EXCERPT | By Sherry Isaac  »  The wheels of the buckboard drew close, the snap of the leather harness, the snort and stamp of Sinclair’s chestnut mare in his ear. Alistair slid back into the present without looking up. “You’re ready, then?”

Sinclair spat a mouthful of sodden tobacco in answer. It landed near the toe of Alistair’s boot. Alistair cringed. For a man with a home and a hearth, Sinclair was sinfully dirty. He could barely accept the man’s handshake when they struck their deal for Alistair’s passage. It was far from comfortable but was an improvement over walking. And it was free, other than a bit of his labour, which was all Alistair could afford.

In each town he helped Sinclair unload whatever he hauled and reload whatever came next. Mostly it was seed, sometimes textiles. When Sinclair picked him up in Bytown—Ottawa, as they’d begun to call it last year—it was panes of glass and ink for a printer’s press. There were more stops than he’d have cared for, but when Sinclair went in search of ale and a bit of company Alistair claimed his circle in the dirt in front of the post office, the general store or the tavern, from where he made his living.

“Still have more stops to make before Etobicoke, Storyteller. That’s as far as I go. Shouldn’t be more than a few days. You’ll be on your own then.”

“So ye told me.” The boards creaked as Alistair climbed in the back. He found a soft spot in the hay next to his satchel then looked to the sky. He smiled. It wouldn’t rain.

Sinclair spat another wad of tobacco on the ground then called over his shoulder, “Where is it you’re going? Streetsville?”

“Aye.” “Streetsville? Never heard of it.” “So ye said.” Yes ye have, you bloody sod. I’ve told ye at least fifty times since we struck our deal. “You’ve family there?”

Though Sinclair couldn’t see him, Alistair nodded. He closed his weary eyes, burning like embers. Would he never be free of the sensation of smoke, hot as coal and rough as tree bark beneath his lids?

The jostle of the wagon rocked him as he had rocked Isabella the night of the fire. Her fine bones like those of a doll they’d seen at a fair only weeks before. Tenderly he’d cradled her in his lap, afraid to touch her charred skin. He looked to heaven, his cracked lips moving in silent prayer. Please, God. Don’t let me break her. Fiery embers reflected in her eyes, tears marked a trail through the soot on her face the way spring rains sought out and quenched dry river beds. Yet she never made a sound. It amazed him then, amazed him still, how she cried till surely empty of all but her soul yet never made a sound.

Sinclair’s voice rang harsh over the wagon’s rattle. “I stood in the back, listening while you told your stories. I liked the one with the bees, how they chased you and your little sister through the field. Ah, the crowd loved it when you sat her in the pig’s water trough then jumped into the pickle barrel to save yourself!” Sinclair’s laughter hitched and halted while he struggled for breath. “Look at me! Still wiping the tears from my eyes! Tell me, how long did you smell like vinegar?”

Alistair answered without opening his lids. “Months,” he said. “Nearly a year.” Though he reeked of pickled beets afterward, his skin dyed pink, the smell had dissipated within a day. But that was not what audiences wanted to hear, even when they knew a story could not possibly be true, it was not what they wanted to hear. Sinclair was proof of that, if he was any measure of human kind.

“Bet that gave you trouble with the girls!” “Aye, it did.” It did not. “Was that a true story?” “That one is.” For the first time he slipped, too tired to lie.

Strange how his breath came easier, freed from the burden. The ache in his forehead relented, released from the force of always having to choose—what to say, what not to say.

“But not all of them?” Why must Sinclair insist on disturbing his peace?

“No, not all.” The wagon slowed. Alistair felt it shift as Sinclair twisted to face him. “Isabella’s wedding? The flowers? Tell me you did walk her down the aisle.”

Alistair peered through one eye. “No. Not that one.” 

“So she isn’t married then? No children?” 

Alistair felt his jaw lock shut. No children. No nieces or nephews. Yet how could that be when Alistair had felt their breath on his cheek, wallowed in the dewy warmth of their downy little heads when he’d kissed them at night? What of the sound of light voices crying, Uncle, Uncle? The tug of their perfectly formed little hands on his trouser leg as they sought his attention, like the lad in the square less than an hour before?

“Who is Mrs. Sheridan?”

Alistair’s eyes popped open and he sat forward in surprise. Sinclair had the good grace to look away. “I’m sorry, man. You were talkin’ in your sleep the other afternoon, talkin’ to a Mrs. Sheridan. You seemed a might distressed. Said you meant to thank her.”

“A relative.” She was not. “A distant one.” Better. “She took us in.”

“Took you in? How do you mean?”

“After our parents died. I got word Mrs. Sheridan passed on.” He’d learned of her death three months earlier, though she’d been cold in the ground for two whole winters.

“You’ll be on your way to pay your respects, then?”

Alistair laid his hands open on his lap. “That’s where I’m headed now.” Little else could elicit his return.

• Excerpted from Storyteller, a collection of short stories by Sherry Isaac, published by In Our Words, 216 pages, price $19.95, available from the author's website www.sherryisaac.com