With Fingers Gray and Cold



  WITH FINGERS GRAY AND COLD

  E.W. Pierce

 

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

 

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  The painted wagon rattled down the overgrown path that served for roads in that part of the world, moaning and shambling like a dead thing newly returned to life. Old, weathered ruts traced dark tracks across the frozen road, deep as the lines on a hag’s face. Naked, emaciated trees crowded the path, skeletal limbs dragging across the wagon’s roof and scratching at the faded words written along the sides in gold - Marten the Magnificient’s Traveling Emporium.

  Marten sat hunched under the roof’s lip, a lean man wrapped in a thin blanket, the reins limp in his gloved hand. A faded blue scarf snaked out from the neck of his overcoat, wrapping around his ears and nose and mouth. Long, dark hair streaked with white spilled out from under the top hat, falling into his eyes and brushing his shoulders.

  Gods, but it was cold. Cold enough to kill, were a man not cautious. Northpoint was not a place to travel lightly. But one didn’t sell useless trinkets and empty cures as long as Marten had without a head chock full of caution. Marten knew the stories of Northpoint and had thought himself prepared, but the unrelentingly vicious cold had taken him by surprise. At least his feet were warm. Baron, his old dog, laid coiled across his boots like a pile of shaggy furs.

  The pony trudged on, head bent to the task, breath billowing out in short gusts. The world was still save the steady stomp of hooves, the crack of ice under wheel, the groan and clatter of the wagon. Inside, vials gently clinked together rhythmically with the echo of empty promise.

  He came upon the homesteads furthest from Hodgersville as morning gave way to afternoon. Small, windowless mounds sunk partway into the ground, with a rounded roof of snow and ice. A stone chimney poked toward the sky like a giant’s stubby finger. Tall, gated fences encircled each home. He thought to hail on the first homes, but there was an emptiness about them, a sense of vacancy that he recognized without needing to try the door. He hoped the houses closer to town bore occupants; otherwise, this was liable to be a wasted trip.

  They put dozens of houses behind them before encountering one with signs of life. Smoke curled from the chimney, hanging over the squat structure like a gray cloud. Surrounded by still neighbors, the lone occupied house unnerved him more than all the empty houses together. It felt unnatural, like taking up residence within a cemetery. No ghosts might come for you - Marten was too traveled to put stock to such nonsense - but no good would come neither, trying to scrape out a life where man was so obviously unwelcome. But, such could be said for all of Northpoint, as far as he'd so far seen. This was lonely country, harsh and hostile. To say nothing of the rumored curse. Which, of course, Marten did not.

  The wagon topped a rise. The land fell away sharply on the other side, revealing a broad, tree-clogged valley shrouded in shifting mist. The road coiled through the gray pines like a great white serpent. A handful of buildings squatted in a clearing at the bottom, puffing at the sky. Hodgersville.

  Marten scratched the dog’s head. “We made it, old boy.” His voice, misused these long weeks, cracked like shifting ice.

  Baron wagged his tail and barked in agreement.

  They took the descent slowly. Jingling and clattering, the wagon drew many a folk out their door for a look. He’d called upon towns like this before, tiny places on the edge of the map, the people isolated and unaccustomed to visitors. They’d be quiet and suspicious, most like. Even rude, perhaps, until Marten determined the tune they longed to hear. Then they’d come, aye, friendly as you can believe, and eager to part with coin by the handful.

  Marten stood carefully as the wagon rumbled down the hill and smiled with practiced ease. “Hiyo, there. Marten the Magnificent, I be. Magic and wonder be me business. Come one and all, great and small. Have a look inside me wagon and be astonished.”

  They watched him pass in silence, arms folded over chests, frowning heavily. In truth, this nature of greeting was not unknown to him, but he'd hoped this far north folk would be unfamiliar with his business, and therefore, appreciative of it. Even the children looked on sullenly. Normally he could count on their babbling excitement and the rush of their little feet pacing him as he made his way into town. There was no question - he'd not be long for Northpoint.

  A small boy, no older than six, stood outside a gate as the wagon rolled past. He was dressed in a heavily-patched overcoat. Faded rags encircled his face. His eyes - pale and blue - regarded Marten with something very like suspicion.

  “Whoa,” Marten said, pulling back on the reins. The pony obliged and the wagon slid to a stop. Ducking into the wagon’s cramped interior, Marten fumbled around for a moment before returning with a handful of firecrackers. “Ever seen an ear-snapper, boy?”

  The boy stood on his tip-toes and eyed the round objects sitting in Marten’s hand.

  “Behold.” Marten flung a firecracker to the ground. It erupted into an echoing crackle of sound, spitting thin yellow lights a dozen feet into the sky. The boy watched the lights arc back toward the ground and fade away.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” Marten leaned down, his hand outstretched. “Take them. Share with your friends. Go on, it’s fine.”

  The boy wavered on his feet. And then his hands darted out, scooping up the firecrackers. Clutching them to his chest, saying nothing, he watched as the cart started forward again.

  There were but three buildings in the clearing at the bottom of the incline, and they looked even smaller and less impressive than Marten had first suspected. The largest was the ramshackle stable, looking all the world like a strong wind would tumble it down and carry the flimsy thing away. Beside the stable was a two-story wooden building; the hitching posts out front sat empty and the troughs frozen over. The inn, or the nearest thing to it. On the opposite side of the clearing was the last of the meager lot, a low, windowless building backed by trees. Marten guessed this might be the gathering hall, but from the thick coat of ice covering the double doors, it hadn't been used in quite some time.

  He tucked the wagon beside the inn so as not to impede traffic and then smirked under his scarf as he realized what he'd done. Such was a necessary precaution in the better peopled lands of the south, but this far north, he suspected he could leave the cart in the middle of the road and not inconvenience a single person. He hopped down as a man of younger years might, for despite the gray in his hair and the wrinkles about his eyes, Marten still fancied himself a young man. The ground was hard, the hoarfrost frozen over and again, dozens of times, as a blacksmith folds steel to strengthen a sword. The impact sent sharp spasms up his legs and into his hips, awakening the old pain that lived there. He grasped the wagon and clung to it while the pain worked itself out. Then, his dignity mostly intact, he set about making preparations.

  A healthy crowd had gathered by the time Marten emerged from the rear door of his wagon. They watched silently as he introduced the first products, unmoving, scarcely seeming to even blink. An unnatural hush lay about the crowd. Even the children stood as though frozen in place. Their eyes were mirrored glass, reflecting all, and his words a light breeze, blowing past them and not so much as ruffling their hair.

  Marten did something then that he'd never done before - he tried to goad them. "This potion will stop a charging bull at fifty paces. And this vial will set you to flying, free as a bird. Look here," he held up the wood t
rinket he'd clumsily carved while sitting at the fire one night. It was ill-done and unpainted besides, little better than a child's attempt. "This be a talisman by which you can see your dead kin again. And what of this fierce dagger, I see some of you wondering? It be the fabled hunting knife of King Longfellow, of old, the very knife he used to slay the Priscilla, She-Bitch of the Frothing Sea. Enchanted by Queen Esmerozdal, Fairy of the Faraways, to strike true every time." In truth, he used the old, pitted knife for cutting meat. The crowd stared and stared, silent as the grave. No grumbles of disbelief, no sighs of wonder. He'd have welcomed a heckler just to get a reaction of some kind.

  He stood there for a moment, his tongue good and truly silenced. Having heard him out, the crowd stumbled back toward home. Marten watched them go. The boy he'd given the firecrackers to looked back for a moment and then trudged on with the rest.

  Marten slammed the wagon's door closed and locked it. There was no sense in lingering here, not with daylight enough yet to see some miles. He hoped all the towns of Northpoint were not like this, or this was doomed to be a long, cold, fruitless and frustrating