As he scoured an iron skillet in the frigid stream behind the cabin, Will gave a thunderous sneeze, and winced at the reprimand he would have been given if Halt had been nearby. Then he stiffened. With Halt, you never knew. Even though Will had been Halt's apprentice for just over a month, he was still just a little afraid of the grizzled ranger. But everything was quiet.
Will was just about to take another handful of sand from the icy water when a tiny, niggling doubt made him turn his head towards the cabin. But he couldn't see the cabin. He saw Halt's billowing ranger cloak, and as he looked up, Halts fiery stare. Will felt as if hot iron nails were punching into his skull, and so braced himself for a stiff reprimand. Halt, as usual, surprised him. "Get up. We're going."
Will, startled, picked up the pots and ran after Halt, who was difficult to keep up with even when walking.
Halt led Will to the small lean-to like building that served as a stable for Abelard and Tug, and saddled his horse, and motioned for Will to do the same. Still utterly bewildered, Will slipped the saddle over Tug, and tightened the girth straps. He desperately wanted to know where they were going, but with Halt, you had to ration questions. Halt mounted Abelard, a tad bit stiffly muttering "curse young people." Will was not yet tall enough to mount Tug directly, so he led Tug outside to the strong fence, and used it as a ladder to his saddle. Before he could, Halt let Abelard break into a canter, then a gallop, leaving Will in a cloud of dust.
Will was still sneezing half an hour later, when he almost rear-ended Halt. In front of his master was a torrent of men, donkeys, carts, wagons, horses, and dust. There was a whole lot of dust. There was so much dust that Will hardly saw the "Dawsonii city or bust" signs. Dawsonii, Will thought. Where was Dawsonii?
He mentally searched the hours he had spent with Halt in geography lessons, pouring over maps of places he would probably never see: cities, roads, countries, even lists of directions. Halt had made him memorize ten different ways to "the gathering," as he called it. Wait, was that it? Will remembered now: veer left after Dawsonii, the small farming village, smaller than the village at Redmont, hardly a village, more of a settlement really. But what had this massive migration got to do with Dawsonii? He again searched his mind but couldn't find anything that would bring a group this large across the boundary mountain range that crossed almost into Picta, called by the locals "Klondeek," up the Yokun river, through the deadly Pale Horse Rapids, to Dawsonii. He knew that if he asked Halt, Halt would not answer anymore questions after that, so he held his peace. But as he followed him into the seething throng, he had to ask. "Halt?"
Halt sighed, in the unexplainably exasperated tone that Will knew well. "Yes?"
Will saw that Halt might just answer, so he pressed his advantage."Why are they all going to Dawsonii?"
Again, the sigh."Will, use your eyes!"
Will looked at the massive, seething crowd, with the occasional wagon dotting the field of horses and people like molehills, each with a sign. Many "Dawsonii" a few "Klondeek or nothing"
and a great many "to riches!" often badly misspelled. By chance Will's eye alighted on a tattered piece of canvas that looked to have traveled quite a ways, on which was scrawled the words "apresurando para ouro!" At first, Will could not make out the language, but then he recognized it as the Pictish dialect of Galician, meaning "rushing for gold."
Rushing for gold? Did that mean there was gold in Dawsonii? This only confused Will more, and he was on the verge of tugging Halt's cloak to ask him, when a stout man in deep green with a thick Hibernian accent began shouting: "Wash Pans! Best tin wash pans! Wash the gold right out of the dirt with these washpans! Only a gold coin!" This answered the unasked question neatly. So the wash pans were a mining tool, and there was gold in the Klondeek.
Will was jerked out of his thought by a sharp prod in the side from a nearby farmer. "Hey sonny, you asleep?" Will looked over at the slightly overweight man with a walrus mustache, who hurriedly backed away seeing that he had disturbed a ranger. Will gave him the classic Halt look, and the man shrunk into his saddle.
The roiling crowd was veering off the road into a clearing, and men were setting up tents beside their wagons. Will made his way to Halt, and started to set up his tent beside him. When finished, started a fire, but Halt stopped him. "Cold camp."
Will sighed. Cold camp meant no coffee. Will had only been Halt's apprentice for a few weeks, and already he was addicted to caffeine. The first time he had tried it he had hated the musky scented beverage, but these days he drank it until he could hear colors. He didn't hold a candle to Halt, however, who claimed that he could see sounds. Which made sense, Will thought, as he drifted off to sleep.
He was wakened by a piercing blast of frigid air. He didn't see light, so he reached for his cloak, which must have slid off during the night. But it wasn't there. Neither was his blanket. Neither was his tent. Turning his head, he saw Halt's silhouette against the stars, packing his tent, blanket, and spare cloak onto tug. He rolled over and stood, groaning as his back let him know just how many rocks he had slept on.
The one pleasant surprise was that Halt had brought a flask of coffee. Will spent half an hour thanking Halt heartily. Halt finally got tired of the constant stream of babbling, and threw the empty jug at his apprentice's head. Luckily for Will, Halt was in a good mood from the coffee, and just wanted to make Will shut up. A ceramic jug in the face tends to do that to people. Will shut up.
By the next week, between the snow and his caffeine headache, Halt repealed the cold camp rule to make coffee, emptying their entire bag into the pot, and adding a cup of water. Will then discovered the caffeine overdose. His head reeled. He felt sick. He wanted more. He also discovered that he no longer needed to sleep at night. Or eat. He only needed coffee. Every time Tug took a step, a sheen of green overlaid the icy landscape. When the frozen, craggy peaks of the coastal range came into sight, a farmer tailgated Abelard. This particular farmer seemed to be under the influence of something alcoholic, because he roared at Halt "Hey patsy! Watch where you're going!" Will expected Halt to glare the inebriated man into submission, but Halt as usual surprised him.
"If you have a problem with me, please write it neatly on this parchment, put it into this envelope," Halt said quietly, giving the man a sheaf of paper, quill and envelope. Then Halt walked closer, and roared in a voice that would have humbled a Skandian. "AND FEED IT TO YOUR HORSE!"
Will had never seen Halt so openly angry. The man, having never seen Halt at all before, keeled over, unconscious. Halt kept riding.
The next day, they reached the coastal range. Apparently they weren't the first to do so. A tent city stretched from the slopes of the rocky peaks to the shore of the sea, which seemed to be more ice than water. Thousands of people milled around in the snow, which closely resembled the floor of Tug's stable. Even more people slowly climbed up an icy peak, laden like donkeys.
"Let's go ask the price of eggs" said Halt quietly.
One sign read: "EGGS BY THE DOZEN: EIGHT GOLD COINS." The Redmont village sold two dozen eggs for a bronze coin, which was considered a high price. Will also noticed many saloons, taverns, bars, and hotels, most of which were just large tents with doors barely strong enough to keep out the snow. Will continued to stare, but Halt prodded him towards the Bright candle hotel.
It did seem bright and cheery, and for that reason about eighty people were packed into the space barely the size of Halt's dining room. The cook, dressed in a deerskin dress, was rushing between the fire, ladeling the soup into bowls, then handing them out to the hungry men. Will noticed that every time she fed the fire, she had to hold the sagging canvas roof aloft until it died down.
A loud grunt from behind him alerted him to a steaming mug held near his face by an old Skandian. He gladly took the proffered cup, and took a deep drought. It was good coffee, Will thought, but it tasted like something he couldn't quite place. Maybe the cup was dirty? Whatever the strange taste was, it didn't detract from the coffee. In one gulp, he drained the tankard, and slammed it down on the table. The stranger started chuckling, because although Will wasn't to know, the strange taste was whisky.
Will looked over at Halt, and gave a small start. Halt was glaring up a storm. Will's instinct told him to duck, or shield his eyes. Why was he doing that? What was Halt thinking?
TO BE CONTINUED!
DA DA DA DA DA!