Tracking Revenge
Birdsong drifted down from distant the treetops, high in the sky where they could bask in the sun. I was down on the ground, in the mud and muck and underbrush, picking my way through leaves and deadfall in search of a trail. Squirrels chittered and hissed at me as I plunged through their territory. They didn’t need to worry; any foodstuffs carelessly discarded on the ground would be left for them. I wasn’t looking for a trail of breadcrumbs, or Skittles for that matter; although the bright candy shells would have been easier to track than stray footprints, a bent blade of grass, or snapped branches.
I saw the man lurking at the edge of town yesterday; sticking to the alleys and ducking through back yards. Town gossip hinted that he was a purveyor of potions and spells and that he must be in town to make a delivery. The town council prefers folk to stick to the new science so they asked the Sheriff to send the message that he wasn’t welcome. Normally I refuse extra assignments like this, seeing as how I’m a single parent now; but with Ayla sick at home in bed and doctors not doing anything, I had extra reason to track the man down.
It takes patience to follow a trail through the woods; you look twice before you place your foot once. If you get off track, no amount of retracing will set you right again. When the man left town at dusk I marked where he ducked into the forest that skirted the town’s edge. Even in the dark, though, he had been careful as he made his way through the forest, sidling sideways so the trees barely knew he was there. I paused at the distant sound of a train whistle, stilled my breathing to get my bearings in the woods. The sound of trickling water bubbled up to my left where I spied a shallow ravine sheltering a rivulet of water. On a hunch, I followed the water upstream. Around a bend I saw it, an ancient oak had fallen in the distant past and he had used the sheltering arc of roots to construct a shelter. A deerskin flap served as a door, an axe was embedded in an old tree stump, fish were drying on a line strung between trees, and there was a line of vegetable beds between the stream and his hovel.
Suddenly, he charged out from behind the deerskin flap, grasping the handle of the axe, he swung it high above his head.
“What be your business,” he shouted, “for I cannot abide trespassers.”
I stepped up from the stream, my hands in the air, “I bear a message and a request,” I shouted back.
He casually swung the axe from hand to hand, eying me.
“Well,” he demanded, “out with it.”
“The town council, they’re not so fond of your brand of trade and wish to discourage it.”
“Is that it then? The message and the request?”
“Naught, that’s just the message, the request is on behalf of myself, not the town council. The council’s message though, and my request, puts me in mind of a partnership.”
“What’s your request, then, and what do you mean by a partnership. If you’re looking to learn, you should know, I’m not looking for any apprentices.”
“Naught, I need a spell or a potion for my daughter who’s been sick in bed for weeks now with no help in sight from the doctors. My partnership idea is this, you see, people notice when you come to town. The council notices. The Sheriff and Constable notice. It’s because you don’t live in town so you stand out. If you had a partner, someone who lived in town, you’re partner could pass the requests to you and the cures to the town folk.”
The axe swung from hand to hand as he thought. Dappled sunlight moved across the patchy grass in front of the lean-to. Something rustled in the underbrush off to the right. My eyes never left him or the track of the axe.
Finally, he nodded.
“Sit,” he shouted, the axe landing back in the tree stump with a thunk, “I’ll boil water for tea and after you tell me what’s ailing your daughter, we’ll discuss this partnership idea of yours.”
I breathed out. Just like tracking, revenge requires patience. I knew what ailed my daughter. It was the same that took my wife last year. My poor wife went to her grave ardently believing in everything this fool had sold her. The town council merely wanted money from him, in the form of fees for licenses. I wanted him to feel the hollowing out of lost hope, of abandonment. Our partnership would be the end of him.