Dark Encounter
A COOL NIGHT wind blew through the French forest,
tossing the limbs of twisted trees, rustling the leaves and casting eerie
shadows in the moonlight. The road Solomon Kane walked was little more than a
trail cut out by cartwheels, with weedy grass growing between twin ruts and
along the roadside.
Oak and beech grew on both sides of the trail, and their
branches touched overhead, shading the road, giving the impression in some
areas that one was walking through a tunnel. Kane looked up, barely able to see
the moon or the clouds that marched sullenly across it like phantom legions.
The trail of the man he was following led into this forest,
and Kane knew he would have to stop for the night as he would likely lose his
quarry’s trail in the dark.
Finding shelter for the night seemed unlikely, as he had
passed no dwelling either occupied or abandoned all day, so he resigned himself
to sleeping on the ground.
He had not seen a living soul since early morning, so the
sight of a man standing beside the road surprised him. The stranger leaned
casually against a tree, his arms crossed on his chest, one leg straight and
the other bent, the toe of his boot resting on the ground. He seemed relaxed
and confident, with a welcoming grin. He was about Kane’s age, perhaps a little
older, and wore a stamped-leather sleeved jerkin over a doublet. Burgundy hose ran
into tall leather boots, and a plain flat beret with a single feather sat on
his head. He had a handsome face, a light brown, neatly trimmed beard and
mustache.
“Bonsoir monsieur,” the man greeted Kane in the
friendliest of voices, as if they were meeting on a city street and not in the
middle of a dark forest.
“Bonsoir,” Kane replied, cautiously.
The man spoke again in French, to which Kane attempted to
reply in kind.
The man shook his head disdainfully and interrupted Kane. “Excusez-moi,
monsieur, but I am afraid your English tongue cannot do justice to the most
beautiful language in the world. It is almost painful to listen to you attempt
it. But, fear not, monsieur, I speak English, and we will communicate
thus.”
Kane nodded appreciatively, and before he could say a word,
the Frenchman continued.
“I had not thought to see another human being on this trail,
for I have seen none for hours. My name is Charles de Guise, and I am on my way
home to Rennes.” He paused and, with a simple gesture, prompted Kane to
introduce himself.
“My name is Solomon Kane.”
It was curt and stated. Guise brought his head forward,
expecting more, then realized he had come across a taciturn Englishman who was
cautious when meeting strangers in a dark forest. The Frenchman gave Kane a
charming smile.
“Since there appears to be no village or even a farmhouse in
the vicinity, I suggest we share a camp for the night.” He bent down, picked up
a dead hare at his feet and held it out for Kane to see.
“I would be happy to share this simple fare with you, monsieur,”
Charles de Guise said, stepping forward to offer his bare right hand.
Kane nodded, removed his glove, and shook hands with the man.
Looking at the hare, he felt his stomach growl. They chose to camp in a small
clearing in the woods not far from the trail. It was getting dark quickly.
The Frenchman said, “If you would be so kind, monsieur,
to gather some wood for a fire and make a spit, while I prepare our dinner. I
am quite excellent with a knife and have had much experience in skinning small creatures.”
The light from the campfire fought against night, but did not
penetrate far into the thick woods. Soon the enticing aroma of the roasting
hare filled the air.
The two men sat on opposite sides of the fire, studying one
another. Kane appeared almost stingy with his words, while Guise seemed to
enjoy the sound of his own voice.
“Do you hold to the belief, monsieur, that one may tell
much about another man, simply by observing him a short while?”
Kane shrugged. “I do not believe I have ever heard of that
theory.”
“I would be somewhat amazed if you had heard of it, since it
was I who discovered it. For example, I observed your hands and have come to
the conclusion that you have spent some time aboard ship. Your hands look quite
strong, but calloused and scarred from handling the tarred ropes and such. Your
manner of dress—the black clothes and hat, no adornments, not the slightest
degree of … panache—tells me you are what the English refer to as
Puritan, like the Huguenots but more so. Your somber face, sharp, gaunt features,
those deep-set, cold grey eyes, the heavy brows reflect something of a hunter,
a killer of men, a man of unwavering determination. You have become like the
cold steel you wear at your side. You have lost some of your humanness.”
Kane considered all this. The man had read his character very
well, but it did not cause the Puritan any distress, as he thought it was best
that friend and foe realize his true nature. He did not believe in putting on a
false front.
In response to Guise’s last comment, Kane said thoughtfully,
“I have seen things.”
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