The Stranger & the Shipment

The harsh sheet of rain had quieted into a gentle drizzle, but the wind had picked up and was howling through the village, so loudly a regular conversation would have to be shouted.
The lamplight reflected from the wet, uneven streets, and minuscule droplets of freshwater formed small puddles on the cracked sidewalks.
A stranger with a rimmed hat and raincoat limped, head forward, along the path that led out of the village towards the edge of the forest, where a lopsided stone cottage was nestled up against the trees. The lights flickering from the windows was welcoming, and the stranger couldn’t help but feel already at home as he drew nearer to it.

Devraj Trevelyan turned his back on the window, more because of the pitch-blackness than lack of interest in the storm. A warm fire crackled in the fireplace, and with the new installment of Franklin’s stove, Devraj felt very superior over his neighbors. Smoke no longer coiled up inside a room; it spiraled straight through the chimney and then into the outside air. Smirking to himself, Devraj settled himself restlessly into the armchair that he had been sitting in a moment before the latch on the window clicked open and an eery wind began blowing in.
Just as thoughts of steaming potato chowder entered his thoughts, there was a sudden rap on the door and Devraj, startled, strode over to it and pushed it open. A man, soaked to the bone, stood shivering in front of him. A fleet crack of lightning illuminated his pale, anxious face.
“Pardon me,” said the stranger, lifting a feeble hand to tip his hat. Devraj drew back slightly; misty rain was flying into the house, and the stranger’s hat dripped water onto his floor. “Could I warm up by your delightful fire for a bit?”
Devraj narrowed his eyes at the man, who was staring fixedly at him. A look of panic flickered in his eyes, and so Devraj, reluctantly, opened the door a little wider.
The stranger grinned at him, showing crooked yellow teeth. He stepped over the threshold, dripping water everywhere, and took off his raincoat and wide rimmed hat, throwing them into a heap on the floor. “Thank you,” he added, and hurried over to the fire, settling himself in Devraj’s armchair. Devraj scowled, thinking about how long the velvet would take to dry.
Devraj turned away from the stranger and pulled out a kettle and some tea bags. He would have to head out into the storm to reach the well. Resisting the impulse to badger his guest into getting the water for him, he sighed irritably and went outside.

“Thank you.” said the stranger absently, taking the tea from Devraj and finished it in a few gulps. A little color had flooded into his pale cheeks, and after a moment of silence, the stranger jumped up as though something had startled him and handed his host the china cup.
Devraj took the cup, offended, and asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no..” answered the stranger with a wave of his hand as he pulled on his raincoat and jammed the hat on his head. “...I’ve just realized that there’s somewhere I need to be.” With a pause, he reached inside his back pocket and took out an envelope, handing it to Devraj.
“I thank you,” he began, “and I am ashamed to oppose on your hospitality any longer, but I desperately need this letter delivered, and I’m hoping...”
“It’s fine.” answered Devraj, and he took the letter, intending to open it as soon as the stranger left. The former seemed to realize this, however, and held back. “It cannot be intercepted by anyone. This information is privileged. Do you understand?”
Devraj tried to hide his taken-aback expression and nodded. “Who do I give it to?”
“The addressee will find you in good time. Keep this safe.” And, with a few taps to the side of his nose, the stranger opened the door and disappeared into the blackness of the night.

The sealed paper stayed hidden under the straw mattress throughout the week, and just as Devraj was getting impatient and irritated, trying to hold off the temptation to snatch up the letter and read its contents, a smart knock on the door made his ears quiver; and he swung the door open.
He had fully expected to see a single person whom the stranger had mentioned to be standing there, waiting, but when his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight he saw that it was not one, but several men standing stiffly in crisp blue uniforms with brass buttons and polished rifles.
“Are you mister Devraj Trevelyan?” asked the soldier in front. He was trying hard to hide his impatient scowl, and Devraj nodded with abashed curiosity.
“Let me get right to the point, then. Have you recently become in contact with a man by the name of MacAllister Gebauer?”
Several men, Devraj noticed, shifted uncomfortably. He himself felt uneasy. He had talked to numerous people in the past few months who he had never thought to ask for their name. It could have been the delirious old man in the tavern last month, who had given him his box of fine cigars. Or it could have been the young man with a baby face look to him who he had helped load sacks of potatoes into the back of a wagon.
Feeling bollixed, Devraj shrugged. The soldier in front glared hard at him, then asked in a cold, mistrusting voice, “Would you mind if we searched your home?”
Devraj, alarmed, replied, “What would you be searching for, then?”
The soldier in front gritted his teeth and glanced at the men around him, then answered finally, “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps... a letter?”
Realization must have dawned on Devraj’s face, because the soldiers pushed past him and began rampaging his home, turning over the cushions in the sofa and armchair, opening cupboards and drawers, yanking back the sheets on his bed, and feeling under the mattress...
“Here!” bellowed one of the skinnier soldiers with a much deeper voice. He waved the parchment in the air. His fellow men gathered around him, and the angrier of the lot snatched the letter, turned it over in his hands, then ripped it open and read the few words on the page.
He then shoved the letter under Devraj’s nose, and Devraj straightened it and read with slightly shaky hands,
Alphard,
The shipment arrives at 3 o’clock on the 22nd of November.
Kill the man who has handed this to you. No doubt he has
already read this.
Ask for Sara.
-MG
Feeling even more bewildered than before, Devraj handed the letter back to the soldier who was looking at him as though he wanted some explanation.

The planks on the dock were splintered and rotting, and sincerely needed replacing. At least a dozen sleek wooden ships were tied to the posts. Sailors could still be seen peering at the little village from the masts, but most were scurrying here and there, either shouting orders or obeying them.
Devraj meandered aimlessly around the grungy sailors, telling himself he was never going to find the ship whose esoteric shipment waited to be picked up by a man named Alphard who probably had no idea that it was today.
A hard prod in the back made Devraj jump, and he whirled around to see himself face to face with that particular antagonistic soldier whom he had never liked. He had made a deal, though, which would keep him from being thrown in prison, or worse, executed on charges of concealment of illegal contrivances. Apparently, MacAllister Gebauer was smuggling something into the country. Illegal or no, he had tried to keep it from the King, which, in any case, most likely meant that it was illegal. But word had reached the village of several families found dead by the hand of MacAllister Gebauer, and somehow it connected with the shipment that Devraj would be picking up under a false surname.
“It’s this one, here,” the soldier said with barely a sneer, pointing at one of the most ordinary, middle ships. Devraj looked up, and most unexpectedly got the strongest impression that he should turn back straight away. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as straight as pins, and he shivered inside his coat.
A woman, perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever lay eyes on, was standing on the deck of the ship, one hand on a heavily padlocked truck. She had long golden hair that fell in natural curls down her back, with the most beckoning brown eyes that were staring right into his, making him feel extremely endangered and attracted to her at the very same time. Almost without thinking, Devraj swung himself onto the ship and hopped the steep wooden stairs. In one breathless moment he had reached her.
She was staring at him with a cognizant stare, and said almost surprisingly, “Mister Alphard?”
Devraj opened his mouth to correct her, to tell her his real name, but then he came to full awareness and nodded apprehensively. This must be Sara. He thought to himself.
She glared at him for a moment longer, trying to find a lie in his eyes, then dropped her gaze to the trunk.
“Well, I’m sure Gebauer–” (She glanced around to make sure no one had heard) “told you about this? How to handle it? What to do with it and everything?”
Devraj pursed his lips, then nodded again. Lies always escaped his mouth in a fallacious tone, so he found it better to use body language and try and keep his face composed.
Sara rubbed her hands on the pair of sailor’s trousers she was wearing, then motioned for him to help her lift it. Together, they struggled to carry it down the steep stairway, which proved to be very difficult on the contrary. The soldiers were not on deck anymore, obviously keeping out of view of Sara. They dropped the trunk onto a dolly and Devraj took the handle from her.
“Oh,” Sara warned him, snatching a piece of parchment from her trouser pocket. “Gebauer told me to give this to you, incase...you know...you forgot or something.” She slapped the paper into his hand and turned away. Feeling a little exhausted, Devraj turned his weary eyes onto the paper.
Alex Gadsby - Carcassonne
He knew the famous medieval village Carcassonne, of course, but what did Alex Gadsby want with it? What was concealed inside this temperamentally heavy trunk?
Was it something the soldiers expected, like stolen gold or dangerous drugs? Or was it something more formidable? Devraj could only guess at all the questions that flew through his mind. He wheeled the dolly, with the heavy trunk, off the dock towards the men that were waiting to open it.

The bad-tempered soldier ran a hand over the padlock, looking, if it were even possible, even more angry. “Do you have a key?” he growled, shooting Devraj a loathing glare.
When Devraj shook his head regretfully, the soldier gritted his teeth than barked an order over his shoulder, “An axe! Hurry!”
A soldier or two stomped off in search for an axe. Ten minutes later, one of them returned carrying a large wood cutting axe with a sharp, shiny blade and blood-red handle. He dropped the axe into the angry soldier’s hands. The angry soldier glowered one last time at Devraj, then swung it high in the air. The clash was loud, but it did not break immediately. Nostrils flaring, the soldier lifted the axe once more in the air and swung it down with all his might.
CLANG. The chain broke, and it slithered off the trunk with ease. The soldier grabbed the lid and pulled it open. Everyone gathered around and then gasped simultaneously as the sunshine revealed a furious but also startled face of MacAllister Gebauer.