“Don’t worry, Thrace. We’ll bring him back safe.”
They spurred the animals and rode out the gate at a gallop.
Theron sat in the ruins of his house on a wooden chair. A small fire burned in a shallow pit just outside the doorway. The sky was finally dark and he could see stars. He listened to the night music of the crickets and frogs. A distant owl began its hunt. The fire snapped and popped, and beneath it all, the distant roaring of the falls. Mosquitoes entered the undefended house. They swarmed, landed, and bit. The old man let them. He sat as he had every night, staring silently at memories.
His eyes settled on the cradle. Theron remembered building the little rocker for his first son. He and Addie had decided to name their firstborn Hickory—a good, strong, durable wood. Theron had hunted the forest for the perfect hickory tree and found it one day on a hill, bathed in sunlight as if the gods had marked it. Each night Theron had carefully crafted the cradle and finished the wood so it would last. All five of his children had slept in it. Hickory died there before his first birthday from a sickness for which there was no name. All his sons had died young, except for Thad, who had grown to be a fine man. He had married a sweet girl named Emma, and when she had given birth to Theron’s grandson, they had named him Hickory. Theron remembered thinking that it seemed as if the world was finally trying to make up for the hardships in his life—that somehow the unwarranted punishment of his firstborn’s premature death was healed through the life of his first grandson. But it was all gone now. All he had left was the blood-sprayed bed of five dead children.
Behind the cradle lay one of Addie’s two dresses. It was a terrible, ugly thing, stained and torn, but to his watering eyes it looked beautiful. She had been a good wife. For more than thirty years she had followed him from one dismal town to the next as he had tried to find a place he could call his own. They had never had much, and many times, they had gone hungry, and on more than one occasion nearly froze to death. In all that time, he had never heard her complain. She had mended his clothes and his broken bones, made his meals, and looked after him when he was sick. She had always been too thin, giving the biggest portions of each meal to him and their children. Her clothes had been the worst in the family. She never found time to mend them. She had been a good wife and Theron could not remember ever having said he loved her. It had never seemed important before. The beast had taken her too, plucked her from the path between the village and the farm. Thad’s Emma had filled the void, making it easy to move on. He had avoided thinking about her by staying focused on the goal, but now the goal was dead, and his house had caved in.
What must it have been like for them when the beast came? Were they alive when it took them? Did they suffer? The thoughts tormented the farmer as the sounds of the crickets died.
He stood up, his scythe in his hands, preparing to meet the darkness, when he heard the reason for the interruption of the night noises. Horses thundered up the trail and the two men Thrace had hired entered the light of the campfire in a rush.
“Theron!” Hadrian shouted as he and Royce arrived in the yard of the Woods’ farm. The sun was down, the light gone, and the old man had a welcome fire burning—only not for them. “Let’s go. We’ve got to get back to the castle.”
“You go back,” the old man growled. “I didn’t ask you to come here. This is my home and I’m staying.”
“Your daughter needs you. Now get up on this horse. We don’t have much time.”
“I’m not going anywhere. She’s fine. She’s with the Bothwicks. They’ll take good care of her. Now get off my land!”
Hadrian dismounted and marched up to the farmer, who stood his ground like a rooted tree.
“My god, you’re a stubborn ass. Now either you’re going to get on that horse or I’ll put you on it.”
“Then you’ll have to put me on it,” he said, setting his scythe down and folding his arms across his chest.
Hadrian looked over his shoulder at Royce, who sat silently on Mouse. “Why aren’t you helping?”
“It’s really not my area of expertise. Now, if you want him dead—that I can do.”
Hadrian sighed. “Please get on the horse. You’re going to get us all killed staying out here.”
“Like I said, I never asked you to come.”
“Damn,” Hadrian cursed as he removed his weapons and hooked them on the saddle of his horse.
“Careful,” Royce leaned over and told him. “He’s old, but he looks tough.”