Boone's arms felt like they were ready to fall off. For several days now he'd been lifting hefty bags and brewing frothy beers, no closer to becoming an alchemist like his grandpappy.
"I've about had it," Boone said, tossing the ladle into the cauldron. He wasn't certain what it was the old kook had him brewing up this time. It was a thick, mapley-black brew that smelt suspiciously like the stouts that clung to a Huskmen's breath. "You told me you'd make me a fine alchemist! I'd be better off owning my own saloon."
Olivica giggled from the table, chopping onions and potatoes for a late afternoon stew. Appearing more ripe than she had when she first came to them. Grotknot was no doctor, nor ever pretended to be, but he was quick to realize when one was parched, likely from being left parched after many drunken affairs. When Olivica had come to them she was pale as the dead, lips blistered, and eyes sunk black. Now her skin once again held the tan of a farmer's daughter, eyes shimmering like green gems, and lips plump as strawberries.
Boone tried not to take an interest in her, for she was the one who slowed down his training afterall, if he could call it that. Two days of filling buckets of water and brewing stews, while Grotknot made all his time for her, replenishing her fluids slowly only giving more as her color returned.
"Patience, Lad, patience!" The short, stocky man said, smoking a foul, muddy tobacci that made Boone hack every time he took a breath. Much as Boone complained about his grandparents cottage reeking like burnt cherries, he would've given anything to smell it now. "Everything will come together in sure do time."
"All he needs is a few years on the farm," Olivica gloated, rolling up the sleeves of a button shirt that belonged to him. It used to be white, but now stained and used as an apron. "And that'll teach him some patience."
"What do you know? You're no alchemist …"
"No. But I could be with the right teacher." Olivica tickled the bearded man's chin and he guffawed. "Do you need another student—"
"He doesn't have time for you," Boone said, picking up the ladle and giving the brew another churn. "Beside, all the grand alchemists only have one apprentice, and I'm his one and only."
"If you keep up that sour attitude then I may just reassess my options." Grotknot guffawed, grabbing the hollowed boars tusk and drinking down frothy fluids.
Boone wanted to feel offended, but maybe it was for the best. All he needed was a few achellets and he and the foolish Bork would be able to teach those Yurks a lesson. That is, unless Jostice returned with him before they ever had the chance.
"How many Yurks did you say were at your ranch?"
Olivica sighed, chopping an onion that made her eyes drain. "How many times have I told you, twenty at least."
Boone wanted to hear the story again. How the Yurks had taken his grandpappy to the ranch, where they beat him, yet he would not cry out. 'Rigger's are tough as bricks,' he'd always said. Olivica then told him how they brought him into their farmhouse where she and her brother Quincy decided to try and help the old man. Olivica told, 'he offered us a better deal than the Yurks, and so we took it."
Boone looked at the girl hacking onions like Ma Jean would. Precise with every slip of her blade. She was beautiful, he couldn't deny it. And though his shirt was a size too big on her, and Olivica's trousers were dirt-ridden, Boone couldn't stop himself from gazing upon her from time to time, only when he felt she wasn't aware. He'd been caught once or twice staring and Olivica giggled while he'd blushed. But there were also the times he'd catch her turning away, as if she'd been watching him secretly, but didn't want him to know.
Boone asked curiously, "What did my grandpappy offer you?"
Olivica looked up from the onions, the skin around her eyes pink, needing relief from the spicy fragrance that filled the air. "Coin … And lots of it."
"Coin," Boone's eyebrows furrowed and he churned harder. "My grandpappy was taken ill and you wanted to rob the man?"
Olivica slammed down her blade. "That is not so, and you know it!"
"What were you doing housing Yurks anyway? How foolish could you be?"
Grotknot had wondered himself, but didn't feel the need to ask a recovering girl. "Maybe this is not the time for that, Laddy—"
"They offered us coin, and we needed it to save our ranch, if you must know." Olivica's voice trembled. "Quincy and the ranch are all I have … and I'll do everything to keep it, ya hear? When we were approached we didn't ask questions, and maybe we should have, but our ears were deaf from the jingle of coin." She admitted. "Our parents had been taken by Blackstraw Sickness … Quincy and I were unaffected, but they were, and we promised that we'd do everything to keep the ranch. And when we saw your Grandpappy Jerocobish was sick, we were reminded by them, and so, tried to help each other out."
Boone felt wrong for asking, looking upon the black brew, reminded of his Ma Jean and the tales she told: Blackstraw was the last weapon used during the War of Nations; a sickness that was brought on by the Apaki tribe. It was their endgame. If the tribes were to lose their lands and their homes, they would do anything to keep the Pioneers from thriving long after they were gone. And so, the Apaki conjured up the dark alchemy, and spread the sickness across the land. Many had fallen ill, including the indeginous. And though death was their fate, fire was their cure, and so, the pioneers burned those who were sick in order from suffering the same fate. Though the Apaki were less fortunate, his Ma Jean told him. And they had died out due to their own sickness.
"I thought Blackstraw had long been forgotten," Grotknot said, scratching his beard curiously. "How did it come to your parents?"
Olivica shrugged. "I'm uncertain, though Voldian Gravencure took an interest in it. He was supposed to heal our parents, but he could do no such thing, not even to ease their pain or silence their screams. Only death gave them that peace."
Voldian Gravencure? Boone thought, raising an eyebrow. "You mean the stir doctor? He is a good man. He helped my best friend Rynan with a decayer spell."
Suddenly Boone remembered Rynan, and his curly red hair, freckled face, and bright chestnut eyes. Their adventures of Wildgun and Mammoth the Kid. He wondered how he was doing in Barrots care. And how Leslie was working to absolve him of his crimes.
"You should not trust that man," Olivica said, snapping Boone from his stupor. "He will do nothing to help your loved ones, only bring them pain and agony. Jostice tried to bring me to him but I said no, and it is why he brought me to you."
Boone grimaced, "are you done chopping the potatoes and onions, or do you need more time?" He had heard enough out of her. Olivica picked up the knife and chopped, irritated. Boone then spoke to Grotknot. "What is the brew … a stout, right?"
Grotknot face flared red, "no proper Bork would make a huskian stout … Leave that garb for the mountain men of the east." He guffawed. "What we have made is a gumbo. And if my nose is correct, it's about ready—"
The door to the chamber whipped open. And there stood a boy who looked as though he'd danced through fire. Skin cloaked in soot though his green gemmed eyes twinkled in the light.
"Olivica!" The boy said, running over and squeezing her in his arms. "Thank the prarie gods you are alright."
"And you, brother!" Olivica said, glowing.
Boone waved a hand, trying to rid his nose of cattle dung and the farmers weeds that waft off the boy. "You must be Quincy—"
"There is no time!" The boy shouted. "Your grandpappy is at the Stir Doctors being treated. I've come to summon you all at Jostice's request."