The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  Jurel could well remember the incident with the cow patty two summers ago. Trig had suggested that they jump from the rafters into piles of hay. Always one of their favorite sports. “Look I already made the pile,” he had said and sure enough, there was a nice plump pile of hay as tall as Galbin. “You go first Darren.”

  What he had neglected to mention was that the hay was actually a rather thin camouflage for a shoulder high pile of cow dung. Even as Darren jumped Trig had laughed and called out, “Pleasant landings!”

  As Darren emerged like some creature from a nightmare, a troll or an ogre perhaps, spluttering and wiping his face, he hurled a fistful of brown goo at Trig who dove out of the way still laughing so hard Jurel had been certain his ribs would crack. The second fistful of gunk slammed into the barn wall mere inches from the door. Just as it opened. Just as Ingirt had walked in. Her eyes had bugged out and Jurel had been certain that at any moment, lightning would shoot out of them. Her lips were pinched; there was just a thin white gash like a scar across the bottom of her face—a strange counterpoint to the two bright red spots on her cheeks. When she started berating the whole lot of them, she sounded like an entire murder of crows angered by a fox who stole their meal. Men had come in from the fields to find out who had been murdered and Jurel had wiped his ears, absolutely certain they were bleeding.

  With an expression that could have soured sugar, Ingirt clicked her teeth. “Perhaps it would be wise to dispense with some pressing issues first, dear.”

  “No. We shall eat first. I'm starving.”

  Marta entered at that instant as if Galbin's pronouncement of starvation was of far greater importance than his summons and she set a platter holding the most beautiful chicken Jurel had ever seen, cut into perfect slices, on the circle of bare wood in the center of the table. He suddenly found himself eternally grateful to Galbin's appetite.

  “Thank you my dear Marta,” Galbin said and he breathed deep. “It smells absolutely splendid. Will you join us?”

  Jurel barely even heard Galbin's praise or his invitation; his attention was firmly riveted on the meal in front of him and his belly began to grumble earnestly and loudly.

  “No thank you Galbin,” Marta replied. “Dake awaits me. His joints ache so in this damp weather, you know. If you don't need anything else from old Marta, I'd like to take my leave and go to him.”

  “Of course my dear,” Galbin said with a smile. “Give Dake my best and tell him to take care.”

  “Oh Marta,” Ingirt called when the old maid reached the door. “Please be here early on the morrow. There will be quite a mess to clean up.”

  Another sigh from Galbin. Marta's only response was that she closed the front door perhaps a little more firmly than was necessary. There was silence for a moment as expectant glances passed around the room, a tableau of courtesy as everyone tried to determine their turn to serve themselves until Galbin waved a hand meaningfully to the bounty laid out.

  “Come on now. We're all family here. Dig in. Don't be shy.”

  So they did. Well, all of them but Jurel who could not help but gawk at Galbin as the man ravaged his first plateful like a bear coming out of hibernation. He was not surprised to see spots of food appear on Galbin's clothes. He was surprised that the chandelier managed to avoid the splatter. He felt he witnessed a violent crime more than he saw a hungry man eating. It was not until his father nudged him, none too gently, that he remembered himself.

  “Don't be rude boy,” he murmured even as he stuffed a forkful of chicken in his mouth. “Eat.”

  Shrugging slightly, Jurel did as he was told and joined everyone in enjoying the wonderful feast.

  For a time, they ate and the only sounds were the faint clinking of cutlery and snatches of mundane discussion that revolved around the weather, the quality of the fishing at the pond, and compliments to the cook. That suited Jurel just fine. It allowed him to give his food his undivided attention and he savored every bite. He and his father always ate well, but their meals were never this tasty, never so grand. Whereas he could expect a couple of slabs of meat fried in a skillet and sided by dried vegetables at home, or perhaps a hearty stew, here he dined as he was certain royalty dined. The chicken was so tender and juicy he could cut it with his fork, the mashed potatoes crackled with garlic, and the peas were so plump and juicy they popped in his mouth like sweet little fireworks. It was marvelous.

  “I bet you don't get to eat like that in your little shack, eh new kid?”

  He almost stabbed himself with his fork as his eyes snapped up to Valik's malicious smile. The food that had just a moment ago riveted him turned to ashes in his mouth.

  “Valik!” Galbin roared in a voice well accustomed to traveling great distances over farm fields, and then more quietly, “I apologize for my son Jurel. Please enjoy your meal.”

  “Enough Galbin. I want to know why Jurel assaulted my son today.”

  He had to admire her strength of will. Even under her husband's withering gaze, a gaze that Jurel knew could send even the surliest of the hands bolting for the nearest cover, she managed to remain proud, managed to stare down her nose at Jurel like a judge pronouncing sentence on a vile criminal.

  The room was a tapestry of tension. Daved had stiffened in offended outrage and Jurel could see the muscles in his neck trembling. Valik was grinning maliciously again, and Galbin and Ingirt continued their staring contest across the table. He was certain that the silent battle they waged was a brutal one. Jurel himself, wanted nothing more than to slide unobtrusively under the table.

  “Daved, you've heard about what happened. What say you to my wife's accusations?” Galbin's voice grated with pent fury and he did not break off the glare he shared with his wife.

  A whisper of skirts rustling broke the stillness. For all her outward calm, Ingirt was intimidated. No surprise there. Galbin was an easy going man, slow to anger. Jurel had only seen him truly angry twice since he had met the man. On the rare occasion when he did anger, it was like a fire in dry brush.

  “If it suits you Galbin, I'd like to let my son speak for himself.” At least Daved did not seem fazed by Galbin's wrath.

  His expression softened as he transferred his gaze to Jurel and he smiled encouragingly. “Worry not lad,” he said quietly. “Speak your piece and I, at least, will listen without bias.” A sharp glance was fired at his wife and she cleared her throat nervously. “My son and my wife will listen to you. Silently.”

  His thoughts were a swirl, a confusing jumble of bits and snippets that tossed about like leaves in the wind. He felt pinned by the eyes that watched him silently and expectantly, waiting for him to put on his show, perhaps waiting for him to slip up, for him fall on his face as it were. He imagined that this must be what a condemned man felt when he was escorted to the gallows. It was once again a nudge from Daved that roused him from his daze.

  “Go on, boy. You heard him. Tell your side of it.”

  With nowhere else to look, Jurel stared down at the remainder of his meal sitting in a mess of congealing gravy like toads in mud. His words stumbled haltingly from his mouth like each one needed to be dragged kicking and screaming from the safety of his head and even when he managed to get them out, they were as quiet as a stalking cat. Slowly, the events that led up to Valik's bloody nose began to take shape.

  “Speak up new kid. We can't hear your tale,” sneered the older boy.

  The table shuddered with a great boom when Galbin's fist struck it, plates and glasses jumping as though startled. He rose so suddenly that his chair skittered backward and toppled near the wall.

  “I said you will listen silently!” he thundered. “The next time you speak without my leave, I will tan your hide. Do you understand boy?”

  Somehow Valik managed to hold his father's glare but only for a moment before he lowered his eyes and muttered an apology. Even Ingirt did not look at her husband as he stood with his fists planted on the table, vibrating with rage, looming over his son. It was wi
th obvious effort that Galbin drew in a deep breath and controlled himself as he picked up his chair and sat, motioning Jurel to continue.

  So he continued and by the time he reached the end of his story, his confidence was enough that he was able to look Galbin in the eye.

  “...and then he jumped me and beat me while I was on the ground. It took both Trig and Darren to pull him off me. Then he swore he would get even with me,” Jurel concluded and much to his surprise he felt some alien emotion had taken hold of him, one that he had felt maybe once or twice before: he was outraged.

  “You're a lying whoreson,” Valik shrieked.

  Even as he rose ready to leap across the table to exact his revenge right then and there, Galbin too bolted upright, again sending his chair flying backward. In a flash he was around the table and gripping Valik by the scruff of his shirt, and hauled him off the ground like a wolf picking up his straying puppy.

  “I think I understand the truth of the matter now,” Galbin hissed and the power of his voice was such that everyone in the room cringed—even Daved, though less than the others—and Valik blanched. “Since you seem to lack enough sense to follow your father's direct order, I have no doubt that you would attack another boy—a younger one!—based on a misconception.” With a heave, he sent his son stumbling across the room, fighting to keep his footing. “Your dinner is over. Go to your room and let me not hear another sound from you for the rest of this night. I expect you will be very busy tomorrow and for the foreseeable future so I suggest you get some sleep.”

  As Valik fled, sobbing, up the stairs, Galbin whirled and faced his wife with a withering glare. Some small part of Jurel whispered that she should be getting used to that look tonight.

  “I think this matter is settled, don't you?”

  It was as if he dared his wife to object, like some animal part of him had been uncaged and struggled to stay loose for a while longer. It was a side of Galbin that rarely showed itself and for the first time in his life, Jurel was afraid of the huge man who was like an uncle to him.

  “Yes husband,” whispered Ingirt, her eyes downcast, on her hands clasped white-knuckled in her lap.

  “You did good lad. You did fine,” Daved murmured, patting Jurel on the shoulder.

  Jurel tried to smile but his world was upside down. He had seen Galbin angry but he had never seen him furious. Not like that. He always wore an easy smile, was always ready with a joke and a laugh. That night, he had looked ready to murder his own son.

  “Well that was entertaining,” Galbin sighed as he pulled his chair back to the table.

  Jurel saw it then. He saw the look in Galbin's eye. The hurt, the sorrow, the inescapable knowledge that his son, his blood, was a sniveling bully, and Jurel's heart went out to the big man. Galbin loved his son, that much was obvious. He wanted his son to grow up to be a man like him; he wanted his son to be honorable, and hard-working. How it must gall to know that his only son and heir was such a selfish lout.

  “I know you meant no harm lad,” Galbin said with a weak and wholly unconvincing attempt at a smile. “I know it was just an accident. Never fear that old Galbin thinks any worse of you.”

  As if rousing from a dream, a nightmare perhaps, Galbin blinked and glanced left then right like he was seeing his surroundings for the first time appearing from the oily remnants of fitful sleep. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously.

  “Now then,” he said crisply, all business. “With that settled, can we eat? I'm starving.”

  Could a man be blamed for wanting to forget that his son was a fool, at least for the moment? At least while he was enjoying a pleasant evening with his closest friend and his (still ashen-faced) wife? Could a man be blamed for wanting to push away bad memories, to sweep them under the rug to be trodden on, or at least buried under forkfuls of chicken and potatoes, until they were well and truly hidden? Perhaps then they would disappear and somehow the disappearance of the memory might change the reality.

  Ingirt seemed to have other ideas.

  “I think I too shall retire for the evening. I've no wish to listen to you two discuss business.”

  She tried to inject some good humor into her words. Oh how she tried. But in the end, the strain was too great and it seeped through like water out of a leaky bucket.

  Galbin raised sad eyes and gazed at his wife. Just as with Valik, Galbin loved his wife, no matter how difficult she could be, and he despised seeing her hurt. Later, there would be tender words between them. Later they would talk and perhaps shed a tear over their mutual stubbornness. But for now, in front of guests, no matter how close those guests were to being family, graciousness was the name of the game.

  “Of course, love. We will speak later?” There was an apology in those words, an olive branch that was hopefully extended.

  “Yes dear. Just don't be staying up too late now,” she replied crisply but not with any malice that Jurel could detect. It would seem the olive branch was accepted.

  She glided as gracefully as a swan around the table and placed a tender kiss on her husband's cheek, whispered something that Jurel did not quite catch but that caused Galbin to blush, and to smile genuinely and widely. Skirts rustling and whispering, she glided from the room and disappeared like a phantom into the darkened hallway beyond.

  His own plate was still half-full but his appetite had deserted him, and so he could manage no more than to play idly with the remains of his meal, running his fork in swirls and circles through the congealed mass. Even the two men, he noted, seemed less interested in their food. Like him, they did little more than pick at their plates, staring morosely, though, true to form, Galbin put in an extra effort. The silence was an awkward one as each one mulled over their own private thoughts, perhaps mulled over how to break the ice and inject a little gaiety back into their evening. But the silence lengthened, stretching until the room seemed taut, quiver-thin, until Jurel thought he might scream.

  “May I have my leave as well, father?” he asked.

  “Not hungry anymore, hmmm?” His gaze was understanding. “It's all right with me as long as it's all right with our host.”

  “Well, I don't know,” Galbin said, his eyes twinkling slyly. “You might not thank me for letting you go when you find out that Marta baked apple pie.”

  He had tasted Marta's pies before and they were always delicious, like warm breezes and sunny days, but he could not seem to find any enthusiasm for it right then.

  “Thank you, sir. Dinner was wonderful and I'm afraid I've left no room for dessert.”

  Please don't insist. Please let me go.

  Eying Jurel's half full plate, Galbin chuckled. “You've raised quite a tactful young man there, Daved. What's your secret?”

  There was mirth in his eyes and Jurel knew he was caught out. His father, on the other hand, stared with fierce pride at him.

  “Can't take too much credit, Gally. He's a good lad all by himself.”

  “That he is. Of course you can go. Tell you what: when your father leaves I'll make sure he has a nice fat slice of that pie for you.”

  Rising carefully, making sure to hide his impatience to be away from there, he thanked Galbin and politely bade them both a good night.

  “Don't forget lad, there'll be plenty of chores tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He had to consciously measure his steps until he reached the front door. He wanted nothing more than to flee but to do so would be unseemly. As soon as he stepped out into the cooling night air, however, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, choking on his relief.

  Chapter 7

  Galbin's study was a warm place. A quiet place for a man to sit and think. To bend over the endless reams of paper on the desk, that a farm that size seemed to require, or to recline in one of the plush chairs in front of the fireplace after a long day of work and enjoy a bracing sip of something strong. And that was exactly what the two men were doing: sipping fine brandy and idly chat
ting about the day.

  Already, they had decided that Buril, the lazy, stupid new farm hand would be sent packing the next day. Already, they had decided what to do with the rest of the south fields. That business was over and their infrequent chatter, bracketed by the long, comfortable silences that men who were as brothers often enjoyed, began to move toward less important issues. Speculations on the weather brought on speculations of the haul they could expect at the next reaping, chat of repairing and perhaps updating the smithy turned to a discussion of the main barn's roof where a minor leak had been found and if, during this busy season, they had the manpower to spare to repair it.

  “Aye but if the weather stays good, the leak will be of no concern,” Daved opined. “At least not for a while, anyhow.”

  “As long as the good weather now doesn't mean drought later.”

  Their conversation was idle and meaningless; just two friends filling up the spaces. But it was also distracted conversation, weighted by thoughts of the day. In Daved's case, weighted by thoughts of a truth that had yet to be told.

  “What's eating you, Dave?” Galbin asked as though reading his thoughts. “You're not your usual self.”

  Daved heaved a sigh, and chuckled sourly into his cup, replaying in his mind the admission his son had made by the well earlier that evening.

  “I guess now's as good a time as any to tell you about my boy's lack of sense.”

  But instead of continuing, he trailed off, taking another sip of his brandy to hide his discomfort. Jurel was a good lad and he did not want Galbin to think any worse of him.

  “Well, out with it man,” Galbin growled and rolled his eyes in mock severity. “What happened?”

  Sheepishly—not a tone that suited Daved at all—he recounted Jurel's admission in ruining Valik's shirt.

  “I suppose he figured it would make a suitable rag,” he growled.

  It irked him that his son would act so even as he chided himself for thinking that way. Jurel was, after all, a ten year old boy. Boys did things like that. It would seem almost a crime against nature if a boy existed who never pulled a foolish prank at least once in a while. He himself had pulled many as a child, much to his parents's chagrin. He still remembered the snake he had slipped into his sister's bed. Boy, had she shrieked that night. So had he when his father had switched him for it. In a strange way, a part of him was glad that Jurel showed some propensity for mischief. He was always so stolid, so serious. So...proper.