Hedge of Thorns: Tumble
The mixing bowl and flour canister are already on the table. Exposing the banked coals lets flame lick kindling, and soon there’s enough fire to make biscuits in the Dutch oven, the way mom did. Whatever killed Grandpa took her two weeks later, and it was my lot to step up and feed us. Bobby would sneer when I burned the biscuits, but my baking’s improved. As usual, he’s gotten out of all the recent work, the miles-distant, bare gleaming bones, six-feet-under kind of out that I won’t experience even if I’m lucky.
I pound the flour canister lid down. I wish my brother were here, because no one has called me by my name in years. If I decide not to bother remembering it, who could I be?
The salt traders from Port Angeles, in town with their pack trains, spread nervous talk of raiders along the coast. Despite sharp dickering, my bartering goods ran out. Without salt, I can’t make ink. No inks, no art, and I shall go mad.
It’s anyone’s guess how much longer I can hold the land alone. I hold the deed, too, worthless as that is. Any authority the county once exercised is long gone.
Bam. Thud. Bang. Dishes rattle on the shelf and dust drifts down through the floor of the back loft.
I grab my pistol, slap in a magazine, and keeping low, peer out a front window. There’s nothing unusual in the small yard. I combat-crawl to the front door, reach up, and crack it open. Breeze invades the room.
Outside, I hesitate at the corner of the cabin, then inch my way along the wall toward the hillside. Groaning reaches me. Injured man, or injured animal? I’d be happier with a periscope to see around the corner.
Another groan, a coughing jag, and a man’s out-flung arm sends up a puff of dust. There’ll be no simple burial in some out-of-the-way corner, not yet. I step away from the wall far enough that he shouldn’t be able to grab me, and point my Sig Sauer at him. “Who are you?”
Quick as that, his expression turns from a grimace to fear. Fine with me. Wisely, he’s also freezing. The other impacts came from rocks dislodged as he fell. I risk a glance upslope.
“Talk, mister, and fast.”
He props himself on an elbow. “I’m Sam Humbolt.” A second coughing jag hits, and he sags. “God, that hurts.”
“Anyone with you, Tumble?”
“No, and I said my name’s Humbolt.”
“Sure it is, but since you’ve fallen into my life and given me a couple hundred pounds of complication, I’ll call you what I choose.” I gesture with the pistol as a breeze picks up and thunder echoes.
Hedge of Thorns: Tumble is a segment of a serialized short story that will post on Fridays.
Check the menu on this blog for other, previously posted serialized stories, here.
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