by Matthew Berg
The Crafter's Son
Book One of
The Crafter Chronicles
By
Matthew B. Berg
Woodfall Press
P.O. Box #6011
Holliston, MA 01746
Copyright © 2019 Matthew B. Berg
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
eBook ISBN: 0-9785791-2-7
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Contents
1. The Run
2. Encounter
3. Old Friends
4. A Diversion
5. Talents Revealed
6. Debts and Promises
7. Questions Raised
8. Questions Answered
9. New Friends
10. First Class
11. Lessons
12. Heroics
13. An Arrival
14. Adventure
15. Colors
16. Entanglements
17. Training
18. Opportunity
19. Bystanders
20. Oskar
21. Squire’s Return
22. The Princess
23. Lady-in-Waiting
24. Crafting
25. Old Tales
26. Portents
27. Winds of Change
28. Reflections
29. Loss
30. Captured
31. Revelations
32. Farewell
33. Journey Begun
34. Search
35. Squire Lost
36. Practical Magic
37. Flight
38. Squire’s End
39. To Arlon
40. Running River
Epilogue
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1
The Run
Breeden’s small hands worked the net carefully as the sunrise unfolded in fiery arcs across the sky. To his sixteen-year-old sensibility, it was the most incredible sunrise he had ever seen: deep reds and purples bled in broad streaks into burnt oranges and yellows above the floodplain to the east. Fully half the world was ablaze in a riot of colors overhead. Rich, earthy smells rose from the lake. And the crispness of early spring cleared the last wisps of lingering sleep he bore from rising so early.
With difficulty, he tore himself away from the sky’s majesty. He had no time for sunrises right now. He shifted his seat closer to the balance point of his small rowboat and adjusted his grip once again. The net’s rough hemp was clammy and pricked the skin of his calloused hands unpredictably as he maintained a steady draw against the weight of the water. Then Breeden noticed the roiling of the water above his net. He was startled at first, the churning mass looking like a thing tentacled and evil. But he quickly realized he could pick out the forms of individual fish sliding over, under, and around each other like a dark, wet fistful of arm-thick worms. Relief from the brief stab of fear, and joy at the arrival of the anticipated fish, swelled in his chest. The running of the herring had begun!
His father had set Breeden upon the course he now followed in the hopes he would beat the rush of townsfolk who would soon scramble onto the water in anything that floated. The harvest of nearly limitless quantities of fish from these waters over the next two weeks would provide food for months to come for many, and a windfall commodity to be distributed by boat and wagon for others.
For Breeden and his parents, all the fish from today’s catch would be salted and smoked dry for storage. Breeden would catch additional fish during the summer months, which they would eat fresh, but today’s bounty, once properly prepared, would last them through the winter—perhaps even until next year’s run.
It was all Breeden could do to muscle the first haul over the side of his father’s rowboat. And the pair of bushel baskets he had brought with him proved woefully inadequate to contain even the first net’s catch. But he cast the net two more times and landed two more hauls, each somewhat smaller than the last, before he collapsed at the bow of the sturdy little boat.
Only then did Breeden take the time to rest and to admire the sky and the now visible orb of the sun rising above the distant tree line. His boat sat in the middle of the River Woodfall’s narrow mouth at the southernmost end of Long Lake. The broad and treeless expanse of the river’s floodplain afforded him a wide and unobstructed view of the sun’s rise for miles to the east and southeast. A low mist clung to the lake’s surface against the far banks, where shade offered it a few more minutes’ protection, but the water around him was clear and smooth, reflecting the sky’s now fading colors.
As he swept his gaze from the south through the east, he caught sight of a will-o-wisp. The halo-shrouded mass of blue and blue-green lights moved through the air like an erratic school of fish. He watched it for a few more moments before it disappeared. Even the brief sighting made Breeden’s heart race. He had seen will-o-wisps before, though usually at night. But they weren’t common by any means, and most people Breeden knew were superstitious of them. Many thought wisps were ill omens, but others, as Breeden, thought they were bits of magic that, should you be able to lay your hands on one, would grant you any wish. He waited to see if it would reappear, and when it didn’t, he sighed and looked about once more.
Gazing north, Breeden could see several small fishing vessels. Some had sails furled and were engaged in landing the salmon, which lived in the deeper waters of the lake. Others were done with their morning’s work on the water and were returning to shore to begin the sorting and cleaning of their catch. Beyond the boats and beyond the range of his eyesight, Breeden knew the lake continued north for many leagues. A small vessel like the ones before him would take as long as two or even three days to make the trip to the northernmost tip of the aptly named Long Lake.
After several minutes of reflection, Breeden reluctantly retrieved the oars and set off for shore.
2
Encounter
It wasn’t until he arrived at the pier that Breeden realized he would have a hard time bringing his bounty home without assistance, but he loaded a single bushel basket as full as he could manage and set off anyway. The b
asket was somewhat more than half full, but it still presented a daunting challenge to Breeden’s young frame, and he had to stop at the landward end of the pier and set the basket down to catch his wind. When he straightened once again to pick up his burden, he discovered an old man standing where he’d have sworn none had stood moments earlier.
The old man had a thick head of long hair, more white than grey, and long mustaches that ran trimly down below his jaw. His features were strong and firm, and his skin bore the leathery appearance of a man who had spent his life at sea. He wore a half-smile, and his furrowed brow made him look as though he were waiting for someone.
Breeden recovered from his surprise and bid the old man good morning.
“Good morning, my son. You bear a heavy burden for one so young.”
“Yes, sir. It’s the run, finally here.”
“I can see that.” His half smile broadened, and his eyes crinkled up. “And it appears as though you’ve no intention of sharing with anyone else!”
Breeden could tell the man was joking, but felt abashed nonetheless. “I’ve been out each morning for nine days. My father would say I’ve earned the early bird’s share.”
The old man’s smile softened as he looked beneath the sandy mop of hair and into the hazel eyes of the young man before him. He could see the obvious sincerity behind his words. “As you have, my son. Nine days? You are a persistent one. By your father’s bidding, or on your own?”
“A bit of both, sir. My father asked me if I needed him this year. Other springs we would go out together, but this time he asked. And when he asked, I got the feeling the right answer was to say no, so I did. He seemed happy, so I figure I made the right decision.”
The old man nodded sagely. “It sounds like your father has raised you well. I’m sure you make him proud.”
Breeden smiled, feeling embarrassed, and a bit proud, from the comment. Too, there was something about the old man and the way he spoke that made the exchange feel particularly genuine. Then he remembered the challenge that remained before him. “He may not be so proud of me if it takes me ten trips back and forth to the house to bring home all the fish I’ve caught. I didn’t think how I’d get the fish back without him.”
The old man furrowed his brow once again as he pondered the boy’s predicament, but before he could speak, Breeden continued. “I suppose it’s okay to leave the rest of the fish in our boat and go get him to help me. I won’t be long—just a handful of minutes each way. And even though I wanted to do this all by myself, I suppose I don’t really have a choice, right?”
“I’m sure the fish will be fine,” the old man chuckled softly. “The morning is cool yet. And there don’t appear to be any thieves about. Perhaps a wheelbarrow?”
Breeden considered briefly and then laughed. “What a great idea! I could probably manage without my father if I brought back the wheel-barrel. And the fish won’t be alone as long either!”
“By all means, then, you must hurry along. Don’t let a foolish old man hold you up on your errand.”
“Thank you, sir! Good morning!”
The smile faded ever so slightly from the old man’s eyes as Breeden turned and jogged up the road.
3
Old Friends
Since Breeden’s family lived but a short walk away, only a handful of minutes passed before he returned. When he stepped back onto the pier, he noticed that the old man was gone. For some reason, this didn’t surprise him. There was something sad about the entire encounter, though he couldn’t understand why.
He shook off the hollow feeling and began loading his fish into the wheelbarrow.
Half an hour later, Breeden arrived at home with a two-wheeled cart filled to the top with fat black-and-silver herring.
He leaned the handle of his cart against the wall and walked over to a rain barrel at the corner of his house, grabbing the small pail from a hook hung well under the eave and scooping out some water to wash the scales and slime from his arms and hands. He would need his father’s assistance to unload and prepare the herring for storage, but he would need to be clean before entering his home to ask for help.
The two-story house before him had a narrow front that faced the main road, which followed the River Woodfall’s bend. Their home was built on the bank of the river, and the rear of the house, his father’s workshop, overhung the river by several feet. Above the simple wooden door that served as his home’s entrance were the words “Holt Andehar, Boatwright,” and extending from the doorjamb was a double-sided craftsman’s placard displaying a picture of a carved sailboat, the hull painted cobalt blue, and the sail painted white. The front stoop was swept clear of debris, and the plaster-and-timber exterior appeared freshly whitewashed.
Breeden gave one last glance to the load of fish and opened the front door to enter his house.
Upon stepping inside, Breeden took care in wiping his feet on a mat of bristles and then walked toward the kitchen. He could hear his father in animated conversation down the length of the hallway. Then his mother’s laugh rang out. Breeden was surprised at the unusual energy he sensed. That’s odd, he thought. They were happy people, but he just didn’t think of them as people who laughed all the time. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard such genuine mirth in their voices. Then a deep rumbling sound, as of a boat rubbing against a submerged rock, issued from the kitchen. Breeden couldn’t be sure, but he thought the sound might have contained words. He picked up his pace and approached the kitchen doorway.
And then he saw the giant.
He was seated on a workbench that had been pulled into the kitchen from his father’s shop at the back of the house—likely because no chair in the home would have been large enough to accommodate his massive frame. Even seated as he was, his tremendous head brushed the ceiling as he shifted in his seat. His features were like those of a human, though not in the same proportion. His nose, for example, was much broader than even a ten-foot human’s would have been. His ears were massive and pointed at the top, like an elf’s. Too, his brownish-orange skin was rough and craggy, like the shell of a walnut. And his deeply recessed eyes looked very small, and even smaller for being so heavily shadowed by a prominent brow. His hair was black and curly, and his springlike locks hung loosely about his head.
By contrast, Breeden’s mother and father looked like children, seated as they were in the presence of this enormous figure. Breeden’s father had sandy-blond hair that was quietly and almost unnoticeably transitioning to grey and white by turns. He had a roundish head, red cheeks more often than not, and bright, intelligent blue eyes. He shared with Breeden a smile that turned up at only one side. His mother had brown hair, hazel-green eyes, like Breeden’s, and a warm and beautiful face that had weathered the years well enough that she looked far younger than her husband—despite the fact that she was his senior by almost two years.
After Breeden stood gaping in the doorway for a few timeless moments, his mother finally noticed his arrival and rose to free him from his frozen state.
“Aegir,” she introduced, “this is our son, Breeden. When was the last time you visited us? I don’t believe you’ve ever had a chance to meet him. Breeden, say hello to our dear friend Aegir.”
Breeden looked the giant in the eye and found he could not speak. Without standing, Aegir smiled at the young man and inclined his head slightly, rumbling so low that Breeden could feel the words in his chest. “Greetings, Breeden. It is an honor to meet you as a young man.”
Breeden didn’t register the greeting, and even allowing for his youth, his stupor was becoming awkward. His father rose then and guided him to a chair. “I am sorry, friend. My son is young still and hasn’t seen your kind before. But I suppose that’s pretty obvious, eh?”
Aegir waved his hand to dismiss Breeden’s father’s concerns. “No worry, Holt Andehar. A day will come, I hope, when the two of us will sail Long Lake together as friends. But the boy is young, as you say, and I have come unannounced.
” With these words, the giant rose slowly, hunching as he did so as to ensure he didn’t strike his head on the high ceiling.
“Don’t go.” The words, from Breeden, were hardly audible. When all eyes in the room had turned to hear him better, he managed a bit louder. “Stay at least until I’ve brought the fish in.”
Breeden’s father laughed softly. “Fish indeed! The boy’s wits have returned, and he is his father’s practical son! The herring run must have begun, Aegir. We must help Breeden with his catch.”
In no time at all, and with Aegir’s assistance—despite the protest from Breeden’s mother—they had the fish in three large barrels, soaking in brine. They could store the fish in this way for many weeks and could take their time in drying the fish and wrapping them for more durable storage. All agreed that Breeden’s haul was unexpectedly large and would certainly last through to next year’s run.
Breeden had loosened up while they worked and had begun to ask questions of Aegir. They were innocuous questions at first. “Where do you live? . . . Do your mountains truly reach the clouds?” And they became bolder as the morning progressed. By the time they were finished cleaning up and were once again seated in the kitchen, Breeden was asking more of the types of questions you might expect from a sixteen-year-old boy: “How many stones can you lift? . . . Are the giant women as big as the giant men? . . . Do they breathe fire? . . . How about giant babies? Are they as big as I am now? . . . How many apples can you eat in one sitting? . . . Can you swim, or do you sink if you fall in the water?”