Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web - Volume 1 (7 page)

“What brings you here, Clay?”

“You do, Nicholas.”

“Is everything all right?”

“I need to have a word with you. It’s rather important. I...” Constable Brindle then noticed the front of Nicholas’ jacket and his heart immediately sank. He looked the young man straight in the eyes as if searching for any other explanation than the one he now believed was only too true.

“I’ll be happy to talk,” Nicholas said. “But why the grim face?”

Bob Hawkins yelled from the back of the crowd. “He’s here to arrest you, thief!”

Constable Brindle stormed through the crowd and grabbed Bob by the collar. “Now just shut your mouth or I’ll arrest you for interfering in my investigation! What did I tell you earlier?”

“All right! All right! I won’t say another word.” Bob Hawkins shook his head nervously, as if waiting for the constable’s fist to strike. Constable Brindle released him and marched back over to Nicholas. The inn was deathly silent.

Nicholas slowly shook his head, wild disbelief in his eyes. “What’s he talking about, Clay?”

“We don’t have to discuss this in here, Nicholas. Let’s go outside.”

“No. I have nothing to hide.” He pointed to Bob Hawkins. “And what did he mean about you arresting me?”

“There’s been an incident at the gristmill, Nicholas. Goods were stolen. Some of Ned’s money, too.”

Nicholas shot a glance at his boss. “Is that true, Ned?”

“Yes, Nicholas. Someone robbed the place last night.” Murmurs of excitement and contempt swept through the crowd. “And, uh... Well, I better let Clay do the explaining.”

“I wish somebody would!”

“Calm down, Nicholas.” Constable Brindle pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it across his forehead. “I need to talk to you because we found the stolen goods. They were piled inside the shed behind your cottage. The money, too.”

“
What
? That’s impossible!”

“He’s telling the truth.” Ned walked up to Nicholas. “I just can’t believe in my heart that you’d do such a thing, Nicholas, but we found twenty flour sacks inside your shed. And a small pouch of coins I kept locked in my office.”

“I never took those items. Is this some sick joke?”

The constable shook his head. “We were up to the gristmill earlier. Dooley Kramer discovered the missing goods. Then after we questioned Arthur Weeks, well, things started to fall in place.”

Nicholas felt his heart racing as the room grew unbearably hot. He shot a glance at Arthur Weeks who tried to hide behind a few of the men in the crowd. His thin facial features were framed between long straight locks of black hair. Nicholas addressed the constable again. “What did Arthur say? I don’t understand his connection to this?”

Constable Brindle patiently explained how Arthur had testified about Nicholas returning to the gristmill late last night. “According to him, you were the last person there last night and on several other nights as well. He claimed you had to catch up on your bookkeeping.”

“That’s ridiculous! The books were up-to-date. I wasn’t at the gristmill last night. I had no reason to be.”

Clay turned to Arthur Weeks who meekly squeezed through the crowd to face Nicholas. “What’d you tell me earlier, Arthur, when Ned and I questioned you outside the Iron Kettle?”

“Well,” he whispered after swallowing hard. “I said I stayed late at the gristmill to clean up last night, just like Mr. Adams asked me to. We’ve been so busy lately.” Arthur stared in Nicholas’ direction but couldn’t look him in the eyes. “Before I left, well, Nicholas showed up. He told me to leave early so he could do his bookkeeping.”

“That’s a lie! I never talked to you last night, Arthur.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I wasn’t at the gristmill last night!”

“That’s about how I remember it,” Arthur mumbled, slipping back into the crowd.

Nicholas held out his hands in stunned disbelief. “Clay, he’s lying!”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Constable Brindle promised. “But you still have to explain about the items found in your shed.”

“I want to see them,” Nicholas demanded.

“I’ll take you there shortly. I have a few men guarding it now. But there’s still one other piece of evidence I need to show you. I’ve kept it secret until now.”

Ned Adams threw an inquisitive glance at the constable. “What are you talking about, Clay? What evidence?”

“Something I found on the floor at the gristmill. You were inside your office at the time, Ned.” Constable Brindle reached inside his vest pocket and removed a small object. “I discovered this near some spilled flour close to one of the orders that had been broken into. It’s a button. My guess is that the thief accidentally popped it off his jacket. Probably caught it on the stack of flour sacks in his hurry to leave.” The constable held up the plain brown button for all to see. The crowd looked at it with greedy eyes.

“Who does it belong to?” someone asked.

“Shortly after I walked in here, I noticed Nicholas’ jacket when he stood up. The color of the material matches the color of the button. It’s hard to see if you’re not specifically looking for it.”

Nicholas glanced down at the several buttons along the right side of his jacket. One was missing near the center. Nicholas snapped his head up, his eyes locking onto Clay Brindle’s skeptical gaze. “I never noticed that one was missing.”

The constable held the button he had found next to one on Nicholas’ jacket. “An exact match.”

“He
is
the thief!” a patron in back whispered.

“Constable Brindle did some fine work,” a second voice added.

Ned Adams looked unkindly at Nicholas, stunned by the turn of events. He looked him dead in the eyes, prepared to unload the mixed emotions churning like a storm inside him, but then simply turned and walked away.

As the crowd grew more vocal, Constable Brindle decided it best to get Nicholas out of the inn and over to the shed right away. The cool evening air calmed the crowd as they departed, though the constable was annoyed that the group of men now following him had grown larger. A line of oil lamp and torch light again snaked along River Road, accompanied by the shuffling of feet and bitter whispers of condemnation.

When they reached the shed, Maynard ran up to Nicholas, a mix of horror and sympathy etched upon his face. “Clay said you’re responsible for–”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Nicholas assured him, placing his hands on Maynard’s shoulders. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’ve got to believe me.”

“I believe you, Nicholas. You know I do.”

Clay Brindle ordered the shed door opened and several oil lamps placed within. Nicholas was invited to look inside and see the evidence for himself. His heart raced when he saw the piled sacks of flour. Ned’s pouch of silver half-pieces sat on top of a straw bundle. Nicholas backed out of the shed, shaking his head.

“We found this just before we tracked you down at the Water Barrel,” Constable Brindle said. “Can you explain how those goods found their way here, Nicholas?”

“No, I can’t,” he softly said.

“And can you tell me why the button from your jacket was sitting on the floor near the orders that had been ransacked?”

“I can’t explain that either, Clay.” His words sounded heavy and lifeless. “I only can say that I didn’t commit this crime.”

Clay Brindle sighed, throwing a glance at Maynard and Ned. Neither uttered a word. Arthur Weeks stood back in the shadows. The chirping crickets in the rustling grass and the sputtering torch flames were the only sounds audible for the next few moments. The constable rubbed his neck and then looked at Nicholas.

“There’s a lot to sort through, Nicholas. We’ll have to go over it detail by detail to get to the truth. You say you’re innocent, and you’re allowed that privilege, but...” Clay kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. “Since there’s conflicting testimony and all the evidence points to you, I’ll have to take you to the lockup.”

Before Nicholas could speak, Maynard protested. “Clay, you can’t do this!”

“I’m sorry, Maynard, but legally I have no choice.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“That’s fine.”

Nicholas held up a hand, appreciating Maynard’s concern but not wanting to upset him. “It’s all right, Maynard. The constable is just doing what he has to.” He turned to Ned Adams with a pained expression. “I wish I could prove I’m innocent, Ned.”

“I wish you could, too.”

The constable tapped Ned on the arm. “I’ll need a list of everything that was stolen before you can take the goods back to the gristmill. Just in case there’s a trial.”

“I understand.”

“You can do that now while I take Nicholas to the lockup or wait until morning.”

“I’ll start now, if it’s okay with you, Maynard.”

“Fine,” he muttered.

“I’ll send someone to fetch Dooley Kramer so he can bring back a horse and cart.”

The constable nodded. “All right.” He turned to Nicholas, clearing his throat. “I’ll need to keep your jacket, too, Nicholas, after we get to the village hall. Also for evidence.” He tried to sound as gentle as he could with his next few words. “I guess we better get moving now. It’s time.”

With those words, Nicholas realized the magnitude of the trouble he was about to face. With those simple words, all his new-found dreams of travel and adventure disintegrated before his eyes like piles of sand upon a wave-tossed shoreline. The unfairness of it all tied his stomach in knots. The lies of Arthur Weeks enraged him until his head hurt. The slow walk to the lockup with Constable Brindle would end everything he had longed for. What would his friends think of him now? What would Katherine think? His world was falling apart.

“Can I grab another jacket, Clay, since you plan to take the one I’m wearing?”

“Sure, Nicholas,” he said, cracking a kindly smile. “I’ll let you do that.”

Nicholas nodded in gratitude and walked away from the shed, making his way around the side of the cottage as the other men followed. He rounded the corner to the front, recalling sitting on Maynard’s porch steps only five days ago and discussing his future plans. That rush of excitement had now turned into a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. Events of someone else’s design had changed everything and he was helpless to fight back. Or was he? Nicholas decided then and there that he couldn’t let them win. He
wouldn’t
let them win, whoever they were.

As Nicholas approached the front door of the cottage, he slowly reached for the handle while taking a deep breath. Suddenly, he dashed over the grass alongside Maynard’s farmhouse to the opposite end, running furiously into the field just beyond. He ran as fast as he could in the thick shadows, scrambling in one direction and then another, hoping to make his way north into the wooded area along the Pine River.

“Nicholas! You come back here!” the constable bellowed as he made a futile effort to chase after the young man. He flailed his arms, ordering the others to pursue at once. They shot past Constable Brindle like a pack of hungry wolves in search of fleeing prey, fanning out into the dark field with oil lamps and torches blazing among the dry crackling grass. Their earsplitting shouts shattered the peaceful night.

CHAPTER 3

The Awakening

A heavy fist hammered the tabletop, rattling three glass tumblers and an empty gin bottle. A trio of men, seated in a dark corner of the Iron Kettle Tavern that same evening, gawked at each other in stunned silence. A blaze crackled in the fireplace in an adjacent corner. The din of competing conversations from other patrons filled the smoky air.

“Something’s seriously wrong here,” one of the men whispered. “
Dead
wrong.” He gravely observed his two companions, shifting his eyes left, then right, in a rigid line. “We’re out of gin!” he finally burst out laughing, his mouth crammed full of widely spaced teeth, one of which was missing on the bottom.

“That’s a good one, Gill! We can’t celebrate the Harvest Festival properly with an empty bottle in front of us. I’ll get another one.” George Bane tried to stand up, his puffy cheeks as red as apples and his eyes most surely to match in the morning. He plopped back down in his chair. “Give me a moment first.”

“You’re soused,” Gill Meddy said. “Nearly pickled, I’d say. Good thing you don’t have a wife ‘cause she’d lock you out of the house tonight for sure.”

“Yours
will
!” George said, dropping his head to the table in a fit of laughter.

“Stick your face in a feedbag and shut up about it!”

George Bane looked up, rubbing his unshaven face. “Then you get up off those spindly legs, Gill, and buy the next bottle if you’re so sober.”

“Didn’t I buy the last one?”

“I thought I did. Did I?”

The third member of the group calmly stood and indicated to George and Gill not to bother themselves. He grabbed the empty gin bottle and offered a thin smile. “It’ll be my pleasure to buy the next one,” he said, even though he had purchased the first one as well. “Sit back and relax until I return.”

“Much obliged,” Gill said, while George nodded with a glazed look in his eyes.

The third man walked to the tavern counter and paid for another bottle of gin. Mune stood chest-high to most of the men in the room. He had a slightly stocky build, topped with a head of short, thinning black hair and a well-trimmed goatee. His smiled displayed an abundant set of white teeth under piercing sea gray eyes.

When Mune returned to the table, he uncorked the gin bottle and refilled the three tumblers. George Bane and Gill Meddy, a couple of local farmhands, greedily drank from their glasses, pleased they had met this stranger passing through Kanesbury. It wasn’t unusual for outsiders to visit the village during the Harvest Festival, and the two men were more than happy to be the recipients of this particular outsider’s generosity.

Mune sat down and took a sip of his drink, leaning back in his chair to continue listening to the wild and fanciful yarns that George and Gill spun in their friendly competition. He was quick to refill their glasses when needed.

“Remember that time, Gill, when... That time when–probably fifteen years ago–when, uh, whatever-his-name dared me to climb that dead pine tree?” George slapped the table. “I can’t believe I really did that!”

“He did!” Gill excitedly assured Mune. “It was the deadest, driest pine tree ever, standing right in the middle of this field, see? The rotting tree had been dead for years and that was the summer we had nearly no rain besides. The tree was drier than kindling.”

“Not a needle left on it!” George said. “Some of the thinner branches snapped off if you just looked at them.”

“You don’t say.” Mune’s eyes widened in feigned fascination.

George gleefully pointed to himself. “And I climbed it! That guy who dared me–I still can’t think of his name, but he doesn’t live around here anymore–had to pay me two copper half-pieces on that bet. What a fool!”

“And the best part,” Gill added, slurping down another mouthful of gin, “was that the tree fell down in a storm not a week later! Now isn’t that a good story? Isn’t it?”

“Most certainly,” Mune said as George and Gill doubled over in convulsions of drunken laughter. He pretended to take another sip of his drink before casually lowering his glass to the side of his chair. With George and Gill not paying attention, Mune emptied most of the glass, carefully pouring the gin through a crack in the floor planks. He had executed this procedure several times during the evening, not allowing even a single drop to hit the floorboards during this latest attempt. When George and Gill recovered, Mune was already refilling the three tumblers.

“My, but you men certainly have had some exciting times in your youth,” he said. “Little seems to bother us during those carefree years. It’s our advancing age that makes us more cautious in our choices, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Gill mumbled, offering a shrug.

“Still, I do enjoy a challenge now and then to make me feel alive. A risky gamble or a wild dare is just the right spice sometimes!” Mune raised his glass, a wicked grin painted across his face. “To taking chances!”

George and Gill lifted their glasses with unsteady arms to join in the toast, downing the gin in a single gulp. Mune quickly refilled their empty tumblers and then sat back and stared at the two men, both now teetering on the edge of awareness. Their eyes darted like flies, their heads bobbing like driftwood on an ocean. Suddenly, Mune set his glass down with a thump and cleared his throat.

“You’ve inspired me, gentlemen! Your stories of joyous youth have awakened in me memories of my own adolescence.”

Gill rubbed a finger across his nose. “Sorry, sir. We didn’t mean to.”

“That’s a good thing!” he said, pulling out a small cloth pouch from the inside pocket of his coat. “So in keeping with the spirit of the moment, I wish to propose a dare.” He tossed the pouch onto the center of the table, where it landed with a metallic thud. George Bane and Gill Meddy stared at the object, tongue-tied, then glanced at Mune, their eyes focused on his mischievous grin.

“What did you have in mind?” George asked.

“I recall you mentioning earlier in the evening that there are some caves just east of the village.”

“The Spirit Caves,” George said. “Less than two miles out along River Road. But I don’t remember mentioning those tonight.” With one elbow firmly planted on the table, George rested his tired head in the palm of his hand.

“Yes, the Spirit Caves. That was the name.” Mune slowly untied the cloth pouch and gently poured out some of its contents. A stream of silver and copper half-pieces glinted in the dim light. “I could swear that one of you spoke about those caves tonight.”

Gill’s eyes popped open. “We easily
could
have! Now that I think about it, George or I probably did say something about them. Don’t you think, George?”

“Guess so...” George mumbled, enthralled by the clinking coins. There was enough money in that pouch to equal two months of his salary as a farmhand. The corners of his lips turned upward like thorn points. “What kind of dare do you propose, Mr. Mune?”

Mune had them hooked and he knew it. He picked up one of the silver half-pieces and rubbed it between his fingers. “I hear that those caves are haunted. Is it true?”

“Don’t know if they’re haunted exactly, but I recall hearing strange stories as a boy. Some creatures were supposed to have been trapped inside, if you can believe that.” George watched as the coin gently somersaulted between Mune’s fingers, the light of the tavern gleaming dully off it. “We can tell you about those caves if you like.”

“Perhaps on the way over.”

“On the way–
over
?” Gill Meddy clutched the glass tumbler. “You want us to go to those caves?
Now
?”

“Considering your condition, walking along the main road would take us less than an hour to arrive,” Mune said. “Besides, the air is refreshing tonight. A perfect time for a walk. You can fill me in on the details surrounding the legend of these so-called Spirit Caves on the way over and then decide if you wish to accept my challenge.”

“Which is? You haven’t actually told us yet,” George said.

“Gentlemen, my dare is a simple one,” he replied as he dropped the coins into the pouch one by one, each metallic clink luring his companions closer to his web. “Whichever of you spends the longest time inside the caves will receive the entire contents of this pouch.” Mune pushed the full bag of coins in front of them. “If you both stay in there, let’s say for two full hours, then can you split the money evenly. In either case, the payoff is substantial. Hardly much of an effort for two such daring men.”

George looked askance at his challenger. “What’s the catch? Sounds too easy. Doesn’t it to you, Gill?”

“Yeah, I suppose…” he said while longingly starring at the pouch of coins.

“No catch,” Mune assured them. “Just the thrill of the dare. Unless those stories you regaled me with earlier were simply tall tales from two men who really have nothing to show for their lives up to this point.”

George slapped the gin-splattered table. “I really did climb that dead pine tree! Probably no more than thirteen years old when I did it. We weren’t telling no tall tales, were we, Gill.”

“No. Mostly.”

Mune shrugged. “Well all that matters is the here and now. Your desire for another victory is what counts. So you may either accept my dare, and we’ll set off for the Spirit Caves at once, or simply refuse and there’ll be no hard feelings. We’ll remain friends and finish up this bottle of gin.”

Gill sat back in his chair, combing his hands through his hair as a gush of air shot out through his puffed cheeks. As tempting as the offer was, Gill had a deathly fear of enclosed spaces, especially haunted caves in the deep of night. The thought chilled him. All the liquor in the world couldn’t prepare him for that stunt. George, however, stared at the bag of coins, his dizzy head already contemplating how to spend the cash. All it would take was spending a few hours in a dark cave. How difficult was that?

“I’ll pass on your offer,” Gill said sadly.

“We’ll do it!” George blurted out at the same time before shooting a poisonous glance at Gill. “What do you mean you’ll pass?”

“Just what I said, George. I have no hankering to go exploring dark caves in the middle of the night. You know I don’t take well to being locked up in little spaces. Besides, I got my lovely wife to think about.”

“As if she’d miss you for a night!”

“Maybe...” Gill trailed off, helping himself to more gin.

Mune locked eyes with George. “Now’s your chance to double the reward. Do you go it alone, sir, or will your fears get the best of you, too?”

“I’m no coward!” George said, refilling his glass and drinking it down in a single swallow. He grinned bitterly at his challenger and slammed the glass on the table. “I’ll show you, Mr. Mune. Let’s go!” He stood on a pair of wobbly legs and managed to slide behind Gill to get out of the corner, slapping him on the shoulders as he passed by. “See you in the morning, friend. Maybe have an egg breakfast with you at the eatery. My treat!”

Gill nodded gloomily as Mune plucked the pouch of coins off the table, watching through bleary red eyes as he and George exited the tavern.

They walked east along River Road, with Mune balancing a torch in one hand while holding up a staggering George Bane in the other. A cool breeze blew at their backs, carrying George’s gin-marinated babblings across barren farm fields and through nearby woods. Mune patiently endured his stale breath and flailing limbs, though several times wanted to abandon the drunken mess on the side of the road and be done with him. That meant, however, completing the assigned task ahead himself, and Mune refused to do it no matter who gave the orders, so he continued on. Far above, a large crow circled, gliding over the shifting air currents, its sleek black wings blending invisibly with the sky.

“How ‘bout we stop for another drink!” George blurted out deliriously.

Mune rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s been a whole twenty minutes since you’ve had your last drop.”

“Are we going to meet with those ghostly fellows?” George asked, tugging at Mune’s collar.

“Stop choking me!
Who
?”

“Those creatures in the Spirit Caves.”

“That’s just a ridiculous legend you heard as a child, my friend. I assure you, nothing lives in those caves.”

“Glad to hear you say that,
umm
... What’s your name again?”

“George Bane.” Mune paused for a moment to prop up his rubbery burden.

“Oh, that’s right. I...” George thought for a moment before snorting with laughter. “No, that’s
my
name!” He playfully slapped Mune on the face. “You’re trying to trick me, but I know who I am. What I really wanted was... Uh, can’t remember what I wanted, but I think I could use a nap.”

“Just a little farther, George, and you’ll have a bagful of money for your troubles. Tomorrow you can take all the naps you want. How would you like that?”