EIDOLON
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"There's still a chance he may live."
"But I will not take such a risk," Carlisle says, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "Remember, offer anything within reason, and don't trust those savages for a moment. Keep your gun at the ready. Will you not take Emmett with you?"
"He's needed here. Besides, he'll get in the way." His blonde hair falls from behind his ears. He tucks it back again. "It's like you told us, Father: he has his duty and I have mine. Have I ever let you down?"
"No, Jasper. You are my barterer, my ship of gold. You can get them to agree to anything," he praises, then lowers his voice to the mere idea of a whisper. Whiskey still coats his breath from the many hours before. "You're right. Emmett's more apt to give them whatever they wish."
Carlisle releases his son and Jasper steps into the cold air, slipping a rifle's strap over his head, allowing it to hang on his shoulder. Frost sits upon dirt and grass, shining as though made of crystal.
"Beautiful morning, sir," an older man says at the bottom of the front stoop. In his pale hands are reins, fastening a stormy, silver and black steed by his side.
"Yes, Aro. It is." Jasper lifts himself into the saddle. The cold, hard leather is intense against his thighs, and he can smell the thick coat of the animal below him, sweet grain, and hay. Jasper always thought him a fine horse, though stubborn like some people he knows.
The rocks and dirt twist below the horse's hooves as Aro slips the reins over its neck, passing them to Jasper. He gives a curt nod to his father then guides the wayward stallion away from the safety of his home and onto the dead, flat sward leading to a sequence of brick and wooden shops.
The streets are near empty this morning. The frost holds the majority of the township prisoners in their homes, keeping them tucked close to their roaring hearthstones. Jasper's able to maneuver through the dirt streets to the outer corner of town in a matter of moments, where he elopes into the golden, uncivilized land. The trampled turf through the forest is an easy ride, but it's thick with branches hanging low enough to catch his clothes. He begins to regret the decision to wear his first choice in a suit but breathes easily knowing it can be repaired by their tailor.
He doesn't stop, and glances behind him every so often until he reaches the clearing miles from the nearest sophisticated establishment. The breath of the horse leaves a trace of fog swirling behind them for only a second at a time, and Jasper notices then how the frigid air is clawing into his bones as he rides at a full canter.
He can see the smoke ascending from the march of trees beyond this lifeless meadow. He's half-way across when he hears a walloping call in the forest ahead, a call he's heard before; a vocal signal of approaching white men. Perhaps this is a bad idea, arriving unannounced, but he's too close to turn away now. He slows when he smells charring meat and spices, allowing patience and unease to churn his stomach. Black-haired men stand around a fire, their bodies covered in hides and pelts, weapons of bows and spears in hand, though not pointing at him.
A man not brandishing a weapon stands before the others. Recognition hits Jasper forthwith, even though many of them look the same to him, through the few barters and trades he's done with his father involving these people, he knows this man to be 'Sam', the chief's eldest son.
He can still recall Sam's persistence last summer when his love fell from his arms and onto the carriage to be taken to the Cullen's plantation. Even the beloved son of the chief couldn't convince his father to turn Carlisle's head. Debts have to be paid.
Jasper tightens his grip on the reins and dismounts quickly. Sam is feet away, a scowl on his face. This is the closest he's been to these men. Before, he sat in the relatively empty wagon, tending the horses and watching his father negotiate.
Sam's younger than Jasper originally thought. There are no lines around his eyes and mouth. His sleek black hair drapes unhindered over his shoulders to his chest. His square face and sharp cheekbones help sculpt his impressionable appearance, giving Jasper the notion Sam is a capable man, hunter, and warrior, should the need ever arise.
Sam crosses his arms over his chest, and Jasper steals a glimpse at the men still around the enthusiastic tinder, imagining how warm it must be to sit near the flames.
"Chief," Jasper says.
Sam's brow pinches and his stare is hard. He holds out his palm, and Jasper understands it means to wait. Sam disappears into a hut covered in dry hide, and Jasper drops the reins, allowing his horse partial freedom for the few moments of business.
Before too long Sam emerges again with an older man, elaborate hide and fur down to his knees. The leather face of the chief appears under his long, bead-adorned hair with a single, black feather erect behind his ear. Another man with a wolf head covering his brow to the nape of his neck follows close behind.
They keep an honorable distance. Instead of an exchange of niceties Jasper skips to the point. "I've come to barter."
The wolf-man, a young, sturdy figure speaks in the native tongue, his eyes on the elder beside him. In turn, he whispers back.
"Winter has been harsh. Our skins and blankets are no more," Wolf says. "No more trade."
"I haven't come for blankets and skins. I need the service of your witchman," Jasper says. "My brother is sick. If not healed soon, he will die. We will give you goods, food, tobacco, chickens, even a weapon if it's your wish. All my family asks is for your witch's power to heal."
Wolf speaks to the chief again and when he has given his answer he replies, "The tobacco our people grow?"
Jasper nods.
The chief's mouth is stiff when he speaks, and so silent it appears words don't form at all, but Wolf hears him clearly. "Chief say this not enough."
"I'm offering you a rifle for Christ's sake! What more do you want?"
"The return of our people."
"I can not give you that! Have you forgotten? You owe us two more summers of work to pay your debt!" Jasper scowls, the tone in his voice turns callous. His eye contact with the chief never fails. "Goods only!"
"Chief say no. Your father's son isn't important, and we have enough tobacco." They begin to turn away.
"Stop!" Jasper pitches forward, his hand reaching for the chief, but before the exploit can be successful Sam wraps his fingers around his hand, pushing Jasper's thumb to his wrist and twisting his arm behind his back. Jasper howls and squirms then grunts and heaves when Sam presses a bone edge to the far side of Jasper's throat.
His native speak is so quick and guttural in Jasper's ear, he can barely make out the pattern of words being spoken, but the tone is feral, unhinged as he flattens the sharp blade to his skin. Sam looks to his father, his long hair holding fast to his lips as he exhales, waiting for a sign. Jasper understands the mistake he made the moment before, hissing at the bent position Sam twisted him into. His shoulder skirts the cusp of being broken. The loyalty of the bones in his wrist are being questioned. Jasper holds onto Sam's knife hand, hoping to gain leverage from his excruciating hunch, but this man is an unnatural force. The chief speaks to Sam this time, his calm demeanor strange in such an aggravated situation. Finally, he gestures to Jasper and withdraws toward the hut.
Sam removes the blade, pushing him to the ground. He waves a hand at him, forceful words flying. He points at Jasper's horse, to him, then gesturing to the encampment. When he finishes his angry rant he spits at the ground toward Jasper's feet.
The onslaught drew a crowd, now gathering around them. A storm begins to brew within him. If he attacks Sam he will die on these forsaken grounds, but knowing he has been bested eats away more than the call of death. However, he holds firm.
Jasper's wrist aches, but he pushes himself from the arctic earth and brushes his pants off with his uninjured hand, his rifle slumping over his body until he straightens his back. The chief no longer gives heed to the white man at their camp, but his son takes an exceptional interest in this trespasser. His dark eyes linger longer than Jasper likes, and he doesn't make the mistake of lunging for them again. The sight of them walking away causes his heart to sink, and the hope he holds for his father begins to vanish. He expects him to deliver, and if he fails to do his duty he'll come back with nothing, and Edward will perish.
"My brother is going to die!" Jasper screams without moving his feet.
They don't turn around.
"My brother will die!" he says again. "I will give anything I have!"
They don't stop.
"Goddamn you people! Damn you to hell!"
Just as Wolf and Chief reach the outside of the hut, a figure comes forth. The old Native's dark eyes fall onto Jasper. He's speaking to the chief and nodding his head. He waves his hand toward the sky and points his bowing fingers to the shell-bead ropes hanging from his neck, which appear as though they are causing his back to camber. Jasper knows this man. He's never met him, but this is their witchman. His elaborate beadwork gives him away.
Wolf is walking toward him once more and stops beside Sam. "Tomorrow night," he says, motioning one hand to the sky. "Sacred moon."
"The full moon tomorrow night? Yes."
"Bring him."
"My brother? He will heal him?"
Wolf gives a curt nod.
Hope springs into him again. He's done what his father asked. He remains a golden ship, regardless of how he accomplishes his means. Glee dilutes his earnest face. "What does he want to trade for this service?"
"Tobacco. All."
"Very well." He bows his head enough to show appreciation before finding his horse, now nipping at small patches of shimmering grass. He hoists himself onto his silver mount, yielding to his wrist. Jasper glances back one last time at the encampment he once thought filthy and unwhole but now seems lighter than before, in a way which makes him think of simpler times. He spurs his horse from whence he came. The cold morning the only unchanging facet of the day.