The Secrets of The UnWeather 2

He had two choices and neither was good.

Something bad had happened at this village called Heethroe; an electric tingle of danger rose up and spiked into his tired brain. He could stay or leave and hunker down in the woods. But the unweather was closing in fast.

(To read part 1 of this story, click here).

His hunger burned his stomach and thirst raked his throat. A fork of lightning in the distance was followed by a gust bringing spitting icy rain. There were dry beds of straw behind the wooden stockade walls and, hopefully, food and drink. Maybe whatever had happened was long gone. After filling his belly and a good night’s sleep, he could weigh up his options better.

The horse turned to look at him with forlorn eyes. “You’re tired and hungry too old boy. We’ll go in a see if we can find you water and hay.” There was no choice. He had to stay.

He jerked on the reins and the old horse’s head picked up as it stepped forward. The Traveller rubbed his tired eyes with the back of a grubby hand and the wagon crept past the open gates. How he needed a bath.

A waning gibbous moon peeked out from below the black clouds and doused the village in a sickly yellow light. The creaking of the old wagon and the wind gusting around the huts echoed around the empty stockade.

They passed the blacksmith's place; the coals in the forge glowed white and a single flame burned a dull orange. Hammers, tongs and partially made sword blades lay scattered over the straw on the ground.

Whatever had caused the villagers to leave had happened only a short while ago.

He reached a row of huts; a child’s rag doll lay crumpled in a puddle outside the first home. The Traveller pulled on the reins; the horse stopped and the wagon came to a creaking halt.

His horse snorted and its harness jangled; the sound bounced between the empty huts. For a moment, his hunger and tiredness disappeared as his senses flashed like sparks from a flint.

A faint glow caught his eye; it flickered from behind the glass window of the second hut. He struggled down from the cart. His right leg had stiffened and he moved it a couple of times, holding his knee to loosen it up. The old wound from the lance throbbed. It always did when the rain and cold of the unweather approached.

He tied the horse to a post next to a full water trough. It drank noisily. He stroked its nose again. “I’ll get you some hay shortly but first, I have to see what the light is.”

He limped to the door of the hut; his foot dragged in the wet dirt. His stomach growled again. The hut’s outer walls were made of roughly hewn planks of oak and sealed with London clay. Even the mud was named after the mythical city.

He rapped against the door and it swung open on impact. “Hello?” he called, peering inside. The crack of a dying ember in the fireplace made him jump.

He waited a moment for his heart to settle. He shuffled in. A line of thin grey smoke rose from fading ashes in a brick fireplace. The faint red glow lit a dark wooden chest tipped on its side. Its three drawers hung out and their contents were tipped out onto the hard-packed earth floor.

He limped to the rectangular oak table that dominated the centre of the room. His leather boots crunched on items unseen in the gloom.

The light he’d seen through the window was on the tabletop. A candle had burnt down to a stub. It flickered, almost extinguished. Wax had run down and hardened over a small slim glass bottle the occupants had used as a candlestick.

There were two plates with partially eaten cold pork and boiled potatoes. A broken load of bread was in the middle of the table and two tankards of ale. One metal fork was speared in a potato and the other cutlery was spread randomly over the tabletop. He grabbed at the beer and gulped it urgently. He ripped at the bread and gorged on it before tearing at the cold port.

He breathed fast, satiated. A semblance of energy returned to his tired limb. His ears pricked, and his eyes circled the room checking the shadows and corners. A tingling rose up the base of his neck. Rain splattered against the window panes as if someone was tapping, trying to get his attention and to tell him the secrets of the village.

Several fresh candles were scattered across the tabletop and on the floor. He lit four of them one by one from the dying flame. He melted the ends and stuck them upright on the table.

He lit another candle, held it up and scanned the room. It was a mess of broken furniture and smashed objects. His body slumped at the sight of a violin laying with its neck broken away from the body and the strings flailing like grasping arms. The clear shape of a large boot heel indented the body.

This was Redwald’s house; they sometimes played traditional Kingdom folk songs together when he came to town. Redwald loved Hey Jules and Yesterday, the writers’ names long forgotten over the centuries. Music was the only joy remaining in The Kingdom. One day, the King would probably find a way to tax that too.

His eyes fell on the glass candlestick with the now extinguished candle. The bottle was far smaller than a wine bottle and the lower half was curved like a buxom woman.

He’d never seen anything with this exotic design before, perhaps it was from Frankia? Maybe it was a forbidden object like those he stored in his wagon’s false bottom?

Hardened wax followed the lines of something shaped beneath it. He put his candle down and picked up the strange bottle. He dug his thumbnail in and scraped the wax away.

He fished under his cloak and in the pocket of the heavy woollen tunic. His fingers wrapped around his circular metal-framed reading glasses. He took them out and put the wire ends around the back of his ears. He pushed them up his nose and squinted at the bottle.

He brushed away the remaining flecks of wax between the letters and dug out the centres of the two Os. His heart thumped; he’d never seen writing embossed on glass before. How was that possible? Forbidden objects always asked unanswered questions.

Two embossed words stood out in the glow of the flame. They were written in a strange cursive style and joined by a dash symbol.

It was difficult to read them in the low light. He brought the bottle closer to one of the candles and squinted his eyes harder. He gasped and nearly dropped the bottle. Outside, a squall whined like a Hibernian banshee and the open front door smashed shut into the frame.

He traced out the letters with a calloused fingertip: Coca-Cola.

This story was first published on Medium.com