by Remi Michaud
As the men continued conversing about all those inconsequential things that strangers trapped in the same room discussed, things got really complicated.
The door opened and Valik walked in like he was some kind of prince—a surly one as usual, followed by the queen, his mother. Did he never tire of being cross? Surely his face must hurt from holding that frown in place all the time. At least, donned in his plain—and dry—work clothes he no longer looked like an offended feline.
As Ingirt entered, those in the room rose to their feet politely while Valik plopped himself into a chair and ignored everyone. Ingirt, resplendent in her best dress, baby blue and covered in frills and lacy things, beamed broadly at the strange old man while Galbin made more introductions.
“Master Kurin, may I introduce my wife, Ingirt? Ingirt, this is Kurin, a traveling healer.”
With another deep bow, Kurin grandiosely kissed her hand. “It is an honor and a pleasure to meet someone of such radiant beauty as to make my heart stop.”
“I imagine it wouldn't take much to make your heart stop, you old coot,” Daved muttered under his breath.
“Er...yes. Well,” Galbin said over top of Daved's snipe so that the only person who heard it was Jurel, “This is my son Valik.”
“Pleasure to meet you dear boy,” said Kurin with a bow that was not as deep as the one offered to Ingirt or even to Jurel.
Keeping totally within character, Valik did not acknowledge the introduction while Ingirt, obviously flattered by the old man's extravagant words tittered and batted her lashes and bright red spots appeared on her cheeks.
Once glasses were full and everyone was seated, the idle chatter full of boring conversation started again. Jurel, being twelve years old, could not care any less about a conversation that centered on farming, then on weather and how that affects farming, even though these topics seemed to rivet Kurin and he drank it all in avidly as if there was nothing more important in the world than finding out that the breaking of the drought would hopefully see the crops flourish again.
That is not to say that the weather change did not interest him at all. No, quite the contrary. With the breaking of the drought, he imagined that his own work load would drop substantially. With no more need to carry buckets or dig trenches or any of the other myriad tasks that were necessary during a drought, there was a good chance he would be able to spend more time with his friends trying to mend fences with Trig and Darren and even Wag. Even Erin and Frieza, though they were of less importance, being girls and all. He wanted things to go back to the way they were, the easy camaraderie, the comfortable silences. Oh yes, the change in weather was important to him. Just not for the same reasons that it was important for Galbin or Daved.
Some instinct, like an unscratchable itch made him glance surreptitiously toward the sullen boy sitting beside Ingirt. Valik glared at him, his eyes seething with hatred; if looks could kill, Jurel would be a puddle of goo on the floor. Now what had he done to deserve that look? He hid his surprise and dismay in his cup as he took a sip. Perhaps his father had been right and he would some day have to fight Valik but even as the thought reared its ugly head, he shied away from it. No, he would not fight. How could fighting help? He still did not understand his father's words—they had been tumbling around in his head for days cluttering his thoughts—how standing up to a bully like Valik could accomplish anything more than bloody noses and black eyes. His only answer, the only answer he could fathom, was to continue avoiding the brute. Not an easy thing to do on a farm this size but, really, was there an acceptable alternative?
“...he thinks you are a coward. I don't think I blame him for thinking that way either...”
The words still stung, still threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He was now painfully aware that Daved, his father, considered him a coward. And why? Because he did not care for fighting. That was entirely too unfair. He knew he was the biggest boy on the farm. He knew he was the strongest too, even compared to Darren who was his father's apprentice at the smithy. He even knew that with no other recourse, if he were forced, really really forced, he could best any of them when it came to fists. Why rub their noses in it? But then there was all that gibberish about running away, and events dictating his life. He was of a mind to dismiss it all as the ramblings of a man who had worked too long in the sun except that he had begun to understand the point. At least where Valik was involved anyway. It was likely that in his efforts to stay away from him, Jurel might have been forced on occasion to abandon what he was doing. Spending time with his friends: If Valik approached, Jurel would leave, no matter that they may be embroiled in the most rip-roaring game of Catch Me If You Can. But he lived on a secluded farm. Aside from that minor inconvenience, what kind of effect could it possibly have on his life? He was always doing as others bade him anyway, so—
“And what say you young Jurel?”
His line of thought was snapped with Kurin's question. His eyes focused, found the old man gazing at him pleasantly, awaiting his response. Racking his brain, Jurel tried to remember what the old man said but he had been too lost in his own thoughts. There was nothing there.
“I...Sir? I-I'm sorry,” Jurel stammered and shifted uncomfortably in his seat all too aware that he was the focus of attention for everyone in the room. Ingirt looked down her nose in disapproval, Valik smiled maliciously, and his father glared as if daring Jurel to be rude. “I'm terribly sorry. I did not hear your question.”
Valik snorted.
“Ah, to be young again,” Kurin laughed wistfully. “To let one's mind wander while all about, stodgy adults discuss topics intended for stodgy adults.”
“Aye,” Daved growled and pinned Jurel with his glare, a look that promised they would speak more of this later. “But being young does not release one of the responsibility of being polite to his elders.”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” Kurin said with eyes that twinkled in delight. “Nonetheless, I do not mind repeating myself. What do you think of life on this farm, child?”
Jurel suppressed a flash of resentment at being addressed so condescendingly. He was no child! He was twelve! Nearly a grown man!
“It's all right, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “My father takes good care of me and Galbin is a good master.”—Galbin smiled proudly at that—“There's plenty of work to keep us busy and-”
“Yes, yes,” Kurin interrupted. “That's all well and good. But I did not ask what you do on the farm.”
Kurin leaned forward intently, raising one eyebrow, and for the first time, Jurel saw another side to this man. Until that moment the stranger had been all mild banter and easy smiles, slightly distracted as though age had begun to addle his wits. His look at that moment was decidedly unmild. Piercing, coldly calculating: that might describe it better and Jurel shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny.
“What do you think of it?” Kurin repeated.
“I-”
“Why such an interest in a boy, Master Kurin, my son?”
If Daved were a dog, Jurel was positive that his hackles would be standing and his teeth would be bared in a threatening snarl. Emotion flashed in and out of Kurin's eyes so rapidly that Jurel was only vaguely aware that he saw frustration. The old man leaned back into his seat with a disarming smile.
“No offense was intended sir. I just wished to hear what he has to say. Children often have different views of their environment than their elders do and I was curious to hear his. It was just a question and of no consequence.”
Farmers, as a rule, tend to be a stoic lot. Rarely did they come out and announce their emotions for all to hear. Too womanly. Instead, they preferred to keep their peace, to go out to the fields every day with stony expressions and get about their work. There was an old saying that was often used, like a mantra, “Sour words make for sour work.” It was not that bad moods did not exist among farmers, it was that farmers saw no point in blathering it about. No matter how they felt, the work needed to be done.
&nb
sp; Galbin did not run his farm so successfully without knowing how his workers felt under the calm veneers. He was well attuned to their moods. As he shifted his attention between the strange old man and his best friend, he knew exactly how close Daved was to violence.
“Well, I don't see that the boys have to be here, do they?” Galbin asked of no one in particular. “As you said Master Kurin, stodgy conversation for stodgy adults. Perhaps the rain has abated.”
“Very true sir. Children must be allowed their leisure,” Kurin said with a grave nod to Galbin's wisdom.
There was a faint sense of mocking in the words but his hopes had jumped at the opportunity to be away from there so he ignored it. Besides, no matter how excited he was to meet someone new, he had enough of tension and raised hackles and strangers for one night, especially strangers who were, well...strange.
With a nod from Daved, Jurel was up and to the door before Valik spoke.
“Oh yes,” he said with a predatory grin. “We will have a grand time...playing. Won't we Jurel?”
“Mind you don't play too rough,” Galbin warned, “else, you'll hear about it. Understand?”
Jurel did not wait another moment. He bounded like a startled deer to the coat rack where his cloak hung, dried out by Marta, and after donning his boots—which he had to do twice; he managed to put them on the wrong feet—he bolted through the front door, ignoring Valik's calls.
“What's the rush? Wait for me. We'll have fun.”
“I really don't think so,” he muttered.
The rain had indeed stopped though the sky threatened more to come, and the evening was still oppressive, as heavy as wet wool. It even smelled heavy: wet grass and hay mingled with manure and the musky odor of livestock. Instead of alleviating the intense heat, the heavy downpour had done nothing more than change hot and dry to hot and humid, and within ten paces, his shirt was plastered to his body. A bit of moisture would not hurt, he supposed. He probably needed a wash anyway.
After depositing his cloak at home—it was far too hot to wear and it would only encumber him—he made his way to his tree and when he negotiated the slick bark, he hoisted himself up to a high branch and, letting his legs dangle, he rested his back against a thick limb, soothed by the whisper of the leaves.
With not much to see in the bruised gray evening, he turned his mind back to the encounter, wondering about Kurin. What a strange old man. His father had perfected the art of intimidation; he could stare down an angry lion. But Kurin seemed so placid, even in the face of his father's hostility, barely even seeming to notice that Daved was inches away from tossing him out on his wrinkled old can.
Then there was the story that he was some kind of traveling healer but Jurel had already concluded that there was more to it. He was young, not stupid. So then the question was, who was he? Why was he here? Was it really just luck and poor weather that brought him to the farm? They seldom received visitors out that way. They were just too remote, and if his father's lessons were to be trusted, there was nothing at one end of the road except trees. Haunted trees. The last time they had hosted visitors that Jurel could remember must have been...about...
His eyes widened when he realized that except for the occasional merchant who came by to survey Galbin's produce there had been no visitors.
With a sigh he shook his head to clear away the suspicions that buzzed like hornets. His father was definitely having an influence on him, he thought wryly. Perhaps Kurin was exactly who he said he was. Perhaps he really was no more than a hapless traveler caught up in bad weather. Perhaps.
Yet there were more mysteries. The old man showed an iron core under his soft surface. Jurel would have wagered all the coppers he had stashed away on that—all three of them. He had seemed too keen to hear Jurel's answer to a question that, according to the old man, was inconsequential. He had no idea how to reconcile the stranger's attitudes.
But it was no matter really, not to him; Galbin and his father were there. It was their problem to worry about enigmatic strangers. It was his to be curious.
So he loosened the reins of his mind and let his thoughts wander wherever they pleased as he stared sightlessly through a hole in the boughs and evening darkened toward night. Maybe Trig and Darren would want to play in the field tomorrow, as long as it was not too wet. Or maybe he could go fishing. The rain would certainly have them up and biting.
And when night was full on the land, covering up everything in its velvet shroud of shadows, he heard his father call from the front door of their cabin, “Jurel? Where are you?”
“Up here father.”
“In that tree again? You keep doing that and one day it'll decide it doesn't want to hold your weight anymore.”
He smiled at his father's joke. “Yes father. You're back then?”
“No lad. I'm still sitting in Galbin's parlor trading nasty words with an old idiot who doesn't know how to stay out of the rain. Are you coming in?”
“If it's all right with you, I'd like to stay a little longer.”
“Mind you don't stay out too late. And watch your footing when you climb down. It'll be treacherous.”
“I will. Good night.”
“Good night son.”
As he watched the night pass by, the clouds began to thin out and the pale moon glowed yellow-white, hazily as if through cotton, high in the sky. His thoughts had begun to repeat themselves, turning in lazy circles, and he began to think that it might be time to head for his bed. Just a few more minutes though. The moon was rather pretty in its cloak, ephemeral and bright all at once.
“Jurel?” Kurin's voice drifted up from the base of the tree and he almost lost his balance in his startlement. “Are you up there?”
A fleeting urge to keep quiet was quickly overridden by his curiosity. “Yes sir.”
“I thought I heard you earlier. May we speak for a moment?”
He was tired, he was going to bed, he thought he heard his father calling him: a variety of excuses played through his mind, but once again, curiosity won out.
“Of course sir. I will be right down.”
“No, no. No need. No need at all.”
There was a grunt and the tree trembled slightly. Another grunt, and shocked, Jurel realized the old man was climbing. His sight barely penetrated the gloom under the leafy cover of the tree, but there was just enough moonshine that he made out a vaguely man-like shape clambering with surprising agility from the ground below. A few scraping noises, another grunt, and the old man was resting on a branch directly behind Jurel who once again, found himself tongue-tied by the old man's strangeness. The silence stretched uncomfortably, pulling taut until it threatened to injure someone when it snapped, and when it finally did, Jurel almost did get injured; he jumped at the sudden words—never a good thing to do when one is precariously perched high in a tree.
“You never did answer my question, Jurel.”
“It is as I said sir.”
“Please stop calling me that,” he said in a pained voice. “My name is Kurin.”
Silence again and the boughs whispered nervously in Jurel's ears.
“You and Valik are not friends, are you?”
“No. How did you know?”
“It wasn't that hard to figure out,” Kurin answered with a low chuckle. “You pointedly ignored him and he stared daggers at you all evening.”
Jurel nodded. It was pretty obvious when he thought about it.
“May I ask why?”
If he had thought on it, maybe if he had been older and wiser, he might have asked why Kurin wanted to know, or what business was it of his? But, natural suspicions aside, he thought he heard real curiosity and that more than anything compelled him to speak.
“He's mean. He always treats us badly as if he's better than us.”
Even Jurel heard his own poutiness. He did not care.
“There's more.”
It was not a question; the old man was stating a fact. It annoyed Jurel to no end that he was
being prodded so.
As if reading his thoughts, the old man added, “I apologize if I make you uncomfortable. Sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me. When a mystery pops up, I can't help but grab on and shake it until the answer comes loose. You need not answer, of course.”
Who was this man that, in one moment could make Jurel sweat anxiously, and the next make him want to answer any question at all?
“We were never really friends but I suppose the worst of it came when I didn't join in a fight that my friends picked with some other boys. My friends took a good thumping for it and Valik has never forgiven me.”
The more he thought of it, the more it soured his mood and he could not help adding, “Probably never will.”
“Ah. This boy does not seem to recognize your wisdom. A shame, really. When he owns this farm, I imagine he'll need all the wisdom he can find.”
It was wistfully spoken, and quiet but even as the compliment filled Jurel with pride, the rest filled him with foreboding. The words were meaningless, moonlit musings that disappeared as soon as the sun rose, banished like morning mist. And yet...
“What do you mean, 'when he owns this farm'?”
“He is Galbin's eldest son, isn't he?”
Jurel heard a rustle as if the old man were turning so he could see him to drive home an important point with a meaningful look. But there was a tree in the way and anyway, he need not have bothered. He had Jurel's undivided attention. For some reason he felt the same way he did that time that Darren had burned his arm at his father's forge, leaving a sickening black and red gash that smelled kind of like cooking pork. As nauseating as the sight was, he had not been able turn away. He had stared at that burn with horrified fascination even as his friend screamed in agony.
“Yes he is,” Jurel responded carefully.
“Galbin is human and as all humans must, his time will come and he will pass to the other side. The laws of this land are quite clear: in the event that a father dies, the eldest child inherits whatever the father owned,” he lectured.