An excerpt from the final chapter of The Burghal Hidage

As our title indicates, the following is an excerpt from the final chapter of a novel, The Burghal Hidage. 

We will be trying to maintain regular content here at the site but do expect the rest of the summer to be busy with some final editing.

Some months ago, (maybe over a year?), we had published a novella, Windflower, chapter by chapter here on the site. This is a story that is a byproduct of the fictional universe spun in The Burghal Hidage. We may end up posting this again, but only for a short time.

Later we may also post further excerpts from The Burghal Hidage. When we have details to share regarding publication, these will be posted here on the site. Subscribers will be able to obtain a print copy once these become available.

I'd like to also take this occasion to extend my thanks to Celeste Wilde, without whom none of this would be possible.

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The two men sat together at the very edge of the tree line. There was a narrow, dusty ribbon of earth that separated the forest from the tall grasses and thickets filling the long slope that fell away from them. Winds breathed warm, sweet air across the grasses, making them sway in a manner that gave the illusion of waves upon a body of water. From a long view they appeared as two miniscule figures in a wide vista, caricatures in a rustic painting. From a long view no one could say what they might be discussing, or if they were even speaking at all.

It was an odd reunion. These two men had not seen each other face to face in over thirty years. If one had been a casual observer, up close enough to see and hear, the conclusion might well have been that these two men saw each other every day. In perspectives proximity does not always bring clarity. The reunion began the moment that the smaller of the two emerged from the wood upon that dusty path. The first man was already seated, gazing out across the river valley below. He turned and saw the other man but did not rise to greet him.

"Swede Larsson! He lives! How the hell did you find me?"

"Bah! Ain't no mystery where you been hidin', son!"

"Er, well no, it isn't... but I mean this spot?"

"You just gotta know who to ask, my friend. Somebody always knows somethin'... you just gotta ask around."

It was true, he had to admit. Swede had always had a talent for knowing where the proverbial bodies were buried. Going all the way back to the day of their first unlikely encounter. How many years had that been?

"You're looking well for an old fart. What are you now, seventy-five?"

"Seventy-something. It's the new forty. Fuck you!"

"Heh-heh! Likewise, friend. Come, have a seat. If you can stay a while?"

"I could. Maybe."

Swede took his spot in the grass next to Ian, not more than two feet apart. Once Swede was seated, he was actually able to observe his old friend in detail. His first glance at the tree line only revealed a profile, yet he knew in an instant who it was. Swede had a certain manner in which he carried himself, his own bastardization of "swag". And there was undeniably a certain energy that surrounded the man. Perhaps it was some form of madness. Ian found that, after so many years absent, he was still attuned to Swede's intoxicating, sometimes manic vibe. It came now at a time when Ian was in some need of an emotional lift.

Swede was quite familiar with the properties surrounding the old Franks farm. There were those few short years in the eighties when he'd had no home; spending all of his time either on the road or at the farm, where the band's preferred studio evolved. This was a different property he was on now, the backside of the old stables out on the old route 60. He had some vague recollection, maybe Autumn of '85, of when he had taken a dirt bike all the way around the property. Never having left the trail, the plot of ground was as new to him this day.

He'd had only moderate difficulties navigating to the region. It had remained as it ever had been; little desired and mostly ignored. In the intervening years since their first meeting in Austin, Swede's ideas about the concept of "home" had little changed. As he rode through the country of northern Kentucky, he considered that he could have put down roots here. There had been ample opportunity, but the timing of it was all wrong. Swede at the end of the band had been like a kid on the last night of the fair. He could see that the rides were closing down for the night, yet he was not ready to go home. He knew that somewhere else, somewhere there were still rides running. It just couldn't end like this.

The old ranch home on Colby Road was still in use, but upon arriving there he learned that Ian had not lived there for some years. He was nonetheless heartily greeted by a small party there, all of whom were under the age of thirty. He didn't recognize a one of them and none of them made any introductions of any kind. Still, they all knew who he was.

"You are the Swede. We were told you were coming."

He didn't know how, but he was not surprised. They could have been relatives of Ian's, or maybe Ted? He remembered that Ted had some cousins in the area. These people might just as easily have wandered in from the road. Swede knew that Ian had remained here, at least around Winchester, but he really didn't have even the wildest guess as to what he had been doing there for the last..., how many years had it been? He had last visited Ian at the studio back when he'd been with Her Violet Mums. That was between the first and second albums with them. So, thirty-some years. A lot of crazy shit had gone on in the world since then. Sometimes Swede wasn't completely sure that he was lucky to have survived it all.

If he was nothing else, Swede was surely a survivor. It was this quality in him that had called him back to this place. He'd spent a lot of years out west, on the coast originally. LA had still been okay in the '90s. It was crazy, but it was still part of the real world. Then there had been the Austin years. After that gig drew to a close, he began to notice that things were beginning to come unraveled. Ultimately, he had drifted out to Albuquerque and found a good deal on a property in the mountains up north. He had holed up there through the war years and the plague years that followed. That was the longest period of time in his entire life that he had spent alone. After venturing out into the country again, he was rather disappointed in what he found. Not really surprised, but he'd hoped for something better. Finally, on a windy late spring day, somewhere in Oklahoma, he had resolved to make for Winchester.

At the old homestead he had to abandon the Kawasaki. One of the young ones escorted him to one of the barns, where the bike would be stowed, and then rounded up a pair of horses. This one was a burly specimen, certainly no kin of Ted's. He had the burnished tan of a redhead, overlaid with freckles, and an unruly, reddish-blond head of hair. The color of it formed a golden down upon his forearms in the sunlight. He was friendly enough, though he seemed loathe to say much, other than to ask, "Ya know how to ride, Mr. Swede?"

It had been many years, but he was confident that he still could. Without hesitation Swede saddled up, leaving the young man surprised at the speed and ease displayed. He had expected that he would need to assist. He stared in wonder for a moment and then hastily mounted the other horse. When they were both secure in their saddles, they could see eye to eye. The young man then took the opportunity to properly introduce himself. "I'm Aaron. I was told I am to ride ya out to Mr. Franks." That was it. Nothing more, he just started off riding.

It was an easy pace; Swede had no problem keeping up. He had no idea how far they were going. Not that it mattered. All he had to do was follow. The pair of horses selected made this quite easy. They were quite familiar with each other and would naturally try to stay together. Often times they would pull up in position to ride side by side. There were a few of these times that Swede would catch Aaron attempting to steal a furtive glance at him. He appeared a little nervous, acting like he'd been looking at something that he should not have been.

They rode for the better part of thirty minutes, and Aaron had not uttered another word. This was alright with Swede. It was peaceful out here. They came upon what Swede recognized as the old Route 60. This prompted him to ask, "Is it much further now?"

"Not much. Maybe another fifteen minutes after we cross the road here."

Swede just nodded at the news, not really expecting Aaron to say any more than that. After clearing the road Aaron turned and looked at him directly for the first time since they had climbed into the saddle. "Y'all here on account of that business down in Beattyville?"

Swede genuinely did not have a clue what the young man was talking about. "What? No....I don't... what happened in Beattyville?"

Aaron seemed a bit surprised at the response. "You're not... I mean, you don't know?"

"No. Should I?"

Now he seemed embarrassed. "I reckon I better let Mr. Franks tell ya. He was there."

They rode on, again in silence, for the rest of the way. True to his word, it was about another fifteen minutes when Aaron led the way into a trail that entered a woodland. They rode in file for a short distance until coming upon a large opening, a circle ringed by ancient oaks. There were four pathways that converged here; the one they rode in on and one opposite; one to the left, one to the right. Aaron rode to the center of the circle and dismounted.

"Y'all can leave her here with me. I'll be waiting here. Just head straight across here, up that trail until you get to the edge of the woods. You'll see him then."

Swede climbed down from the mare, heeding the instructions. There was an awkward moment. He wasn't sure if he needed to hand the reins to Aaron? Or shake hands? He finally just decided to mumble a "thanks, Aaron", and set off up the path. That is what had brought him here.

"So, Ian. What's this business about Beattyville?"

A severe crease cut across Ian's brow. He seemed to wince with pain at the mere mention of the place. "You heard about that, did you?"

"No, I was asked about it myself. Well... sort of. Aaron said you were there, maybe better I hear it from you."

"Well, friend. You better change your maybe to definitely. This story will take a while."