Manuscript: Wayside, Chapter 11

Noura Naysmith awoke with a start to a rough tongue licking her face. She let out a shout and Dinah retreated, a blur of self-preservation. Noura lay on her living room floor, the light of the Scottish morning glaring at her through the gaps in the blinds. She squinted. Her head was pounding. She sat up and smoothed back her hair, pulling back a hand sticky with old blood.

The memory of her experience slammed into her as if she had hit the Wayside pavement all over again. She recalled the crack, the force of Grim's tackle.

“Oh no, Grim.” Noura leaped to her feet and the room spun like a carousel. She planted a hand on her sofa. Dinah meowed her concern.

“I'm fine, girl. Just fine. Need to get back to the city and make sure everyone's ok...” She stumbled into the center of the room and positioned her feet.

“Opening,” She said, breathing out and pushing her palms downward. The sound of the bullet whizzing by her ear.

She gritted her teeth. “Grasp Bird's Tail.”

Look out! Grim's words echoed in her skull.

A tear dropped from her cheek. “H...hands Like...like Clouds.” The sudden shift in perspective as Grim's shoulder slammed into her chest and sent her reeling back. The swiftly tilting horizon.

Noura dropped her hands to her sides and tears streamed down her cheeks. Her body was so heavy and her head throbbed like a drum. She fell, her legs buckling underneath her as she collapsed onto the rug.

She couldn't do it.

She couldn't reach Wayside.

She pulled her knees in, curling into a ball on the floor. Dinah trotted out from below the couch and sat down next to her head. Noura reached out a hand to the cat.

The phone rang.

* * *

There was a knock at Murphy's door. He rolled off his couch and put on the shirt that was draped over his coffee table. The knock repeated.

“Keep your cacks on, alright?” Murphy shouted as he grabbed his rifle. He set it beside the door and turned the handle. Grim and Cane stood on the other side. Grim's face was a reflection of his name.

“Oy, skins. How's she cuttin'?” Murphy looked up and down the hallway, then let the boys in. He yawned. “A bit early isn't it?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I didn't sleep too well.” The pair walked in. Cane went to the window and Grim sat down by the checker table, and staring down at the board.

“I didn't cheat, you know.” Murphy plopped down on the sofa and lit a cigarette.

“Huh?” Grim looked up. “Oh, no. I didn't think you had.”

For a moment there was only the ticking of Murphy's antique grandfather clock. Murphy coughed and broke the still. “Something on your mind, boy?”

“Oh. Um.” Grim scratched his head and looked at his two friends. “Yeah.”

Another pause. “Well?” said Murphy.

“I, want to share something with you guys. But you have to promise not to tell anyone else. Especially not Osborne or the Viccars.” Grim looked uncomfortable.

Murphy raised a hand. “On my father's headstone, Sir Grim.”

“Yeah, promise,” said Cane, copying Murphy's gesture.

Grim breathed in, as if preparing to accept a punch. “My name isn't Grim Munroe.”

“Well of course it isn't,” Murphy said, leaning back and sucked on his cigarette.

“--What?” Grim looked like a bucket of water had been dumped on his head.

“Sorry. It's okay. Go on, please.” Murphy smiled, and winked at Cane.

Grim took a moment to regain his footing “My name is Abraham Evans, and I'm from Georgia.”

“Georgia? In the colonies, yeah? Thought your Babel accent sounded funny.” Murphy chuckled but, seeing Grim's face, he let the moment pass.

“My mother is Darlene Evans, I live with her and my step-father. My father's name is Munroe, but I don't know where he is. Probably in Atlanta, but it's just a guess. That's how I got lost. Trying to get to him.”

Grim shared his tale, the true story of his life, and Cane and Murphy listened, committing it to memory as they knew was their responsibility. Half an hour passed, and Grim's voice grew hoarse.

Murphy held up his hands and Grim paused. “Alright, that's good, Grim. Stop rabbitin'. I'm not sure I can remember any more.”

“Noura said I should confide in people I trust.” Grim said.

Murphy smiled. “Well, I'm quite honored, really, but do me a favor and spread it out a bit next time. I don't want to remember it wrong.”

Grim's nodded and smiled at Cane. “Thank you, too. Sorry to wake you up so early. Head back to the Viccars. I'll meet you there later.”

“Ok. Bye Mr. Fish.” Cane waved and left the room.

Grim waited until he heard Cane's footsteps on the stair before turning back to Murphy.

“I want to find the people that attacked Noura.”

Murphy eyed him. “Why?”

Grim's furrowed his brow. “Because...I dunno. Because it seems right.”

Murphy sighed. “Well, I don't even know where to start, Grim. If Osborne finds something, and keep in mind that he's going behind the constabulary's back to do it --”

“He is?” Grim brightened.

Murphy cursed under his breath. “Ah-ha. Um. Well.”

Grim's look of eagerness collapsed Murphy's reluctance.

“Oh fine. He's going to meet with Caravan when they show up in a few days.” Murphy cringed through the confession.

“And you're going?” Grim beamed.

“Mary and Joseph,” Murphy exclaimed. “He's going to kill me.”

Grim stood. “When you go, you'll tell me, right? I mean, you won't leave without me, will you? On your father's headstone?”

“Now wait a --” Murphy dropped his cigarette as Grim grabbed his hand and shook it. Murphy lunged for the cigarette with a yelp.

“Thanks Murph!” Grim shouted as he ran out the door. Murphy could hear the thundering steps as Grim threw himself down the staircase and out of the hotel.

Murphy was left wondering to what, exactly, he just had given his implicit word.

* * *

That evening Osborne came to the Viccars to check on Grim and Cane. Osborne apologized for being so short with Grim the previous day. He, of course, just wanted Grim to be safe.

Grim smiled through Osborne's apology, the knowledge of the commander's vigilante investigation burning inside him. Grim felt like he understood Osborne much better after Murphy's explanation of his family and past. He accepted Osborne's apology with a humble nod and agreed that he should be more careful while Noura's attackers were on the loose.

If Osborne thought Grim's sudden change of attitude was strange, he didn't show it. He just patted Grim on the back and suggested that if Grim and Cane wanted to join him for lunch tomorrow that he'd be around the barracks.

The next few days were torture for Grim as his impatience waiting for Murphy's alert grew. He kept Osborne's agenda a secret, even from Cane, but it was a hard one to keep. Especially since he was, unbeknownst to Osborne, going to be a part of it and wanted to share his eagerness with everyone. He also knew he shouldn't hound Murphy; after all he was doing Grim a favor that could get him in a lot of trouble with his commander.

Murphy called on Grim three days after their initial conversation. The ninth and last tolling, which was the evening bell, had long since rung before Murphy whistled his way down the Viccars path.

Cane and the other orphans had begun to clear out of the common room when Mr. Viccars poked his head in and told Grim that Mr. Fish had arrived and was awaiting Grim at the front step.

Grim thanked him and alighted down the main hallway to the front door, where Murphy was smoking on the stoop.

“Those will kill you, you know,” Grim said as he reached a hand out to Murphy.

Murphy took his hand and stood. He cleared his throat and looked around before he addressed Grim in a hushed tone. “Just wanted to let you know. The guard saw the Caravan campfires tonight. They'll likely do their trading in the morning, and we'll be heading off to speak with them tomorrow night.”

It was if those very campfires now lit up Grim's face.

“Just to remind you,” Murphy interjected, “I don't think this is a good idea.” He recognized the all too familiar look in Grim's eyes.

“But, if you're going to follow us, I suggest taking one of the side gates. Less obvious. And keep Wayside and Caravan in view at all times. There shouldn't be much wasteland between the two, but you certainly don't want to get lost out there.”

“I'm already lost, Murphy.” Grim smirked.

“Yeah, well. More lost, gobshite.” Murphy thumped Grim on the skull. “Anyway. I didn't say a damned thing to you. You saw us leaving or something and decided to follow. It's close enough to the truth, besides. And don't get Cane involved. He's got enough to worry about.”

“Yeah, alright,” said Grim, rubbing his scalp.

Murphy departed and Grim returned to the sitting room, too excited to turn in. Besides, he suspected his eagerness was so obvious that, if he walked into the dormitory now, the whole room would wonder what he was up to. Instead he fiddled through the old books on the Viccars shelves, threw bits of used and crumpled writing paper into the fire and watched them burn up. He attempted to occupy his grinding brain.

Eventually Mrs. Viccars came in and ordered him to bed with a clap. He made the trek to the boys dormitory, where the other two residents were already asleep. Grim changed into his nightclothes and crawled into bed, then spent the better part of the next hour staring out into the gardens and the starless sky.

“Abraham?” Cane's mousy voice, thick with sleep, broke Grim's trance.

Grim winced. “Don't call me that, Cane. It's Grim.”

“Ok. Thanks for telling me about your family, earlier.”

“Go to sleep, Cane.”

“Yeah.” Cane's breath became even again but Grim remained awake. His mind drifted to Caravan and girl Ophelia. He recalled the haunting Gypsy melody that had reached in and resonated those invisible strings inside him and filled him to the brim with awe. At last, with the thought of seeing Caravan again in the morning floating through his brain, sleep finally claimed its stubborn victim.

* * *

Grim woke and jostled Cane out of bed before the courtyard began to reflect the unseen light of dawn. After a few minutes of preparation and questions from Cane as to where they were going, they were out the door of the Viccars and jogging through the Garment district. They passed through the Pages then proceeded through the Lower Market and down the little cobblestone street that led to the front gates of Wayside. A small crowd had already begun to gather. Grim could see a large green and gold silk tent through the black iron ivy-curls that were the main gate of the city.

The mood among the early risers was celebratory. The arrival of Caravan seemed to be something of a holiday. People who more than likely would still be asleep at this hour mingled at the gates and laughed and chatted with each other about what they might purchase at the bazaar.

“I do hope there's a metallurgist this time,” said a lady in a flowered hat, who curled a wayward strand of her strawberry hair with a finger. “The garden gate needs replacing in the most awful way and my Richard is absolutely hopeless with tools.”

“I could use a new set of their absolutely superior clay ware. Margot's blasted dinner-party guests have gone and broken the whole lot since Caravan last visited,” said a man with a long beard that reminded Grim of Captain Ahab from the Viccar's old copy of Moby Dick.

“Damned potatoes went south on me this year and took the turnip patch along with them,” an elderly farmer said, running a rough hand through his few remaining wisps of hair. “So they'd best have enough cultivars to get us through to the next visit, or the market's going to see a lot less veg for a while.” Several people around him nodded.

The crowd grew until it occupied every available cobble on the road to the market. At last, a guard emerged from one of the towers and announced that the Caravan bazaar would be opening momentarily and reminded the bustling masses that Council representatives, as always, had priority choice in essential goods and services. The last thing he gave was a rote recitation of a gilded scroll, the contents of which sounded to Grim like a vague warning.

“Remember, citizens of Wayside, that the cost of goods at Caravan can be high and there is no return of merchandise. When and if you find something in our inventory that believe you cannot do without, weight its price heavily, for all trades are final and binding. This we state, clear and true, by mandate of the pact between our peoples.” The guard retired the scroll to his his tunic and returned to the top of the tower, where he whistled to the guard in the opposite rampart. There was a loud thunk as something large and metal unlocked, and the gate of the city swung open.

Waysiders scurried across the bit of wasteland between the city gate and the tent with eager abandon and Grim and Cane were swept along with the rest of the crowd. Two gypsy men in golden robes parted the enormous tent flaps and allowed the throng to enter. Inside, vendors in smaller tents were arrayed in patterns creating natural pathways in the massive bazzar, which the crowd wound its way through. By the time the two boys had entered the tent city, it was a cacophony of barking vendors and customers mumbling questions about the authenticity of this curiosity, and in what other colors did that particular pattern of material come.

Grim couldn't focus on one thing for more than a moment before another wonder caught his eye. For half an hour he and Cane wandered between vibrant clay dishware and bins of pungent spices and stacks of polished wood furniture. Cane wondered out loud how, in one night, they managed to get all of these goods moved in and out, when Grim heard a familiar voice to his right and turned to find Mrs. Viccars standing several feet away. She was reading off a list to an animated old gypsy at a tent full of various nails and tools and small building materials.

She would read off an item and the man would snap at a pair of young boys, who would rummage about through the tent for a moment, then inevitably come up with a handful of finishing nails or a stack of boards. Mrs. Viccars would smile and nod and continue down the list. Not wanting to disturb her concentration, Grim dragged Cane over to a neighboring stall. The keeper was engaged in a detailed conversation about timepieces with a man whose arms were covered with black tattoos. They were quite distracted and Grim and Cane approached the divide between this tent and the tent housing Mrs. Viccars unseen. Grim tried to filter out the sound of the crowd and tune his ear to Mrs. Viccars voice.

“And a hammer. Mr. Viccars would prefer cross-peen for some reason, but a claw I'm sure would be fine.”

There was a brief rustling as one of the gypsy boys displaced a pile of metal somethings.

“Ah, lovely. Yes. Very nice quality. I think that should be sufficient for now. What is the price today, Mr. Jangsi?”

“For a beautiful woman such as yourself, Mrs. Viccars, I shall make you a very fair deal, of course,” said an unctuous voice that Grim presumed came from the old gypsy.

There was a short silence.

The voice continued, in a chant-like tone. “In the summer of your nineteenth year, the year you met your husband and a year before you set off to Roanoke, you attended a party in Hampton Court by way of your father.”

“I remember it well,” replied Mrs. Viccars.

“While there, you danced with a young nobleman with whom you spent the next several minutes waltzing and discussing local horticultural practices. He found you very engrossing.”

Mrs. Viccar's chuckled. “Yes. He was dull as dishwater, as I recall, though handsome enough.”

“For the goods here and their delivery to your home by end of day today, I will take as payment the color of the young nobleman's eyes and the scent of the flower that he gave you that evening as you departed company.”

Mrs. Viccar's paused. “Both?”

“Yes,” said the man.

“Trivial as they seem, I'm sure I shall miss them when they are gone,” said Mrs. Viccars.

“Of course, madam,” the man replied. “We recognize the sacrifice.”

Mrs. Viccars gave a wistful sigh. “Very well, Mr. Jangsi. I shall tell Mr. Viccars to expect your men this evening.”

Almost without pause, the man clapped. “The transaction is made and the payment taken. Thank you for your business, Mrs. Viccars. May you know your path.”

Grim dared a peek around the corner and watched Mrs. Viccars walk away, her arms across her formidable bosom and a small frown on her unadorned lips.

“No wonder the guard read that paper to everyone,” Grim said to Cane. The cost of goods at the Caravan bazaar was the most precious thing any Waysider had, and there was no recouping the loss.

Grim and Cane abandoned their perch between the tents and walked among the shoppers, looking here and there. Grim wondered what cost each was paying for their purchases, almost afraid now to find something he might be interested in buying.

There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked back into another familiar face. It was Ophelia.

“I remember you,” she said in sing-song. She puffed herself up. “Grim Munroe, fourteen in June,” she chanted in mock stoicism.

“Erm. Yeah, that's me I guess. Come on, Cane.” Grim continued to walk.

She rushed to block their path. “Hey! Where are you going? I want to show you something.”

Grim walked around her. “Not interested.”

She jumped in front of him again. “Oh come on, you grump.”

Grim curled his lip in disgust.

“Come now, wolf-boy,” she put her little hands on her hips. “We're going to be friends eventually, so you might as well just trust me now.”

Grim snarled. “Don't call me that! That thing in the forest was going to eat me, dream or no. Besides that was like forever ago.”

Ophelia frowned. “Look, it's really important, ok?”

Grim waved a hand. “Fine, fine. Sheesh, I'll go. Probably won't leave me alone until I do.”

The girl's smile practically cracked her teeth. She grabbed Grim's hand.

Grim's stomach dropped. There was a rush of air and the sensation of being dumped in ice water as the scene suddenly shifted. He tumbled forward and caught himself on the edge of a wooden table that had appeared in front of him.

Grim gasped and looked around. He and Ophelia were in a dark tent filled with knick-knacks. Cane was nowhere to be seen. Ophelia was scanning the table with infuriating nonchalance.

“What the heck was that,” Grim demanded. “Where's Cane?”

The girl didn't looked up. “Huh? Oh. Um, You walk slow, and I need to give you this in private.” Her eyes shifted between the various items on the table as if she was considering and dismissing each one.

“I...what?” Grim surveyed the tent. The flaps were closed and they were alone, but he could hear the murmur of the bazaar just outside. “Where are we?” He rubbed his eyes, adjusting to the dim light in the tent.

“Aha!” She picked up an item and concealed it behind her back, then walked up to Grim and looked puckishly at him. “I found it,” she said.

Grim sighed. “Ok, well, what is it then? Let me see it.”

Ophelia looked suddenly awkward. “Actually, you have to keep it. But...I can't just give it to you.”

“What!” Grim spread his arms in exasperation. “After all that, you're not going to give me the oh so important thing I apparently have to have?”

Ophelia's face reddened. “Look, you have to pay me for it. That's how it works. That's the bargain. And it's important, so...um.”

Grim had a flash of memory -- Mrs. Viccars and her trade with the tool vendor. “Oh, no. No, no. I'm not giving you a memory for something I've never even seen.”

“You have to, Grim.” It was not a request. Ophelia's face was still and serious.

Grim scowled. “What's the cost?”

Ophelia tilted her head and the distant look, just like in the camp, returned to her face. She closed her eyes and began to recite as if reading lines in a play. “When you were four, your father gave you --”

“No!” Grim slammed a hand on the table. Bobbles and silverware crashed onto the floor. Ophelia yelped and opened her eyes.

Grim spoke through gritted his teeth. “I'm not giving up any memories of my dad.”

Ophelia stared at him and took a step forward. “Grim, you --”

He stood his ground. “I said, no. I won't trade that.”

“Fine! Just be that way!” she shouted, and before he had a chance to react she had slapped Grim full-armed in the face.

There was a great lurch and Grim was dumped in ice water again. He found himself on the bazaar floor, face planted in the gray dust. He spit out the flavorless stuff.

“Grim?” Cane rushed up to help him. “Where'd you go? I looked away for a second and you were gone.”

“Nowhere,” Grim put a hand to his mouth. “Let's just get out of here.“ Grim stomped out of the bazaar and back to the city with Cane close behind.

Grim was determined never to visit the Caravan bazaar again.