He was not unpleasantly surprised to find Lamar on his doorstep the next morning. “What brings you to these parts?” Tate opened the door and gestured for Lamar to enter.
“Can I talk to you alone?” Lamar entered the room, glancing at Bianca writing in her notebook.
Bianca looked up from her writing, “I might as well draw some water from the creek.” She put her notebook down and left the cabin.
Lamar sat down in Bianca’s chair, running his hands over the smooth wood, “You remember that loan Amber took out?”
“No,” Tate could feel his stomach turn cold. So many “loans” were just entrapment; charge enough interest and the loan could never be paid in full. With a nameless anxiety blooming in his stomach, Tate sat down in his chair.
“It was when she first got here and she wasn't doing so well with the flowers,” Lamar rocked the chair slowly. “Anyway, the lender came to collect last night. Instead of accepting a payment, they wanted it all.”
Tate’s worry increased and he stood up.
“No, no,” Lamar gestured for him to sit, “Hear me out. Running to the Devils’ door in a panic isn’t going to do anyone a lick of good.” He waited for Tate to sit down before continuing, “They knocked on my door, told me to send a message to you. They have Amber and they want to make a trade. They are very interested in your ice maker.”
“No,” he groaned more out of denial than refusal.
“Who is she to you, anyway?” Lamar’s hands tightened around the the chair arms, “You’ve known Amber ten years and this other woman-”
“I grew up with,” Tate interrupted, “I grew up with Bianca.” He took a deep breath. They would have to go see the Devils. There had to be a way out of this situation, but it was one he couldn’t fathom. “She’s going to fight,” he picked up an empty sack that once held flour. His hands shaking, he cut it into long strips with his knife, “We’ll have to tie her up, put her in the cart.”
Lamar nodded, his expression hovering between relief and shame.
“We wait for her to get back. You block the door,” his stomach convulsed. For a moment Tate thought he was going to throw up. He lowered his head so that it rested on his knees. Yes, that was better.
The door opened with a gust of spring wind, and Bianca came in struggling with the bucket. He watched her head towards the hearth, nodding at Lamar that he should block the exit. Before he could change his mind, Tate lunged at her. He could feel the bucket tip in the scuffle, water splashing both of them and pooling on the floor. Bianca rolled with the fall, scrambling out from underneath him and making for the door. She skidded to a stop in front of Lamar, a look of incredulity dawning on her face, “What is going on?”
“It will be easier if you don’t fight,” said Lamar.
Bianca’s response was to throw her weight against both Lamar and the door. The door creaked under the weight and Tate grabbed her from behind, pulling her backwards. She kicked like a donkey, managing to catch him between the legs. Seeing Tate roll on the floor in pain, Lamar stepped forward and grabbed Bianca by the hair. She shrieked and flailed at him, but he kept his legs crossed and ignored her blows.
Recovering enough to stand, Tate grabbed a strip of cloth and used it to bind her wrists behind her back. He did the same with her legs, his pulse sounding in his ears. Lamar helped him drag her out the door and load her into the cart. She was screaming, straining against her bonds, and writhing about the cart. Unable to watch, Tate vomited in the bushes. Once he was finished, he shakily walked over to his cart and lifted the handles.
By the time they reached the market, Bianca had rolled out of the cart twice. Lamar helped him lift her back in the first time, but refused to help again after she bit him. People stared as they rolled past, but no one spoke to them. News traveled fast in the Egregian market, and Tate figured they already knew. He stopped his cart in front of a cabin that served as the Devils’ headquarters.
A man with reddish skin and horns on his head was waiting outside. Perhaps to pass the time, he held a fiddle tucked under his chin. Tate stood transfixed, listening to the man play. Even Bianca stilled as the stains of What If? filled the air. Lamar broke the trance, approaching the man directly, “We’re here for Amber Kant.”
He lowered his instrument and gazed in the wagon, “I suppose you are.” He ducked inside, returning with two other men.
“Give us the woman who makes ice,” commanded another horned man.
“Not until you give us Amber,” Tate was surprised to hear himself say.
The men glanced at each other, then one went inside the cabin. Tate watched them, his anxiety increasing with his confusion. He had no idea who was the leader and he could barely tell them apart.
The man returned with Amber thrown over his shoulder, hogtied. A sense of helplessness rolled over Tate, followed closely by revulsion.
“We’ll exchange the witch for the ice maker on three,” said one of the men.
Tate nodded, his stomach clenching. He walked to the back of his cart, feeling like he was walking into a steel trap. Bianca lay still, terror in her eyes. Realizing he had no choice, he slid the knife from his pocket and cut part way through each of her bonds, leaving just enough cloth so they wouldn't fall off. He grunted as he lifted her out of the cart, half dragging her towards the Devils.
“One,” counted the man, “Two.”
Hoping she remembered childhood as vividly as he did, Tate dropped her in the dirt in front of the men, yelling, “Ollie ollie oxen home free!”
The man dumped Amber at Tate’s feet at the same time he released Bianca. Bianca rose off the ground as if she were a rubber ball, her arms and legs pulled free. She snarled at the man, grabbing him between the legs and twisting. Tate lept over Amber, praying Lamar had the sense to pull her to safety. He threw himself at the other man, sinking his teeth into his neck.
At first Tate wasn't sure what had hit him. It didn't hurt any more that a slung rock. It wasn't until he saw the gun itself that it occurred to him that he had been shot. Then there was blackness.
Tate struggled against the darkness. He had to stay alert. He opened his eyes as wide as he could. There was a spot of light in the distance, so faint that it appeared like a purple ring against the black. He moved towards it, floated really, straining his eyes to focus on it. It didn't get nearer but it brightened, the world popping back into focus inside of the ring then spreading to fill out the rest of his range of vision.
He must have been unconscious for awhile, for he was no longer near the market. Actually, he wasn't really sure where he was. He was standing on a hillside overlooking what he guessed was a river. The other bank was visible from his vantage point, trees and mountains stretching across a grey sky. At the edge of the water was a figure glistening oddly in the sun. As he drew nearer, he realized it was Bianca, her body made entirely of ice. She held onto the prow of a small boat, keeping it and its occupant from drifting in the current.
“Bee,” Tate looked at her puzzledly, “What’s going on?”
Bianca gazed at him silently, holding the boat steady.
“You want me to get in,” he climbed into the boat sitting on the bottom and grabbing onto the long grasses next to the shore. “You take the seat,” he said to Bianca, “Climb in.” She stepped into the center, the boat rocking wildly under her weight until she settled on the bench in the prow.
Curious about the other passenger, he turned towards the aft. The figure’s face was in the hood’s shadow and he stared, trying to make out more than the bridge of a fair-skinned nose. “Too fair-skinned,” he thought, “Pale as Death.” Tate swallowed convulsively as the figure pushed the oars in the oarlocks, moving the boat away from the riverbank.
“You have guessed who I am?” the figure allowed the boat to drift while pulling the hood off.
Tate could feel his pulse race in his neck. Pale skin. White hair. She could only be one being. “Death,” he said hoarsely.
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Please note that this is not the end of the story . . . there will be another chapter next week.
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