Bump in the Road

Calarin Chedderheart laid in the family cheese wagon on the side of the road to Bhaile Cala. The hot sun bore down on her olive skin, melting away her typically tolerant demeanour. Being stuck on the roadside in the sticky warmth of summer was never pleasant. But it made her all the more disagreeable being there in the final weeks of pregnancy.

She gazed longingly at the sky. “Gods be, give us a slight ocean breeze.”

Calarin’s stature was perfectly average for a haffelin, standing at three feet and ten inches. But her body was still too big for the pitiful shade of the tree line. A few sparse branches from the brushland dangled over the wagon, taunting her with their repose. She sighed and blinked the sweat from her eyelashes. “Fine. Be still, if it please you.”

A fly buzzed around her wide, pointed ears, causing more annoyance. Insects did not discriminate and interfered with all the races of Mohrathir. With a frustrated hand, Calarin waved the fly from her face. Undeterred, it curled back in and landed on the broad bridge of her nose. A second swipe. This time, a tight pain gripped her lower back. Assuming it to be from laying too long on the hard, wooden bed of the wagon, Calarin shuffled herself to a half-sitting position.

Sitting up gave her no comfort. The pain was still there, worsened by the unbearable heat of the sun. Calarin sought relief by loosening her bodice. She peeled the muslin fabric of her dress away from her rotund belly and shuddered at the wet sucking sound. For a second time, she looked up, checking for a change in the weather.

Nothing.

“I’ll make my own breeze, then.”

She grabbed the hem of her dress and billowed air across her tacky thighs and sweltering stomach. It worked for the heat but not the pain. Her abdomen throbbed, sending another wave of discomfort from her back to wrap around her belly.

 “Oh ... Oh!” Her eyes flared. “... Oh, no.”

Blood flushed into her high, round cheeks. She cleared her throat and dropped her dress. The tacky damp that stuck it to her backside was not from sweat as she had first thought.

“Not for nothin’, my love. But I think speed would serve us well,” she stammered, dabbing her brow with a cloth. Strands of sandy brown hair stuck to her forehead. “I would prefer to be at Rosalind’s Medicary sooner than later.”

“I know dear, but I’m a farmer, not a wheelwright. You’ll have to be patient,” came a reasonable voice from beneath the wagon.

“It’s not my patience I’m frettin’ about.”

“Oh, the little one kickin’ up again, eh? If it’s the bladder bouncin’ got you bothered, hitch up your skirts behind a tree. No one about.”

“That’s not the issue either, Mado. I’ve just had my first belly squeeze.”

The wagon jostled as the sound of flesh belting on wood drifted up, followed by a few curse words from her husband. Chester, their draft horse, snorted and clopped his feet back and forth at the wagon shifting unexpectedly. A soothing song from Calarin brought him back to ease. Her belly squeezed again, forcing a grimace from her face. She traced a nervous finger through the hair behind her ear. “So, how is it lookin’ down there, my dear?”

“Well. We’re stuck in a… some mud-”

He was a terrible liar. “Mud? There’s not been any rain in weeks. The dirt about is drier than wheat.”

“It’s ... old mud,” Mado offered weakly.

“Mado … truth be truth,” Calarin said, clinking her wedding ring against the wood before leaning over the wagon’s edge. Mado sighed and slung his head out to meet hers. He flashed a broad, sheepish smile that cut dimples into the cheeks of his round, haffelin face. Dirt peppered his shaggy mess of red hair, and his blue eyes glimmered with optimism, despite their situation.

“Truth be truth. We’re caught in a trap. Lucky though, if Chester hadn’t kept veerin’ off to chew the grass, we’d have both wheels stuck.”

Calarin chewed her lip with apprehension. “What kind?”

“A trench full of barbed metal spikes. Dug in deep.”

“Just bandits, then.” Calarin relaxed slightly.

“Like I said. We got lucky.”

“Well, if they be dug deep, dig deeper,” she said, offering him a small trowel.

Mado stared in disbelief. “It’ll take me a week to dig out with this.”

Her face said all there was to say, so with a beleaguered acceptance, he took the trowel and disappeared beneath the wagon. “No use, dirt is too hard.”

“Well, loosen it first,” Calarin said, tossing down a sickle. “It’s no mattock, but it’ll do in a pinch. We’ve a deadline to keep that’s not ours to change. Now get to diggin’, if it please you.”

As if to punctuate the point, another rippling wave of pain tightened her midsection. Frustrated, Calarin attempted to distract herself, throwing her hand into a hessian bag and gathering up a fistful of feed for their horse. But the convulsions continued, and she grabbed the wagon edge to steady herself. The grains fell from her hand and scattered over the wagon bed. A few rolled through the slats.

“Everything good up there, my love?”

“Yer, as good enough,” she replied, scanning the thick undergrowth for any signs of movement. Seeing nothing gave her no comfort whatsoever. Signs of bandits were easily spotted, but she wasn’t looking for bandits.

“If you’re out there, stay out there,” she whispered.

A few minutes in, Mado had found a solid rhythm to his digging. Like many haffelins, he became lost in the groove of productivity, his outward attention declining sharply. Reaching into the trench, he wiggled the first metal spike and to his satisfaction found it loose enough. He slid it out and dropped it to the roadside. It landed against a rock with a loud clang and Chester grunted, shuffling from hoof to hoof. “Stupid horse.” Mado shook his head. “When you buy cheap, you get what you pay for.”

He reached down into the hole and started working the second metal spike. The wagon tittered back and forth a bit as Chester, still spooked, tried to move forward. The wheel rolled up and pinned Mado’s hand between a spike and a wheel spoke. Metal barbs dug into his fleshy palm, and he let out a slew of curse words. The wheel settled with a crunch back into the trench. Mado’s hand throbbed as the blood flowed back into it and dribbled from the puncture wounds. Attempting to drive the pain out, he shook his hand, sending small droplets of crimson spattering across the dirt.

“Calarin, tell that bastard horse to-” Mado’s voice cut short as his eye caught a glimpse of something shaking the ferny undergrowth off the road. He scurried further underneath the wagon as his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Calarin, under the shade cloth. Now!”

Moving cautiously, a long pair of legs in leather armour stepped towards the wagon, a sword held close. Two more pairs of legs, also in armour, followed behind with swords drawn. A deep, throaty voice rumbled from the first pair of legs. “No one here. They must have run off.”

“Easy enough. No bloodlettin’,” said the second set of legs, a shrill, nasal tone.

“Shame”. The third set of legs said, its voice higher than the first two, but huskier. “Been a time since I killed somethin’.”

“So, what do we got then?”

“Who cares? I say we take the whole thing. Sell the wagon, eat the horse.”

“Ugh. Bof… that’s grim.”

The first pair of legs stepped up to the side of the wagon. Sun glinted off the blade, flashing into Mado’s eyes. “It’s cheese. Has to be. Fair sum too, judgin’ by the lump under that shade cloth.”

“How about we eat that then, instead of the horse, eh Bof? You burk.”

“Bash it up your arse, Gid.”

“Hang about, the both of you. Bof, there’s a spike out. See?”

Bof knelt, inspecting the metal spike Mado had removed. He turned his head and peered underneath the wagon. Bloodshot eyes trapped by ruddy, almond-white skin narrowed in recognition. His mouth stretched into a brown-toothed, arrogant grin stained with cheap wine. The smell of it oozed from his sweating pores. “Hello, little haffelin. You tryin’ to hide away from us? How rude.”

Mado’s skin bristled with panic. Bof was faster than he looked. Before Mado could react, Bof’s unkempt fingers wrapped around Mado’s shirt front and dragged him out from under the wagon. He dangled helplessly from Bof’s grip. “Look, lads, the mini-man was tryin’ to dig himself out with mini-tools.” Bof let out a guttural laugh.  “A real shovel too heavy for you, eh haffelin?”

The other two bandits chuckled. Bof tossed the metal spike into the wagon. “We’ll be takin’ your wagon, now. Your little tools, too. So, drop ‘em in.”

Mado did so.

“Smart lad,” Bof said with an ugly smirk.

Suddenly, a swift, whistling sound split the air behind Bof. Then a wet thunk, like a melon being skewered. Bof’s eyes twitched in confusion and pain, before dropping Mado into the wagon and falling limp against it. A thin, feather tipped arrow stuck out of his head. A brief, shocked silence followed. Then a cacophony of high-pitched screaming and hooting belted out of the brushlands south of the road.

“It’s a ylfe attack!” Gid cried. “What do we do, Kint? Are we runnin’?”

“Guard up,” Kint replied, swinging the shield off his back and taking up a defensive position. “Get small. If we run, they’ll shoot us in the back.”

Gid nodded and copied Kint. The two stood, knees bent and swords out, scanning the brushland. Mado, peering up over the wagon’s edge, did the same. Another volley of arrows hurtled from the brush. Calarin peeked out in time to watch several arrows bite into the side of the wagon and splinter through the wood.

“Fryin’ pan meet fire, I suppose,” Mado muttered, pressing himself flat next to Calarin. “How are you doin’, my love?”

“Been better,” she hissed, clutching her belly. “We need to move.”

The wagon jolted as Chester pulled against it with a distressed whinny. “A half-busted wheel will have to do,” Mado whispered. “I’ll sneak under the wagon and keep diggin’. When I say, crack the whip on Chester.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll be right back. Stay hidden,” he cautioned, giving his wife’s hand a quick squeeze.

Calarin nodded. “Be careful.”

Mado flashed a smile and picked up his tools. Scrambling over the far side of the wagon he skulked over to the trapped wheel, resuming his digging as swiftly and quietly as he could.

A spray of heavy cursing bellowed out from Gid. “Bastard forest-grown shits! Kint, Look! Shield’s stuck to me arm. The arrow’s gone straight through!”

“So? Now you got a free hand for an extra blade.”

The grass crunched and twigs cracked under a swift-footed charge. Mado looked up as an explosion of squat brown-green things with spears erupted from the tree line: long of limb but short of torso. Maniacal fang-filled mouths cut their faces in two, as though someone had struck their heads sideways with an axe. Dangling pointed ears flapped behind their shoulders as they ran. One of them leapt for Kint’s face, who battered it away with his shield. It landed with a heavy thump in the back of the wagon.

The remaining ylfes swarmed around the two bandits, levelling their spears for an assault. Another one lunged forward. Metal sliced through the air and a ylfe head rolled into the trench near Mado’s trowel. Blood splattered its ragged, dangling ears and broad, sloping forehead. A dark rubbery tongue lolled from its fuchsia lips, giving a grotesque, unsettling expression of mockery.

Mado gawked at it, wide-eyed and lip curled.

And doubled his digging efforts.

A heavy thud.

Gid had hit the ground, swinging his sword feverishly to defend against the onslaught of spears. No use. They made him a bloodied pin cushion, crawling over him, stabbing furiously with stone daggers and spears. Hooting and cackling. Kint kicked one of the ylfes off Gid, and it rolled underneath the wagon.

Mado locked eyes with it.

And it threw itself at him, dagger slashing wildly.

Mado swung the sickle.

A wet crunch. Stillness. Pooling blood.

Mado yanked on the sickle. No use, it was stuck fast in the side of the ylfe’s head. He swiped its dagger and stabbed into the dirt around the metal spikes. Once they were loose enough, he shuffled over to Bof’s body, unfastened the shield from the bandit’s back, and placed it over the trench as a makeshift bridge. Crawling out from beneath the wagon, Mado bashed his fist against it.

“Crack it!”

Calarin whipped the reins.

Chester whinnied.

And the wagon lurched forward.

The metal barbs tore splinters off the wheel, and the wagon rolled out of the trench, picking up speed as Chester broke into a canter. Mado sprinted after it. Barely grabbing onto the driver’s seat, he lifted himself up and flopped into it. His legs throbbed. His heart pounded.

“You okay, my love?”

“Yer, as good enough.” Mado threw a look over his shoulder. The ylfes had ignored their escape and were swarming over a fallen Kint. One of the creatures poked Kint’s face a few times before letting forth a terrible, gleeful cry. Pulling on their long, pointed ears, they stamped their feet on the ground and head-butted one another. The clack of their broad flat foreheads echoed down the road. They danced frantically around the corpses before collecting up the bandits’ belongings and dragging the bodies back into the brushland. “Well, that was unpleasant.”

Calarin nodded and settled back into the wagon bed. “Mado, we have extra cargo,” she said, her voice wavering. “Dead ylfe in the back.”

Mado passed the reins over to Calarin. “I’ll get it.”

He stepped into the wagon bed and looked over the ylfe. It wore a dirty leather wrap about its waist, with ritualistic scars across its chest patterned to copy the stars in the night sky. Patches of dried brown mud flaked away, revealing some of its chartreuse yellow skin. Though it looked like mud, the stink suggested otherwise, and the dark maroon streaks in it raised more questions than answers. He stuck out one foot to roll the creature off the back of the wagon.

Its beady eyes flared open, and its sharp, yellowed fangs clamped down on Mado’s calf. He lost balance and fell on his back. It scrambled up over him, slobbering and biting at his face.

“Get off him!” Calarin yelled and threw the trowel into its head.

It lunged for her, unleashing a flurry of attacks with its grimy fingernails. Calarin yelped, as three gashes cut across her stomach, ripping her dress and digging out deep trenches of skin. Mado catapulted across the wagon, driving his shoulder into the ylfe’s ribs throwing fist after fist into its face.

Splintered shards of teeth rained to the floor.

The ylfe shrieked and scratched at Mado’s face and yanked on his hair. Claws tore across his neck. The ylfe ducked Mado’s punch and drove a grubby foot into his gut, knocking him backwards. It sprang forward, screaming into Mado’s face, and pinned him to the wood.

A whirlwind of slashing and biting.

Animalistic fury.

Mado swung out a hand and grabbed its ear, twisting until the skin split open. It howled and drove its forehead into Mado’s nose.

Blurred vision.

Blood and snot.

Mado struggled. No use. It had the weight advantage. And it was fast. A flurry of blows barrelled into Mado’s body. Hit after hit after hit.

Then one final strike.

A sickening wet schlorp of metal piercing skin and bone.

Dead.

The ylfe went limp. The light in its beady eyes dulled.

Mado squinted. Sticking out of the ylfe’s head, the barbed metal spike Mado had dug free. And on the other end of it, two small delicate hands and a wedding ring.

“Nobody bites my man but me,” Calarin declared, shoving the ylfe off the wagon.

With each spin of the wheel, Calarin’s contractions compounded. As they rounded a bend, and the brushland opened into fields, Mado spotted a farmhouse to the north. “We’re takin’ a turn upwards,” he said, directing Chester along the smaller trail towards it.

Calarin grit her teeth, panting. “Good. Because it’s happenin’. Now.”

Mado signalled Chester to halt but barely had they slowed to a trot when he leapt out of the wagon, rushing up to the farmhouse. He rapped his knuckles against the door and passed an anxious glance back to Calarin. The door squeaked open.

“Another knock and run, eh? If only I were quicker on my feet.”

Mado turned to the speaker. An older man, early fifties. Shaggy grey hair. His eyes sparkled with a prankster’s glee, avoiding the haffelin man.

“Excuse me, sir, I need your-”

“What’s this? A disembodied voice, polite in tone but impolite in appearance? Where are you, ghostly speaker?”

Calarin’s pained scream from the wagon shattered the old man’s smile. His bushy eyebrows rose in alarm. “Someone’s hurt. Were you attacked?”

“Well, yes. But no. That’s my wife, fixin’ to turn me from a husband to a father!”

“Little haffelin, fortunate you. Your luck comes not once, but twice today. I’ll fetch my medicines and other kit.”

Mado returned to his wife. The old man followed behind and did his best to make Calarin comfortable. He brought out pillows and blankets, and candles to combat the setting sun. He talked her through it. And it was there that it happened. In the back of the family cheese wagon on the road to Bhaile Cala with Mado by her side, holding her hand.

Their child was born.

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