Читать книгу The Last Musician - Jason Peterson - Страница 11

“Ogg get sleepy.”

The two had been walking in the forest for hours, and Alistair had to admit he was getting tired as well. And he wasn’t the one carrying the heavy load.

It was difficult in the forest to tell whether it was day or night, but Alistair figured it must be closing in on nighttime, and now would be as good a time as any to set up camp. He would reach the Forestbriar Inn tomorrow and be done with this job and with this beast and with this smell. And with the temptation of the bag.

“All right, Ogg, we’ll settle in here for the night,” Alistair said. Ogg dropped the bag and stretched his shoulders. “Go fetch some firewood, and I’ll get us set up.”

Ogg did as he was told, and Alistair built a small fire. With all his time spent in the woods carrying out various crimes for various clientele, he had become somewhat of an expert at camping, and he took pride in his fire-making abilities. Almost as much as his killing.

Alistair heard crashing behind him, and when he turned around he saw Ogg had ripped a tree out of the ground and was in the process of cracking it over his knee to make smaller pieces.

“That is one way to do it,” Alistair said under his breath.

Once the fire was crackling and the smorgasbord of woodland creatures Ogg had managed to track down were roasting, Alistair let his attention fall again on the bag. It continued to sway and move as if it were filled with water sloshing back and forth. What could be the harm if he just took a tiny peek inside? He would still bring it to his client, and he might actually take better care of it if he knew what it was. Maybe when Ogg dozed off, just a…

Alistair’s train of thought was snapped by a rustling in the woods ahead. He pulled out his knife and crouched near the bag, ready to attack. Ogg lumbered up and took position behind him.

“What is it, boss,” Ogg said, his voice shaky.

“Hush up and act your size,” Alistair said.

The rustling sound turned to footsteps, which drew closer and closer. Alistair tightened his grip on the knife.

“Hullo friends,” a voice called out.

Alistair looked across the fire and saw an old man. It could be an ambush, he thought, but the sight of the man, with his worn-looking dress pants and suspenders, his kindly face, and his large round glasses made him think otherwise.

“Name’s Colin Williams, and I’m the poet laureate of these here woods,” the old man said. “Looks like I could write a poem about the two of you. Call it the ‘Odd Couple’s Stand-off in the Woods Over a Big Bag.’ Kidding of course.”

Alistair shielded his knife and walked toward the old man.

“The two of us are of no business to you. Move along,” he said.

“But Ogg love poetry,” Ogg said, practically skipping to the man’s side. “Ogg know of Colin Williams. Ogg heard his poems.”

Great, thought Alistair. A cowardly, poetry-loving giant.

“Always lovely to meet a fan,” Colin said. “Mind if I warm these old poetry-writing hands by your fire?”

The old man stepped forward. Alistair cut him off.

“I said be on your way.”

“Okay, okay. No need to cause a fuss,” the old man said. “But I will say, and not to push my luck, but the woods know who helps whom, and that help – or lack thereof – always comes back around in the end.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Alistair said. He thought of just wiping the blade across the old man’s neck, but who knew what Ogg would do then? A poetry fan. Just his luck.

“But boss,” Ogg said. “One minute by fire for old man. And a poem for Ogg.”

Alistair stared at the beast. Maybe he could kill them both. But then who would carry the bag the rest of the way?

He sighed.

“One minute,” he said, massaging his temples.

The old man stepped up to the fire, rubbing his hands together.

“A poetry fan, huh?” he said to Ogg. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Everyone think Ogg stupid because Ogg speak monosyllabically,” Ogg said. “But it just the way Ogg’s parents taught him.”

“Well then, a poem for the intelligent Ogg.”

He cleared his throat.

They say poetry is music with words,

But what happens when the music fades?

The rhymes don’t rhyme, and the meter’s all changed,

And the poet finds he has nothing to say.

So friends, gather ‘round the fire and see.

These are dark days indeed. Yes, dark days indeed.

But don’t lose all hope, the answer is near.

It’s right over here; we may soon all hear.

Ogg clapped his hands, but Alistair scowled.

“That was the worst poem I have ever heard,” he said. “It barely even rhymed.”

“Ogg understand,” Ogg said. “Ogg get it.”

The old man tipped his cap and winked at Ogg.

“It was a pleasure, friends. A real pleasure. I’ll be on my way then.”

Alistair watched as the old man faded into the woods. He sat on the ground while Ogg continued staring off in the distance.

“Ogg meet real poet,” he said.

“Those last lines, said Alistair. “It’s right over here…was he just messing with me? Did he know something? I should have killed him.”

Ogg looked down at Alistair and smiled.

“No, boss. We may soon all hear.”