by R.N. Decker
Malt came to stand in front of his wife and child and confronted the man. “What proposition? You’ve already offered work and I’ve accepted. What more do you want?” He stood with his hands on his hips, defiance on his face.
The stranger took a step back himself, throwing up his hands as if warding off a blow. “No, no. I want to help you, that’s all. And maybe we can help each other. I mean no harm to you.”
Letty still wasn’t convinced the man meant any harm, but Malt was curious. “Help how?”
The man looked at the child in Letty’s arms and pointed to him. “By him.”
Malt turned to look at his son, confused. Then he looked back at the stranger standing in his home. “What do you mean? That’s my son.”
“I know. What I have in mind is for me to take the child and raise it as my own.”
Letty was shocked. She cringed back, holding tightly to her son. “No!” she automatically spat out. “You can’t have my baby.”
Malt couldn’t think of a thing to say to the man. Standing with his mouth open in shock and surprise he merely looked at him. Was he mad? Did he expect them to just hand over their son?
“Wait, please,” pleaded the stranger. “This would benefit both of us. My wife and I can’t have children . . .” he looked about the shack of a house once more, then back to the couple, “And I have the means to raise him as my own. And you would not go uncompensated for this act.” He looked about him once more, getting their attention on what he was seeing.
Malt still had a shocked look on his face, but his eyes did follow where the stranger was looking. All of a sudden he realized what the stranger was really seeing: a shack for a home. He never wanted this kind of life for his wife. And now that he had a son, he didn’t want either of them to live in a hovel. The rickety bowed-in roof of the shack would eventually have to be replaced or it would collapse. The fireplace, or what they called a fireplace, was crumbling and soot blackened. The nice dresses he always wanted to buy for his beautiful Letty never came to pass. And food, the main part of staying alive, was hard to come by, especially since work was so scarce. He turned to look at his wife and son, looking into their eyes, and he saw no future. His own eyes filled with tears.
Letty saw the look on Malt’s face and a tear came to her own eyes. How could he even think of giving their son away. He was born with a hood, the Gods had made him lucky. He’d bring luck to them if they would just wait a little longer.
The stranger saw they were considering it. He had to push a little harder. The mother was the one to truly convince, he saw it almost immediately. “Don’t worry, you can see him any time you want. After all, your husband will be working for me. And I’ll pay for the privilege of raising him. He and you will never want again.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small purse, jingling it. A tinkling sound came from within. “This is more than enough gold to last a few years for you. Please, we can help each other. And my wife would be eternally grateful.”
Malt took his wife by the arm and steered her away from the stranger. “Letty, you know we can’t raise him like we wish. And he’ll be alright. The Gods have already given him good fortune. Maybe this is it.”
Letty looked to the stranger, standing with his long coat and walking staff in his hands and the purse of gold, then down at her son again. She kissed the babies forehead lightly and rocked him. Then, saying to Malt, “I don’t know if I can. We lost our first, I always wanted another chance, and this is it.”
“I know, but this man has the means to take care of him, and raise him the way he should be raised. That is fortune by itself, The Gods had foretold he would bring good luck. Look around you, do you really want him to be raised here? We never wanted this for ourselves, and with a baby it’ll be ten times as hard. This is his chance, and ours. And, like he said, we can see him whenever we want.”
“But, the Gods . . .”
Malt interrupted her. “The Gods have sent us a messenger. And good fortune because of our son. Don’t you see it.”
Letty took another look at her son. Then back at Malt. She slowly nodded her head, maybe Malt was right, the tears now coursing down her cheeks.
Malt nodded to Letty and lightly kissed her on the cheek, then turned back to the man. “OK. But we wish to see him as often as possible. I do not lightly give away my son.”
“I know. This is a very hard decision to make,” he said, inwardly smiling. “Please, let me take him to my wife. She will be thrilled.” He held out his arms for the babe.
Letty however, did not at first move. Looking to the stranger she said, “Wait a moment, I will get a basket to put him in and a change. It will give me a moment to say goodbye to him.”
“Of course, I should have realized,” said the stranger. “Take your time. Your husband and I will discuss our arrangements for work.”
Letty took the small babe in their sleeping quarters where she kept a hand-woven basket. The one in which she had been placing him in to sleep at night. There she gathered him in a blanket, placed a small cloth beside him for when he needed changing, and made him as comforle as possible. Looking down on him nestled in his tiny basket crib, her tears flowed freely. Maybe it was for the best, but it was hard to let go. Picking up the basket with her precious cargo nestled inside, she walked back to the front of the house.
Malt watched as his wife brought their son back. Inside the hand-woven basket nestled his little boy. He was miserable about letting him go, but the more he thought about him being in this shack and living a life of poverty, begging for food, or dying of starvation, he didn’t have much of a choice. Any opportunity he could give him to grow and be well, he had to take. And weren’t the Gods the one’s who gave him good fortune and long life. Surely this was what they meant.
Letty looked to Malt and said, “He’s ready.”
Malt looked at the little bundle and sighed. “Yes, I see that. Don’t worry, we’ve talked on how we’ll see him. It’s all been seen to.”
The man opened his arms for the baby and Letty reluctantly gave him up.
With the small bundle tucked in his arms, the man turned to Malt and said, “I’ll see you in the morning, at the common area. Then you can start work.”
Malt nodded. He couldn’t talk for the lump in his throat, watching his son leave with the stranger.
When the tall stranger closed the door to the shack, he clearly heard the woman inside wailing for her child. He dashed for his horse. He knew he had to be gone in moments. He’d gotten what he wanted and now he had to be gone.
That was the last time Malt and Letty ever saw their son. The stranger disappeared in the night and never returned as he promised.
Part 4
The River
The stranger left Gartha as fast as he could, and never looked back.
What no one in the small village ever suspected was the stranger who rode in on this sunny bright morning, was in actuality, the king; King Kharon the fourth. In his many years on the throne, he had taken to mingling among his people without them knowing who he was. In this fashion he could find out what the common folk really thought of him and see that anyone who would spread sedition against him never spread it again. For many years he’d visited not only this small hamlet but others just like it. Who would suspect their king among them with the disguises he used?
And it was a good thing he happened upon this dirt village on the outskirts of his kingdom, for as he lounged in the common area, watering his horse from the fountain, he heard talk of the birth of a boy child, born with a caul, fated by the Gods to marry the princess, his daughter, and have good fortune many years afterward.
Kharon didn’t believe in the Gods of course, for that was pure superstitious nonsense of the common rabble, but such foolishness had to be tolerated so order could be kept in his kingdom. But just in case . . . just in case the Gods were in fact real, he could take no chances. His daughter, born just two weeks earlier, would marry whom he chose, not someone a mythica
l God chose. No peasant would ever have his daughters hand if he had anything to say about it. And he did. Oh, he did indeed.
Looking down on the young babe in the basket, quietly looking back at him, he grinned a nasty grin. “I shall take care of you vile child. I will have nothing to do with this nonsense of you growing up to be my daughters husband and father to her children.”
Late into the night the king rode with the babe sleeping peacefully in the woven basket. Every once in a while he would make sure the boy was still in his possession, merely looking at it, to constantly have in his mind the shape of his small face and the very smell of him, so his nerve would not break in what he knew he must do. The main driving force of any kingdom is its people, and the main force driving the people is their king, so when another kingdom wants to treat with his and be united in arms as well as in commerce, to benefit both kingdoms and their peoples, then and only then would he give his daughter to wed.
Having a poor peasant wed his daughter was not going to happen.
Two days ride from his chief city of Bon Odor, King Kharon came upon the Acheron River, which supplied most of the nearby farming communities with irrigation, and also served as a main source for barge traffic for his kingdom. The river, usually a mere two hundred feet across and at its deepest eighty feet, was now a raging torrent due to spring thaw. Water sped by at an alarming rate. Anyone or anything plunged into that deluge would surely perish.
He smiled knowingly. Looking upon the child one more time, hardening his heart, remembering the prophecy of the Gods told to him by Gartha’s people and its mothers own mouth, he gripped the handle of the basket and without thinking, tossed the babe into the raging currents of the river.
Now I have freed my daughter from this undesired suitor. The Gods will not have the final say. After releasing the basket and its foul contents, King Kharon galloped his horse from the spot and never looked back.
Good riddance.
Chapter 2
Part 1
Foundling
The raging Acheron River carried the basket and its precious cargo down stream.
But, unknowing to King Kharon, it did not sink, or even gather a single drop upon its passenger as it traveled. It and its passenger were surely watched over by God, for any other piece of flotsam would have sank to the bottom.
The heavy, sturdy, boat-like construction of the woven basket cradled the young babe as if it were in the arms of its mother. As the raging river followed a winding course through valleys and low hills, the babe inside the basket slept peacefully, until near dawn, where with a small bump, it came to rest upon a small mound of sand, just a few short yards away from an earthen dam.
Upon the bank of the river was a boy of about twelve years of age, dressed in worn but serviceable britches, a brown frock shirt, and a scuffed nearly worn-out pair of goat-skin boots. He’d been sitting on the bank lazily casting a line in the water, hoping to catch dinner. Seeing the small bundle floating at the bank was a surprise. But he was curious as to what it was, so he gathered his hook from the bank, which he used to snag the fish out of the water, and grabbed hold of the basket and pulled it to him. When he saw what was actually in the basket, he didn’t quite know what to do. A baby wrapped in a loose cloth and wearing a smile.
Who would throw a baby in the river? Or set one loose in such a way?
Taking the baby he headed toward the millers place, maybe they would know what to do with it. The small bundle looked so helpless and tiny.
The boy, one of the local waifs of Bon Odor, had been lucky to find someone who would hire someone so young. Most of the kids running the streets were either runaways or orphans and no one trusted them. Stealing was a way of life. He didn’t want to beg or steal. All he’d ever wanted was a place to lay his head at night and a meal or two so he wouldn’t starve. And the man and wife who ran the mill were kind enough to put him to work so he wouldn’t have to do either. And he didn’t have to live on the streets. A small room in the back of the mill was provided for him. They gave him a place to stay and a heavy coat in the winter.
They’d know what to do.
Part 2
Pax
Fifteen years later.
Pax wiled away his free time from the mill at the rivers edge, the mighty Acheron. He didn’t know why he always wanted to be by the water, it just felt right to him. The lapping of the water and the sheer joy of the waters sound made him glad. For hours at a time he found himself simply watching the torrents speed by. He knew where the water came from of course, from the high mountains to the north when the snow capped peaks melted. Some years the water was so high he couldn’t get to his favorite sitting spot. And once, when he was seven, he could actually see the bottom of the river because the snow melt hadn’t come. Then the river looked more like a canyon than a river-course. But today, in this season, the water was just right for running the mill and allowing barges to come and go. It was perfect.
Pax loved his life and where he lived. He couldn’t see himself anywhere else. Oh, he’d gone to the neighboring village once with Horst, his father, to retrieve a grinding stone for the mill a few years ago, but he didn’t care for the place. It had been dirty, run down, and no one appreciated what Horst did for them. Actually, no one seemed to care about anything at all. Without the mill and its grinding stones for flour, no one would have a loaf of bread.
A yell came to Pax’s ears as he watched the river flow by. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but he knew who was yelling; Horst. Pax sighed and stood up. He knew he better go before Horst came to look for him. It never went well when his father had to look for him. It seemed he couldn’t do anything right in his father’s eyes unless he was being watched. He wasn’t a baby, he could take care of himself, but that didn’t seem to matter. So, every so often he just had to get away from the mill. He needed time to himself.
Horst yelled again, “Pax! Pax! Where are you boy? I need help with the grindstone. Pax!”
Pax trotted up the small slope to the mill, on the bank of the river, seeing his father standing at the door. “Here I am,” he said smiling.
Horst had his fists planted on his hips, a sight Pax had seen many times. He always posed when he was mad or excited. Pax always wanted to laugh when he saw it. Once, he actually did, and when asked why he was laughing he’d told his father, and he’d gotten a belt across his back. Horst had felt slighted. Pax had to do some fast talking to convince him he’d meant it with affection.
“Where have you been? The millstone needs attention. I can’t do it on my own,” Horst spat with a frown.
Pax nodded and chuckled. “OK. I’m here now. What’s wrong?” He’s so excile. I hope he doesn’t have a seizure or something.
Horst just shook his head, Pax’s constant smile and chuckle made him uneasy. And more than once he’d gotten the belt across his backside for showing them. But, It seemed nothing could get the boy down. It had been that way with the lad since he first came to his wife and him, over fifteen years ago. He’d never told the boy he was found by the riverbank by Pug so many years before, he didn’t think it should matter. The Gods had given him to them for a reason, he just didn’t know what that reason was. Through all his faults and attitudes and carefree ways, he was a good boy, and he never regretted making him one of his own.
“You know,” Horst said, watching the boy pass as he entered the mill, “one of these days you’re gonna’ get in a lot of trouble because of your carefree ways.”
Pax chuckled. “I’ve been there before with you, haven’t I, Pa? You know I don’t mean no harm. Or at least I hope you do. It’s just that it’s a nice day. And it was too stuffy inside.”
“I know, boy, but you have responsibilities now. You have to help your ma and me with the mill to keep it going.”
“I know pa, I know,” chuckled Pax as he headed to the mill-stones.
Horst just shook his head in bafflement how the boy could be so happy all the time. No matter the t
ime of year, or any weather, in the rain or the sunshine it made no difference. Always cheery and always happy to be alive. Horst wondered how he had been allowed to keep such a wondrous child. The Gods must have truly shined a light on him and his wife for Pug to have found him and then brought him to them to raise. But, although he and Rosie had kept the boy and made him their own, he often worried someone would happen to come by and recognize the child and demand to have his head on a pike for stealing their little one away.
Pax called back to the millwright, “Pa, what’s wrong with the stone this time?”
Pug shouted to Horst from behind Pax, “Don’t worry, Master Horst. Pax and I shall take care of this, you go and get supper with the misses.”
Horst shouted back, “I’ll do no such thing. I need to make sure this is done right. The pin that sets the stone is loose and I can’t afford to have it break all the way through. It would put the mill out of order until next spring if it does.”
Pug shook his head. “No, it’s not that bad. It’s the balance again, that’s all. Pax and I can take care of it.”
Pax chuckled at his father and turned to Pug. “I don’t think you’ll convince him Pug. We, after all, are just mill hands, not the master millwright.” He grinned at Horst to show he meant nothing but affection for his father.
Pug chuckled back at the young man. “You say true my young friend. But then, I have never done anything like this before. I have just started training with your father this past week.”
Horst groaned. Always with the witty responses, these two. From the moment Pax could start talking. But Horst knew it was only in good fun. The smiles on their faces proved that. They had sport with him once again. Each had been around the other long enough to know what they could each do and not do, just as he did. And each knew what they could get away with. Pug had been the one who had brought Pax from the river those long years before, as each knew. One a waif, the other a foundling, and each a son to be proud of. “That’s enough from both of you. I may have to shove you into the water trough to cool down those jests.”