“They appear as cats today, but as you have seen, they could be anything tomorrow. My point is simply that the introduction of a foreign predator, particularly one with such intense latent potential as this, could be devastating to the local ecosystem.”
The big hairy man emerged from the leather shop, and our discussion came to an end. “Heyo, Jackaby! You owe that fella inside a new mop bucket. Don’t worry, I gave it a good rinse.” He held out a dented tin bucket, and I stepped up and accepted it graciously. The fish spun within it, cramped again, but safe and unharmed. “And who would you be, then, little lady?”
“Abigail Rook, sir. I really can’t thank you enough.”
“Whoo—a Brit! Watch out, Jackaby. You might accidentally pick up a little class workin’ with this one. The name’s Hank Hudson, Miss Rook.”
He offered a hand and I shook it. Clad in a thick brown duster with wide lapels and boots that looked fit to cross the continent, the man was a mountain of worn leather, and he smelled like horses and firewood. He was like the rugged, American mountain men I had read about as a little girl, only Davy Crockett had never looked so massive in the pages of my magazines.
“Mr. Hudson is a skilled trapper and a cherished associate of mine, Miss Rook. How long have you been back in New Fiddleham, my friend?” Jackaby braced the box of kittens on his hip and held out his own hand, but Hank Hudson pulled him into a quick hug, instead, giving Jackaby a hearty slap on the back while my employer awkwardly struggled not to drop the box.
“Only here on a quick stop. Spent a year out in Oklahoma Territory, tradin’ with the Cherokee. There’s good huntin’ out there, but I got that cabin in Gad’s Valley to tend to. Once I’ve unloaded some goods an’ restocked, I’ll be headed back down that way. I’m glad I caught ya. I picked up some good herbs from the traders you might be interested in. Oh—hey, and I also got me a Cherokee medicine wheel you might take a shine to. You gonna be in this evening?”
“Yes, indeed. I’m still up on Augur Lane. Do you remember the house?”
“Sure enough—hard to forget a haunt like that.” Mr. Hudson gave Jackaby a wink, which made me wonder if he knew the full details of the odd house on Augur Lane. “See you folks later, then. A pleasure meetin’ ya, little lady.”
He tipped his fur cap and tromped off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Jackaby and I resumed our trek back to Augur Lane. I took great care to watch my step and keep the bucket level. I hoped Jackaby might explain how he had come to know the trapper, but my employer said nothing. I found it hard to read from his expression if he was still miffed at me for my bungling, or if this was just his usual lack of social tact.
There was a lot about Jackaby I found difficult to read. He was so blunt and direct all the time that it became easy to lose sight of the fact that I knew almost nothing about my employer. I had noticed, for instance, that Mr. Hudson had referred to him by his initials, when virtually every other person we’d met called him only “Jackaby.”
“What does ‘R. F.’ stand for?” I asked as we crossed through the business district, nearing Augur Lane.
He turned his head and regarded me for a few seconds before responding. “In my line of work, investigating eldritch events and all manner of magical matters, it behooves one to maintain certain safeguards of a supernatural nature.”
“You mean, like the garlic and lavender you put all around the property line?”
“It isn’t lavender; it’s Irish white heather—but yes, like that,” he replied. “Names have power. To purveyors of certain very old, very dark arts, a name, willingly surrendered, is tantamount to strings on a marionette. I choose to keep my own name closely guarded.”