Jack Frost: King of Thieves

CHAPTER XXII: After Ten Years

Jack, Peter, Sinbad, and Ester rode into Dorfeld just as the sun was going down. After the attack on their camp the night before, they had decided to ride together a bit longer. They had shed their armour, no longer needing to pretend that they were knights. For much of the day, an odd tightness had been building in Jack's chest and his emotions had been roiled in ways he couldn't explain. Entering this town served only to make those feelings more intense.

There wasn't much to the place: low buildings of wood and stone and mortar, many of them with uneven roofs of shingle and thatch; men and women in simple, drab garb, returning home from the fields, some leading old work horses, others carrying buckets of water, or bundles of firewood for a cooking fire. He saw few smiles on their faces. These people were weary, not merely from a day's work, but from worrying their way through a hard winter.

And yet, despite the grimness of Dorfeld, Jack couldn't help but feel that he belonged here, that he had come home in a way. He couldn't decide if this was merely because he carried Overland's sword, or if there was some deeper connection at work. He looked around the small village, and for the first time since crossing the channel, he felt that he was truly back in the Southern Isles.

"Dorfeld," Peter said, as all four of them dismounted in the lane that ran through town. "Is this your people, Jack?"

Jack considered the question. "Maybe."

Peter looked around a frown on his young face. "They don't look like much, these middle-Isles."

Bunmand Ester grinned. "I hear you Neverland boys live on fruit and think you can fly." The big man made a sound like the wind.

"Right!" Pan said, his face turning crimson. For a moment Jack thought he would actually take a swing at Ester.

Before he could, though, a voice that sounded very much like that of a cross parent said, "Hush!"

They all turned and saw a strange figure by the side of the lane. It looked to be a man, a rotund one at that. He was wrapped almost entirely in gauze, and he stood surrounded by small straw hives amidst a cloud of buzzing bees.

"You wouldn't want to annoy a beehive with your noise," the man said, tending to his skeps.
The four of them approached the man cautiously.

The man paused and looked them over. "Your swords wouldn't help you if you did, gentlemen!"

"You're the town beekeeper?" Jack asked, keeping a wary eye on the swarm.

"Bless you, no!" the man said. "The friar. North is the name."

"Well, Friar North, would you know where I might find Sir Sandy today?"

"If he's not at Burlington Manor ..." The Friar pointed up a nearby hill at a home that appeared to be larger and sturdier than those in the town.

Jack stared up at the house, feeling once more that his presence here was more than coincidence, more than simply the result of a dying man's last wish.

"How long will your business take?" Peter asked him.

Jack shrugged. "If you're gone, you're gone." He nodded to his companions, and then to the friar as well. "And God go with you."

Peter, Sinbad, and Ester exchanged looks, all of them clearly surprised by the abruptness of Jack's farewell. They had journeyed together for miles, fought and killed side by side.

"That's it?" Peter said. "After ten years?"

"Something's with him," Sinbad said.

"Aye," Ester agreed. "Changed him."

The others nodded. Then Sinbad turned to North.

"Good friar, where can a man get moderately insensible with a drink around here?"

"Sinbad!" Ester said, clearly scandalised. "He's a man of the cloth!"

But North looked at them appraisingly, a sly grin on his face. "Have you tried the honey-liquor we call mead?" he asked. "It gives a man a halo, does mead."