The Delving

by Aaron Bunce

  “And become an honest servant of the earl! I’m so proud of you, son!” Thorben beamed.

  “Why do you want to watch the river, Paul?” Dennah asked, pushing up onto her knees so she could speak at the boy’s level. “It’s just a bunch of muddy water going on and on and on.”

  Paul replied as Thorben pushed out of his chair and carried his bowl over to the sidebar. He picked up the ladle, but aside from a few bits of carrot, the pot was empty.

  The conversation moved from Dennah to his other sons, their enthusiasm ignited by Paul’s impending name day. Thorben dropped the ladle into the pot and caught his wife’s gaze as he turned. She took a measured bite and chewed thoughtfully, before pointing to her own bowl. She was offering him her modest serving of food, once again willingly sacrificing what little she had for him or their children.

  Thorben waved her off and rubbed his belly, sticking it out to indicate he wasn’t hungry anymore. Her frown was gone, but the worry lines around her eyes remained. He waved her back, indicating that she should eat – Mani knew she’d earned the time to sit and take ease for a while. Dennica nodded and took another small bite, her attention drawn back to the ongoing conversation. She rarely chimed in, instead choosing to sit back, listen, and simply enjoy.

  Dennah clawed at Henrick’s arm, trying to pry her way into the conversation about the Knights of Silver, but the boys were too riled up now. Thorben dropped his bowl into the pot, gathered up the empty dishes, and carried the load to the kitchen. He listened to the children talk and shout, spinning wistful and fanciful tales of their future adventures, of honor and prestige. It emboldened him that they still believed, that his hardships hadn’t broken them. Occasionally Dennah’s voice would ring out, challenging something one of her brothers said, or just fighting to be heard.

  He quietly washed the dishes with clean water, wiped off the chopping table, and swept the floor, before lighting a lantern and heading outside. He closed the door behind him, the crisp night air washing over him. A gentle breeze blew in from the river valley, carrying the song of timber crickets up from the trees. The whimsical tune filled the silence like a gang of out-of-tune minstrels.

  Thorben stacked the firewood he and Dennah split, before making his way down into the cellar. The warm lantern light filled the dark space, splitting the shadows and revealing his wife’s earlier labors. Several of the previously empty shelves were filled with food, cheesecloth draped over them to keep flies and other vermin away. He lifted the cloth and inspected the haul, his heart sinking. At first glance it appeared roughly half of what they usually had this time of year. Could hedge rats have eaten that much without them knowing? It didn’t feel possible, not with the enclosure he’d built for the garden.

  Tromping back up the stairs, Thorben grabbed a pitchfork leaning against the wall and closed the cellar doors. He made his way to the garden and walked around the perimeter, holding the lantern low to inspect every stake and finger-length of thorny weave.

  The warm light glistened off the locust wood he’d used to weave the fence, the long, dark thorns sticking out like a phalanx’s spears. He involuntarily rubbed his hands against his pants, the sores from working with the thorny wood healed and yet still fresh in his mind.

  Thorben completed his walk around and surprisingly found no breaks or gaps in the fence’s thorny weave. He turned and made his way back around in the opposite direction, now inspecting the aviary he’d designed to keep the birds out. Long poles extended up from the fence, specifically cut and bracketed to lean in toward the garden’s center. Even now, with the aid of a single lantern, Thorben could see that all the posts were still in place. The tightly woven fishing net appeared to be intact, too.

  Strange. So how are they getting in? Hedge rats don’t dig, he thought, unhooking the gate and swinging it open so he could enter. He walked down the well-maintained rows between plants, their efforts to keep the space weeded evident even in the dark.

  He walked past a half dozen plants before seeing the first sign of damage. A row of cabbage sat at his feet, fresh holes marked where mature heads had been cut away, but many others were left in place. Thorben leaned in, cursing under his breath as the light exposed teeth marks in some, while several others were chewed down to the stem.

  “Little bastards,” Thorben growled, his chest growing tighter as he continued his inspection. It was more of the same, their food…ruined.

  A plant rustled somewhere to his left, followed quickly by the telltale sound of teeth cutting into a fibrous stem. Thorben spun toward the sound, his left hand thrusting the lantern out before him, while his right readied the pitchfork. He glanced back and confirmed that he had closed and latched the gate behind him. Nothing had followed him in. Had they followed Dennica in earlier? Surely she would have seen or heard them.

  Slowly, he crept forward, moving silently on the balls of his feet. Thorben stopped and listened, then redirected to his right. The lantern shone down a row of green beans, the knee-high plants swaying gently in the night breeze. A crunch sounded directly ahead and one of the plants twitched violently. A cat-sized, dark form moved between the plants, and then another.

  “Not my beans!” Thorben growled and jammed the pitchfork towards the closest hedge rat. The tines bit into the soil, a handful of dark, furry shapes scattering.

  He chased one of the fat creatures down the row, only to have another appear from the plants and scurry to the left. Thorben followed, jabbing the pitchfork at the ground, but the wind and the rocking lantern made the shadows dance and jump, and he missed again. He pulled the tines free, his rage building.

  “You eat our food…then we’ll eat you…roasted hedge rat!” Thorben grunted and danced between rows of vegetables, stabbing the pitchfork down repeatedly, attacking anything that moved.

  A hedge rat ran right between his feet and he spun to follow, desperate to enact his anger on at least one of the guilty beasts. The creature waddled in a straight line down a row of peas, its belly fat with his food.

  Thorben pursued and pushed off the fence as the fat animal veered right, the wood groaning under his weight. The hedge rat ran right into a small blueberry bush, its bulk making the entire shrub dance and shake. He pounced, jabbing the pitchfork at the base of the bush again and again, the tines biting with a satisfying plop.

  Chapter Five

  Witt’s End

  Thorben pulled back, his side and leg aching from the chase. He let the pitchfork fall to the ground and dropped to his knees. He pulled the branches aside, fat blueberries shaking loose and peppering the dirt, and reached in to pull the dead animal out. His fingers sunk into…dirt. Scrambling, Thorben pulled more of the branches out of the way and leaned in, holding the lantern close.

  There was no blood, or dead hedge rat, only a scattered pile of berries, and a dark hole burrowed next to the plant’s base. Realization swept over him and he pushed up from the ground, moving quickly with the lantern held just over the ground.

  It took him a few bushes, but Thorben found another small burrow hidden under a raspberry bush. After just a few moments of searching, he’d found more burrows than he cared to count.

  “But…hedge rats don’t dig,” he muttered, spinning on the spot and taking in his cleverly constructed fence and roof.

  Despair filled him like ice-cold water, his muscles trembling as he slapped the gate open and exited the garden. He’d spent moons harvesting the right kind of timber. It had taken him and his boys another moon to dig the stakes, and strip the thorny, locust branches, before soaking and weaving them into what he’d believed to be an impenetrable fence.

  And yet, despite all of his labors, the hedge rats – animals he’d never seen dig – simply burrowed under and into the garden, gorging on what should have been their winter stores. His despair turned to hopelessness, tears bubbling up and running down his cheeks.

  “There is no reward, is there? I put the thievery behind me and accept you… start living a good life, and now�
�now,” he sputtered, lifting his head skyward, where the moon hung like a large, silver disc. “We praise you…offer up what we can. Cannot you spare just a meager blessing? Must you kick me while I’m in the mud, too? Hedge rats don’t dig…did you teach them just so they could torment me?” He didn’t expect a response – no lightning strike from the heavens, or a ghostly apparition that would instantly and magically ease all of his woes. He was a believer ironically enough, and knew that wasn’t how gods worked. Their hands worked far more subtle deeds. Part of him was glad Dennica hadn’t heard him, just then. She was the practical one, after all.

  Thorben tromped back into the house, dropped the lantern onto the kitchen prep table, and fell into a chair. He sat brooding on the day’s ill fortune, struggling with whom or what he was angrier with – Lamtrop, and his burly thug, the Earl and his sticky-fingered taxmen, or the hedge rats. They all felt like villains, in their own way. One at least acted out of an understandable impulse to survive.

  Death and dust. I can pick a lock, disarm a bear trap, and build a sturdy house, but I cannot manage to keep insufferable beasts from eating our food.

  The ceiling creaked and groaned above him as his children walked around, no doubt preparing to lie down for the night. He wondered what it would feel like to no longer have the roof over their heads, watching as they struggled to stay warm in the cold season or dry when the spring’s monsoon rains turned the sky dark and the ground soft. What would they say when their coin purse emptied and there wasn’t enough food to fill bellies?

  Life was about balancing each and every risk versus the potential reward. His thoughts spun back to Lamtrop’s Woolery, and he started to doubt. Did he overreact? Yes, he did. The man had no right to claim ownership over people’s homes…their kin, or lovers, and all for coin. Regardless, he shouldn’t have let his temper get the best of him.

  Should I have agreed to his terms? he wondered, imagining the look on Dennica’s face if he’d walked through the door, arms laden with food and a bulging sack of silver to boot. And for what? He might have worked harder throughout the fall and winter – split firewood, mended fences, swollen doors, leaky roofs, and broken windows, to pay it back. But that was only if he could find those jobs, those people willing to pay someone like him, to pay a branded man.

  Thorben silently debated himself on the topic, tipping one way, and then the other, spiraling deeper into doubt and remorse. He sat indecisively in the sturdy chair, his legs fidgeting, an uncomfortable, crawling sensation prickling his skin and muscles.

  Struggling to find direction and answers to his pressing questions, Thorben moved to stand, but in a horrific moment, his body denied him. The house sat still and dark, the occasional creak of a timber beam or gust of wind the only reminder that anything existed beyond his own thoughts. Thorben sat and listened, his mind racing, suddenly a prisoner without ropes or chains.

  He turned and looked at the door to his left. It led to the rest of the house, and his family – the people that relied on him. His gaze swept across the dark room and fell on the split door that would take him outside. A horrible thought swept through him, and he nearly became sick considering it. He could walk out the door and leave. He could run. He considered the fact that his family might be better off without him.

  Thorben balled up a fist and pounded his leg. It felt like he was trapped in a maze, every twist or turn leading him to either a dead end, a hulking man with a sword, or a swarming pit of hedge rats. The kitchen shrunk around him, the walls creeping in until his heart hammered in his chest and sweat broke out on his face and arms. The air became unbearably heavy and close.

  “I cannot,” Thorben whispered, struggling to catch his breath. It was too much to take…too many problems crushing down on him at the same time. They were strangling…choking him. Had his pride doomed his family? Had Dennica doomed their children by picking him over other suitors?

  Thorben rocked forward in the chair and dropped his face into his hands, forcing his eyes closed. He took a deep breath and visualized the empty cellar, hungry children, Lamtrop and his burly thug, and the hedge rats. He hated all of them.

  He was up and out of the chair without conscious thought, the door wrenched open and banging against the wall behind him. Thorben stumbled after a few steps and fell to his knees. He gasped down a breath of cool, fresh air. Wind roared in the trees and insects buzzed.

  Thorben took another deep, shuddering breath, and opened his eyes. The crushing walls and inky-dark shadows, the oppressive burdens surrounding him, were gone, at least for the moment. He could breathe again. The button of his left sleeve had come undone, the tattered fabric falling back to his elbow. White moonlight fell upon the raised flesh of his forearm, the brand he’d spent every waking hour for half his life trying to hide now exposed and in the open. He hated it most of all.

  Pushing away from the ground, Thorben stood. He took another breath and felt his heart slow, even though his legs continued to shake. He held his arm up before him, the stars twinkling overhead. A shooting star streaked across the night sky.

  Branded like an animal, he thought, his gaze darting to the dark, swaying trees. His grandfather’s voice rang out suddenly in his mind, the old man’s wheezy voice breaking through his despair.

  A man is flesh and bone, like the beasts of the fields and forest. But a man can think, speak, and reason. Beasts cannot. We claim ownership of animals, for food, wool, and hides, marking them so others know they belong to us. When one man marks another, he tells that person they are lower than he, that he is a beast, and is owned. This is sickness. One man should never own another.

  He’d heard his grandfather give the speech many times before the fire. It was the same speech he gave from the town square as well, and the reason why many folk in the borough called him crazy. He was the old man that ranted about the uncomfortable things – the things most preferred to ignore.

  Thorben now understood what he meant. He’d broken the Council’s edict and was punished, but the punishment hadn’t ended with his release from the mine. Their brand marked him, like a beast, as something less than everyone else, someone to be ridiculed and feared. It meant that merchants could charge him more for their wares or services, that people would pull their children to the other side of the lane if they saw him coming, but mostly, that the Earl’s caravan could collect more from him in tax than other folk. He couldn’t hide it from the taxmen, like he did everyone else. They knew. They always knew.

  Thorben collected himself, wiped his cheeks, and stood, pulling his sleeve down and fastening the button. There were many reasons to keep it covered and hidden, but what if he didn’t have to?

  Coin was central to all of his struggles, and inexplicably tied to the brand. If he had coin, he could buy the food they needed for the winter, seed to plant in the spring, build a proper stone wall around their property, and a pair of dogs to keep the hedge rats at bay. If he had coin, all of his problems would simply go away.

  He patted his chest, abruptly, a shaking hand sliding into his vest and pulling the folded parchment free. Thorben unfolded the rubbing and held it out, the sheaf glowing bluish-white in the moonlight.

  Was it so horrible to delve one last time, if it meant his family stayed warm and well fed all winter? If it meant that they wouldn’t have to risk their home, or worse, losing one of their children? If Iona was good to his word, and his healer could remove the brand, then Thorben’s life would become much easier.

  “No, I would do whatever it took,” he whispered in response to the silent questions, and despite the bitter taste the words left in his mouth, he knew it was the truth. He couldn’t stand the thought of Dennica or his children sweeping floors or polishing tables for men like Lamtrop…living as a slave, as property.

  “I hope you understand,” he whispered to the heavens and stowed the parchment back inside his vest. He could reconcile with the goddess afterwards, but had a feeling that she knew and understood better than anyone else. The
goddess approves of selflessness above all other traits, or so the priests always told him. He wouldn’t delve for him. It would be for his family, and their family when he was gone.

  Thorben walked back into the house, closing the door quietly behind him. Every step forward felt a little easier, the weight bending his back lifting just a little. One task for another, a delve for a brand.

  He picked up the lantern off the table and made his way through the dining hall and to the small, crude desk against the far wall. Pulling a wrinkled sheaf of paper from the cubby, Thorben lifted the lid off the inkwell, tapped the quill into the ink, and started to write.

  Thorben wrote the runes slowly, stopping frequently to dip the quill into the ink as he decided what to say. He stopped and stared at the lantern, the flame flicking and arcing behind panes of soot-stained glass. Guilt stabbed into his heart as he dropped the quill back down to the parchment and quickly scribbled out the rest of the lie. He dropped a large pinch of sand onto the sheaf and gently blew on the wet ink. Once he was satisfied it wouldn’t run he tapped the sand onto the floor, and read his message–

  Dearest wife,

  It is I that is to blame for our difficulties as of late. As you know, I am an honest man, if nothing else, and feel compelled to right this wrong – for you and the children. I met a merchant while in town that offered employ escorting a wagon of valuables down the Broken Tooth road and through the swamp country to Ogre Springs. He asked that I tend his wagons and gear if anything should break. You know how rough the road is. He has provided assurance of further work after, if my services are to his liking, and guaranteed passage on the return journey. I will return to you and our children within a fortnight with coin in hand. I pray that Mani keeps you safely in her keeping.