A man at the next table advised another to travel around the next village because strange things happened there. Shell knew the advice would have been good a few days ago and thought about mentioning the problem no longer existed. But if he did, the man would want to know how Shell knew, and then he would ask a hundred more questions. Better to allow the story to spread after they were gone.
Camilla asked the innkeeper for and received directions to Fleming, which was only a day’s walk away. Henry seemed disappointed at the nearness but said nothing. They went to their rooms early and slept until morning, the cares and troubles of the past seemingly gone forever. Henry’s bruises were still fading, his swelling gone completely, and twice while they dressed in anticipation of the breakfast they smelled drifting into the room, he smiled.
The wolf waited for them near the road, and as Shell wished it a good morning, he felt the touch of the dragon. Or a dragon, since he didn’t know for sure it was the small red, though it probably was. Breakfast consisted of thick gruel made from grains and topped with fresh raspberries. There were also warm biscuits, and thin slices of ham placed between biscuit halves, and milk fresh from the cow at the rear door of the inn.
Camilla joined them at the table, carrying her backpack. As she placed it on the floor beside her, she leaned over and whispered to Shell, as she placed a hand on the small of her back. “Feel it?”
She was talking about the dragon, of course. He nodded. He still hadn’t had the time to tell her about the red one, but would soon, especially if they found a home for Henry. He also needed to ask her opinion about the Breslau Green dragons that attacked any of the Dragon Clan animals. Should he try to send the red away? Could he? He didn’t know, but decided that Fleming might make a choice for him. He wouldn’t allow it to remain if he sensed danger.
As they left the inn, the rolling lay of the land found more farms until there were more of them than forest. Wagons, mules, and pedestrians traveled the road in both directions, all intent on their own business, but almost all wished them well as they passed by.
Henry said, “I like this place.”
“It is pretty,” Camilla said.
“Everywhere is pretty,” Henry said as if he’d traveled far and wide. “I like it because the people are friendly and smiling. It feels good.”
Both laughed at his explanation, but that didn’t make it any less correct. It did feel good. The people did smile. In the grasslands, Shell’s people were friendly to travelers only after they proved they were not a danger. Here it was different.
They reached a wagon hauling a load of corn going in their direction. As they started to slip past, the farmer on the seat lifted his hat in greeting. “You may as well ride on the tailgate unless you want the exercise, or you need to get to Fleming faster than my old mule will get you there.”
“Thank you, sir,” Camilla called, slowing until the wagon rumbled past, then she leaped onto the tailgate, twisting her body as she did, and landing in a sitting position in the middle. She patted each side, telling Shell and Henry where to sit.
Their legs swung in unison with the lurches and sways of the wagon. The sun grew warm and the conversation light. Their laughter drew smiles from other travelers, and a few grins from the driver. Camilla had a surprise. She had paid the cook at the inn for a lunch fit for a king, and the wagon stopped at a stream while the mule rested and got a drink. Camilla pulled the food from her backpack and insisted the driver join them.
In all, it was turning out to be a day to remember for nothing other than good things. However, when they climbed back into the wagon, Henry looked off into the distance to the west. “What’s that?”
They all turned. A gray smudge along the horizon drew their attention. The driver clucked his mule ahead as he called, “Fleming.”
“What’s wrong with the sky?” Henry persisted.
Camilla said, “I think that’s smoke from a hundred chimneys, maybe more. Probably more, now that I think about it.”
Henry’s face twisted in disbelief. “How many people live there?”
“I don’t know,” Camilla said in a hushed tone that drew his attention, “A lot. Maybe thousands.”
Henry turned to Shell. “How many live in my valley?”
“Maybe two hundred? Spread over the whole valley floor.”
Camilla said, “It’s daunting. I have never seen a place where so many people live that the sky turns color. It’s a little scary.”
The driver had been listening. He said, “Nothin’ to be scared of. They’re just people. A lot of them.”
Shell decided that looking from the wagon tailgate, to where they had been, was the best idea, at least until his mind could reconcile what lay ahead. His heart pounded, and his hands developed a small shake, a quiver of nervousness he’d never experienced.
He tried to calm it, telling himself he’d come all this way for what lay ahead, but his inner mind responded that most of his thinking had been fantasy, and thoughts more suited to a ten-year-old, not an adult in his mid-twenties. Shell argued with himself that they were not fantasies, but admitted they were not reality, either.
Whatever his inner thoughts, the destination goal for the quest he’d set for himself lay within sight. Well, that was not totally true. The actual beginning of his quest lay in Fleming, not in departing the grasslands and traveling to the city. Breslau lay across a sea so vast they referred to it as endless.
Camilla said, leaning closer to him and nudged him with her elbow, “Well, that is certainly an encouraging expression.”
His witty response shrank to a single, “Huh?”
Even Henry laughed.
Camilla said, “I’m a little scared, too. No, make that more than a little, but I hope it does not show on my face as it does on yours.”
Henry said, “If you two think you’re scared, you should trade places with me.”
The wagon passed more farms and Shell had a thought that brought him up short. “Henry, didn’t you say that your relatives live near Fleming? Not in Fleming?”
“Yes.”
“A thought just struck me. West of Fleming is the Endless Sea, so they don’t live there. South are mountains so they probably don’t live down there, and north is barren coastline, from what little I know,” Shell said.
The driver turned, obviously listening. “That sounds about right.”
“Thanks,” he nodded to the driver. “Then that means, most of the people who live near Fleming, on farms, are the ones we’re passing. Henry thinks they might be fishermen, but we should check both.”
They exchanged surprised expressions, and Henry spun to look all around. “We need to ask here.”
The wagon slowed and pulled to a stop without anyone asking. The driver was smiling and wished them good luck with a jaunty wave of his hand. Shell hadn’t missed Camilla slipping a mid-size copper fluke between the old wood and a band of iron on the wagon bed, where the farmer would be sure to spot it when he unloaded his crops.
He wouldn’t have accepted payment if offered, so Camilla had made sure of a reward for his kindness. As the wagon rolled away, she said, “Okay, we need to discuss this. Do you know their names?”
“No.”
“What is your family name?”
“Duggar,” Henry said.
“Father and mother’s names?” Camilla sounded like a sergeant in the King’s Army questioning petty thieves.
“Press and Amy.”
“Good, we’re getting somewhere. What is the name of the nearest town or village to your old home?”
Henry faltered. He clearly didn’t know.