Forged in Fire

Chapter 4

Dahlia and Paul left the highway at the village of Pipe Clay Creek, and at once the way began to narrow and harden. The westward road along the creek was little more than a set of wagon ruts. The surface was firm since it was still the dry season, but little had been done to remove stones or tree roots from the way, and their little buckboard wagon bounced along crazily. With each passing quarter mile, it seemed, the mountains and jungles to north and south loomed a little closer, as if mother and son were dropping into a deep green funnel – or down a caiman’s gullet, Dahlia thought with a shudder. Dahlia drove, their horse plodded along obediently, and Paul sat quietly, his crossbow in his lap, a quarrel in the groove.

or down a caiman’s gullet,There were a few small plantations at first. After a mile or two, the farms became smaller, dwindling in size to a single shack with a few acres of corn, peppers and other vegetables, chickens, and a couple of cows or pigs. Then the trees closed in on the road and they drove along in a tunnel of branches, with sunlight streaming through c****s in the canopy.

“I like the jungle,” Paul said as he tied a kerchief around his forehead to keep sweat from running into his eyes.

“It’s dangerous,” Dahlia said with a shudder. She could feel her blouse sticking to her sweaty back, but the jungle gave her a chill when she thought of everything that lurked in the deep-shaded forests. “There’s jaguars. Snakes. Devils. Goblins.”

“We’ve got all that stuff on the ranch, Ma,” Paul pointed out. “Even goblins. I can shoot a tapir just fine. I bet I could shoot a jaguar or a goblin just as well.”

Dahlia drove quietly for a bit.

“You’re probably right,” she said. “You’re growing up a lot like your Pa. He was a good hunter. You’ve got his eyesight and his touch on the crossbow.”

Paul sat a little straighter. Dahlia didn’t look directly at him, but from the corner of her eye she could see a smile play on his lips.

“So, can I go after the goblins too?” he asked.

“No,” she said firmly.

Paul frowned at her for a moment, opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. They rode on in silence for another hour, passing a few clearings where someone had hacked out space for a cornfield or banana grove, but if the farmers had homes they were tucked somewhere out of sight in the jungle.

Finally, they reached a little settlement where the road forded the creek. There were three neat houses, with waist high picket fences setting off vegetable gardens and corn fields from roaming livestock. There were a few people about: women and girls in dark blue dresses, all of the same simple cut; boys and a long-bearded man in bleached white shirts and dungarees of the same color as the women’s dresses, with odd straps over the shoulders to hold up their trousers. Everyone wore wide brimmed straw hats, but the women had scarlet bands of cloth around their crowns. They were all pale-skinned, except for where the sun had burned their cheeks bright pink, and they had pale yellow hair that was as out of place as their tidy homes in the steaming forest.

“Are those heretics?” Paul said, too loudly.

“Shh. Yes, they are,” Dahlia whispered, “but they don’t like to be called that.”

The heretics stopped their work and stared, faces blank. Dahlia reined in the horse and called out, “Hello there!” No one spoke, waved, or even moved.

“Does the road go much further?” Dahlia asked the villagers. There was silence for half a minute, then the man stepped close to the road.

“Road end here,” he said in an odd accent.

“Is there a trail?”

“No good trail.”

“You mean it’s rough?”

“Not rough. Cursed.”

Dahlia stifled a snort of impatience. “But is there a trail?”

“Trail cursed,” the man insisted.

“Well, we need to pass through. If there is no road, we must leave our horse and buckboard here. Will you take care of them for a few hours? Or can we at least hitch it to a tree?”

“Trail cursed!” the man said, suddenly stern. “Bad man are there!”

“We’re looking for bad men,” Dahlia replied with equal firmness. “So, will you take care of our horse? Please?”

The man scowled so hard his eyebrows touched, but he nodded.

“We take care, for Quamsake.”

“Come on, Paul,” Dahlia said, hopping down from the buckboard. She reached in the back and pulled out a sack of provisions, a cane knife, and her own crossbow. “Thank you,” she said to the heretic, handing him the reins. “We can pay you for your trouble…”

“No coin. For Quamsake.” He shook his head gravely, but he took the reins, and Dahlia and Paul set off on foot.

Before long they were through the settlement and on a path just wide enough for them to pass with their shoulders brushing blades of grass that stood nearly twice as high as their heads. Dahlia took the lead. She slung her sack over her shoulder, carried her bow in her left hand, and kept the cane knife ready to clear the path or deal with snakes. They marched along, nearly blinded by the grass, silent and straining to hear anything above the rustling of the grass.

After an hour or so the path rejoined and ran alongside the creek, whose bed had narrowed and become rocky. They drank cold water from the stream and rested a bit.

“Ma?” Paul said.

“Yes?”

“That heretic sure seemed afraid of the bad men. Should we be afraid too?”

“We’re looking for the bad men he’s afraid of,” Dahlia said, then frowned. “But Ector thought they might help us. I just don’t know. We don’t have any good options, Paul. Besides,” she said, looking up. The afternoon was getting on and the sunlight streaming through the leaves above was waning. “Besides, going back wouldn’t do us much good. We can’t get home before nightfall, and I don’t want to spend the night with those heretics.”

“Are the heretics bad?”

“No. Just odd. They revere Quam, same as us, but they don’t believe in sprites or devils.”

“What? Don’t believe in sprites or devils?”

“I told you they were odd.”

“Well, maybe that’s why they don’t mind living out in the jungle.”