The storm ended early the next morning. Samuel’s father left at sunrise to examine the fishing lines by the iced-over lake. To busy himself, Samuel chopped firewood and checked the ground snares near the left end of their cabin. The snares were empty, but one of the bushes nearby had begun sprouting blackberries. He picked all the ripe berries and put them inside his pockets, eating a few along the way back.
After an hour of shoveling snow away from the doorway, he decided to take a break from his daily chores. He got the hunting knife and chose a large pine behind the cabin as the target, carving an X into the bark. He stepped back ten paces, angled his body, and threw the knife with all his might. He missed the target on the first attempt but landed near the mark every time afterward. He dug the blade out from the wood and decided to test his range from twenty paces back. This proved far more difficult, and he could hardly hit the tree at all, let alone the X. His father had once told him about a redlands soldier who had struck a scorpion nearly fifty feet away with his dagger. Samuel wished he could be that accurate throwing. But he had trouble judging depth, and that was something no amount of practice could fix. He blamed his mother’s lenses.
By midday, his father had returned with several more bluefish. They cooked them right away, eating their fill. Samuel was surprised by his own hunger. After an early dinner, he showed his father the ripening blackberries, taking him to the bush. His father decided it was best to set up a ground snare near the front of it. Samuel dug a hole about a foot deep as his father hammered six stakes into the nearly frozen ground, aligning them into a perfect circle. They tied a rope around the nearest pine, set the snare on top of the stakes, and covered it with snow and dirt. Hopefully some four-legged creature would find the blackberries as enticing as they did.
Returning home, Samuel pointed to the red jeep parked beside their shed.
“Has someone else passed?”
His father scratched his beard as they walked.
“No. That’s not the sheriff.”
Samuel didn’t understand until he got closer to the cabin. The red jeep sparkled in the sunlight, its metallic-style paint glistening. The sheriff drove his vehicle everywhere all throughout the day, and it was always covered in filth and grime, but this jeep looked as if it had been loaded off a trans-state train car hours before. Stacks of bundled papers and manila folders were scattered across the passenger seats. The documentation looked official.
It wasn’t the sheriff’s jeep.
Opening the front door, Samuel and his father were greeted by a nervous young man. He was dressed in a fine dark suit, wooly peacoat, and leather loafers. His blue eyes had a dazed look, like Samuel and his father and the cabin around were all part of some exotic world. He combed his slick blond hair to the side with his fingers and stood up from the chair.
“Cleric,” he said a little too loudly. “I am here on official assignment from the mayor of Haid.”
His father bowed. Samuel followed suit, his throat swelling.
“Do you know who I am?” the boy asked.
“I do not. I apologize for my ignorance.”
“Charles Thompson. I’m the mayor’s son.”
It wasn’t until he said his name that Samuel recognized him. The young man looked nearly the same as he had back when he and Samuel were boys. Six or seven years prior, the mayor’s wife fell ill, and a high fever took her. All the shops in town closed, and even the loggers were given the day off, so everyone could attend the funeral and pay their respects. His father, as was custom, performed the holy rites. Samuel could recall the largeness of the crowd, the elaborate decorations that adorned the town square, and the lanky yellow-haired boy clenching onto Mayor Thompson’s fine suit and wailing like an infant as Samuel’s father sprinkled blood on his mother’s corpse. The mayor had to restrain the boy and eventually had the sheriff drive him back to the estate, because his raucous outbursts were delaying the ceremony. A week after the funeral, the boy was sent away to live with one of his relatives down in the greenlands. Last thing Samuel overheard from a blabbering citizen was that the mayor’s son was attending an elite boarding school getting a proper education. The greenlands had a reputation for expensive and prestigious schools, as well as lavish crops and agreeable climate.
“Of course,” Samuel’s father said. He bowed once more. Samuel did the same. “There is no reason to stand on my behalf, young sir. Would you like some tea?”
Charles nodded. “Yes. Please. It’s so cold in here.”
Samuel wanted to tell him better socks and shoes would make the cold much more bearable, but he decided against it. He poured a dash of tealeaves into a pot, and noticed his fingers were stiff and shaky. Had the butcher’s daughter talked to anyone about that night? Why else would a politician be inside his father’s cabin? What sort of pleasant business could Mayor Thompson have with the cleric?
Samuel’s father took off his gloves and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He took a seat across from Charles, keeping his arms stiffly by his side.
“Don’t know if you’ve heard, but my father has been the victim of a petty thief,” Charles said emphatically. He cocked his head, perhaps marveling at the mark of the clergy. “He had the sheriff set up some animal traps in the woods, and he now has at least six patrolmen stationed outside the estate at all times.”
His father folded his hands together, his demeanor calm. “I’ve been informed of as much. How might I be of service?”
Samuel stirred the boiling water with a spoon until it was ready. He poured Charles a cup, the liquid steaming. The mayor’s son wiped his bangs from his forehead before sipping the tea. For a moment, the hair no longer covered the yellowing bruise swollen over his left brow. “I can’t tell you more than that. But you need to come with me.”
His father rose and bowed. “I’m honored to serve.”
Charles gave a quick smile. He shook the teacup. “It tastes good.”
“I’m glad,” Samuel said.
“Do you go with him? The cleric, I mean. You’re his son, right?”
Samuel rubbed his fingers across his jeans. “Yes. And sometimes.”
His father cleared his throat. “He will stay behind.”
“No.” Charles stood up, drinking more tea before turning to Samuel. “He can come with us. It’ll be fun. I can give you a tour of the estate. Unless you want to stay here and freeze to death.”
Samuel tried reading his father’s stoic face but couldn’t. “I suppose I can.”
Charles grinned as he rose. “Great! Oh. And cleric? Bring the scriptures. I’ll get the engine going.”
When Charles exited the cabin, Samuel sprang into action. He climbed up the ladder to their bed and pulled the knife from underneath the mattress. His father went over to the desk, collecting the leather-bound verses. He stood near the door, waiting for Samuel to get down from the loft. Then, unexpectedly, his father grabbed his arm. The skin of his palm was warm yet calloused. Samuel tensed. He recalled the butcher’s bony fingers as they’d clutched onto his father’s inked mark. His father got closer. He whispered in his ear. “If something happens to me. If they take me away. No matter what they threaten or do to me, you never saw the butcher touch me. Understand?”