It was a simple melody that Duncan hadn’t heard before. While he couldn’t say much for the lyrics, the man could clearly play his instrument, and his voice was rich.
The wanderer paused for a moment. “Oh, and I nearly forgot.” He handed the second bag to Duncan. “It’s not much, but I saved a little in case I have guests.”
Inside the bag were some potatoes and carrots, and a few thin slices of meat.
“Thank you,” Duncan said.
Duncan passed the bag to Pierre. Pierre relayed it to the others, who began preparing it for the fire.
Perhaps this wanderer wasn’t a murderer. The food was a kind gesture. Duncan also found it harder to see evil in someone who sung with such passion. Perhaps the dead were some unfortunate accident, some illness that had come through the region.
The wanderer began another song, one more mellow and haunting.
A bird seemed to come out of nowhere. It was remarkable because they hadn’t seen a bird all day. Actually, now that he thought about it, for many days. They were greatly diminished in the woods in wintertime. The bird hovered and landed right on the top of the staff on the rock and tittered. “I sing to you, I sing to you.”
It was a chorus lark.
The wanderer kept singing, and the chorus lark occasionally replicated a verse or a strand. Another chorus lark came and fluttered around the staff, copying the wanderer’s verses in tandem with the first.
Duncan marveled at the scene. He’d travelled for decades, probably just as far afield as this wanderer, but he’d never seen anything like this. Occasionally the chorus larks would flutter above a staff or pole momentarily, then leave within a few seconds. But here they were staying, and two of them, and they were copying the song with precision.
His men were all enchanted by the display. It’s no wonder these Allegheny people thought this man was special. It’s no wonder they thought him some sort of shaman.
After the wanderer finished another song Duncan said, “You were right. No one could doubt your ability after that performance. Truly remarkable.”
The wanderer just nodded, as if the response was typical.
“But why do the chorus larks flock to you like this?” Duncan asked.
“Well, the shape of the staff draws the larks, as you know, but the trick is the stone. It’s special. I got it from a man who found stones like these in a boulder field. Must have come off a big mountain, because he called it the skin of the giant, if memory serves. He claimed it has magical properties, which I don’t put much stock in, but it makes a good story. He was sick, in body, and probably in mind as well. He died before he could show me how to use it, so I figured it out on my own.”
Duncan nodded while he watched the chorus larks perch and hover around the stone. Maybe there was some moss on it that chorus larks liked.
The man sung another song, again haunting, again speaking of healing, with the larks adding their voices to it.
Finally the food was ready. Duncan made sure the wanderer had a large portion of hare in front of him.
The wanderer put his instrument down and a few moments later, the larks tittered away, still singing his most recent tune.
The wanderer nipped at the hare at first, and then took a huge bite. “Holy fuck,” he said. For the first time, the wanderer’s face became animated with something other than cynicism, with his eyebrows arching in surprise. He quickly took another bite. “Fuckin’ wow. What did you all put on the meat?”
“We seasoned it with parsley, rosemary, salt and olive oil. It’s a special recipe. It’s common where we’re from.”
“I ain’t never seen no olive oil, and I never use parsley, but that shit is good.” The wanderer reengaged with the meat in earnest.
“I’m glad you like it. Now, I wanted to get to the point of our visit here, wanderer. I wanted to ask you about this blonde merc woman, and someone she was with. A woman with a blue streak in her hair. Did they stop through here?”
“Sure did,” the wanderer said, devouring another piece of meat.
“And could you tell us where they were headed?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Can’t do that. I think it was supposed to be a secret.”
The wanderer kept chewing, and his eye wouldn’t meet Duncan’s. It was intent on surveying the remains of the hare’s hind leg.
Duncan tried to rethink his strategy. There had to be a way to convince him. He doubted a bribe would work. Threatening him probably wouldn’t do it, either.
Duncan took a cautious bite of the meat the wanderer had offered. It was tough but seemed edible enough. He could tell Gerard was having trouble with it. He looked like he was trying to contain his revulsion but then he gagged and spat a piece out.
The wanderer noticed. “Don’t worry, I don’t like people, neither,” he said, then he returned to naw on his hare leg.
Duncan’s heart jumped. Did he mishear him? “You don’t like people?” Duncan asked.
The wanderer said, “Yeah, I got no moral objection to eating a meaty thigh or bicep, but let me tell you… yuck. Tastes like I’m eating my own sock after a week in the woods. Might be okay with some of this fancy sauce you got here, though.”
Duncan dropped the meat from his hands. The rest of his men followed suit, spitting out larger chunks of it. Two of them stood up and drew a knife and pistol respectively, their faces masks of rage.
The wanderer moved remarkably fast. In no time he was up, standing behind his dogs with their leashes in one hand and a sawed-off shotgun removed from the confines of his coat in the other. He said, “now you put those away, or one whistle, and I pepper you with pellets before I sic’em on you.”
All the men looked to Duncan. Duncan’s gaze pivoted between the wanderer and his men. His hand hovered over his own pistol, holstered on his belt.
The wanderer said, “and don’t you worry. My dogs, they ain’t like you. My dogs, they like eating people. They don’t need your fancy sauce, neither. Shotgun pellets will marinade just fine.”
Duncan felt nauseous. To think that it could have even been Cecile. But something wasn’t clicking here. What did this man have to gain by feeding them human flesh, or even by surprising them with it? His dogs were vicious, and his shotgun blast might kill at least one of them, but then it would be six men against a man and two dogs. The wanderer would surely lose. And although he was clearly not civil or educated, he wasn’t stupid.
Duncan scratched under his chin in thought. Then he turned and pushed his hand to the ground in a gesture of calming toward Pierre and his men. They looked at him, incredulous, but they relaxed their poses.
He turned back to the wanderer. “Tell me, wanderer. Why did you feed us this… meat?”
“To share it and such. That’s what we do around here. We share, as a gesture of goodwill, you know. We don’t point weapons and threaten like you folks. That’s for sure.”