Clappy's senses swirl as they race down the track. Tall pines loom in outline to either side under the hazy moonlight, and the air is close and heavy with the scents of spring. Andrea - and how does he know her name - says no more, concentrating on steering the powerful vehicle along a path more suited for horses. Her short hair whips around in the breeze, and large dark eyes peer intently forward.
As he starts to collect his thoughts, they reach a narrow road and turn onto it. With her driving easier, Andrea reaches to her side; then turns to Clappy and passes him a small, wooden object - perhaps a foot long, and thicker than his thumb, but in the dark he can only tell that it is intricately carved. It feels warm, and somehow reassuring.
"I can't take you much further. They mustn't see us together, but if I don't collect Peter - well, he can hardly defend himself, can he?"
"But - what do I do - what is this?"
"It's a little late for qualms now", she replies angrily. "You wanted the oath, as we all did. If the Falcon isn't there by tomorrow night, we won't last another month. The gate must be closed quickly - you know that! Here, I'll drop you as close to the inn as I can. Don't risk any more tonight, but for heavens' sake, change your shoes next time..."
She halts at the edge of a small village. Only a few street lights are visible, shining on small timber-clad houses. One - Clappy realises this must be the inn she referred to - is still lit, and muffled singing comes from it. He gets out, stuffing the carving (the Falcon?) into his shirt, and the car promptly turns and races off into the night. One arm waves him a thumb's up as she leaves.
Clappy wonders what to do. His family might have noticed he's missing by now, and he's feeling hungry, shaken and very confused. Hunger wins an unqual battle, and he heads towards the tavern, hoping they sell food - maybe hot dogs.
As he walks in, the singing stutters. A dozen heads turn towards him, suspicion warring with drunkenness, until the bartender calls him over with a grin.
His accent is thick, the words coming from deep in his throat, but the meaning comes across: "Mr Clapster, that was long walking! Were losing you? Yes, we keeped soup warm - good bigos!"
A plump, pretty woman leads him to a laid table, and sets a bowl of rich-smelling broth on it, with a plate of dark thin-sliced bread and some vinegary pickles. Her thick blonde plait swishes behind her as she returns to the bar, fetching him a large glass of beer. She says something which he doesn't understand, smiles and leaves him to eat.
The soup - "beegosh"? it's cabbage, stewed with peppery ham and other meat - tastes good, the beer even better. Clappy leans back as he chews the last of the bread, and wonders... |
