him. Steven watched as she stirred sugar into her coffee mug. She really was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but more than that, she was beautiful without trying. He was always disillusioned by the concept of supermodels and film stars who employed teams of specialists, spackling masons and airbrush artists to achieve that look of perfection. He imagined Hannah rolling out of bed, donning a sweatshirt to read the morning paper and still looking exquisite, her skin flawless and her hair cascading down her back. He wanted desperately to reach over and touch her face, but he was afraid he would scare her off. Surely he was the only man on earth to ever feel this level of insecurity and anxiety when trying to make an impression on a lovely woman. He would have to remember to ask Mark about it later.

Without pausing to think, he blurted out, matter-of-factly, ‘I have to see you again.’

Hannah stood, and Steven thought he should stand too, but he wasn’t certain that his legs would heed the command.

She smiled. ‘Let’s go find your keys and we’ll figure it out there.’

Walking back from the restaurant, Hannah held his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Steven talked this time, about living in the foothills, working at the bank and his plans to find a more rewarding career – if he could just figure out what that occupation should be. Prefacing his confession with: ‘No laughing,’ he even revealed his love for abstract maths.

Despite his warning, Hannah did laugh out loud, then asked, more seriously, ‘Why not become a mathematician?’

Steven kicked a discarded bottle-cap along the sidewalk. ‘Well, because there really is no money in maths, and because I’m not sure I’m very good at it. I love it, but I think – no, I’m certain – I’m quite slow. I have maths problems I’ve been trying to figure out for months now.’

Jennifer Sorenson did not seem to mind that her daughter had taken such a long lunch; she waved from across the showroom as they walked in.

‘I’ll go check to see if there’s anything she needs me to do,’ Hannah said, ‘while you get on with key-hunting.’

‘I’m going to find something else to buy so she sees it wasn’t time wasted,’ he called after her, and began searching the room for something outlandish he could buy for Mark or Howard. He soon located a vase that looked as if it had come from a 1920s speakeasy, blown glass moulded into the shape of a nude woman holding a top hat and cane. It was an absurdly ugly piece, perfect for Howard’s office.

‘I think I’ll call her Greta,’ Steven said, holding the vase aloft. ‘Howard will love her wide hips, and the way he can drink beer right from the top of her head.’

‘Please don’t feel obligated to buy anything else,’ Hannah told him. ‘My mother and I aren’t expecting to sell everything off during this sale.’

‘Are you kidding? Look at her: she’s pure kitsch, the perfect gift for a guy who has no taste. I’m not joking; Howard will love her.’

They spent the next hour talking while they went through the key jar, building up a pile of discards so enormous it blocked a whole aisle.

Eventually Hannah sighed and said, ‘Okay, that’s the end. I’m sorry they weren’t in there. That was a lot of work for nothing.’ She began returning handfuls of keys to the jar.

‘I wouldn’t say it was for nothing,’ he chided, and turned away, a little embarrassed.

‘No. I guess I wouldn’t either,’ she said, then kissed him quickly on the lips. ‘I’ll go and write up a receipt for the cabinet. You put the rest of these back in the jar.’

Steven swallowed his astonishment and called, ‘Don’t forget to add Greta to my bill. She’s coming with me.’ Then he sat on the floor in front of his sister’s china cabinet, still holding Greta. Hannah’s kiss had astounded him; he needed a few moments to regain his composure. He closed his eyes and ran two fingers across his lips, exhilarated – until he looked down at the floor and was reminded that a veritable mountain of orphan keys waited to be shovelled up and returned to the jar.

‘All right, let’s get you all back home. Keys to the known world, sure – I’d have been happy with just the keys to the damned cabinet.’

Then he saw it: a glimpse of a familiar shape with a familiar insignia. BIS. Shifting Greta to his left hand, Steven reached over and picked out the key. He turned it over. 17C. Greta fell from his hand and shattered on the tile floor, the broken pieces of breasts and buttocks strewn about in a confused, connect-the-dots pattern between the china cabinets.

‘Holy shit! It’s Higgins’s key,’ he whispered to himself, oblivious to the stares of customers startled by the crash. ‘How did it get here?’ He gaped down at it and repeated, ‘How the hell did it end up here?’ After another minute staring like a voyeur, Steven remembered where he was. He slipped the key into the pocket of his jacket, murmuring nervously, ‘What are you doing, Steven?’ Bending at the waist, an animated mannequin, he picked up the pieces of Howard’s nude figurine and went across to apologise to Jennifer.

Rob Scott

The Hickory Staff

Versen Bier looked around before snapping the reins and driving the wagon into the street. Estrad was quiet this morning; the woodsman listened carefully as he checked for signs of Malakasian patrols. Behind him, Garec huddled in the wagon’s bed where he was ensuring the canvas tarpaulin covering their cargo remained in place. Running through a deep rut in the muddy street, the wagon lurched suddenly and one corner of the protective tarp fell away. Garec quickly replaced it, hoping no one had chanced to peer between the wooden slats at that moment. Their load was not farm produce, firewood or baled hay, but hundreds of swords, rapiers, shields, chain-mail vests and longbows. They were heading for the abandoned palace in the forbidden forest, and unless they drove through a nearby orchard, rather too suspicious a move for this time of day, this street was the only way to get such a heavily loaded wagon into the woods near the crumbling castle. Both men prayed silently they would not be stopped for inspection.

The punishment for possession of such a large supply of weapons would be swift, sharp and final. They would be driven to the nearest tree, hanged until dead, and then left there for a full Twinmoon: a vivid example to anyone else contemplating seditious activities. Garec had seen men killed this way; during the rainy season especially corpses decomposed rapidly and few hanged bodies ever lasted a full Twinmoon. Instead, the flesh around the neck and upper shoulders tore away and the body slowly stretched and ripped its way towards the ground.

Garec forced the image from his mind; he would rather die at the end of a Malakasian sword than the end of a rope. Versen felt the same way: they would fight to the death if caught by a passing patrol. Both Garec and Versen were deadly with a bow, but today, to keep from drawing attention to themselves, neither man was armed. Longbows were conspicuous and although they trained with swords and battle-axes, both found them cumbersome weapons; if they had to fight today, it would end badly. Garec closed his eyes, waiting to feel the wagon’s wheels leave the muddy street for the relative protection of the forest.