Saving Solace

well-muscled neck.

At least it was a beautiful morning for a ride. The rains of a few tendays earlier had dried up completely, and now the weather had settled into the hot, clear days of midsummer. The countryside was awash with verdant growth, from grasses springing up near waist-high along the edge of the road to lush meadows carpeted with dandelions and daisies. Acres of ripening grain-wheat, barley, and rye-waved placidly in the innumerable fields Gerard passed, each set of fields marking another of the various farmsteads of the region.

List in hand, Gerard stopped dutifully at each farm, introducing himself and getting to know the families.

The first family, Brentwood and Dorla Gibbs and their seven children, crowded around Gerard as expectantly as if he were the first contact they'd had with Solace in a fortnight, although Gerard gathered they had just been in town to market a couple of days before. 'Yes, sir, we got a pretty good price for the eggs this tenday, didn't we, Dorla?' Brentwood crowed, sounding as if he had been personally responsible for laying every one of those eggs. He blinked his huge, watery eyes and looked around, assuring himself of his audience's amazement. 'A fair price this tenday, indeed!'

Gerard nodded and smiled, unsure what reaction was called for. Dorla beamed at their guest, cradling her infant twins one in each arm, while a couple of slightly older children of indeterminate gender peeked shyly around her skirts. The three oldest children, all girls, hung back, pretending indifference to Gerard's arrival, although he noticed they waited ardently enough to hear anything he might have to say.

'But, here, I'm forgetting my manners,' Brentwood went on. 'I'm just chattering on, and you haven't even met the little ladies.'

Gerard smiled at the cluster of children, expecting to be introduced to them. Instead, Brentwood strode out toward the barn with Gerard in tow, to where a chicken coop stood in the shade of a cottonwood tree. 'There!' Brentwood announced with a sweep of his arm. 'What did I tell you? The finest little laying hens in all of Solace.'

'Ah,' Gerard said, wondering how long politeness required him to tarry here. The dozens of chickens in the coop looked no different to him than any others he had ever seen.

Then Brentwood said the magic words that changed Gerard's mind about hurrying on his way: 'You'll have breakfast with us, of course.'

It wasn't really a question, but Gerard nodded eagerly, for the ride through the countryside at this early hour had aroused his appetite.

'Dorla,' Brentwood called, leading Gerard back across the farmyard, 'put on a mess of them eggs and fry up some of that fine ham for the sheriff, will you? We need to show him some good country neighborliness.'

Dorla Gibbs must have anticipated her husband's request, because by the time Brentwood ushered Gerard into the cozy farmhouse kitchen, the air was already redolent of frying eggs and ham. Gerard accepted a seat gratefully at the large table that dominated the room, while a couple of the older Gibbs girls bustled about, setting places and tending to their younger siblings. Soon, the aroma of fresh biscuits in the oven joined the frying smells in the room.

When everything was done, Dorla carried a platter to the table as proudly as if bringing willing tribute to a king. She set the platter down in the middle of the table with a flourish. One of the girls followed hard on her heels with a serving bowl full of scrambled eggs, while another carried a basket of biscuits and a tub of freshly churned butter. But Gerard's attention was riveted on the platter Dorla had carried. On it rested the ham, which loomed as a huge slab of almost solid fat that wobbled obscenely when the platter came to rest on the table.

Gerard's stomach did a little nervous flutter in dread anticipation at the sight of it. He was about to beg off the ham and ask for just a plate of eggs, when Brentwood caught him staring at the white, oleaginous slab. Brentwood broke into a huge grin. 'Raised that porker ourselves, we did. Best bacon in, well, miles in any direction, I'll warrant.'

As he spoke, he sliced off a generous hunk and heaped it on a plate, around which Dorla mounded scrambled eggs and piled on two or three biscuits. Belatedly, Gerard realized he was to have no say in what he ate or how much he consumed. Good manners dictated he clean his plate.

He belched softly, already feeling that mass of fat sitting in his belly in an indigestible lump.

The Gibbses, meanwhile, were digging into the food with zest. Gerard managed to work his way resolutely through most of what had been dished up for him, although it required every ounce of self-discipline he had learned as a knight not to disgrace himself by promptly disgorging the meal right there at the table. Dorla and Brentwood tried to urge seconds on him, but he shook his head weakly and forced a thin smile. 'I really must see to some of the other farms hereabouts,' he explained, his lips drawn tight in an effort to keep everything down.

'Of course,' Brentwood boomed. 'Why, whatever have we been thinking, wife? We mustn't hog our guest.' He laughed at his little joke with a wave that took in the remaining ham on the serving platter. 'I'm sure our neighbors will want to show him hospitality, as well.'

So Gerard resumed his trek, holding Thunderbolt to an amble and drinking in deep draughts of air, which suddenly felt close and oppressive in the growing heat. The birds in the trees sang more mournfully than before, and the buzzing of the cicadas had turned shrill. Even Thunderbolt's gentle pace threatened to dislodge the contents of Gerard's stomach. Nevertheless, he managed to make it to the next farm on his list, the one farthest from town, belonging to Biggin Styles.

It was immediately apparent why Styles's place, a pig farm, was located so far from Solace: the stench from the pigs was overwhelming. It burned in the nose and coated the tongue, to the point that Gerard could scarcely remember what fresh air smelled and tasted like. His stomach, already burdened by the Gibbses' ham, rolled over heavily.

Styles was a bachelor, shrewd, bitter, and inordinately proud of his farm. He had come to Solace, he informed Gerard with a haughty air, during the war, along with many of the other recent immigrants who had been displaced from their native lands. But he, unlike the majority of others, had not lacked for industry. In a short time, he had turned this farm, which had fallen into disrepair and which he had purchased for next to nothing, into a going concern. On every side, pigs now squealed and rooted in their pens.

'You can see me in town near any market day, selling the best porkers to be found in all of Solace,' he said disdainfully.

Gerard smiled wanly, grateful there was no Goodwife Styles to urge him to sample the bounty of the farm, and hopeful of being able to quickly escape the place and its smell.

'You'll join me for an early lunch,' Styles said. Again, it wasn't really a question-more the condescending manner of one bestowing his largess on an undeserving social inferior.

Gerard gulped hastily. 'Oh, no, I really couldn't-'

'Nonsense!' Styles waved the objection aside. 'I can't have you leaving here, saying that Biggin Styles lacked social graces.'

'No, really, I wouldn't think of saying-'

'Sit down. I'll soon find us something worthy to eat.'

'Please, just no ham,' Gerard begged, as Styles ushered him firmly to a chair.

Styles froze, anger flashing in his eyes. 'Why, I'll bet you've been over to the Gibbs place.' He shook his head and scowled. 'Them and their paltry fare. I'll wager they carried on the whole time about their wonderful ham, didn't they?' He turned back to his kitchen. 'As if anyone in this county had pork to compare with Biggin Styles. Well, you won't get any of that kind of ordinary food here.' He fished around in a cupboard and came out with a huge pottery jar, which he placed on the table. 'There!' he announced grandly. 'A Styles farm specialty.' He dug into the jar with a long-handled fork and plopped a couple of sodden, vinegary smelling forelegs, complete with split hooves, onto a plate, which he then pushed in front of Gerard. 'Now here's real food! Pickled pig's feet. You won't find the likes if 'em anywhere.'

Gerard stared at the plate and swallowed hard, pretty certain it was true: he wouldn't find the likes of this particular treat anywhere.

'It really gets your mouth watering, don't it?' Styles continued, evidently mistaking Gerard's reaction. He served up a couple more feet on a plate for himself. 'Well, don't stand on ceremony. Dig in!'

Gerard hesitated. He gingerly bit into one of the delicacies, chewing, swallowing, then stifling his gagging as he nearly choked on it. As Styles watched him, he gave a thin smile and finished off the rest. Then, pleading the urgency of his mission as an excuse to leave without eating the second, he said he really must go. Styles stared at the remaining pig's foot balefully. 'I guess I'll just have to send that one along with you,' he said. 'You can have it