A Swine to Find

  The wide road was muddy, rain gently fell as the thin horse squelched his way evenly along. The farmland surrounding the city stretched out in all directions, fields of swaying wheat, red and gold rhythmically moving in the rainy morning, melon fields, freshly rid of small winter melons, the vines thickening and spreading out to support the juicier, sweeter summer fruits. The cart gently fishtailed on the slick road every once in a while, it was the only thing that kept me awake until the old farmer struck up a conversation.

  “Interesting name that, Farveir, from up the Rock Isles?”

  I shook my head in reply, “My family were Hillmen, I grew up in the northern crags, a hard life I do not miss. Long winters and plenty of violence up there, although the sunrise over a rocky peak is a sight worth seeing.” I let myself reminisce on one of my few remaining childhood memories: warm sunlight peaking in through the flap of the bivouac, the dripping sound of melting snow, my mother tanning hide by a roaring fire, the smell of drying hide mixing with the comforting smell of damp ground. Letting myself linger in that moment for just a moment before engaging the man in conversation again, “Never asked your name, sir, I apologize.”

  The man turned his face to me and smiled gently, “John, quiet alright, lad.”

  “Married?” I asked, brushing some accumulated rain off my waxed jacket

  “Yes, long time, lad, long time, married young’n started living our simple life, yearly harvests and plenty o’ livestock, carved out a nice little life for us, peaceful.”

  “Something I covet, I must say.” Chuckling as my hand found itself resting on the pommel of my shortsword.

  John chuckled as well, “Just need a good woman, my boy.”

  We continued chatting as the day wore on, another coup in the south, interrupting trade of my sweet, sweet tabac, the effect of the storms on crops, and who might want to steal the farmer’s pig.

  “Lewellyn was always jealous, my Lily was the largest pig in the valley, hell, the largest in all of Westsher! She was a shoo-in for top prize this year, I’m telling ya.”

  The flat, farmed plains surrounding the city began flowing into gently rolling hills, the road rising and falling as we approached more forested and wild lands. The valley of Westsher stretched out before us, the spots of forests and farmland a vibrant dark green from all the rain, fragmented rivers curled and snaked their way through the pleasant landscape. John’s farm was on the outskirts, a low, moss-covered stone wall marked the border of his land. We passed through the gate, observing scores of sheep grazing on the long grasses as we approached the house.

  A thatched roof cottage with halls made of honey colored stone, a large barn, and sty sat nestled a few yards back from the cozy home. On the other side was a sprawling vegetable garden, rows of freshly tilled earth were dotted with small wooden trellises, and the tiny green stems of newly sprouted plants. Smoke was curling out of the chimney as we approached. John stopped the cart by the barn, unhitched the horse, and sent it to graze. Before entering the small home, I took in the wet, evening air, the smells of freshly turned earth, blooming flowers, and lavender. I followed John inside. The smell of flowers in here was overwhelming, planters hung from the ceiling, and every counter or table had large bouquets of wildflowers bursting out of glass and stone vessels. The perfumed air was also full of woodsmoke from the large, riverstone hearth. A plump, little old lady stoked the fire before waddling over to greet us. The couple shared a warm hug before the lady turned to me and gave me a looking over, a frown crossed her face before she asked in a raspy voice, “No bow? I thought you were fetching a ranger, dear.”

  “Well, ermm.” John looked at me, eyes pleading for some help

  I chuckled at this, “Always been partial to the sword, besides, a ranger’s greatest weapon is his mind.”

  She considered this before asking another question bluntly, “City hasn't made ya too soft?”

  This made me laugh again, and she smiled in return, “No, Ma’am, don't think I've been there long enough for that.”

  “Well, let's hope you can bring back the sweet little thing. That would brighten up someone's mood, eh?” She gave John a nudge with her elbow

  “Aye, at least hogs don't complain when you give their bum a pat.” He winked at me, and the old lady rolled her eyes and gave him a little smack on the arm.

  “Hope ya like pie.” She said.

  I ate my first good meal in ages, no dried salt beef or scrap stew. The old woman, Juliet, was quite the cook. We ate roasted lamb, perfectly seasoned with fragrant herbs, charred vegetables, and golden potatoes smothered in fresh butter, and the pie, oh my goodness, the pie! Flakey crust that melted on the tongue, sweet, warm berries, rich and jammy with just the perfect subtle tartness. I certainly ate my fill, and John had to tell me more than once that I needed to stop saying thank you.

  That night, we all sat around the hearth, drinking watered-down beer, John plucked at a small guitar while we talked, breaking into jaunty folk tunes in between tales. They managed to pry one out of me, how one night I caught a glimpse of a large, white stag, It’s large, branching antlers crystalline, shimmering, and reflecting the moonlight. I didn't share how my tribe had hunted after it, men impaled on its sharp antlers, a tangle of beautiful slaughter.

  I slept in the barn, bed made of hay, and belly warm with beer. I awoke before sunrise, taking some time to examine the crime scene. Part of the sty’s fence had been ripped away and tossed to the side, the wood splintered and cracked. Like John had said, the prints were all washed away by the rains, but the section of fence that was destroyed faced the woods to the north. I then began the hour-long hike over to the farm of the man John had mentioned, Lewellyn. I arrived at the farm just as the sun began to creep through the clouds and scatter the cool morning mist. A tall man was in the pig parlor, leaning on a pitchfork, examining a section of fence.

  I called out to get his attention, “Excuse me! Are you Lewellyn?”

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  The man twisted around, startled, and he raised his pitchfork up towards me. The prongs gleamed sharp in the fresh morning sunlight.

  “Back off, thief! I'll gut ya where ya stand.” He growled out from behind his slanted teeth.

  I raised my hands to show I meant no harm, “I’m sorry you must have me mistaken for someone else, I’m investigating something and was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

  Lewellyn's eyes narrowed, and he kept the pitchfork raised. “Investigating what now?”

  “The farmer John down the road, you know him, right? His prized pig has been stolen.”

  With this, Lewellyn relaxed a little, planting the sharp prongs into the mud to stick there. “Shit, mine as well.” He gestured for me to enter the sty and started over to a section of the fence.

  I followed him over, picking my way through the waterlogged sty so as not to get my boots too muddy. Lewellyn pointed to a clean break in the fence, “Found it this morning, my festival hog missing.” He took a rag from his back pocket and wiped his neck and forehead, “Sorry for the greeting, I took ya for the thieves, back for more. Who the fuck steals pigs?” Lewellyn was a tall old man; he stood with a prominent hunch, and his face was wind-whipped and scarred. He wore a floppy straw hat and loose-fitting overalls that had seen better days, his bare feet squelched in the mud as he paced back and forth next to me. “I would have thought for sure John did it to mess with me, he has always been jealous of my pig, plumpest this side of the White Water, I tell ya.”

  John certainly had the same line of thinking. I took in the scene, the fence was sawn clean through, the loose pieces stacked neatly to the side, and fresh tracks led away. The hoof marks were clear to see, but mixed among them were clear footprints; they weren't large, maybe a size or two smaller than mine.

  “Since John already hired me to track down his pig, I could, er, add yours on, we hadn't quite discus-”

  He waved his hand to cut me off, “I’ll pitch in to match what he is fitting to pay.” The man stopped and thought for a moment before a smile flashed across his face. “Actually, boy how bout this? I’ll pay triple.”

  “Triple?” I quickly sputtered out

  Lewellyn nodded, “Triple. If, you bring me back my pig… and make sure John’s never comes home.”

  A silence hung in the air, “Sir, I eh-”

  He cut me off again and flashed a crooked, yellow smile. “Options, just options, eh? Better get to it then I won’t keep ya longer, hurry on fore the rains start again.”

  Lewellyn turned and hobbled away towards his farmhouse as I stood there in stunned silence. “Mine is the black one!” He hollered back over his shoulder.

  Dammit, this was supposed to be a quick, easy job. A nice break from the drama of the city and now, shit. I’ve stepped into something messy, Humans are always mucking things up.

  The tracks led away, I followed them away from the farm, down a hill, and towards a stream, overflowing from the ample rainfall. The tracks stopped at the stream and disappeared. I even forded across thigh-deep, gushing water to check, no more tracks on the other side, Interesting.

  This new development muddied my thinking, I stood by the gargling stream weighing options. I finally settled my mind, stopped racing through scenarios. I started back to John’s farm. I planned on checking the woods after visiting with Lewellyn when I started out this morning, and I felt like that was still the best course of action. The walk back gave me time to think, two prized animals stolen in the middle of the night, two broken fences. Both were led away, John’s into the wood and Lewellyn's to that stream, Why did those tracks stop? And now this proposition in the middle of it, muddy ground, muddy thoughts.

  I reached John’s farm by mid-morning, he was out with Juliet in the vegetable garden picking weeds. The day was getting hot, the air thick with moisture. I splashed some water from their pump onto my hands and then on my face, using it to cool down. John stood, brushing some clumps of wet dirt of his pants before waddling over. “Any luck?”

  I shook my head, “I went to check on Lewellyn’s farm, see if he knew anything but erm, his pig has been stolen too.”

  John scoffed at this, “Don’t know why they'd need his if they already had mine.” He shook his head. “So ehm, next steps?”

  “You followed the tracks into the woods while they were fresh?”

  John nodded, “Got to a clearing not far in fore I lost em, the clearing with the big, broken stump, can't miss it. From there, you're on your own; the forest stretches on for ages, only broken by a few gorges.”

  The Weald was indeed expansive. I had explored the edges that border the plain to gather ingredients, but had not trekked deep into it. I had read a couple of journals about the Weald, It was dangerous, thick with bramble and all manner of dangerous beasts.

  I thanked him and made my way to the barn, where I collected my satchel, sorting through it and preparing for the journey into the Weald. A small, spare journal and charcoal, a jagged bone knife just in case, a small hardened leather case where I kept ingredients, a spare pair of wool socks, and a few meager strips of jerky. I tucked the knife into a slit on the inside of my boot and opened up the little ingredient case. A cigar and a small vial of healing poultice sat inside, gently rolling back and forth. I repacked the satchel, affixed the clasp, and slung it over my shoulder. I undid my boots and retied them tighter, made sure my scabbard was set in a good position, and then started out in the Weald.

  The edge of the forest gave way to ancient trees, their bark rugged and knotted. Rays of sunlight fought through the canopy's intricate weave, and with each step on the soft loam, I felt the familiar pull. The hum of life was everywhere, every sound held meaning. I spotted some fangbloom off the trail a little and strode over. Kneeling down to pick a few of the elongated, cupped flowers, stark white, they ended in a point. I brought one to my lips, tipping it back to drip the tiny bit of honey-sweet nectar onto my tongue. These were crucial in treating most venoms found in the Weald, and it was always good to have a little in the system, just in case. I packed a couple of the flowers gently into my ingredient box and continued on through the verdant wood. Soon, I came upon the clearing John talked about, a break in the tree line. The small clearing was full of long grass and buzzing bees bouncing back and forth from the long stems of flowers. The shattered stump of a tree sat in the clearing, and I waded through the overgrown grass and flowers, around the stump and back into the ever-dense Weald. The deeper I ventured, the thicker the canopy became, the leaves knitted tighter, the ivy wrapped trunks growing larger. I picked my way through the labyrinth of mossy, twisting roots, the thrum of the forest grew louder here, running water somewhere out of sight, the creaking of towering trees, the melodic trilling of bird song. It had been a long time since I felt the wilds like this, which was probably why I blundered right into the trap.

  The whirring of rushing ropes sent the large net I had just stepped on flying upwards, wrapping and tangling around me as I shot up towards the canopy. I thrashed, becoming more and more tangled as the net zipped upwards, then stopped suddenly close to 30 feet off the ground.

  Shit

  One of my legs poked out of the net, dangling awkwardly in the air, my arms were twisted and wrapped in the coarse netting. I tried pulling my sword, but could only wiggle it a little out of the scabbard. I yanked it in and out, sawing at the piece of net the blade rested on; it snapped, and the net shifted in a worrying way. I noticed the bird song had stopped, the only sound wind above the canopy ripping at the broad leaves, that, and a cackle. A bunch of cackles, from down below.

  Shit

  The net suddenly began to free-fall. I flailed and caught a scream in my throat as my body contorted. I smacked into the ground, my head thwacking on a gnarled root, sending everything black.

  Shit