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Stories from the Verse
A Dozen Verses
Chapter 146: Cooper 120
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Slade 297
Delighted to have spoken to an animal, Barrelmaster pushed on through the temperate forest along the animal trail. Keeping his eyes roving about, hoping to find another talking animal, he spotted a chipmunk, and spoke to it as it hung from the side of a maple tree trunk. The little fellow considered him for a few seconds, and then zipped up and around the trunk and out of sight before Barrelmaster spotted it moving to another tree much higher overhead.
“Inconclusive,” he said to himself, and moved onward, following the scent of smoke. He spotted some boot prints in the trail, and was considering how best to make contact without startling or making the inhabitants afraid when he heard a quiet, female voice from behind him.
“Honey, don’t be moving, or you’re going to have one more hole than God made you with.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m glad to meet you.”
A choked laugh sounded behind him.
“I do have a Mossberg pointed at your spine, mister. That’s a shotgun, in case you’re one of the pets in the city. That’s an unusual response.”
“Well, I was just wondering how I was to introduce myself without frightening anyone, and the problem is already solved.”
“You--you’re a confusing man. Why don’t you walk forward, and my brother can talk to you.”
“Of course. My name is Brian Barrelmaster.”
“I’m not going to tell you my name.”
“That’s fine.” He spoke calmly.
He had yet to see his captor, but from the branches, and the short stride, he judged her to be some kind of teenager. She was deliberately pitching her voice low to sound more mature as well, he thought. However, he had little doubt that she would use her gun, and he had no desire to be shot, or scar her by having her shoot him. A few more minutes’ walk brought them into a small clearing underneath a great spreading oak tree.
A house frontage was built on the trunk of the tree, and he could see through the open doorway into a cabin inside the trunk. Before he could look further a pair of hounds came growling his way; as he leaned down they stopped growling, and walked right up to him to get pets and scratches behind their ears.
“Tom, Sarah, you should be ashamed.” The girl’s voice was higher now, and the two hounds cringed a bit, but looked up at Cooper in hopes of more pets. A baritone laugh came from the front door of the cabin, and looking up, Cooper saw a curly-haired redhead with freckles and light green eyes who stood with confidence in his heavy boots.
“Yolanda, if the dogs like him, he’s okay,” the young man spoke, and then stepped across the dirt pad of the clearing and held out a hand. Cooper took it and introduced himself, again as Brian Barrelmaster, with a smile.
“Jack, he’s got a sword. Like the Fey Knights do,” she protested, and he turned back to see her with long red hair pulled back into a ponytail, all of fourteen, if he had to guess. Her Mossberg shotgun looked closer to a .22 rifle.
“Pleased to meet you again. Nice ‘shotgun’.”
She made a face, and turned the barrel to show him the words scratched in the side ‘Mossberg’ and ‘shotgun’. “Intention, and strong will, and True Names can make a thing so.”
Cooper softly frowned, feeling concerned, but not knowing enough yet. This was a continual complaint. One never knew enough really to be sure of the wisest, best action. So he prayed, and watched.
“Not to be rude, Mister Barrelmaster, but my little sister does have a point.”
“I met a Speaking Animal on the way, a cougar. He said my sword marked me as a friend of angels. You both worry that it marks me as a Fey Knight. I assure you, I am no such creature. I am neither Fey nor a Knight.” He waited as they processed his words.
“Would you be willing to have your sword bear the touch of Cold Iron?” Jack asked. Yolanda gasped and covered her mouth as if this were some big deal. Brian thought. His first response was to be cordial and kind. The second was that he was sure that Cold Iron would do no harm to an Angel’s blade, and sure, why not. However, his third thought was that this might be considered a form of magic, and he was sure magic was forbidden to Christians. Which led to another thought. In some stories, the Fey could not bear to hear the various Holy Names.
“How about this?” He drew the scabbard with sword inside from his belt, and laid it across his palms. “I am a Servant of the Most High, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and of the Church. I rest in Sovereign Hands. If you wish to strike me, I will not resist.”
It was a moment of solemnity until Tom and Sarah leapt front feet up on his back, and knocked him down, and were licking his face as he started to laugh, and tried unsuccessfully to defend himself. Being rescued, he was given a seat in the tree, and a wash rag to clean himself, and his sword back, and the dogs were sternly warned to sit still. Their tails thumped steadily, but they lay with taut tension.
Yolanda looked at the beasts with some disgust and wonder on her face.
“They can be hams, but this is the worst I’ve seen them.”
Suddenly something occurred to him, so that he put down the water jug that Jack had just put into his hands.
“Do you mind if I pray for something unusual?” The two glanced at each other, and then shook their heads. They did not mind.
Brian closed his eyes, and found himself drawing The Sword. It helped to focus his thoughts and heart.
“Balaam was warned by his donkey. That English writer told about animals warning others in his fiction. Is there a message you’re trying to give us, Creator of animals?”
“Woof.”
“Tom!” Yolanda snapped.
“Sorry, mistress, but I really need to say something,” the dog Tom said. Everyone froze, and focused on him, and he suddenly looked embarrassed. His mate, Sarah, nudged him with her soft nose.
“Yes, quite right, dear. My pack is going with other packs to strike the Coronation of the King of the Vespucians. They intend to bring Speaking Animals, sorceresses like the mistress, and heroes like The Jack, and lots of guns, and Cold Iron spears to slaughter the Fey in their great festival of the Dying King.”
The other two looked horrified at being exposed, but Brian smiled reassuringly at them, and they relaxed.
“So, I have a lot of questions--” Brian began, queuing up a list in his mind. Already he had thirty-four.
“Since this realm has been interfered with by a Fey Realm, certain Fey rules apply. I’m sorry, Barrelmaster, but I can only answer three.” Tom looked very apologetic with his tongue hanging out at that, and Brian breathed in, and counted. By the time he got to four, he was good, and at eight, he reached down and patted Tom’s head, and then Sarah wanted her share of pats as well.
“Right, three questions. This is going to be difficult. If this counts as a question, I don’t want it answered, but do I have some time to think, like an hour or two?”
“An hour.”
“Okay, Tom, Sarah, Yolanda, and Jack, we need to come up with some good questions.” He picked up the jug of water, and enjoyed its taste as the others began to think.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
