You are here: Home (fiction) --> Short stories --> 2020 --> Mangoes
Vous êtes ici : Accueil (fiction) --> Contes -->--> 2020 --> Mangoes

Mangoes

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2020. Mangoes. p. 71-83 in: T. Gondolfi (ed.) Witches, Warriors, and Wyverns. Tanstaafl Press.

Dvergr fell upon the caravan like an avalanche. He’d originally intended to do nothing more than extort some trivial price for their passage, but his temper got the best of him when they started firing arrows and other projectiles. That was no way to greet someone when you entered his land!

When he was done, nothing stirred on the valley floor, save scraps of fluttering canvas that covered the remains of the caravan’s wagons. A great many men lay dead, often scattered in pieces across the landscape. Steam escaped from open wounds and pools of blood, rising in the cold air of his mountain pass. The horses had bolted and fled back the way they’d come, save for one that had broken its neck running into one of the standing stones that lined the road. Dvergr regretted that only one had met that fate; he liked horse flesh almost as much as that of men.

Idly, he scratched at his face, dislodging several arrows that had lodged there. They hadn’t penetrated his thick skin, nor did they hurt particularly, but they did itch and he couldn’t abide an itch.

Dvergr picked up a wagon in his left hand and snapped off its tongue, which he used to pick at his teeth until he freed the scrap of rib cage that had gotten stuck there, and spat it to the ground. It landed two-score yards away. He tossed the wooden shaft over his shoulder, then tore the roof from the wagon so he could examine its contents. As he’d feared, there was much there that puzzled him and more that would be of no use whatsoever: bolts of cloth too fine and fragile to survive his enormous frame, shattered crockery, and chests filled with the small clanky bits of metal humans so loved.

He threw the wagon away in disgust.

Another wagon caught his attention. From it came an unfamiliar sweet, flowery scent that started his mouth watering. When he tore the roof away and flung it aside, he found several leather-bound chests, one leaking a sticky syrup that seemed to be the source of the aroma.
The chest burst open under gentle pressure from his fingers, spilling a host of tiny greenish objects to the ground. Several had been crushed, revealing a golden orange interior, and that was the source of the heavenly scent. He raised the chest to his face, and as the aroma rose directly into his nostrils, they dilated—as did his eyes. This was clearly some southern fruit, and the aroma evoked thoughts of warm, sunny winter days that brought a song to his heart. He opened his mouth, tipped the chest’s contents onto his tongue, bit down—and his knees weakened in delight. The taste more than lived up to the promise of its scent—it was the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten or ever imagined eating. Before he could stop himself, he’d eaten half the chest’s contents.

When he did manage to force himself to stop, it was because he realized there might be no more. Closer examination revealed the wagon to be carrying three more chests full of the fruits. Delighted though he was by the prospects of savoring them at his leisure, he was also dismayed by the prospect there’d be no more until the next caravan arrived. Dvergr paused a moment in thought: the caravans would avoid this pass during the long, dark months of winter, and would only return in late spring, when the snows had melted and flowed from the pass. It was late spring now. Summer never lasted long. He had perhaps another two months before the weather turned and the snows closed the pass.

Dvergr wanted more of the sweet treats. He scrunched up his face hoping it would help him think. A good start would be to eliminate any evidence that something unfortunate had happened, lest the signs of mayhem scare off other caravans. It wouldn’t do to kill the goose that laid these particular golden eggs.

* * *

Freya should have been born in some barbarian land where her stature would have been unsurprising and might possibly have done her some good. As it was, she was a city-woman born and bred. She’d spent enough time outside cities that she no longer considered herself a tenderfoot. Quite the opposite, really, as she’d earned a reputation as someone who knew her way around the wilderness as well as she knew her way around a sword.

This was undoubtedly why the merchant—unequivocally one of the aforementioned tenderfoots—had put out the word for Freya specifically. All of which led to her standing before him, awaiting the small man’s pleasure. The merchant looked up and up from his papers. “Can’t you just sit down? You’re making me uncomfortable.”

The mercenary looked down at the guest chair, an impractically slender fantasy, and smirked. “No, I don’t imagine I could sit down. At best, I’d ruin your expensive chair.”

“Then sit on the floor,” the merchant snapped. He paused a moment, took a deep breath, and continued. “I’m sorry. I’ve been under considerable strain of late. So if you could, I don’t know, sit on the floor or kneel or something?”

Freya folded her legs beneath her and sat, bringing her head to about the same level as the merchant. “Better?”

“Much.” The merchant cleared his throat. “Do I understand correctly that you solve problems for people such as me?”

“Depends. What kind of problems need solving?”

“It has to do with my caravans. In the past month, something has been stopping my caravans from returning. The southbound ones are never a problem; they pass easily through the mountains, and carrier pigeons return with messages of welcoming markets and lucrative trade. But then, shortly after they signal their imminent return north, the messages cease. So far as I can tell, the returning caravans reach the southern end of the pass that separates us from the warm lands, but get no further north.”

“Have you any knowledge of what might be stopping them?”

The merchant bit his lip in a way that told Freya he was preparing a half-truth or outright lie. “Nary a notion. Nobody south of the pass will go anywhere near it to investigate. My first thought was bandits, but there’s no sign of trouble when the southbound caravans enter the pass.” Freya noted the implication that some, at least, had survived to flee south and alert the merchant to the problem. “It’s only their return that’s blocked. I’ve taken to sending my caravans far to the west, so they can circumnavigate the mountains, and that works well enough for durable goods. But it’s disastrous for perishables.”

“Such as?”

“Exotic fruits and vegetables, mostly. They don’t last the journey.”

“You could hire a wizard to enchant them.”

“Yes, and lose half or more of my profits paying the fees. Wizards don’t come cheap.”

Freya’s lip quirked. “Just for the record, neither do I.”

The merchant frowned. “I researched you. I know what you charge. I also know that you occasionally work on commission.”

“That’s right. I’ll work for a share of whatever it is I’m rescuing. Traditionally, that’s whatever I can carry away.” She shrugged her massive shoulders. “As you can tell, that’s a lot. But not an unreasonable amount.”

The merchant grimaced. “You can take whatever you can carry away. The caravans are already lost to me. If you solve the problem and survive to return with your booty, I’m no further behind than I was before I hired you. And if you don’t return—no offense—I’m not out a copper piece.”

“No offense taken.” The merchant visibly relaxed. “Give me your contract, and if it suits, I’ll begin looking into your problem.”

The merchant hesitated a moment, looked the very large woman over from head to ample bosom, and then handed her a slim stack of papers with a raised eyebrow.

Yes, I can actually read and write, Freya thought. But she’d long ago learned not to say everything she thought. She placed her pince-nez reading glasses on the bridge of her nose and quickly scanned through the document. There wasn’t much there, but it seemed reasonable. She rose, and reached across the table to shake the merchant’s hand, being careful not to apply the pressure she sorely wanted to apply. Pulling the pen from the desk’s inkwell, careful not to snap the shaft, she signed both copies of the contract. The merchant countersigned, blotted the papers dry, and handed Freya her copy. The big woman tucked it into her belt pouch and left with a bow.

* * *

Dvergr took great pains to remove all evidence of the first caravan, and at first, it seemed to have worked well. About a week later, when the second caravan arrived, there was nothing to warn them away. But as soon as they saw him striding down from the hills, they attacked. They were armed somewhat better than the first caravan, including two mounted riders. Things were going much as before until the riders charged him with lances that broke against his leather leggings. Though they did little more than slow his advance, his temper rose up and claimed him. This group lasted no longer than the first. But this time, he’d been careless, and one of the riders managed to escape after shattering his lance, and being no fool, fled south. Dvergr heaved a few rocks in his direction once he’d crushed or torn apart the guards who were on foot, but he’d waited too long and the rider was beyond his range.

Dvergr sighed and set about looting the wagons and disposing of the evidence in a convenient depression he’d found that would conceal the wreckage from travelers. It was not the outcome he’d hoped for, but he at least found another few chests of the heavenly fruit.

* * *

Freya reached the crest of the pass and stopped to catch her breath. Keen eyes scanned the slopes, hoping to find wreckage strewn across the path or some other sign of what had stopped the caravans. To her dismay, the pass stretched empty and open before her. She’d been prepared for hill bandits or perhaps even an organized troop of demobbed soldiers, but found nothing. Whatever disaster had claimed the caravan had swept away every last scrap of evidence. This was clearly not the handiwork of men; bandits were not exactly famous for their tidiness. The absence of scorch marks provided further confirmation; bandits tended to burn the dead to avoid evidence such as flocks of ravens that would alert the vigilant escorts of subsequent caravans.

Brows furrowed, she pondered a moment. The lack of scorch marks also meant that it wasn’t a dragon, which was no small blessing. She’d devoted some time to studying the weaknesses of dragons in case she should happen across one in her travels, and all that effort revealed the single dismaying fact that they had no weaknesses, unless one had sorcerous aid. There were many more pleasant ways to end one’s life than facing a dragon.

She supposed that a sudden, violent wind—probably sorcerous in origin—could have destroyed the caravans or carried them away, but that should have left at least some survivors. It should also have toppled some of the sarcens that lined the path and guided travelers through the pass. About the only other possibility was a giant. Though a giant was preferable to a dragon, that preference was akin to preferring being drawn and quartered for treason over being burned at the stake for some imagined heresy.

Freya reslung her pack across her right side and confirmed that the sword strung across her back remained loose in its scabbard and not tangled in her cloak. She made her way downhill to an open area that seemed promising. As she drew closer, signs of violence that had been invisible from higher up the slope became apparent. Heavy cart wheels had been dragged crosswise along the stone flags, leaving streaks of rust. No, on closer inspection, the rust was dried blood. She glanced carefully around her, but nothing moved. She stepped off the flags that covered the road and found the clear impression of a wagon that had been flung onto its side, pressing the wheels into soft earth. There she also found scraps of leather thick as her arm that had been torn from beasts of burden and shredded. Lastly, she found a great many crossbow bolts scattered about the ground, many snapped in twain.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, then called out with all the power in her deep chest. “Hallooooo the pass!”

For a moment, the only sound was the dying echoes. Then, what she’d thought was a patch of rocky hillside heaved itself to its feet and began strolling downhill toward her. She swallowed past a suddenly constricted throat, forced herself to stand her ground and continue breathing slowly, and tried to give her best impression of a woman out for an afternoon stroll, without a care in the world. This became increasingly difficult as the giant approached and the mercenary was forced to tilt her neck increasingly backward to keep the giant’s head—and large hands—in view. She stood her ground, though her knees trembled.

“What are you doing in my valley, Man?” The giant’s voice rumbled forth from a chest wider than a cattle barge and just as deep. He spoke the common tongue with surprising clarity.

Freya blinked and sized up her opponent. The giant’s hand was large enough to completely surround her chest and crush it like a twig. Though she was large enough to use what would be another man’s greatsword as others might use a longsword, she didn’t give much for her chances if it came down to a brawl. She forced a smile, gathered her resources to ensure her voice wouldn’t squeak—she hated when it did that—and replied with as much confidence as she could muster.

“Woman, actually. Greetings, friend. My name’s Freya, and I’m passing through your beautiful mountains on my way to warmer southern climes.” She failed to repress a shiver, and turned it into a conversational cue. “It’s cold up here, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Then she reached slowly for the wineskin at her waist.

“It would be my pleasure to share a drink of finest northern ice wine with you, should you wish it, Mister…”

The giant hesitated a moment before picking up on his cue. “Dvergr.” Then he snorted. “There’s not enough wine there for you, let alone enough for us to share.”

Freya nodded. “It’s true that I’d reckoned without your size. Still, if you have your own drink, I’d be pleased to share a toast to these beautiful mountains of yours.”

The giant watched her suspiciously, then snorted. “Bide a moment.” Then he turned on his heel and strode uphill faster than a pony could manage at a gallop on flat earth. He returned equally swiftly, breathing easily and bearing a barrel nearly as large as the mercenary. With a casual gesture, he punched a hole in the end with a finger, then saluted Freya, strong alcohol pouring down his chin and soaking his chest-length beard. “To my mountains!”

Freya raised her wineskin and took a judicious sip; the giant drained the barrel and cast it aside. It landed with a crash in a depression that hid it from view.

“It must be lonely here.”

“It’s not so bad. We giants aren’t the most social of beings.”

“Still, you must occasionally feel the need for companionship…”

Dvergr smirked. “A caravan passes through every now and then, but they don’t seem to want to tarry and have a drink with me.”

Freya took another sip, then corked her wineskin and lashed it to her belt. “I can imagine most of them are too intimidated.”

“I’m not so scary as all that. You, for instance. You don’t seem much intimidated.”

“Should I be?”

Dvergr thought a moment. “No. So long as you maintain a civil tongue in your head and that sword in its scabbard, I’m happy to pass the time with you.”

“But not with the caravans?”

Dvergr frowned. “They choose not to be civil.” He scratched at his scalp with a sound like a rake passing through gravel. “Mostly, they shoot at me as soon as they see me, or they run away. They never give me so much as a moment to say hello.”

“I can see as how that would be annoying.”

“More like enraging. I confess to having a quick temper.”

“Perfectly understandable.” Freya scanned the giant’s face for signs that his temper might be quickening. “I can imagine growing somewhat heated if people treated me that way.” She paused a moment and smiled. “In fact, you may have difficulty crediting it, but people often fear and mistrust me because of my size.”

Dvergr snorted, a wave of alcohol-laden breath washing over the mercenary. “You’re right. I have a hard time believing that.”

“Still, it is so. Size is a relative thing, and I’m so much bigger than most of my folk, they feel uncomfortable in my presence.” Dvergr grunted. “Still, I’m rarely so enraged by their response that I feel the need for a reason to destroy things. Like a caravan, say.”

“I wouldn’t destroy them if they’d just leave me in peace, and leave me some of their…” His voice broke off in mid-sentence, and an ugly look of suspicion grew on his broad face. “Why do I need a reason? I’m a giant, this is my land, and breaking things is what I do. There. Now you have three reasons!”

Despite herself, Freya took a step back. “All eminently sensible reasons. And yet…”

“Yet?”

“It seems to me a terrible waste. If you destroy them to teach them a lesson in courtesy, then after a time, they will learn a different lesson: not to pass through your lands at all. Then there will be nobody to leave you their…”

“Golden-sweets.” The giant heaved a heavy sign, alcoholic wind ruffling Freya’s hair, and sadness spread across his face.

“Could you show me one?”

A flush spread across the giant’s face. “What…so you can try to take them from me?”

Despite her best efforts, Freya was unable to resist the urge to step back again and clap hand to sword, but she did belatedly manage to turn it into a gesture to massage a stiff neck. “Nothing of the sort, friend Dvergr. You can clearly see how overmatched I am. It would be as much as my life’s worth to try such a thing, and I’m deeply attached to living.”

“What, then?”

“Well, a thought occurred to me.”

“Yes?”

“These caravans are operated by rich merchants, no?”

“I have no idea. But it seems plausible.”

“You can take my word for this. And rich merchants grow wealthy by trading shrewdly. Consider, then, this possibility: that instead of destroying them, and ensuring that they will never return, you offer to trade with them.”

“What do I have to trade?”

“Freedom to pass through your land without hindrance from bandits, for instance. I assume—and correct me if I’m wrong—that no brigands or thieves are foolhardy enough to establish themselves in your land?”

“You assume correctly. I would make paste of them.”

“That’s surely something worth paying for. Merchants love losing money even less than they’d love you.”

“Their money is worthless to me.”

“But what if they could pay you in goods. Such as a chest of…”

“Golden-sweets!”

“Yes, golden-sweets. Now if you could show me one, I can tell you what the merchants call them.”

“Bide a moment.” Dvergr strode rapidly uphill, and returned a few moments later with something clasped in his hand. “Here…tell me what you small folk call this, and mind that you return it to me!”

Freya examined the fruit, careful to keep it far from her mouth. “I believe this is what is known as a mango. They’re expensive, but I imagine a deal could be struck.”

“Such as?”

“Perhaps one chest of mangoes for each caravan that you let pass through your land?”

Dvergr’s brows knotted in thought as he did the math. “Two chests!”

Freya bowed and nodded. “Two chests, then. It seems a fair price to pay.”

“How might this be arranged?”

“Leave it to me. I shall continue my walk south until I reach the caravansary and can discuss this deal with the merchants. You, in turn, would need to promise not to destroy any more caravans until I return. Once they understand the terms of the deal, all should be well.”
Suspicion crossed the giant’s face once more. “And what’s in it for you?”

Freya smiled. “Well, it seems you’ve done a remarkable job cleaning away the wreckage of the caravans you’ve destroyed. Might some of that wreckage still be nearby?” She nodded upslope with her chin toward where Dvergr had thrown the empty cask.

“Aye.”

“If I might be permitted to pick through the wreckage and take a few things with me, I would consider myself amply rewarded.”

“That seems fair.” The giant’s expression eased. “Only…”

“Only what?”

“Return my…mango.”

Freya complied with some alacrity, then walked up the slope. She came to a deep depression, filled with shattered wagons and chests. At the bottom, she found a broken chest, leaking coins upon the ground. She knelt, and filled her pack with as many coins as she could lift, which was a tidy sum. Then she returned to the giant.

“The sun has declined quite some distance through the sky, and I fear I must be on my way again before night falls. But I promise I shall return as soon as my legs can carry me, hopefully with good news.”

“I look forward to your return, human.”

“And I, too.”

“But, human?”

“Yes?”

“Bring mangoes.”

“I shall most assuredly bring all that I can carry.”

* * *

“And the price will be only two chests of mangoes?”

Freya nodded at the circle of merchants sitting around the table. “For each caravan, yes. In addition to securing you free passage through his land, he will also undertake to keep the pass clear of bandits and other inconveniences. The savings from that alone should easily repay the cost of the fruit. For a giant, this Dvergr seems surprisingly reasonable.”

One of the merchants stood. “And what is to keep us from hiring a sorcerer to eliminate the giant?”

“Common sense. Sorcerers are far more expensive than mangoes, and far less reliable.”

Another cleared his throat. “What if we were to poison him?”

Freya snorted. “When I first met him, he drank down a hogshead of rum as if it were water. You’ll have a hard time finding a poison potent enough to kill him before he realizes what’s happening and kills all your men.”

“Still…”

“Still? As soon as word gets out what happened—and it will—you’ll find no more men willing to escort your caravans.”

“Perhaps we could mount several ballistas on wagons and use them to kill the damned giant?”

Freya nodded acknowledgment. “You could certainly try. Be sure to let me know how that works out for you. Ask your last knight-escort how well that worked for his lance. You might well slay the giant, or drive him away.” She sipped at the drink in front of her, timing her pause carefully. “Or you might just anger him and cause him to come down out of his hills and teach you some courtesy.”

The merchant paled, and sat down. “I don’t think we’d want that.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Freya waited for any further suggestions. “Can I tell Dvergr that we have an agreement?” There was a moment of hesitation, and heads around the table began nodding. “Wise choice. The price is more than reasonable. Now if our business here is concluded, then I shall take my leave of you gentlemen. But before I leave, would you be willing to provide me with a chest of mangoes as a goodwill gesture?”

* * *

Freya reached the top of the pass, as before, but this time riding a mule with a disposition as placid as a tree stump. In its panniers, she carried a load of mangoes. Around her neck and under her shirt, she wore golden chains she’d purchased with the coins she’d taken. The chains were lighter, more portable, and easier to conceal.

“Dvergr!” she shouted.

After a moment, the giant stood up and lumbered downslope to greet her. The mule looked up, not alarmed in the least.

“Freya! Have you returned with a deal?”

“Aye, friend, and more.” She unhooked the panniers and held them up to the giant.

Dvergr took them, and a broad smile spread over his face. “Mangoes! Thank you… friend.”

Freya bowed. “It’s my pleasure. Nonetheless, I advocate caution.”

Dvergr frowned. “Because you don’t trust them?”

“I trust them as well as I trust any other man, which is to say, only for so long as their self-interest is clear. I think they’ll keep to their end of the agreement so long as you keep to yours. But you must take great pains not to scare them, since scared men oft behave badly.”

Dvergr nodded.

“And there is one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Like any other fruit, the mangoes will not be available all year. A wise giant will set some aside against future need, so that you won’t want for them during the long winter.”

“That seems wise.”

“And you should investigate the possibility of other options. For instance, there are many other southern fruits you might enjoy trying when the mangoes are unavailable. These are, after all, merchants you’re dealing with. Once they know what you like, I’m sure they will find other things to tempt your palate.”

Comments from readers

To comment on this story or see other comments, please visit the blog page for this story.

Want to build on this story?

If you liked the characters or setting and want to use them in your own fiction, please do; the dialog between authors enhances the value of fiction. However, please add a suitably amended version of the following statement at the start of your story:

"The characters and setting in this story originated in [story name and URL/link], by Geoff Hart. Although Geoff encouraged adaptation of his original work, he has not reviewed my story, and the original story remains copyrighted in his name."

Then send me a link to your story, and I'll post the link here.

©2004–2024 Geoffrey Hart. All rights reserved.