CHAPTER 25

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

There’s nothing you should fear more than pushing a good person beyond their willingness to talk things out.

Unless you enjoy a good fight.

“Shayle, stop that,” Lyndie snapped, “it’s gross.”

Again the small foot inched forward and poked Wendell’s cheek with chubby toes.

“Shayle!”

The four year old leaned down and pressed an index finger on the unconscious teen’s cheek. The warm flesh moved with the finger.

“He looks funny when he sleeps.”

“He’s not sleeping,” Jacob corrected her. He pulled on the bow string again. Content with the result, he handed the weapon to his twin.

Shayle gripped Wendell’s cheek and jiggled it in disbelief, “But his eyes are closed.”

“That’s because he’s dead, dummy,” chimed Kale, following up with an odd expression and a protruding tongue from his mouth.

“I am NOT a dummy,” pouted Shayle, then held a hand over Wendell’s mouth and nose. “…and he is NOT dead. I feel his hot air, see?”

The twins shot their sister a disgusted look.

“Cause he’s gettin’ better,” snapped Jacob, “duh!”

“Yeah,” added Kale, “we found him dead before, remember? Blood and all! But he got better, so…”

“So?” Chimed Lyndie, “That doesn’t mean Wendell is dead now. And I feel his breath!”

Kale rolled his head lazily over to look at his twin. “Girls are SO not smart,” he grunted.

To which Lyndie pinched his arm.

“Ow!” Kale cried out, “You little…”

“That’s enough, all of you,” snapped Elsa from the kitchen. “Wendell is NOT dead…”

Lyndie folded her arms and jutted out her chin, giving her brothers a sharp nod of defiance.

“He was NOT dead when he GOT here…”

The twins stared at each other, expressions of disappointment plain on their faces.

Appearing in the kitchen doorway, Elsa wiped her hands on the rag hanging from her apron, “and his coin purse…was still in his pocket.”

The look of disappointment upon the faces of the twins deepened.

“When is Wendell going to wake up?” Lyndie asked concerned.

Crossing the room, Elsa knelt between the girls and wrapped her arms around them assuringly. “That I don’t know. The good news is he is wearing his magical clothes. He said they heal him, and we’ve seen that, right?”

The girls nodded silently in unison.

“But there is something that I DO know…”

All the children looked at her expectantly then.

Elsa gave each of them a bright encouraging smile, “Wendell’s safe and secure as long as he’s with us.”

“Unless he keeps eating the cooking,” Kale whispered to Jacob.

“I heard that,” Elsa said dryly.

“Elsa!” The front door swung open—cold wind laced with ice crystals whipping around the corner and into the main room. Tim flung the door shut behind him, cheeks flush red from running. “The villagers are having a meeting at The Den. Big meeting too. They’re awfully mad…and talking about hunting those wolves down once and for all!”

Jacob puffed out his chest, “They’re gonna need warriors for that,” giving his twin a nod.

“Warriors with bows and sharp, sharp arrows I recon,” added Kale.

Tim shook his head, “Those scary looking trappers are still in town. I think they’ll be wanting that job, boys.”

“Awwwww,” they whined in stereo.

Elsa stood upright and ushered the girls towards the kitchen. “Time to eat,” she said softly, then, “Tim—did you see Jan there?”

Tim shook his head. “He could have been sitting inside, in a corner of the tavern, cause the place is packed, but I doubt it. I sat with Silas. He sent me home to let you know the meeting was going on.”

“Silas was there?” She perked up, “That’s odd—he doesn’t usually like getting involved in village affairs.”

Tim chuckled, “That’s what I thought too, but oh is he stirring up those folks! Calling people names, pointing out stupid comments, and making everyone think harder than they woulda done. But anytime someone starts yelling at him, the dogs stand up and growl—so that doesn’t last long.”

“Elsa,” Lyndie called from the kitchen, her tone climbing, “Shayle spilled the milk…”

“Why would Silas care about what the village does about these wolves?” Elsa pondere. It just didn’t make sense. Her nose crinkled hard at the possibilities.

“Elsa!” gasped Jacob.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she shot back, her attention still on Tim, “grab a rag and wipe up the spill.”

Small hands tugged at her apron and spun her around. The twins pointed, excited, “Wendell’s waking up!”

Shaking hands rose to his face, palms rubbing his yes. “Ohhhhh,” he moaned aloud. He produced a few loud coughs, forcing his hands up to grip his skull, “Ooohhhhhhh, anyone get the license of that truck?”

Dropping to her knees, Elsa helped Wendell into a seated position, propping him up against the wall. “Careful—don’t rush, Wendell. You’ve been out for most of the morning.”

Squinting hard, Wendell looked from one person to the next. “Elsa? Tim??” His hands then went to his pocket. When he found the small bulge of his purse, he added, “Boys.”

“Heya Wendell,” chimed Jacob, slapping a hand on Wendell’s shoulder. “What’s a truck?”

“How are you feeling?” Elsa asked, firmly pushing Jacob back a step.

Most of the morning? “I….,” he frowned, “how did I get here? I fell into the—,” but he stopped—the blank stare of the twins motivating him into silence. Gripping the logs of the wall, Wendell pushed himself up onto his feet.

“Where’s Jan?”

****

“Close to DEATH, that’s where he is!” shouted the trapper. “That alone should give us a right to hunt these things into extinction!”

Too many heads nodded.

That worried Silas.

He knew the people of Putäyäl were both ignorant and quick to judgement, and much of that was due to their isolation and not using the brains he assumed were still buried somewhere between their ears. But there was a time when he could have relied on their cowardice. The natural fear villagers felt when something dangerous came their way had preserved the populace from doing something overly stupid, allowing for him—and often Elsa’s father, to guide them all back to some form of reason.

The trappers were quickly changing that.

Now that one of their kind was lingering at deaths door, the remaining brothers had approached the village specifically about the wolves. No one could or would prevent the trapping of the animals, but the small group was now looking to be paid to take care of the menace.

And they were using the losses of the village as leverage.

“This can’t go on no longer!”

Looking about The Den, an old man pushed away from the bar and stood before them trembling, face flushed. Holding up a bloodied tunic in twisted fingers, he made contact with as many eyes in the room as he could before slamming his fist onto the wooden surface. “And you KNOW it!”

Pushing up from her chair, a silver-haired woman raised a calming had to the growing anger of the room. Hunched over with age, her voice was softer, forcing those in the room to silence in order to hear her words.

“Elias is right,” she countered, soft and clear. She gave the man a tender smile of supportive remorse, “No one wants another of our village taken from us.” She turned and pointed to a dark haired woman holding a little girl on her lap. “Especially our children. But a beast doesn’t have to carry off your little ones to kill them. Many have lost our livestock to attacks in the middle of the night. Enough that we’re gonna have a rough winter at best.”

She pulled her sweater about her shoulders, her voice now shaking. “The season was too short for my own pantry. Those dogs killed every one of my goats and all my chickens.” She looked about her pleadingly, “This old woman is likely to starve before the winter snow melts.”

Patrons grumbled in their separate groups, most gathered around tables with steaming hot drinks amidst their swords, bows, and spears leaning nearby.

“But that don’t mean I trust these men.” She gave the trappers, who stood against the back wall of the tavern, a look of trepidation.

Again the room flared into heated discussions over whether the village should employ outsiders to deal with the local problem.

“I’ll be damned if I will allow you to starve because of a little snowfall, Marilynn.” Old Mayson lifted another plate of steaming drinks onto the bar for his servers to distribute. “I’ve known you all my life and I’m determined to know you a great deal longer!”

He looked about the room, a softness overcoming both tone and countenance. “That goes for all of you. I don’t know what this winter will bring, but as long as I have food, this village will not starve—you hear me?” His eyes met those of Silas.

Silas nodded. “I second that sentiment and back it with my own. We may not see eye to eye on many things, but this is my home…and Mahan be cursed, you are my people. I’ll pledge my own pantries, small as they may be, to back that old codgers offer.”

“Insult or not, I’ll take it,” Mayson shouted back.

The room laughed.

“So let’s be wise about this,” Silas continued. “No one here need fear. Not if we do what’s right.”

Putäyäl had been swarming with trappers for nearly a fortnight, yet day after day they’d started leaving. Some wounded, others complained they’d been ‘discouraged’. One fact had been clear though—none had been able to bring down the four-legged threat. In fact, none of the trappers had been able to secure a single hide.

…with the exception of this rough-looking band.

Displayed across a center table was the fresh carcas of a ridge-wolf female, two broken arrow shafts protruding from her side.

Silas let his attention drift from the carcass up to the broad bowman standing proudly with those he claimed as his brothers.

The man, who said his name was Mailian, stood forward with confidence. Too much confidence, in Silas’s opinion, which didn’t sit well with the craftsman. Behind the trapper were three more men, not as large in stature, but certainly as dangerous.

“So what I want to understand here, is why we should be giving this lot coin, when it looks plain as day that they’re capable of filling their own pockets with coin?”

Mailian almost sneered back, bearing his teeth too openly in his grin. “Because you need us, old man.”

Walking forward, he gripped a handful of fur of the wolf and lifted it high, causing the center of the body to rise from the table an inch or two. “Did any of the other men who came here to hunt hit their mark? Did you see any of those who left do so with furs on their horses or in their carts? No, you did not.”

Silas sat forward in his chair, a hand wandering down to scratch Tam’s head. “That doesn’t answer my question, boy.”

Bartleby sat forward and opened his mouth—but Silas slapped a hand over it.

Mailian’s grin widened to an unnatural width. “Then let me make this clear,” he looked up, “for all of you.” He let the carcass drop and paced the room.

“We can and in time, will, hunt down each of these beasts for their pelts, teeth, and other organs which we know where to sell. But this village presented us with a greater opportunity. As some have rightfully said, these wolves are killing your own livestock. Your own survival has been and will be affected by the four-legged devils wandering in those woods outside.” Turning back to stare at Silas, his smile vanished. “Can you kill them?”

This time the Den remained silent.

It was a valid question.

A question those present couldn’t rightly answer.

“No, they can’t,” blurted a deep voice from the tavern’s doorway. Sawyer leaned heavily against the frame, his look of disgust and disdain plain for all to see. “Which is why they’re listening to you at all.” He pointed back at Mailian, “And if any of you want to keep the livestock you have, you should listen and consider the offer presented. I did, and that’s why I’m helping.”

“Helping these outsiders?” called a voice.

“I’m helping YOU!” Sawyer snarled back. “Helping this village, so we don’t lose all we have to predators stalking us every night!” He stood upright, his face flushed, “I’ve been showing these men every sign and path where I’ve seen those wolves lurking. What have any of YOU done? NOTHING! So unless you’re willing to put your own skin in the game to protect what’s yours, pull out your coin purses or lock those lips tight!”

The Den remained silent, though eyes drifted back to the trapper.

“I’m no saint,” chuckled Mailian, “Never claimed I was. But why should I risk my life and the blood of my family for some pelts, when we can walk away and find us an easier catch further down the range? Why not get paid to eliminate a threat AND keep the pelts?”

His wicked grin returned, thick brows rolling forward to cast deep shadows over his eyes, “We are still here because we know we can kill those wolves. We know why those beasts are here. We also know how to find them. How to kill them. THAT makes this a risk worth taking.”

“It’s criminal,” cried one.

“You’re just using us to fill your pockets!” cried another.

“I am simply working with the opportunity at hand,” Mailian said louder. Waiting for the commotion to die down a bit more, he added, “So there is no misunderstanding, we are more than willing to leave Putäyäl and return in the spring to assist those who remain after the ice melts.”

One of the trappers against the wall stepped forward and whispered into his brother’s ear. Mailian nodded and then added, “At an increased price, of course.”

“This is more than criminal,” Bartleby grunted under his breath.  “It’s flat out evil.”

“Agreed,” replied Silas, “but they’re not wrong.”

The gnome looked at his human companion in shock. “You agree with them?”

Glancing about the room, the old artisan tapped his pipe against the table, ash falling to the floor. “For the survival of this village, greed is the least of our worries.” Pulling a small pouch from his pocket, Silas placed it on the table, took a small pinch of the contents and started gently packing it into the pipe. “Too many are looking at Wendell as the reason for the wolves, even now.”

“You have got to be kidding,” sighed the gnome.

Glancing through the growing irritation of the crowd, Silas nodded at the doorway. “I’ll give you three guesses who’s pushing that narrative.

Bartleby turned in his seat, but saw no one in the doorway.

****

Sawyer flipped about, shrugging off the hand gripping the shoulder of his coat.

“Get off,” he hissed, stepping away with his fists up.

Jan stood squarely opposite in the path leading up to The Den. Draped over one shoulder hung a small bag.

For several moments he stood silent, watching Sawyers movements with sympathetic eyes. When he finally opened his mouth, he kept his voice low.

“We need to talk.”

Straightening his coat, Sawyer flashed the lumberjack a sneer. “Maybe you need to—”

“Careful,” the lumberjack cut him off. “You get one more chance. Either you talk to me in private, or I can do this in front of the village. At this point, I don’t care much, so you choose.” His expression turned cold, “Just be sure.”

Sawyer stood more than a head taller that Jan Downing and was nearly twice is size. But hard labor and clean living showed itself in the metal frame of the lumberjack.

…who stood in winter cold air without a coat, unflinching.

The moisture from his breath rolled up one side of his face as he stared at the redhead, any sounds of the village still downed out by the loud commotion from within The Den.

“What do you want,” Sawyer finally said cooly. Lowering his arms to his sides, muscular hands still curled into fists.

Jan shrugged, “You want to do it here? Fine. We can do it here. Leave Elsa be. Don’t talk to her. Don’t approach her. Don’t look her way or breathe her air. You are done.” His stance was square, but his free arm hung loosely at his side, the other hand loosely gripping the small rope of the bag. “As long as you leave her be, your secret stays a secret. You have my word.”

Sawyer stared for nearly a minute, studying his opponent.

Then he laughed.

Thing was, it wasn’t a jovial laugh. It wasn’t even one of amusement. The sound that came from his mouth was laced with something that resembled a child who had just been caught.

Caught in a lie and who didn’t have enough sense to know what to do next.

“Hey Sawyer, is the meeting over?”

Three young men wandered up behind the redhead. One of them turned to the commotion pouring out from the open tavern door. “Wow—someone’s riled up! Come on guys, let’s get us a drink and see who’s fighting who.”

Sawyer and Jan squared off and stood still.

“Sawyer?” asked one of the young men.

Sawyer grinned wide. “I gots me a problem, Alvin. I can’t go in.”

The three glanced at one another, then over at Jan.

“Looks like the fight’s out here, Daniel,” smirked Alvin.

Flanking their leader, one predator became four.

Tossing the small bag from his shoulder, Jan took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I tried. In fact, I’ve tried dozens of times over the years, boy. You lost your sister. Your mother. Your father. And I felt for you. I’ve lost all my family as well—so I knew that pain. I KNOW that anger and fear and frustration, so I reached out.” The words grew hard and bitter, finally coming through clenched teeth. “But you had friends, Sawyer. You had people who cared. Who wanted to help. But you wouldn’t LET them. So this…all this you’ve been doing, boy,….is on you. No more excuses. No more chances.”

“Careful Downing,” Sawyer sneered, “you don’t have your hatchet handy.”

Taking a single step, Jan’s head rolled forward, his own hands now curling into fists.

“A man doesn’t need a weapon to deal with children.”

Cold eyes locked upon the redhead, a flicker of sadness briefly passing through them. “Now I see. It’s not because you can’t heal, it’s because you won’t. You just want what you want, because you want it—and that just isn’t how life works. So yes, Sawyer,” his voice dropped to a near whisper, “you ‘gots’ a problem.”

Glancing over at the bag, Sawyer noticed its contents peeking out from the lip of the cloth.

Eyes growing wide, his stance faltered.

“Sawyer, what’s he talking about?” asked Alvin.

“H-he’s threatening me,” the big man stammered, taking a step back, “thinks this is all my fault.”

Stepping around him, the third young men scoffed. “What’s all your fault? The wolves? Peyton getting killed? Cause the wolves did that—we were there!”

“Yes!” Sawyer snapped, “and he told me he was gonna put me down right before you walked up here!” Pointing, “Tried to lure me between the buildings so he wouldn’t have no witnesses!”

The three squared off in front of their friend.

“Is that so?” Alvin said under his breath.

Jan looked between them, his focus settling on the one they called Alvin. “Doesn’t really matter what I say at this point, does it boys?”

They all grinned.

Problem was, bullies rarely anticipate those bullied to actually fight back.

Certainly not effectively.

The first to dash forward threw a haymaker punch with his right fist, aimed at Jans head, as the other two panned out to either side. Sadly the attacker didn’t count on his victim moving directly at him. Doing so threw the timing of his attack completely off.

Shifting his head slightly to let the punch fly harmlessly past him, Jan grabbed the thick arm by the bicep and used it as leverage to jump up.

…launching a powerful knee straight into the youths gut.

Hard.

Vomit spewed from mouth and nose.

Spinning on his heel, Jan guided the wounded young man by his coat and neck in an arc.

…directly into the legs of his companion.

The impact was, in its own way, spectacular. Kneecap met face, and the crack of Alvin’s nose was loud enough for all to hear.

If not, the blood spray across mud and snow provided a motivating visual as both bodies fumbled to the ground.

Sawyer reeled back a few steps.

The display of violence only spurred on the last attacker.

“I’ll crush you,…you midgit” shouted Daniel, lunging with both arms stretched forward.

Jan took a step to the side and guided his attackers face…into a tree.

With a dramatic ‘THUD’, the young man fell limp and unconscious to the ground.

Looking back to Sawyer, Jan repositioned himself in the worn path, brushing the dirt from his shirt. “It’s long overdue you and I had a proper conversation.” He flashed Sawyer a tiny smile, “I promise to use a language you understand.”

“Jan, stand down!”

Silas appeared in the doorway, hounds at his side.

Jan kept his eyes locked on Sawyer. “This has nothing to do with you, sir.”

Walking slowly between them, Mouse gave Sawyer a growl from the pit of his massive chest—causing the man to shuffle backwards. Mouse then turned to stand near Jan, brushing up against the lumberjacks thigh.

“It’s ‘sir’ now, is it?” Silas replied, a hint of disappointment in his voice, “Fine, we can be formal. This spat may not have to do with me directly, but under my employ, you still represent me by your conduct.” Leaning his head towards Jan, his voice grew firm, “Especially in this village. Where…I…live. You agreed to a specific conduct as long as you are in my employ.”

Jan remained silent.

Silas stepped in front of the lumberjack, breaking his eye contact with the redhead. The old man’s face was stern, but not unkind. Lowering his voice, he added, “Is that not correct?”

Only then did Jan look up. He didn’t answer right away.

“It is.”

“Do you wish to stay in my employ?”

Jan shoulders trembled. “I do.”

Nodding, “Right then. We have work to do to stay on schedule today, which means your carcass is required at my farm.” He glanced down at the three sprawled bodies on the ground. Giving the two conscious boys a curt nod, “Now that you’ve all had your playtime.”

“Jan! Silas!!” Wendell ran up with Elsa in tow, “Are you…” but he skidded to a halt as Sawyer turned around, “okay?”

Snatching the bag from the snow and checking its contents, Jan fired Sawyer a warning look and pushed past him. When Elsa reached out and touched his forearm, he hesitated.

“I’m fine,” he said softly, though he kept his eyes forward and hands clenched tightly to the bag.

When she opened her mouth to reply, he waved it off, gripping the bag against his shoulder.

Without a word, he marched away.

Silas puffed a bit on his pipe as he watched the frustrated lumberjack. “Go with him, Tam,” he said, without looking down, “He shouldn’t be alone.”

The large hound trotted off, her pup beside her, but Mouse stopped at Wendell’s side.

“Heya handsome,” Wendell grinned, scratching the ridge hounds neck and head. “What did I miss?”

“He attacked us,” growled Sawyer, who walked around the old man to stand closer to his friends. “We have witnesses.”

“Is that so?” Silas countered, “Cause I’m certain there’s not a single person in the village who would believe any of you boys over the proven character of another.”

He took another puff of his pipe and let the smoke roll out into the morning air. “As I saw it, I came out of The Den and found you four wrestling about haphazardly like the idiots folks think you are. Should be more careful roughhousing like that.” Looking between them all, he added, “Isn’t that right Mr. Bartleby?”

“So right Mr. O’Brien,” chimed the gnome, who had mysteriously appeared behind the artisan. “That’s what I saw as well.”

Wrapping an arm around Elsa’s shoulder, he whispered, “Don’t worry child—Jan’s going to be fine. He just proved perfectly why he has both my confidence and my trust.”

Guiding her back towards the house, Silas encouraged Wendell to do the same—leaving the wounded behind.

“You would lie to save the skin of that wood hunter?” snarled Sawyer after them.

“Incredible. You truly ARE that dense,” Bartleby chided. “He did that to save you.”

Sawyer looked down at the gnome dumbfounded.

Slinging the lute case over his shoulder, Bartleby turned to follow after Silas.

“I’d keep that in mind, young man—because it looks like the butt-kicking you just dodged is going to find you.”