Wild Bill V
Sick. Not well. Will not fill caches for some time.
Wild Bill folded up the note and slid it back into his pocket. Before he had stumbled upon the captured family, and before the Bread Town Incident, as he had chosen to call it (his traveling companions called it The Jailbreak), this note had been left for him in one of his drop boxes. He didn’t need to read it again—he knew the words. He studied the handwriting anyway. He worried about the note and its writer. He wasn’t sure what he would find when they got there.
Wild Bill sat atop his wagon and guided Fella through the forest. He felt tired and weak. He led the now-free Bread Towners down an old game trail he could hardly find. Fella struggled to pull the wagon through the overgrowth, and Wild Bill had to double back several times from missed turns and failing memory.
The air in the old-growth forest was wet and stale. It hadn’t been pushed by a breeze in so long that it had become heavy and content to make itself comfortable. Moss and lichen engulfed thick, towering oaks. Sunshine never reached the forest floor in these parts. Light fought for every inch; the midday darkness added to the contemplative persona of the woods. Wild Bill hadn’t been through here in ages. The Bread Towners were skeptical and nervous to be here, looking over their shoulders as if the trees might pick them up and swallow them whole. But Wild Bill knew the truth of it. You only get trouble from this forest when you bring trouble in.
Wild Bill’s leg buzzed a familiar pattern. His pocket rock was having itself a day. Frankly, it was starting to get on his nerves. It had bounced and shaken in his pocket since morning. Wild Bill was hard-pressed to ignore it, but after crawling through the woods all day without seeing anyone, he wondered what the rock knew that he didn’t. How close were other people in this old forest? They had run far away from the main road as quickly as possible. Now they were in the kind of old, ancient forest that a person could trust. Who else was out here? Did people live in the wilderness now? Were they watching Wild Bill and his gang of homeless magicians? Or maybe his pocket rock was confusing the ex-prisoners with potential clients.
It unnerved him all day.
“Easy, Fella,” he slowed the old donkey in a clearing. Massive boulders and stout trees lined an area of rare open space. There should be enough room here for the group to spread out. “We can camp here,” he announced to the Bread Towners. There was a large uprooted tree at the edge of the clearing that Wild Bill guided Fella to. He jumped down and unhitched Fella, then grabbed the donkey some snacks. “You did good today, buddy.” He patted Fella’s snout. The Bread Towners meandered cautiously about the clearing, setting up camp. They were still skeptical of the forest and seemed to feel better moving about in pairs.
They were a good lot. They laughed and told jokes. They helped each other out. They were a little too grateful about being saved. It seemed to Wild Bill that not an hour would pass without being thanked or given a piece of handcrafted forest jewelry. Woven grass bracelets weren’t his style, but he wore them anyway. It was, Wild Bill conceded, quite a pathetic group of magicians.
He was troubled to learn about their imprisonment. The Bread Towners spoke about it quietly and only when prompted. They had been betrayed by their friends, neighbors, and family. The scars wouldn’t heal quickly.
Wild Bill left Fella and walked into the forest. Out of sight from camp, he pulled out the pocket rock and watched it jump around in his hand. “Alright, buddy. Help me out.” He crouched down and pushed aside leaves to make a small circle in the ground. He set the pocket rock down. He watched it bounce around. Soon enough, Wild Bill saw the pattern—the rock would outline a field in the dirt. It pointed East. He picked it up and let it bounce freely in an open palm. He walked East. His eyes scanned the forest to peer behind every tree and bush. The rock took on a happier cadence now—it was trying to get him to listen all day.
After a few minutes, Wild Bill stopped. He felt it now. The feeling of others. The feeling of being watched. The undisputed knowledge that you are not alone despite no evidence. The skin crawling, gut confirming nausea. The rock shook at high frequency.
He put it back in his pocket. “Hullo,” Wild Bill called into the stale air. At first, there was nothing. And then there was a shushing, a rustle, a frozen gasp. Wild Bill spun. He stepped toward the brush and took off his hat.
A head poked out of the brush. “You’re Wild Bill?” The man asked with a surprised face. Wild Bill bowed low.
“At your service.” Wild Bill pulled himself up and studied the man, who seemed to relax. “You’re that bard, aren’t you?”
“Arne!” The man stepped out from his hiding spot, excited to be remembered. He turned back to the brush. “It’s okay, he’s a friend.” A gangly teen awkwardly stepped out and waved a hand at Wild Bill. But they both still regarded the brush.
“Strange to meet you out here,” Wild Bill put his hat back on.
“We got chased out of town—” Arne was cut off by a seething voice behind the brush.
“Don’t tell him anything!”
“Yrsa, I told you. He’s a friend.” Arne looked back at Wild Bill and tried to put on a calming smile. “I trust him.” Wild Bill smiled warmly. For some reason, a timely impotence-curing potion or two gave men all manner of trust in Wild Bill. He could probably have himself a small army of success story clients by now.
A girl slowly crept out from the brush. Her piercing eyes tore into Wild Bill. The girl was young and had a scrappy tenacity that reminded him of some of his old friends. She was skinny, hungry-looking, serious-faced. She could live out in these woods full-time. She held a dagger and conveyed that she was quite comfortable with it. She was studying Wild Bill.
“I don’t trust him,” the girl’s icy glare wouldn’t break.
“Well, I,” Wild Bill stated. “Am not so sure that I trust you.” He pointed a finger at the girl. “I’m a merchant, and I never forget a piece of art. That dagger belongs to a dear friend in Flour Town, who happens to be a very skilled blacksmith. I bet I’ll find Gorm’s mark on that handle.” The girl’s eyes widened. “How did you come to have one of my friend’s beautiful blades?”
The girl lowered the dagger, and weariness seemed to overpower her. She looked exhausted. “He gave it to me,” she paused. “Before we ran away.” The girl seemed to be looking elsewhere now. Wild Bill looked to Arne the Bard, whose face was a mix of sadness and fear.
“They were after me, these Movement folks. You heard of ‘em, Bill?”
“I’m afraid so,” Wild Bill regarded them. “They’ve been causing folks a lot of trouble. I understand your running, and I’m sorry you had to do it.”
“There’s a lady in the woods,” Arne continued. The girl looked at him with a hard stare but didn’t stop him. “We were told there’s a lady in the woods that can help us.”
Wild Bill nodded. “I was hoping she could help me, too. Listen,” Wild Bill aimlessly kicked at the ground and pointed back over his shoulder. “Did you hear the fireworks last night?” They were surprised. “I freed some Bread Towners last night. Don’t ask me why, couldn’t tell you. Made quite a mess of things. The Movement’s got people going mad. They jailed up half the town, for Queen only knows why. We’re setting up camp a few minutes that way. Why don’t you join us?”
The boy spoke, “You made those explosions?”
Wild Bill smiled… well, wildly. “They don’t call me Wild Bill for nothin’!”
“I don’t trust you.” The girl was back to staring at him. But now that he had seen the exhaustion on her face, she could not hide it from him.
“You’re a smart young woman,” Wild Bill said. “You keep your Gorm’s dagger and your skepticism. It’ll keep you alive, that. But come share dinner with some other folks like you. Driven from their homes. Searching for a lady in the forest.” Wild Bill spun quickly and headed back the way he came. This girl had spunk. Wild Bill liked her. “Come on, before supper’s cold!”
Previous Chapter: https://therealzsmith.com/2023/06/23/resistance-chapter-19/
Next Chapter: https://therealzsmith.com/2023/07/13/resistance-chapter-21/
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