The following events occur on the evening after events described in Entry Four: Progress, and before those in "Just Visiting" - Looking in on Dear, Jailed Uncle Wes.
Dinner in the home of Wesmund Briarwool and his family was winding down. Indeed, except for the boys and their dessert, it was done. Wes wasn't having any dessert himself tonight, his pounding headache not allowing it. He just wanted to get to bed, which he couldn't do until they were done. The house was essentially just an overgrown cabin, despite the stonework and proper floor, with only one real room. The table was a contraption he'd traded favours to get with another of the lumber-workers, and it was over the top of the master bed. They'd put it up against the side wall, behind the boys' beds, once it was cleared.
Wes growled at the boys to hurry up, and be quieter about it. They were already trying to be quiet after he'd nearly spilled all of dinner earlier with his usual outburst of anger over something, but they knew better than to argue, or even to take only this level of tantrum from him seriously. A dutiful chorus of "Yes, Da!" came, which annoyed him even more, but left him nothing to complain about.
He watched, glowering, with only water to drink tonight, as his wife Dahlia and remaining daughter Bluebelle finished cleaning up the dishes they'd already cleared, and Dolly sent Bella to her bed. That same bed that he'd built for her and Rhody to share, once the boys got too big and old for such to just be by age and size.
That thought brought a pang of regret for his last confrontation with Rhody, after she'd already run away, and how she fled off into the woods. No one had heard from her since, not even the useless buskers in Bree-town, where she'd been. As usual for Wes, such a negative moment of self-reflection turned to anger, yet he had no handy target for this flash of ire, and it made his head throb even worse.
A flash of shadow at what passed for a window made him think again, as he so often did, that their place had room to expand, still being only on the edges of Combe. An often-ignored inner voice made him shake his head at that, as it reminded him that he had no wherewithal for doing any such building - not when he kept drinking up most of his wages. He grumbled to himself as the boys finally finished their treats and, under their mother's direction, washed the remaining dishes. Even that noise was getting to him. He hadn't had enough to drink, he told himself - and the same inner voice asked him why it was always "not enough" and "too much", and was there ever a "just right".
That thought, of course irritated him more, and we turned away from that window to watch his sons, looking to find fault so he could take out his frustrations - not that he'd ever quite admit that motivation even to himself. The middle child, Bramblerood, was managing to find the least-effort part of the chore, and leaving the bulk of the work to his other brothers. Wes mused to himself, silently, "That boy will go far - if someone don't hang him or beat him to death first."
At least the other two boys, Fennely and Framsel, were dependable workers. Ignoring the bruises they had from his rages, as well as those of his wife and daughter, he allowed himself a moment of pride in having at least done that much right as a father.
When they had finally finished, he informed them that their dawdling had earned them the task of taking down the table and putting it away. Bella pretended to sleep through the commotion, but that was all right. She'd done her proper chores already, and was out of the way in their crowded room. Let her rest.
This was the time, of course, that candles had to be extinguished and put up, lest the work of moving the table knock any lit ones over, so now the room was only lit by the remains of the fire. The lowering light suited Wes and his headache just fine.
With only the three boys doing the job, there was no way to shirk, and Bram had to do as much work as his brothers. Wes thought the other two approved of this enough not to mind having to do it without him tonight.
Finally, with that done, and Bram's trundle-bed pulled out, they could all retire. Wes reflected briefly that he was almost surprised, with Rhody gone so long now, that he hadn't tried to trade with Bella. Then he realized that it was because the bed he already had was closer to the door - and more convenient for sneaking out at night. Further worry on that notion escaped him, as he succumbed to his headache and the weariness from his day's work.
His dreams were odd, and even odder still that he eventually remembered any of it. Somehow, he'd gotten a free drink or two, which never happened any more, and his headache was easing. But then someone shoved him, and punched him in the stomach, even though he'd not started anything for once. He tried to fight back, but couldn't, and the pummelling to his midsection continued - and yet, somehow, the drink was helping, and he was feeling better rather than worse from it all.
When he finally woke, it was with only the faintest wisps of that dreaming, as he found things were somehow awry. The awareness of feeling a breeze on his skin came first. He didn't think he'd dislodged that many covers and nightclothes. Then his attempts to wet his lips found cloth in the way. Surely he hadn't tried to chew on the sheet? And yet, trying to move to fix this wasn't working. Why wouldn't his arm move? Had he slept on his shoulder the wrong way again?
Just as he was starting to realize that even more was wrong than he'd thought, and got his sticky eyes to open, he heard a voice.
"Good morning, Mister Briarwool. Feelin' alright, mate? Ya look a bit panicked." The speaker, by the sound, a woman, though hooded and in enough black that she almost was too dark for the night's shadows. At least out here.
He found himself out at the lumber-yard, in the sawmill area, that had so recently been set up. It was still highly experimental, and not much liked by the workers. It tended to break down a lot, and they felt it more trouble than it was worth. It was also pretty dangerous to be around when it was operating.
That manner of greeting set him off, even more than his under-current of fear from his predicament did. His attempt to bellow at her was foiled by the gag in his mouth, and he discovered quickly that the breeze was on his skin because, aside from the ropes holding him all too securely to a log in the chute, he was naked. At least it was a nice summer night.
Even so, he was getting nearly apoplectic in his efforts to bellow and pull free of the ropes, managing to do some minor injury to his wrists against them. His captor moved a bit to her left and pulled on the lever that activated the gearing, with that awful saw starting to shudder into motion.
"I have a couple questions for ya, mate. An' if ya don't answer me truthfully, th' log moves. Y'understand that it can only go so far before I cut yer nuts off, right mate?"
His eyes bugged out, even more, and his efforts against the rope and to make noise greatly increased - to no avail despite all the thrashing and grunting.
The woman shook her head with a dark chuckle. "Now, now. No need to talk. Jus' a nod yea or nay will do. So, first question. Are you ever going to lay your filthy 'ands on yer family again?"
Wes tried even more to struggle, but as he finally realised he was making no headway, his eyes were drawn to the saw. Fear, however, was not how one triumphed in bar brawls, or succeeded in bullying those who were afraid. He had a well-worn short-circuit from fear to anger, and he tried that much harder to bellow again, glaring daggers at the hooded woman.
She sighed. "Lack of an answer still ain't true 'nuff." She pulled another lever, and the log began to slowly creep down the chute. Meanwhile, the woman sauntered over to pick up one of the nearby axes. "Let's try again." She swung the axe at the chute at the end of the log, embedding it in the chute. The log stopped on contact with the axehead. "You ain't gonna lay yer 'ands on a woman again, are ya, mate?" She loomed over him, the scowl on her face likely seeming much darker in the lack of light.
How dare this woman! He growled, struggled, and glared more... but the helplessness of his situation was finally starting to break through to him. After a few more attempts at pushing the gag out of his mouth, and staring at both the axe and the saw, he sagged back, shaking his head. That small, oft-ignored voice in his head, the one that had reminded him of driving Rhody away, and of how there was no right amount of drink, and how badly the bruises and black eyes on his children and wife reflected on his treatment of them and his behavior… in that moment, it made itself heard to him.
The captor smiled. "Good boy, mate. If i 'ear of it again, we'll be meetin' in the dark like this again. An' nex' time, it'll 'urt more." She held a rag over his face, this one reeking of some volatile substance. His earlier struggles had got him breathing hard, and he hadn't known to be concerned about whatever caused that stench until too late. It took very little time before he was out again.
When next he awoke, it was to loud jeers and guffaws, and an even worse headache than he'd had the night before. The morning crew at the lumber-yard had found him still naked and tied to that log in the chute, and with a note nailed to the frame above him:
The note was written and signed in a rich, flowing calligraphic hand that could not possibly belong to Briarwool, even if he'd been literate - which most knew he was not.
Over the next few hours, Carria watched as the sun rose, workers coming into work. They gathered around, gasping in horror when they saw the drink-smelling man tied to the sawmill. One of them pointed to the sign, calling for the watch. At this, she turned away into the Chetwood, a satisfied smile on her face. It was the first time she’d accomplished her mission, her vengeance, with no bloodshed. Perhaps this was who she was meant to be, after all. Not a thief, not a killer, but one who walks the thin line, dealing justice from the shadows. She was certain, at least, that it felt a lot better this way.
((Co-written with the player of Rhody))
