Arran Cartwright sighed in resignation and tried turning his thoughts to anything but his son Xenn. It wasn't easy, even with the deep ache of a long day's work suffusing his muscles. He felt every inch the heavy, bulky wagon builder as he strolled along an outlying residential street in his home town. Reefen Harn was heading into twilight, and he was heading home. He scratched at his chin through the inch-thick beard, wondering when his next commission might come. Only so many people needed wagons in a town this size, and Arran refused to consider the repeat business of the local council.

Reefen Harn was situated in a shallow valley, built around the sedate but reliable river Plaid; a collection of houses which individually appeared almost ramshackle but when put together created a fitting picture of a wood town boasting many different hues of timber. To the south lay an immense stretch of grasslands and to the north the town huddled against a plush, dark green forest like a baby to its mother. It was a roughly circular and reasonably large settlement with a population of around three thousand. Just enough, Arran thought to himself dourly, to have its own damned Church council.

Arran's house, his five minute destination, sat on the Northern outskirts of town, right up against the edge of the forest, and it was a structure to be proud of. All the more so, in fact, because he'd built the place himself twelve years ago, with his newlywed love Melissa giving the instructions. Runnwood, only Runnwood. Runn trees were notoriously difficult to cut down as the wood was incredibly dense. The tree's trunk was narrow, but its branches burst wide in a broad fountain of foliage. Laborious as it was to cut enough sections for an entire structure, it did provide him with by far the strongest and best insulated house in Reefen Harn (barring those of the aristocracy and, of course, church council members). Arran had been just twenty when he built that house, and his wife was expecting their first child: Xenn.

Angry that he'd steered his thoughts back to that subject, Arran felt the strain in his thighs as his footsteps fell more heavily. Xenn had a troubled history, but one Arran had doggedly put down to juvenile exuberance. Still, he had trouble convincing even himself with that explanation these days. Today, there was a new twist to the tale.

To distract himself, Arran took to observing the people walking around him. Did they all have problems like these? Probably. The streets were busy at the moment; it was Home Hour. Added to all the husbands returning from work were many women, who took this time of the day to go about their business around town. During Home Hour, alleyways were not so dark and screams for help could be answered immediately. The wagon builder sighed. Such fear of being out alone had afflicted the ladies of the town steadily more over the years. The streets were undeniably becoming more dangerous. At night, the place was near deserted. Even young men went to the local taverns in groups. Something was slowly happening to this town, and most agreed with the church, putting it down to a breakdown in law and order; a degeneration in society brought about by certain individuals who should be rooted out and punished. That was too easy an explanation, thought Arran, and too sudden. He had no answers of his own, but felt certain of a fundamental belief that society, and humans in general, were not so simple.

He turned a corner and the two-storey abode he shared with his family came into view. Runnwood was a dark, reddish brown in colour, and Arran didn't believe in messing with the natural hues of timber. As such, the house faded into the shadows of twilight, lurking in the darkness as though malicious of intent. He sighed; it seemed every sight was going to turn his thoughts sour. He knew the fiery touch of anger turned to the helpless cold of melancholy, and Arran Cartwright did not do well with melancholy. Damn that boy and his inability to behave!

His mood turned from dark to black when he realised he'd have to tell his wife Melissa about Xenn's transgression. She always knew when he was anxious, so there was no longevity in hiding things from her, much as he wished to spare her the pain.

Caught up in his thoughts, Arran flung open the kitchen door harder than intended, causing a crash as it collided with a worktop. Melissa was standing not three feet away, carrying a stack of clay plates, which she promptly dropped as his entrance startled her. They burst into shards on the floor with a dull, percussive clatter.

"Now look what you-" she started to say, but then saw his expression.

"Is he in?" growled Arran, hating the aggressive edge he heard in his tone. He didn't want Melissa to think it was directed at her, but couldn't control it.

Melissa didn't need to enquire who. "No, he's been out all day."

"Yes; he's been busy." Arran slumped in a high-backed dining chair, allowing his gaze to drop to the table before him. The ache across the back of his neck felt appropriate, and he drew in a deep breath for another sigh. His wife brushed the broken crockery to one side and placed her hands on his shoulders from behind. She dug thumbs into the solid muscles either side of his spine, and pressed the tension upward and out to the sides repeatedly. Arran groaned in relaxation, feeling the stiffness draining away like water from an unplugged bath. When he was breathing evenly and his arms rested rather than bracing, she stepped round the table and took the seat opposite.

She swept long blonde hair from her young but careworn face, reminding him of how proud she was of those locks. The fashionable women around town were cropping their hair short these days, but Melissa knew the way she wanted to be, and Arran loved her fiercely for it. Others might see a chubby woman with a kind smile and always a friendly greeting, but otherwise unremarkable. He saw the woman who completed his picture, shining a light through his darkness. Arran saw his amazing wife. Still, the wood of the table drew his gaze, describing the failings of his life in grains and knots.

Melissa reached across the table and grabbed his clasped hands between hers, drawing them towards her. It forced him to look up or appear foolish, and he looked up immediately. The moment his gaze met her sympathetic eyes, all the anger melted into a mixture of resignation, shame, and anguish. She smiled, thin but genuine.

"What is it that our son has done now?"

Arran exhaled slowly and loudly, spreading his mouth, then inhaled sharply as he replied. "He was caught stealing."

"Not the baker's again?"

"No. If it was a loaf of bread, I would not be so anxious." He freed his entwined hands from each other and gripped those of his wife instead. "It was the armoury, this time. They caught him trying to steal a crossbow." She flinched, but he continued, finishing his prepared speech. "He ran off after the shop owner took it from him, but not before he was recognised."

Melissa leaned back, frowning. "This is getting serious. Are they sure it was him?"

He nodded. "There were witnesses, and I got official notice at the workshop just an hour ago. I think Don was there when it happened; I'll go and see him after dinner."

Now it was his wife's turn to sigh. "Do you think they'll do anything about it?"

"The council?" She nodded, her expression worried, and he nodded back. "They're bound to this time. By law, anything Xenn does until he's fifteen is my responsibility. We can expect a visit in the morning. No doubt they'll want a reparation agreement for civil disruption and potential undetected loss to the authorities. I would guess it'll be a percentage of my income. Huh! I wouldn't mind, but they get all the money; the victims barely get a sniff!"

"Calm down, Arran. That's hardly our concern."

"I suppose. I'm sorry, darling. This is no time for politics, and we can't do anything until he gets back anyway. I'll prepare the table. Dinner smells great."

They both rose from their chairs at the table.

"SARAH!"

"I'm already here, daddy." He jumped and turned to see his seven year old daughter standing in the doorway, wide eyed and innocent in her faded pink dress and straight black hair. Arran put his hands on his hips.

"How long have you been standing there?"

The girl giggled. "Is Xenny being naughty again?"

"Yes," Arran replied, "and I don't want you copying him, understand?" He injected a note of reprimand into his voice but Sarah just grinned back at him and nodded, then moved to take her place at the table. Despite himself, Arran found a smile forming on his own face. It troubled him at times, how his daughter always seemed to know when he wasn't genuinely angry with her.

"Sarah, I thought I told you to put on your new dress, not that old thing. It's too small for you anyway," came Melissa's voice from across the kitchen.

"But mummy, I like this one."
"Well that's not good enough, young lady. As soon as we finish eating, you go upstairs and you change out of it. Arran, I thought you were preparing the table."

"Oh. Sorry, love." Having been momentarily distracted, he rushed to put out cups of table wine and bronze eating utensils. He retrieved some new plates, taking unusual care with them. Melissa served up generous platters of roast boar in rich thick gravy, and the three of them ate in an uneasy silence. Regardless of the trouble he was in, one of their number was missing. Even Sarah remained quiet, apparently subdued by her parents' mood, and Arran missed her tendency to babble every thought that popped into her head. Uncomfortable in the crushing atmosphere, he quickly finished his food and washed it down with the watered red wine. Rising from his chair, he tried to smile in a reassuring manner at his beloved wife and daughter.

"I'm, err ... I'm going over to visit Don, see what he says. Don't wait up for me."

When he closed the door behind him, it sounded like a steel jail booming shut. As he stepped into the open, the cool late evening breeze settled his senses. Arran strolled, closing his eyes to the royal blue of early night, savouring the smells of the mixed forest as he followed its border. The orchestra of insect calls washed over his ears and for a few moments he allowed himself to forget the boring insecurity of reality.

He opened his eyes to see twin crescent moons, their proximitous position and mirrored shape causing them to appear as horns on a bull. To Arran, a straightforward thinker, it was merely a trick of the light. He'd also noticed this particular phenomenon occurred at regular intervals on the calendar, for three days at a time. Most, however, held a more superstitious view - that to notice the spectacle unintentionally was a bad omen, a sign of restless times to come. He smiled to himself. People needed mysteries, and conundrums such as this one were suitably removed from real life and just unsolvable enough to be worth probing.

Don was one such superstist, although to be fair the beliefs came not from common folklore but from the teachings of the continent's dominant faith; the Lord Church of the Two Moons. A widower at forty-four, he was what Arran referred to as a friend rather than merely a mate. Several shared crises had bound them far more closely that any two people usually became. The men had become a comfort and supporting shoulder to each other, never going out or socialising, but passing the hours in deep conversation when they were together. It was enough. At times they would debate, at others confess and confide, at still others simply sit in each other's company. Don was the one person to whom Arran felt a complete sense of trust, something which he rarely gave but took extremely seriously.

Snapping momentarily from his thoughts, Arran glanced to his right at the barely discernible Viltna mountains resting several miles to the south of Reefen Harn. Their existence was an enigmatic one; they seemed to be visibly growing each year, and stories of unusual occurrences within their daunting peaks were bountiful. The mountains were shrouded in state secrecy and a fear which Arran felt was not generated entirely by those who experienced it. He shivered and tried to push the matter from his mind, feeling too much grounded in reality on this day to be considering such things. Mind you, the power of the Lord Church was real, all too real, and he suspected it to be the source, at least in part, of many such mysteries as the Viltna mountains.


*


Melissa sat with Sarah back at the Cartwright home, still at the dinner table, a third cup of wine clasped in her hands and the dirtied tablewear untouched. Neither of them had spoken since Arran left, and Sarah was beginning to pace.

"Mummy?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Why does daddy always go to see Don when he's in a bad mood?"

"He likes talking to Don, that's all."

"But he's just a friend. Why can't he talk to you, or me?"

"Sarah, there's a bond between your father and Don far stronger than you, and I think even they, realise."

"But mummy, how can you know that and not them?"

"Don't worry, my love. It'll come to you as you grow into a woman, then you'll understand. It's one of those things."

"Like hairs, you mean? Kelly said I'd get hairs in all funny places.

Melissa smiled indulgently. "Yes, like hairs, but I think you have a few years to go yet, Sarah."

"That's what you always say."

"Well, it's always true. Now, let's get these dishes cleaned away shall we? Then you can get to bed, and tomorrow you put on a new dress or I'm throwing that one out."

"Life isn't fair," huffed the seven year old.

"Life isn't supposed to be fair, Sarah," replied her mother. "Life just is."