“The woodpiles, too,” Arlen’s father said, spitting over the side of the cart. Fifteen houses, all reduced to rubble and ash. By the time they arrived, the few remaining cabin fires had been put out, though in truth there was little left to burn. It was more than five miles from Arlen’s father’s farm to the Cluster by the Woods. Too many to pray over each one, if the work was to be complete before dusk. And starting the fires this early, without waiting for others to arrive and pray, meant there were a great many. She could never fool him, but she always knew what to say just the same.Ī pillar of greasy smoke told them more than they wanted to know long before they reached their destination. “What if it’s me who needs to be held?”įeeling suddenly proud, Arlen pulled close to his mother again as they traveled down the road. I’m not scared.” It wasn’t entirely true, but it would not do for the other children to see him clinging to his mother as they rode in. “I don’t need you to hold me like a baby. Arlen’s mother, wrapped in her worn shawl, held him tightly as they rode. It was dangerous there, over an hour’s run to the nearest warded structure, but the lumber was needed. His face was grim as he worked.īefore long, they were in the cart, trundling toward the small cluster of houses by the woods. He snatched the spare stool and they found cadence in their work, the sound of milk striking wood drumming a funeral march.Īs they moved to the next pair down the line, Arlen saw his father begin hitching their strongest horse, a five-year-old chestnut-colored mare named Missy, to the cart. His mother was already squatting beneath the first of the cows. He left the animals in the barns and opened the hay stores, slopped the pigs, and ran to fetch a wooden milk bucket. Some chores could wait a day, but the stock still needed to be fed and the cows milked. Behind Arlen, the door to the house opened, and he knew his mother would be there, covering her mouth with both hands.Īrlen returned to his work, not needing to be told to hurry. His father had friends among the cutters. One long and two short meant south and east. There was a pause, and then the horn blew twice in rapid succession.

A quiet dread built in his gut as he waited in the morning stillness, hoping that it had been his imagination.

Mist still clung to the air, bringing with it a damp, acrid taste that was all too familiar. Arlen paused in his work, looking up at the lavender wash of the dawn sky.

The warded man peter brett