He shook the man’s hand. The captain turned and continued his work of unloading more cargo from his seemingly bottomless ship.
Fearchar looked over the box and the duffel. The box was unusual. It was tall, the length of a man’s torso and shoulders. It was bequeathed with hardware and straps. Eoin picked it up and pulled the straps to adjust them. He shifted the box to his back. That was new by Fearchar’s figuring. “Braw box, Waerd,” Fearchar commented. Eoin nodded to the man before picking up his duffel.
“Ah, come now. Ye’re payin’ me ta be some ‘ired ‘and. Might ‘s well do bit a’ liftin’,” Fearchar motioned to the bag. Eoin, willing to have the help, handed it over to the man. The redhead’s eyes bulged at the weight. “Good lort, wha’ ye keep in here, a cookin’ pot?” Fearchar slung the bag behind his back. Eoin cocked his head in a reply that went beyond Fearchar.
“Shall we?” Fearchar offered, pointing up the street that bordered the bay and lead up to a delta. They followed the path up past a dry waterfall. It would start to flood in the next month, Eoin checked his geographic knowledge. He’d need to remember that if he wanted to make it back to the village safely. They ascended into the hills beyond the village. The path was rocky sparse, not cultivated for carriages.
They wandered the road for the better part of an hour and a half, passing small hovels here and there. They approached a massive two story rock house perched atop a hill, similar in style to the wattle and daub Tudor houses in London. Near the road leading to it was a burned out round house, fallen in from decay. “Daleroch’s place. Looks out on a private bay that he uses ta’ dock his fleet,” Fearchar supplied Eoin the information in a curt manner that designated the topic as a sour point. Eoin nodded, showing that he was listening. He studied the building, noting the overgrowth of weeds up near the house, and the spare chicken coop off the back, collapsing.