by Doug Kelly
“What bothers you, then?” asked Aton.
“Can't I speak my mind?”
“Do as you please.” Aton waved his hand as if he were dismissing him from a meeting.
A silence fell between them that was interrupted only by birds singing in the forest, calling their mates from treetops in the distance. Aton continued working, slowly but purposefully. Briand watched the progress with disapproval because he could have done the work in half the time. Aton could draw and design; he could invent, but he was not a useful worker. He was creative and used his mind with better proficiency than he could perform physical labor.
Like a wet blanket on a fire, Briand kept pestering Aton, trying to extinguish the flame of passion for his journey away. “You can’t get it to the lake.”
“I can put the boat on a wagon. It would be easy work for a horse.”
“Why didn't you tell me about all of this before today?”
“Because I didn’t want anyone to know. And don't say anything,” said Aton, as he put a finger to his lips.
“I won’t say a word, but I still think that boat won’t float,” he said, not trying to be rude, but the discourteous comment came out no other way.
Aton could not keep himself from angrily throwing his chisel down, but he said nothing, and picked it up again after a quick disapproving glance toward Briand. With his cousin, silence sometimes spoke louder than the sharpest reply.
Briand sat up from the scruffy ground where he had just sprawled. “I’m sorry, Aton. I can help with the horse and wagon. We can do it together, just the two of us, so it’ll remain a secret. I promise.”
Briand rolled over onto his back and looked up lazily at the white clouds floating peacefully across the blue sky. “I hate Trahan Brill and his son, too. They both have too much power and influence with Olar.”
Aton looked around involuntarily, a well-conditioned reflex, just in case of the unlikely event that anyone had heard Briand. Aton dreaded the day that some random listener might hear Briand speak unpleasantly of the warlord or his men.
Like all who rule with irresponsible power, Olar Regalyon had spies everywhere. He was not cruel, benevolent, clever, or foolish; he was neither strong nor weak. He was simply an ordinary, very ordinary, man who happened to be a warlord because his father had attained that title, and he was certainly not a ruler from any personal, or more specifically, intellectual superiority.
At times, certain people around Olar influenced him. On other occasions, he made his own decisions, right or wrong, but in other instances, he might easily let matters drift into oblivion. There was no way to know in the morning what he might do toward evening, because he had no purpose or conviction. In fact, he lacked character; he was all uncertainty, except in jealousy of his control. Possibly some faint perception of his own inability, of the feeble grasp he had upon the federation of clans that seemed outwardly so completely his, might have occasionally crossed his mind. Because of his deficiencies, there had been bickering among his rivals, who lusted for the title of warlord. When the rumors of bickering, real or perceived, reached the warlord’s ears, there had always been sudden imprisonments of those whom he had considered foes, and equally sudden pardons of spies and eavesdroppers whom he thought might share with him the guarded whispers of treasonous plans that his enemies were going to use in conspiracies against his rule. Sometimes, for no apparent reason other than paranoia, he confiscated estates and stripped men of their power. Following these erratic actions against the alleged traitors, he would announce privileges to the common people and usually remove taxes to influence their solidarity under his reign. Within a few days, he or his tax collector, Trahan Brill, imposed them again, and as for the men whom he suspected of the slightest rumor, the soldiers would beat them or cast them into a special dungeon, which was as dark as a cave. Yet the warlord was not an ill-meaning man; he was simply incompetent.
“Everyone hates Trahan and Lanzo Brill, but be careful with what you say,” warned Aton.
Briand was a warrior without a war. With no battles to fight, he had too much aggressive energy that he needed to release, and he routinely said impulsive things, too loudly on occasion. He had faithfully served in the warlord’s armed ranks and excelled with all weapons. His courage and relation to a clan leader entitled him to a command, however modest it might be, but he was still in the lower ranks, and there had been no recognition of his feats, except if whispers were true, by certain women with sweet smiles who were close the warlord’s family and admired Briand’s physical prowess. Aton knew all too well that a woman’s sweet smile could not protect Briand’s neck from the gallows if the warlord or the devious father and son, Trahan and Lanzo Brill, desired an execution. Trahan or Lanzo would persuade Olar to decree capital punishment in the name of honor and justice.
“Admit it,” said Briand. “If we had any money or influence our lives would be very different, but Davin doesn’t have either gold or power.”
“After you left yesterday evening, one of Olar’s representatives came to our house,” said Aton.
“The tax collector? Was it Trahan?”
“No, it wasn’t Trahan, but he does arrive today.”
“Again!” exclaimed Briand. “Why can’t he just leave us alone? Money, money, money. It always comes down to gold and silver. Someday, when that rogue can no longer squeeze any more interest out of us, he will just take everything away.”
“And give it to his son,” added Aton.
“Trahan,” Briand growled the name. In public, he could not have spoken the name so harshly, but here in the wilderness, he had taken the opportunity to vent his anger.
“The next time Olar decides to invade another territory and wants money, he will subjugate all of us to indefinite servitude,” said Aton. “It’s hopeless for us.”
“Times like this make me wish for war,” Briand admitted. “There would be plenty of plunder and conquest. I could give my uncle all the loot and cancel his debt. We could throw the warlord’s shackles away.” Briand kicked the dirt and scowled. “Oh, what’s the use? It’ll never happen. Olar gets all the plunder anyway. Maybe I should go with you in your boat, but you don’t know where you’re going. What is your destination? Have you really considered where you’re going?”
“I’m going away. I need to see what’s across the lake.”
“You’re going to miss her,” said Briand. He referred to Esina Regalyon. It was true; Aton would miss her. Other than Briand, he had told no one of his intentions with the boat and the lake. He had not planned on leaving forever, just long enough to see what the world around him had to offer. He had a strong desire for the adventure, but it was not as strong as the mutual feelings Aton and Esina had for each other. That was why he had kept his plan a secret from her. He was afraid that she might talk him out of the trip. He was so afraid that might be easy for her to do; therefore, he did not want to give her the opportunity. Even if the journey was temporary, just a short adventure, she might not approve, so rather than share with her his intention to leave, his gamble was to ask for forgiveness after his return rather than permission to leave before his departure.
“Yes, I’ll miss her, but it’s not forever.”
After a pause, Briand seemed to look deep into the woods for an invisible solution to all of their problems. It was not there. Using a low voice, Briand asked, “Do you have any money?”
Aton took out a leather pouch and showed him some small silver coins. Briand laughed at the meager coins, but still wanted them.
“Give them to me. Tonight, I’m going back to the village for more ale. If you hear me singing again, join me! I won’t remember it in the morning so somebody has to.” He laughed again. Under his breath he said, “I’m as poor as any common man. I might as well drink to my future.” Briand went into the forest and back to the water where he had been fishing, leaving his spear on the ground.
With his crude metal tools, Aton quietly worked the wood again, but his temper was
rising. The same conversation had taken place every time they were together and ended with the same result, which was the realization of all the troubles that plagued their family and clan. With his tools, Aton vented his frustrations on the wood. After a while, when the sun was at its peak in the sky, he had already forgotten what had irritated him that morning.
On the other side of the stream, somewhat lower down, a fox had been lapping the water to quench its thirst and briefly watched Aton work. The moment he looked up, the fox ran back into the undergrowth of the forest. A dove called from the woods not far away. Then a quail flew up suddenly with a loud clapping of wings. Aton listened. His hunter instinct told him that something was moving there. A rustling of the bushes followed, and he grabbed his spear that was leaning against a nearby tree. Peering into the woods, he recognized Briand, who had walked off his irritation with the meager coins and was returning.
“I thought it might have been a boar,” said Aton, leaning against the spear as if it were a walking stick. “You share the same odor, like wet mud.”
“You can have the coins back. I won’t be in debt to you and tolerate your insults, little man.” Briand reached into his pocket to get the coins, fully intending to throw them on the ground at Aton’s feet.
“Stop it, Briand. Keep the coins. I want to apologize.”
Briand removed his hand from the pocket, stiffened his body, and raised his chin to look defiantly at Aton. “Go ahead. Apologize.”
Aton cleared his throat, took in a deep breath, and began his apology with a loud, clear, and deep voice. “I would like to apologize to every boar in the forest for comparing Briand to you.”
With a warrior’s speed, Briand snatched Aton’s spear from his hands and whipped him once on the thigh with it, in the way that only two men who were raised as brothers could do without it resulting in an all-out brawl. The spear shaft stung Aton physically like his insult had stung Briand emotionally, but they laughed at themselves and forgave each other without saying a word.
“The sun is high. I’m hungry,” said Briand.
“It doesn’t look like we’ll be eating any fish.”
Briand realized that it had been his impatience with a hook that was the reason they did not have any fish to eat, so he changed the subject. “Are you finished for the day?”
“Yes, I’ll get my tools.”
Aton put them in the reed basket, and they went back to the damaged portion of wall and squeezed through it. As they passed by the section of wall near the enclosed stream, Aton saw his father in his garden and went toward him. The stream had irrigated the grounds with a very unique machine that Davin had designed. Outside the garden, an unfamiliar slave from the village of Oberlin held the reins of two horses. One horse was elaborately decorated. The slave’s master was talking with Davin.
“It’s Trahan Brill,” said Briand.
“Lanzo’s father,” growled Aton.
Not wanting to intrude on the conversation, they approached slowly under the fruit trees. Davin was showing Trahan Brill an early cherry tree, whose fruit was just starting to swell on the branches, but was not nearly ripe. Trahan was wearing expensive clothes, made with materials that were extremely rare because they came by trade from a great distance away. The dark material of his shirt brought his pale features into relief. He had pallid skin and smooth hands, which had never done a hard day’s work, under his black leather gloves. On his right hand was a large silver signet ring that indicated that he was a privileged member of Olar’s ranks. Next to the old warrior, his stature made him appear as if he were a small child.
Trahan felt out of place, so far away from his entourage at the warlord’s estate, humbly accompanied by a single slave. It was not a very grand way to display power and authority, but he had a willing audience with Davin. The clan leader had already accepted his fate, perpetual debt, and lived quietly at the bottom of the warlord’s social stratification. Trahan intended his only order of business that day to be another discussion of Davin’s outstanding debt to Olar. Davin already understood the nature of the tax collector’s planned visit. Utilizing his clever wit, he intended to use his physical size to intimidate Trahan and segue any discussion of debt into a conversation about the garden where they currently stood. That is exactly how it occurred. Just as Trahan raised the subject of debt, Davin rolled up his sleeves to expose his strong arms. He reached high into the tree that they stood next to and plucked a tiny unripe cherry, which he was certain would be tart. When he reached for the fruit, he towered over the little old man, fully intending to physically intimidate Trahan with his height and muscular frame. Davin’s arm muscles writhed as if they were angry snakes stuffed tightly into a burlap sack. Trahan could not refrain from glancing at his powerful build, and did so in an effeminate manner. Those very arms Trahan stole a glance at could have crushed his ribs, and a strike from one balled fist could have broken the tax collector’s skull wide open.
Davin’s impressive physical characteristics and creative intellect were traits he possessed in whole, but were qualities his son and nephew possessed individually. With the cousins, the two traits were mutually exclusive. Aton had the intellect and creativity while Briand was physically intimidating and not afraid of battle. Briand had no intellectual aspirations. He was a brute more than he was a scholar; Aton had yearned to experience battle, as do too many foolish young men.
Davin pressed the sour fruit into Trahan’s gloved hand and forced his little fingers to close around the cherry. With a tight grip on Trahan’s weak wrist, Davin lifted the clenched hand to the tax collector’s mouth, smiled, and politely ordered him to eat it, all while desperately holding back an urge to erupt with roaring laughter because he knew what was about to happen. Trahan’s lips puckered. His eyes squinted as if they were gazing into the noon sun. His mouth contorted from the tartness, rendering him silent. Davin took the opportunity to lead Trahan, like a farm animal, around the gardens for a tour.
Trahan saw the water wheel that a horse was turning, forcing water from the stream into an elevated reservoir that irrigated the garden. This supply of water had sped the fruit’s development in the dry weather, but the little cherries were still far from ripe. Davin looked around to see what spring produce he could send to the warlord’s stronghold. At least that way Trahan would not leave completely empty handed, since there was no way to make even a small installment against the compounding debt. Some produce from the gardens and a promise to pay promptly would have to suffice. On their tour of the gardens, Davin was able to procure some fresh asparagus and herbs. Then he sent some servants to collect red strawberries, and while they did this, he continued Trahan’s tour.
Trahan had no interest in gardening, but the extraordinary productiveness inside the enclosure, and the variety of plants impressed him. There were fruit trees of all kinds, herbs of every species, and plots specifically for plants with medicinal qualities. This was only one part of the gardens. The orchards were farther down, and perennial flowers were near the main house. Davin had sent a servant to the flower garden, who returned with two bouquets, which he presented to Trahan to give to the warlord’s wife, Nessa Regalyon, who was just as beautiful as her two daughters, Esina and Malina. Trahan did not seem to care about the gift of flowers, but accepted them anyway. He thought that carrying the delicate bouquets would be a burden on the long ride back to the village of Oberlin, which was adjacent to the warlord’s estate. When he accepted the flowers, he already knew that he would eventually hand them to his slave so they would not be his burden on the return trip to Oberlin.
Aton and Briand were a short distance away. The sight of the mighty and intelligent clan leader, dancing around the subject of rising debt, with a man half his size and intellect, someone whom he could crush both physically and mentally with his strong arms and clever wits, filled them with irritation and loathing. Trahan’s feminine gestures, subdued voice, and jeweled fingers, incited an equal disdain with the two young men.
Unwilling to watch the spectacle unfold any longer, Aton and Briand walked past the slave who was attending to Trahan’s horse and offered to lead the animal to its owner. Since his master was an inconvenient distance away and since the slave was already tending to the horse that he had ridden, he agreed and thanked them for the assistance. It had been Aton’s idea to lead Trahan’s horse to him as a way to signal an end to the conversation. When Trahan heard his horse’s clopping hooves, he turned to see what he thought were two servants approaching. He did not know their relationship to Davin, but guessed that they were common laborers, servants of the house. He noticed the reed basket with tools in Aton's hand and speculated that he had been hard at work.
“A good day to be outside, isn’t it?” Trahan asked, but continued speaking because he did not intend to have an actual conversation with lowly servants. “Fine work you’ve done here with the gardens,” he added, intending to sound gracious, but his tone was very condescending.
In their minds, Aton and Briand could think of so many things that they would like to say as they stood there listening to the man that they had so much contempt for. They stood there silently and bit their tongues so that a verbal volcano did not erupt with a lava flow of vulgar comments. Standing like a giant behind Trahan’s turned back, Davin shook his head at his son and nephew. He could see the look in their eyes, particularly Aton’s glare. He knew that Aton had an especially hot temper, so he shook his head as a warning to be discreet with their choice of words when speaking to a man that had Olar’s ear. They both understood Davin very well, so they remained silent and let the wretched creature talk to his heart’s content.
“Well, it’s back to the trail again,” he said, tossing his head. The curls in his hair bounced in the breeze as he turned up his nose. With his bad knees and the delicate flowers, he mounted his horse as best he could. The slave already had several baskets of fresh produce draped evenly on either side of his horse and a thin piece of twine linked the basket handles, suspending them across the horse’s back like saddlebags.