The Forgotten Tale

by J. M. Frey

  I hope very much that it does not, that there is a simpler explanation, but I also know how it is that my Writer chooses to structure his narratives. Very little in the way of bad news is coincidental.

  The lad remains silent and only shrugs. The motion causes him to wince, and I cannot help the paternal eye roll, nor the way that I tut at him and push him back toward his bed, simultaneously tugging at his buttons so I can relieve him of his shirt and get a better sense of the severity of the wound. Wyndam bats me off, not wanting to be coddled, and pulls his shirt off over his head, which stretches his wound terribly and makes him gasp in pain. Foolish, stubborn boy. Better to have let me at his buttons.

  “Wyndam, my lad, whyever didn’t you say something?” I admonish gently, leaving him an opening to reply as I crouch to study the smear of blood on his stomach. There is a gash in his abdomen—deep enough to bleed, but not so deep that it has torn muscle. I do not think it needs stitches, though the edges are crusted with drying blood and whatever filth was on the iron pike wielded by the Red Cap that delivered the blow.

  Wyndam grunts, looking away, and my temper rises, getting the better of me. I have been gracious and generous with his uncooperative nature until now, more so than perhaps I might have been before Pip chastised me for the shortness of my fuse since Alis’s birth, but that is at an end.

  Time for the Shadow Hand to try to get through to the lad.

  I stand and smack Wyndam on the ear. He reels back, affronted and gaping, holding the side of his head.

  “Are you paying attention to me now, Wyndam Turn?” I snarl.

  The lad nods.

  “Good. Then, if you shall not speak, you must listen. I despise having to resort to abuse to gain your attention, so it will benefit us both if you mark my words now, so as to avoid having to do this again.”

  He nods once more, his hand slipping downward and folding with its pair in his lap. He drops his eyes down as well, chastened.

  “No, look at me,” I command, and he obeys, his jet eyes flashing wide. “That’s better. Wyndam Turn, I am your uncle and your blood, and I do not know what you think of me or why you will not speak to me, but I will have you know that I care about you.”

  The lad’s mouth drops open, shock playing around his features.

  “We have never had a conversation, true, and I had not known of your existence a fortnight ago, but that does not mean you are nothing to me. You are my brother’s son.”

  Wyndam scoffs, and crosses his arms defiantly. Then he winces as the motion pulls on his gash. I step toward him, slowly, hands loose at my sides to prove my peaceful intent, and the lad does not flinch. I push his own arms down, gently, and out of the way so I can get a better look at his stomach.

  “You misunderstand, Wyndam,” I say, going over to the room’s sideboard. The Goodwoman has left water and cloths in this room, probably accustomed to the demands of road-weary and dust-caked guests, and I retrieve a cloth and bring it back to the bedside table with a bowl and the pitcher. Alongside these, I lay out the pouch of poultices and salves that Bevel had acquired from Mother Mouth before we left Turnshire. “It is not simply because you are my brother’s heir.”

  The lad’s posture relaxes a little, and I can see him watching me out the side of his eye. Slowly, he leans back, giving me full access to the wound. He is giving me his trust, tentative though it is, and I let some of the Shadow Hand slide away, let a little more of concerned Uncle Forsyth come to the fore.

  “Wyndam, I know very well how it feels to live in the shadow of Kintyre Turn,” I say gently, soaking a cloth, wringing it out, and beginning to dab at the most filthy-looking part of the wound. The room smells of fresh straw, the ghosts of a thousand beeswax candles, and dried ale. I lean close to the wound, and above the ambient scents of the room detect only the scent of the sweat Wyndam worked up in the battle, and tang of fresh blood. Nothing smells festering or rotted yet. Good. “By the Writer’s calluses, I know that he talks over others, and I know that he has very set ideas of how one should be and what one should pursue. That I was not keen on the adventurous sort of pursuits he craved was a great disappointment to him, and he never ceased to attempt to bully me for failing to be as robust and inclined toward action as he.”

  Wyndam jerks and hisses as I dig a shard of iron out of the lip of the gash, doing his best not to wriggle or jump away. He fists his hands so hard in the canvas covering of the straw mattress that his knuckles go white.

  “To be fair,” I chuckle, doing my best to minimize Wyndam’s pain by distracting him as I clean more grit. “I angered him in return by calling him a fool, and a blockhead, and making it very clear that I thought he was a ridiculous buffoon with more muscles than brains.”

  I risk a glance upward, and see that Wyndam is watching me carefully, clearly listening, even though his jaw is tight, the muscles leaping as he grinds his teeth. It occurs to me right then that I have done some of my most important bonding with others while I am tending to their wounds, and I wonder what that says about both me and Elgar Reed.

  “The fact of it is, Wyndam, my regard for you has very little to do with who your father is, and everything to do with the sort of young man that you are,” I say, when the wound is as clean as I can make it, and I have wiped all the blood off his skin. “Lay back now, so I can flush the wound.”

  The lad obeys, and I tuck a dry towel against his side to catch the runoff before tipping a tot of Drebbinshire Whiskey out of the flask I retrieve from my pocket. It seems a shame to waste dragon whiskey on a wound, but it is all I have, and it is in sacrifice to my nephew’s health. I also don’t want to alert Kintyre to Wyndam’s predicament by summoning up Thoma for a glass of alcohol from the Pern’s taproom. Wyndam had gone to great lengths to keep his injury a secret. I know I would be gaining no favors or trust from my nephew by advertising it.

  Wyndam jerks and writhes, but does not shove me away. The muscles of his abdomen jump and crunch as he fights his own instinct to flee the source of pain. He breathes harshly between his teeth, chest jerking with his gasps, and still the lad makes no sound.

  I pat the excess liquid away, and then daub Mother Mouth’s healing salve over the gash. The scent of lemon and menthol drift up, tickling my brain and summoning up memories of performing these same actions on Pip’s back while the wounds she suffered under Bootknife’s attention healed. They are interwoven with other memories of when Bevel saw to the cut that same villain left on my cheek. Both healed cleanly and scarred well—I have no doubt that Wyndam’s wound will do the same, and that the mark it will leave behind will be very handsome and rakish indeed.

  “I think you are an admirable young man,” I repeat as I help Wyndam into a fresh shirt from his pack. He moves carefully, and winces every time his abdomen flexes. “Though you clearly dislike it, you have been invaluable to Pip and I in caring for Alis, and I appreciate your willingness to put aside your distaste and aid us. Capplederry adores you, and I know the creature is only loyal to those with great heart, and great integrity. Capplederry has the capacity for great love, but only toward those who are worthy of it. And your willingness to leap straight into a skirmish with Red Caps is commendable. Perhaps a little foolhardy,” I say, grinning at him so that he knows I am making light, “but commendable. In that way, you are very much like your father. He acts before thinking, true, but always with the greatest of intentions and in defense of those who cannot defend themselves.”

  Set back to rights, the lad perches uncomfortably on the edge of the bed and squirms, clearly discomfited by my praise. And still he says nothing. I stand and lay my hands on his shoulders gently, in as paternal a manner as I can, trying to exude safety, and concern, and protection.

  “Now, I am uncertain if you dislike me because of who I am, or something you’ve heard that I’ve done, or simply because your relationship with your father and his Trothed is strained. But I want you to know that I am not Kintyre Turn, nor am I Bevel Dom. I am Forsyth, and I am yo
ur uncle, and that means, no matter who you are, or what you do, I am obligated by both my admiration and my kinship to listen to you, and respect you, and aid you where I may. And to love you also, if you will allow me to do so.”

  The lad looks embarrassed by my frank talk of affection. But this is exactly the sort of toxic masculinity that Reed upholds and which I abhor. Forcing oneself to be unemotional, to never speak of the softer feelings, is extremely damaging, and causes all sorts of issues with misplaced anger and entitlement. So instead of dismissing it, I move one of the chairs bracketing the room’s hearth directly before Wyndam and make a show of sitting. I lean forward, elbows perched on my knees, fingers woven in a nonthreatening, thoughtful pose under my chin.

  “And all I wish in return, Wyndam Turn, is that you would come to me if you need me, and for you to speak with me. I shall not judge you for what you say.”

  Shame floods the lad’s face, and he drops his head into his hands and moans. He makes a complicated shrugging, hand-wringing, toss-away gesture that I cannot interpret, and moans again. It ends with him tugging on his pinkie finger, a gesture I have not noticed him engage in before today. My first thought, that it was due to an injury he sustained in the field today, returns —but his finger is not swollen, or bruised.

  The last time someone I cared about suddenly adopted a new and strange gesture, with no explanation, I nearly lost Pip to Bootknife. Thus, I will not assume that Wyndam’s finger-tugging is unconnected to whatever is happening until it is proven to be so. It is possible that I am merely being paranoid, but, as the saying goes in the Writer’s realm, it is not paranoia if they really are out to get you. And as the family of the main character of this realm, they usually are out to get us.

  Wyndam catches me watching and drops his hands, and his head, defeated. He sighs, a long, weary thing filled with regret and exhaustion.

  “Go on, lad,” I urge him. “I am listening.”

  Wyndam raises his eyes to me and then, very carefully, very clearly, he mouths the words: I can’t.

  “Can’t what?” I ask, and then pause.

  Wyndam squirms, rubs his pinkie, flexes his fists, and stalls. He stares at me, begging me to understand with his eyes.

  Ah.

  Well, then. That is not what I expected.

  Flustered by this soundless revelation, I need a moment to compile my thoughts and decide what to say next. After reassuring Wyndam that I would be back in very short order, I poke my head into the rooms down the hall until I find the one where my own bags have been stowed. I retrieve writing supplies, then head down to the taproom for wine for both Wyndam and I. I have a feeling that this is going to be a long and potentially frustrating evening, and a little social lubrication never harmed the process.

  Our party is still in the corner booth, empty tureens and dirty forks pushed to one side. Bevel is playing with his pipe, flipping it bowl over stem across his fingers. He is alternately speaking or chewing on his bottom lip, clearly wishing he could smoke. But Pip has Alis on her lap, and Bevel is thoughtful enough to remember her request about smoking around the baby. Kintyre has a whittling knife in hand, turning what appears to be an illustration of the tumbled monument we saw on the knoll at the edge of town into a wood-stamp.

  Pip and Bevel are engaged in a lively discussion about storytelling, and Kintyre nods along while Alis is making some sort of finger-painting on a spare piece of parchment with pie-gravy and bits of parsley. At one time, I might have felt a pang of hurt at realizing that everyone had eaten without me, but now I understand that they simply must have been too hungry to wait.

  “Bao bei,” Pip greets me when I bend to gift each of my girls with a kiss. Pip’s on the lips, Alis’s on her nose.

  “How was the famous pie?” I ask.

  “Fantastic,” Pip says. “Another thing we need to get Bevel to write down for us.”

  “If Mistress Pern condescends to give it to me,” Bevel snorts. “Where have you been, Forssy?”

  “Upstairs with Wyndam.”

  Kintyre looks up from his pile of shavings. “Talking?”

  “More or less,” I hedge. “I have only come to fetch us some dinner.”

  “I’ll send up a tray,” says the Goodwoman, who has wandered out from behind the bar. “And not the recipe, mind you, Master Dom.”

  Bevel groans theatrically.

  I give her a short nod. “Thank you. Wine as well, please. Ah, and how is Miss Lanaea?”

  “Getting clean,” Goodwoman Farthing says. “The boys gave her first crack at the tub.”

  “How gallant,” I say, arching a teasing eyebrow at Bevel. “And both of you here, and not there?”

  “Bao bei!” Pip scolds, but she is grinning.

  “Well, Wyndam was missing, and I thought he must be—ouch!” Kintyre yelps, jerking. “Bevel, don’t kick me!”

  Pip muffles her laughter against Alis’s shoulder, peering out between the strands of her own hair at Kintyre, her brown eyes glittering with mirth. “God, I can’t believe I’m sitting right next to you, having this conversation. This is so crack fic.”

  Kintyre raises an eyebrow, but Pip just muffles another chuckle against Alis. Our daughter seems to think this is completely unacceptable and reaches out to Bevel with a sharp, “Beh beh! No, mamma!”

  Bevel sets aside his pipe and rescues his niece, pulling her across the table and brushing the wood curls off her feet before settling her in his lap.

  “Well then,” I say. “If I’m to be so thoroughly overlooked by my own family, I will return upstairs.”

  I say it with a smile, but in truth, the dart of Alis preferring her uncle’s company over her father’s does sting. I know it doesn’t actually mean anything, that Alis isn’t really choosing Bevel over me, but I am used to being the one my daughter reaches for. True, the only other adults in her life are wai po, Mei, and Martin, and Alis does, in her way, always prefer novelty . . . but still . . .

  Ah, well. I shake myself, amused by my own lingering melancholy, and follow the Goodwoman up the stairs. She has a tray of dinner for Wyndam and I, and I have work to do.

  Wyndam stands from the bed, and then falls with very little ceremony upon the meat pie as soon as the Goodwoman is out the door. A day spent on the road, and then in battle, has left me no less hungry, and we are silent for some long moments as we eat. When we have finished, when the tureens are set aside and the wine poured, I put my travel desk on Wyndam’s bed, along with parchment, a quill, and the bottle of ink.

  He stares at all of the paraphernalia with trepidation. I have seen Kintyre look at dragons that way, and the utter fear and helplessness with which my nephew regards the quill unnerves me. Something is very, very wrong here.

  “Wyndam,” I say gently, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He startles so badly that some of the wine he’s holding sloshes out onto his cuff. He raises his hand to lick away the wine, and turns his face away, shrugging off my touch.

  “Wyndam,” I try again, the question stopping up in my throat before I can fully articulate it. The sadness of needing to ask it almost makes it unbearable to ask at all. Knowing that there will be greater melancholy still if he answers in the affirmative is worse. But ask I must. “You can write, can’t you?”

  Wyndam’s shoulders slump. Oh, no. My poor nephew.

  How awful, to not only be missing out on such an essential skill—and all the pleasure it brings—but to also know that he is probably one of the few, one of the only people in Turnshire who is illiterate must have been horrifically grating to him. To know that the scullery maid could write and he could not . . .

  “Can you read, at least?” I ask, voice shaking.

  Wyndam shakes his head again. Oh, what a tragedy. I feel the pain of it as a hot pang in my breast, and a small anger in my gut. Had my nephew been raised on land, amid his father’s people, he would have lacked for nothing, least of all instruction in this. It is terrible, but worse, it is cruel. Everyone deserves th
e chance to improve themselves, to read about their rights and to communicate on their own behalf through writing. Everyone has the right to all the advantages that being literate provides. And more than that, no one should ever be deprived of books. Of stories. Of . . . magic. No one.

  And yet, it does not surprise me that he had very little formal education on board his mother’s ship. I expect that his mother is also illiterate, keeping no log books. I recall now that Wyndam had Bevel’s scrolls in his rooms, and I wonder now if it was to look at the woodcut illustrations, or if it was because he was trying to practice reading out of view of Bevel and Kintyre.

  “You are constantly surrounding yourself with books you cannot read,” I say softly. “It must be torturous, especially knowing your great admiration for your father.”

  Wyndam scowls at me, but I think he is too disappointed in himself to protest my assumption.

  Kintyre and I, of course, as the sons of Turnshire’s lord, had very fine educations— though I paid closer attention and retained more than my brother did. Bevel had been illiterate, as many of the working class were, when he met Kintyre, but my brother had taught him to read on the road. What had initially begun as an opportunity to practice his writing eventually combined with Bevel’s natural talent as a storyteller to create the story-scrolls that comprise The Tales of Kintyre Turn, and had earned him his fame. Neither man, I am certain, would have teased Wyndam for his lack skill in this.

  With irritation pulling down his brows, crinkling the skin beside his eyes, Wyndam seizes up the quill and starts to block out a few shaky letters. He must know something of writing and reading, then, but his skills are extremely rudimentary. And even so, his handwriting is cramped, difficult to read, and he keeps stopping to shake out his hand, gripping his wrist as if his fingers were moving contrary to his desire. The pinkie finger of his left hand, his dominant hand, keeps jerking as if being tugged upon by an outside force.