by Remi Michaud
“There. All done,” Daved pronounced wiping his hands on an old rag. “Leave it uncovered for a while to let it breath. I'll add more to it tomorrow morning.”
Tossing the rag into a hamper used for soiled clothes, he asked more conversationally, “So how was your day?”
Jurel shrugged again. “Busy enough. I walked so much I thought my feet would fall off.”
“This coming from the same lad I've seen run across the fields with his friends from sun-up until sun-down without pause?” Daved snorted and rolled his eyes theatrically and Jurel had to smile, abashed, for he supposed his father had a point.
“Aside from that I spoke to Galbin for a bit. I see the trenches are almost done.”
“Aye, finally,” Daved said with a minute nod.
“And then I had the good luck to see Valik.”
He was like a canker sore, was Valik. Every time Jurel was having a good day, he had to come along like an infection and ruin it. Sometimes, he believed that when Valik was having a bad day, he automatically searched for Jurel so that he could feel better with a little torment, like spinning a cat by its tail.
“What is it with him? Why can't he just leave me alone?”
Daved's smile fell away. “What did he do this time, boy?”
After describing the encounter, he finished with, “Why father? Why does he do it? Is it because he's a mean little bastard?”
Gazing upon his son with his hawk eyes as if pondering some deep mystery, or perhaps as if Jurel was some sad artifact unearthed from a previous age, evidence of an ancient disaster, he breathed in deeply, before answering.
“It's because he has no respect for you,” Daved stated so matter-of-factly that Jurel flushed and turned his head down. “Granted, he has little enough respect for anyone—as you say, he's a mean little bastard—but you, he thinks you're a coward.”
He hesitated, regarding his son, evaluated him as if he had to say something that Jurel was not prepared to hear and probably would not like to. He was right.
“I don't think I blame him for thinking that way either.”
Jurel surged to his feet, indignation and anger bursting so strongly within him, he thought he could almost see it flickering before his eyes like cinders.
“Father!” he cried out, bunching his fists at his side, trembling with the effort of holding back his rage like a sapling trying to hold back a team of oxen.
He felt a stab, an itch between his shoulder blades: betrayal. His own father thought he was a coward? Him? Just because he did not like to fight? Just because he thought there were better things to do than trade fists with someone until one or the other fell down? What did it prove anyway? What did it matter?
“Sit down, Jurel.”
Daved waited, his glare piercing to Jurel's core until Jurel ceased quivering and sat once again inspecting the floor in front of him with resentment gnawing at his insides.
“Look boy. Look at you. You're big for your age. Hells, you're big for damn near any age. If I didn't know you, I'd peg you for nearly a full grown man but the moment anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, you back off. You scamper away like a frightened chipmunk. That's why Valik thinks you're a coward and because of it, you're an easy target for him. Do you understand?”
Not moving, barely daring to breath, Jurel sat waiting for the end of this miserable little nightmare. He would not cry! He would not! His own father thought...
“No. You don't, do you?” Daved sighed. “You need to stand up for yourself. I'm not suggesting you start picking fights every time someone glances askance at you, but there's nothing wrong with defending yourself.”
Watching his father stare out the small window into the deepening twilight, Jurel kept his peace. What was the point in arguing?
“You lack confidence boy. That's your problem. You lack confidence and you need to find it. It's somewhere in that thick skull of yours, I know. Because if you don't find it, you will spend your entire life running from one bully or another. For the rest of your days, events will dictate how you act. You will not be able to control one facet of your existence because you'll be too busy running. Now do you understand?”
Existence? Events dictating his actions? What...? He stared blankly at his father. He knew that Daved was trying to tell him something important. He knew his father was trying to help but he had absolutely no idea what Daved was talking about. Daved turned away from the window to look upon his son who remained silent, blank as new parchment. Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Daved blew out his breath in a great frustrated whoosh, at wits end with his obtuse child.
“If Valik bullies you, defend yourself,” he growled. “Is that clear enough? At your size, I've no doubt you could wipe the floor with him. There's no shame in standing up for what's right.”
Jurel understood that part. He did not agree, but he understood. It was all the stuff about events dictating actions and control over his life and stuff that did not make any sense to him. How would fighting Valik give him control over his life? All it would cause was pain and misery. Right? Confused, Jurel tried to work through what Daved said, word for word in his mind. But no matter how he tried, it just did not seem to work out quite right. He was missing something, some vital piece of the puzzle that would reveal the whole, like a carpenter with lots of wood but no nails.
“I'm sorry father,” Jurel said. “I don't get it. I just don't see how bloody noses and black eyes can help.”
Emotions flickered across Daved's face so quickly that Jurel could not sort them out, then as light as a feather settling to the ground, he smiled sadly.
“You're a good lad Jurel. I wish sometimes...I wish...”
He turned back to the window as if something of extreme importance called his attention.
“I wish that everyone was more like you. There'd be a lot less strife and misery in the world,” he said wistfully. “But things aren't like that. I fear if you don't find your courage, you'll not survive long in it.”
For a time, there was no sound in the cabin, no motion. There was just an uncomfortable silence that seemed to hum with energy, as they both gazed into their respective nights. Abruptly, Daved turned.
“Enough of this. How about some dinner?”
Like a puppy, Jurel's ears perked up, his eyes brightening as his anger fled, and Daved chuckled. Quickly, the dark thoughts were forgotten—or at least set to the side for the time being—and they took comfort in the regularity of their nightly routine. A simple meal was prepared and they relished it after a long day of hard work.
After dinner and the subsequent clean-up, they passed their time in the nightly lessons that Daved insisted on: reading, arithmetic, history, and when the moon was high in the sky washing all color from the land until only silver-gray on black remained, Daved stood and stretched his arms wide.
“Well lad, it's another early morning for us so I think it's off to bed. With your shoulders you can't work in the sun so I'll be sending you off to the trenches in the forest.”
With a groan, Jurel followed his father up the ladder to his bed. It seemed that the next day would be a very long one indeed. Again.
Chapter 11
As he had predicted, the day was a long one and so were the days that followed. Jurel spent the next three digging or carrying buckets until, much to his relief—and the relief of all the poor souls on the farm—the trench was finally completed and water flowed to the fields without all the back-breaking labor. The buckets were stacked in the storage barn beside the shovels and life began to return to at least a semblance of normalcy as men recuperated from exhaustion, sun-burns, and even a couple of cases of the sun seizures.
As luck had it, two days after the work on the irrigation trench was complete, the skies turned gray with roiling, angry clouds and weeks worth of rain washed over the land in just a few hours with such force that it was not difficult to believe the sky was angry at having missed an important appointment. Mixed feelings prevailed among th
e hands. Uncertainty whether to feel relief that the crops were well and truly saved or to feel disgruntled that God had played some cruel joke on them for holding the rain at bay just long enough to let them break their backs on the now redundant trenches. They muttered and grumbled until Galbin, ever the optimist, pointed out that if drought struck again, they would not have to dig anymore. The point was a valid one and even the sorest, surliest hand conceded, at least marginally appeased.
As Jurel sat in his chair one evening finishing up the dregs of his meal listening to the patter of rain on the roof, and Daved read through various reports Galbin had handed him, scribbling little notes here and there with a stub of lead, their attention was grabbed by a knock at the door. When Daved opened the door to greet their visitor, Jurel's meal curdled in his belly. Valik stood on their front step, pouting as was normal, dripping in the rain.
“Valik. What brings you here?”
Jurel was secretly satisfied to hear the iciness in his father's tone.
“There's a visitor and Pa wants you there,” Valik answered.
“A visitor? In this torrent? Odd. We're in the middle of nowhere. What brings a visitor to Galbin's door?”
“How should I know? He said he was passing through and begged Pa for a dry place to spend the night.”
The surly boy stood, waiting for Daved's response, impatiently shifting from foot to foot in the rain, looking like a wet cat. Elevating Jurel's satisfaction was the fact that his father knew the young man was uncomfortable and seemed to ponder Valik's message for far too long. He had to turn away to keep his nemesis from seeing the smile that he could not stop from spreading across his face.
“Well,” Daved finally said, drawing out the word as if it carried with it a decision that would change the world, “I suppose I can come by for a visit. Jurel, clean up, will you please? I won't be long.”
“Pa has asked that you both come,” Valik informed them, his expression turning angry.
“Oh? Very well then. You can clean up tomorrow Jurel. Fetch our cloaks. It would not be sensible to go out into the rain without them after all.”
With mixed feelings, Jurel rose and fetched the requested cloaks. On the one hand, he did not look forward to traipsing about in the rain—cloak or no cloak—nor did he relish time spent near Valik. On the other hand, it was not often a stranger stopped by. That in itself was cause for excitement, or at the very least, interest. The fact that there was a minor mystery afoot raised Jurel's anticipation a notch. Passing through? As his father had said, they were in the middle of nowhere. If Jurel remembered his geography lessons, there was nothing but dense, impenetrable forest to the west. According to the stories, it was a haunted place from which there was no return. Perhaps this traveler had taken a wrong turn from the caravan route in the east, the one that ran across the northern edge of the kingdom before turning south and extending all the way to Kashya. But if that were the case, then it was quite a wrong turn indeed; the caravan route was days away, weeks.
With no answers forthcoming, he followed his father into the rain. Neither bothered to glance at the sodden Valik who ran ahead. They were greeted at Galbin's door by Marta, looking as gnarled as an old oak.
“Come in, come in. Take those sodden things off and give them to old Marta,” the maid chirped before he could open his mouth to say hello. She flitted about them like a mother bird, tossing their cloaks over her arm, ignoring the water that drenched her dress. “Galbin's awaiting you in his parlor. I'll have these cloaks good and dry before you're off again, never fear.”
She bustled about so quickly that Jurel had difficulty keeping his eyes on her. His father, he noted with some relief, wore the same sort of dazed expression that he wore. So at least it was not just him.
“Boots too, boys, boots too. Can't have you tracking mud all over my nice clean floors now can we?”
Hustling, Jurel removed his boots, half expecting Marta to reach down and do it herself if he did not move quickly enough for her liking, and he glanced up in time to see Marta shoo them along.
“Come come, I'll take you to Galbin now. Would you like a refreshment?” But before they could answer, she knocked at the parlor door, “Daved and Jurel are here,” and she bustled off to leave them staring dumbfounded after her.
“Well,” muttered Daved. “That was interesting.”
Galbin ushered them into the room and Jurel caught his first view of the stranger rising from his seat by the fire. He was old. Silver hair framed a lean, clean-shaven face etched with craggy deep wrinkles. He wore a pleasant smile and his sky blue eyes gleamed startlingly with some secret delight, their corners crinkled like bird tracks, and Jurel was positive that this was a man used to smiling. His simple robe of undyed wool, maybe gray or some shade of tan draped over a body that seemed emaciated but by the easy grace with which the old man rose, Jurel did not think him sick or ill-fed. On the contrary, the old man seemed quite spry.
“Daved, Jurel, this is Master Kurin, an itinerant healer from...” Galbin faltered, glancing a question at their visitor. “I'm sorry. Where did you say you arrived from?”
“I did not say,” Kurin said, and his voice was rich, deep, seeming to belie his age, while his cultured inflection seemed to belie his plain garb. “I am, lately, from Grayson City.”
“Ah. Yes, of course. Grayson City,” Galbin replied and his tone echoed the thoughts of the other two. From the east and south, near Kashya on the caravan route? How had he ended up here? “Master Kurin, may I present my dearest friend and right-hand Daved, and his son Jurel.”
“I am honored to make your acquaintances.”
The oddest thing happened then. Kurin bowed. It was a bow that any king would have been satisfied with but although strange, what really caught Jurel's attention was that, at the nadir of his bow, Kurin caught his eye, and with a roguish grin he winked. Startled, Jurel could do naught but stand there with his slack jaw gaping open like a fish surprised to suddenly find itself in a fisherman's boat.
“A pleasure sir,” Daved said politely. Very proper, but his tone was unaccountably cold.
“Yes, well, now that the introductions are out of the way, please sit and be comfortable.”
With a shooing gesture toward the chairs around the fire, Galbin followed his own request and lowered his girth into a chair that creaked alarmingly. “Ingirt and Valik will join us soon. Valik, I'm sure is trying to dry off and Ingirt, well, she does love her grand entrances.”
When everyone was situated, Daved spoke. “So you're a healer, then.”
“Yes. I travel the lands far and wide, seeking those who require my assistance.”
The room was small, but somehow, Kurin's resonant voice seemed to echo as if he was a talented stage actor, or maybe a musician, and they were his audience.
“That is interesting. Most healers tend to set up shop to ply their trade. How is it that you come to wander so?”
Once again, Jurel heard the coldness even though the question was asked mildly enough, and there was an underlying suspicion like a tricky river current just below the surface. He knew his father, trusted him, and something about Kurin had his father's defenses up. Kurin saw it too for he let out a good natured laugh before he continued.
“It seems that my story does not ring true with your Master Daved,” he chortled and turned his surprising eyes to Jurel. “Is he always so distrustful of strangers?”
What could he say? He should answer. He should smile. He should...something. But still he wore that foolish, vapid expression and stared at this enigmatic old stranger with the voice of a saint, even as Daved sat, back straight, outraged, and white-knuckled so that Galbin began to worry the arms of his chair would splinter under the force.
“No, no. Don't answer,” Kurin said, waving away his own question as though it was an annoying fly. “It is not a polite thing to ask and I apologize for my presumption.” His eyes twinkled like stars with his amusement. “In answer to your question, good master, it is ha
rdly possible for all those who require my services to travel the length and breadth of the kingdom. No, I must go to them. In this way, I am where I am most needed. Besides, it is much more interesting to travel the land and meet its peoples than it is to sit in one spot and stare at the same walls all the time.”
“I see. And are there any here who require your services?”
Kurin's eyes flickered and Jurel thought that perhaps the old man glanced at him. It was so quick that even hawk-eyed Daved did not seem to notice. Before anything else could be said, Marta entered carrying a tray laden with decanters and goblets.
“Here you are. Wine, brandy, ale, water and milk for the young one. Whatever you like, old Marta brought it,” she announced, setting the tray on a side table. She fluttered her hands in front of her. “Ooh. That's some heavy tray you have...” Trailing off when she saw Daved's expression—a soldier preparing for bloody battle, it seemed—her eyes widened a notch.
“Yes. Well. There you are. Good evening gentlemen,” she called over her shoulder, bustling from the room as if it were filled with rabid wolves. Of course, she tended to bustle anywhere she went so Jurel was not entirely certain.
Something else he was uncertain about as he sipped his milk, as Galbin tossed back a shot of brandy, then another in quick succession, and as Daved sat, still as a statue, was why there seemed to be so much tension in the room it could only have been cut by a very sharp knife, or maybe an ax. His father seemed—even for Daved—unusually terse; he was almost outright rude to their guest, and Galbin looked as if he had seen a ghost with his forced smile and ashy face. Kurin, on the other hand, did not seem to notice anything was amiss and he spoke openly, heartily and with a broad smile. He was missing something but for the life of him, he could not fathom what it might be.