Game of Destiny, Book I: Willow

by J Seab

  Everything about him was average.

  He was of average height, weight, and looks. His medium-length, brown hair was just clean and orderly enough to be unremarkable. Dull-brown eyes nested languidly within a narrow face that suggested sharpness but managed to avoid the commitment by rounded lips and a soft chin.

  Fillip Brent was the sort of man who most forgot shortly after he walked by.

  And maybe that was why he felt frustrated half the time when trying to get anybody to pay attention to him. It was really irritating.

  Fillip paused upon the sloping road leading up to Stonybruk and looked behind him. He traveled alone. The sea was rapidly losing its glitter as the swollen sun dropped heavily toward the western horizon. He could faintly hear shouts, thuds, and the whinny of horses as the scow schooner that had brought him, the Madeline, unloaded her cargo and prepared to take on the new shipments bound for the Warves.

  He suppressed a twinge of nervousness as he turned and continued up the hill.

  Long shadows from alpaca corrals paralleling the rutted gravel road striped the path before him like a stair, forcing him to climb upward to meet his fate. The weak breeze that puffed in from the sea only partly cooled the day’s persistent heat.

  It was oppressively hot, even for midsummer. Rain was scarce and when it did come, it came in torrents. There was plenty to complain about. It was either too hot or too cold; there was too little water parching the crops one day, too much water washing away the fields the next. With the kind of luck they had, he snorted, he wouldn’t be surprised to wake up in the morning buried in snow.

  He pulled an already damp handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his face, the heat adding to his mounting anxiety.

  Nobody cared that the farmers were working their butts off laboring in sweltering heat trying to coax enough food from the fields to help alleviate the shortfall in the states of East Warves and West Warves.

  And nobody cared that he knew how to fix it.

  It was exactly what Marcus had said: they couldn’t meet their obligations without extra consideration from the Warves. Stonybruk needed that so they could obtain priority for one of those new harvester gadgets West Warves was now making. With it they could open a few additional hectares to farm. Otherwise, there’d be hordes of people filling the Doma, acting all flustered and concerned about their community’s responsibilities, pointing fingers at the farmers, questioning if they were doing enough.

  The road leveled out as Fillip passed the inner crafter circle and approached the central Doma complex where most of the town’s community services and activities were based, including primary power distribution.

  That was another thing Fillip couldn’t understand. It would be easy enough to run lectric wires to the family homesteads so everyone could have lectric heat and a fridge. A coal plant would generate plenty of power to supplement the output from the windmills. It wasn’t that they didn’t understand the technology, rather, it was some half-baked notion about respecting the environment, the Balance of Being, they’d say, something he’d heard his whole life but could never accept.

  That self-serving Servitor Grimpan was the worst. He kept telling the same old, boring story about how they were stewards of the earth, that if they cared for it, it would provide for them. Well, what kind of providing is it doing for us now, huh? Starving us, making us work our butts off for nothing. What does the land care? It’s just dirt. The land is there to be used.

  Maybe it was time, he thought further, to let the town vote him in as the next mayor. The job couldn’t be that hard. He had the weight of facts on his side, not some ideological wisp of half-truth. With him as mayor there would be some big-time changes in Stonybruk. Everybody would be patting him on the back, telling him what great things he was doing. All those big-head Servitors would just have to eat their dirt. Let them respect that, he thought with satisfaction.

  Fillip turned left onto a grassy track that led out of town to the narrow lane leading to his family’s plot. The big family home, half buried beneath a thick layer of soil and grasses, was already dark. Everybody was bedded down so they could get an early start.

  He walked around to the family center of Gordon’s homestead and paused to survey the three rooms budding out from the center’s dorm. They were all dark too. He pulled open the door and entered. All was quiet but the door to the counting room stood partially ajar and a flickering yellow light sliced across the floor.

  He hoped Marcus was still up, he wanted to talk to him before he had to confront Gordon. Fillip didn’t much like Gordon even if he was his father; kept telling him what he should be doing, as if Fillip was an idiot.

  At least Marcus listened. He wasn’t all that bright but he made a good sounding board, somebody to bounce ideas off. Fillip hadn’t been sure about him when he’d hired on earlier in the year but he had since proved useful. He helped Fillip order his thoughts. Facts were facts, after all. Fact: the farmer was at the bottom of the production chain. Fact: the farmer worked the hardest and got the least. Fact: the farmer suffered most when the weather didn’t cooperate.

  Fillip slipped into the counting room and closed the door behind him. Marcus sat at the desk, his head bent over a scattering of paper dimly illuminated by a candle.

  Marcus was a big man, mean looking, although you didn’t see that when you spoke to him. He had a soft, accommodating voice. It was a combination that gave him a decided advantage when dealing with others, particularly when there was a difference of opinion. He’d lean his heavy arm around your shoulders, smile down sweetly at you, and politely ask you to do what he suggested while those dark, deep-set eyes bored right through you.

  People always listened to Marcus, he was always noticed. Even the family often deferred to him even though he was a hire.

  Marcus, nonetheless, was a good guy, Fillip had decided, so he didn’t mind so much. He actually liked him. But then, Fillip knew how to handle him.

  Marcus looked up from the paperwork he was reviewing. He usually needed some help with that too, Fillip thought, with a tolerant amusement. If he gave Marcus plenty of time he could puzzle through it. Nothing important—lists, mostly of things that needed doing.

  “Fillip,” he said rising, coming around the desk, and patting him on the back. “Welcome back.”

  “Looks like you’re busy. Any problems?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Nothing major. You explained things pretty well. I’m just making sure I’ve done everything you asked. Been expecting you.”

  “Humph, I hope so. I don’t want to have to deal with any screwups after being on the road for most of a week,” Fillip said as he walked behind the desk and sat. “How’s the estimate for the next harvest doing?”

  “Seems about what you expected. There’s more work to do than we’ve got time. I put it all in the box like you said, every batch bundled separately so you can figure it proper.”

  “Good,” Fillip said, idly scanning the task list Marcus had left on the desk.

  “How’d it go in Market Square?” Marcus finally prompted.

  “Poorly,” Fillip said without looking up.

  “Poorly?”

  Fillip stood and began pacing behind the desk, his hands waving in the air, anger replacing his earlier anxiety. “The distributors wouldn’t budge. They don’t care. We could all starve to death for all they care. They must think all we have to do is stroll out into the fields and collect the produce that’s laying all about. They couldn’t grow a bean or potato if their life depended on it,” he fumed. “It doesn’t matter to them as long as there’s enough to fill their bellies.”

  Marcus stood patiently while Fillip ranted on, cursing the stupidity of the system, how everything was stacked against the farmer, how everybody downstream reaped most of the benefits even though the farmer did all the real work.

  “It’s unfair,” he shouted, banging a fist on the desk. “Those self-serving Servitors think they can push us into the corner, keep us stupid
while they take what’s due us.”

  Marcus walked over to Fillip and, putting his arm around his shoulder, said, “You’re right, Fillip. It is unfair. If you couldn’t get better consideration for the value of your contribution to the shortfall, then who could? Isn’t this...good—an opportunity?”

  Fillip’s anger faded as he looked down, avoiding Marcus’s eyes. An opportunity. Maybe. Stepping back from Marcus, he walked over to the sideboard and poured a glass of water from the pitcher sitting there. An opportunity, he thought again as he sipped his water, an opportunity to use the community’s troubles to open their eyes to the truth. People were suffering and it appeared he was the only person around with the courage to fix it.

  “You bring up a good point there, Marcus.”

  “It’s only a small thought, I don’t know what to do with it,” Marcus said, spreading his hands.

  “And that’s one of the reasons I like you so much.” Fillip said, raising his glass. “You’re big enough to know when to step aside and let someone more, uh, qualified to carry the ball.”

  “What should we do?” Marcus asked humbly.

  Fillip strolled back to the desk, sat down, put his feet up, and sipped his water.

  The first problem was going to be his father, Gordon Brent. He’d be unhappy. Fillip had used a little, uh, creative counting to help convince Gordon to hold on to part of their crop, wheat and beans, as leverage, Marcus called it. It still sat in the barn when it should be on the ship heading to North Greelys Folly for distribution in Market Square.

  Gordon’s was the largest farm in Stonybruk, he’d argued, almost twice the size of the Jotar farm on the west side even though the Jotars somehow managed to coax almost as much from their land as Gordon. They were just lucky, their land was obviously more fertile. Regardless, being the biggest gave the Gordon family clout. Market Square couldn’t afford not to respond to Fillip’s demands for greater consideration. Food crops were getting scarce in the north because of the weather. Maintaining Stonybruk’s self-sufficiency for basic foodstuff was difficult enough without having to supplement the Warves. West Warves wanted to take everything that was available. That was a fact.

  The clincher was Wes’s plot just across the road. Wes was packing it in, taking his wife and two kids over to North Shores after the harvest. There was a boom going for alpacas and North Shores was begging for people to come out and establish new ranches.

  Besides, there was no heat wave over there. Wes’s wife always whined about the heat. She whined about the cold too, he recalled. Wimpy little turnip, she was. Had Wes all tied up in a pretty ribbon.

  He had to admit that Wes showed some courage, not like the other farmers around here. He was willing to leave everything behind, to venture out and try something new.

  That was another of those Servitor rules designed to imprison farmers: if you aren’t wearing it you don’t own it. A person’s wealth was measured by their skills, knowledge, and contributions to the well-being of the community, not by material possessions, they said. Stupid. Meaningless. Blah, blah. Maybe the community had helped build his house and barn but Wes maintained them for all those years, raised a family there. He was entitled to some extra consideration for that, consideration that he should be able to take with him.

  What with Gordon Brent’s family outgrowing their homestead he needed more space. Even the dorm was overfull, three singles and a hire, Marcus, two sharing each of the two dorm rooms. Not counting his room, of course. He was the eldest, he was entitled to his own room. Once the brats up in the big house became citizens, where would they stay? He wasn’t about to let anybody move in with him.

  Wes’s plot of land bordered the Brent farm and would be the perfect solution to everyone’s problems if they could get a harvester out of those stubborn Warvers. It’d mean more food for the Warves, more space for Gordon’s family, and less stinking, backbreaking labor.

  The mayor, however, was balking. He was concerned about the Brent family getting too big, too fast. Even Gordon was getting perturbed with the mayor’s concerns. Gordon didn’t like anybody telling him how many kids he could have. Nobody else in the valley had the people or resources to farm Wes’s land. Nobody from outside was knocking at the mayor’s door asking for a plot to work. What was the mayor intending to do? Let the buildings collapse? Let weeds overtake the fields? What was the value in that? How would that help alleviate the shortfall?

  Even the mayor, Fillip had suggested to Gordon, wouldn’t be able to deny the value of the Brent family when Fillip wheeled in one of those fancy new harvesters for the community. Clever gadgets, they were. Reduced by over half the amount of labor needed to cut and thresh grains. That would help everybody, allow everybody to farm more land, and make it easy to catch up from the shortfall.

  The mayor would fall all over himself begging Gordon to take over Wes’s plot, put it in production and take a leadership role in teaching Stonybruk’s farmers how to use the new harvester. The crisis would be averted. This season’s shortfall wouldn’t matter anymore, they’d all be heroes. Fillip smiled to himself. All due to him, Fillip Brent.

  He savored that thought for a moment longer, seeing himself as the center of attention, everybody telling him what a great asset to the community he was, begging him to run for mayor, waving and smiling at him as he walked by.

  He pulled his thoughts back on track.

  Furthermore, Fillip had argued, Gordon wouldn’t have to go begging to the council, wagging his tail like a little puppy dog. That was a hot button you could always rely on, Fillip thought. Gordon did not beg. His face had gotten all red and puffy like it was ready to explode when Fillip had described his idea. But then it had deflated, sudden like, and Gordon had told him to go ahead and try it. He just gave in. It was almost too easy.

  It was a good plan, Fillip knew, and he had been certain it would work. What choice did the Warves have? They either had to allocate a harvester to him or starve this winter.

  But the distributors screwed everything, didn’t have enough in their hearts to do what was right for the farmers.

  “Hey, Fillip,” a voice intruded from the doorway.

  Fillip dropped his feet to the floor, swung his head around sharply, and scowled. Jeremy stood at the door, his hand resting on the doorknob, a big smile splitting his face.

  “Heard you didn’t do so good,” he said, smirking.

  “Where did you hear that?” Fillip asked, his scowl deepening.

  “From you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Heard you come in. Couldn’t help overhearing what you said, you were shouting so much.”

  “Humph, big deal, so they wouldn’t give us our harvester, so the distributors got a lock on the allocation. All in all, it’s best. Gives us an opportunity,” he said, glancing at Marcus.

  “Yeah, sure, but you might have a hard time convincing Dad. He’s been talking a lot with Servitor Grimpan since you’ve been gone.”

  Fillip’s face suddenly turned dark and his eyes glared. “You go and bury your nose in somebody else’s business,” he fumed. “I’ll deal with Father in the morning. I don’t need the likes of you telling me how to do the family’s business.”

  “You’ll be dealing with Dad sooner than that,” Jeremy said triumphantly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he told us to get him when you finally showed up, no matter the time of day or night. I’ve already sent Bark over to wake him.”

  Fillip’s heart skipped a beat. “Get out,” he growled, leveling his arm at Jeremy. “Now.” Shaking, he stepped closer to Marcus.

  With a nervous look at Marcus, Jeremy retreated.

  Fillip walked to the open door and peered out. Everybody was up, lounging around in the family room, whispering. One looked up at him and then returned to the conversation, ignoring him. Fillip slammed the door.

  “What now?” Fillip asked.

  “You know you did the right thing, tried to help the fami
ly,” Marcus said softly, eyes staring into his.

  “Yes, I did,” Fillip agreed, jerking his eyes free. He resumed pacing but kept his voice low. “Everything I did was for the family, for Stonybruk. We’ll come out ahead in the long run. That’s a fact.”

  “Tell that to Gordon.”

  “Think he’ll understand?”

  Marcus shrugged.

  From the sound of the boots stomping across the floor in his direction, Fillip decided he probably wouldn’t. He took another step closer to Marcus and then turned to face the door.

  Gordon burst in, his craggy face red with anger. Gordon was a big man too, his frame hard from decades working in the fields. Even though he was well past the half-century mark, he still put in a long day, sometimes shaming his children with what he could accomplish. He believed that a man’s value was best measured by how hard he worked, and he insisted that his children follow his example.

  He wore his light sleeping gown and his feet were stuffed into unlaced boots. His close-cut hair, still full and dark, poked up from his head in tufted spikes, his heavy jaw thrust forward and his lips were twisted. No, Fillip thought, he was definitely not happy. But Fillip decided that he wasn’t the coward here, only he had the guts to stand up for what was right and the brains to make it happen. Let his father rant. It wouldn’t change the facts.

  “What’s this I hear that you failed to accomplish anything with your so-called leverage?” Gordon demanded.

  Fillip started to explain, tried to tell him how the Servitors had a lock on the allocation and how all the other farmers caved in to their lies, about how this was such a good opportunity to break free of their grip. Fillip rushed on, started to remind him about Wes’s plot and having to go begging to the council.

  Gordon stopped him with a cold glare. “Enough,” he said, his voice quivering with anger. “I don’t want to hear all your excuses. You failed.” He stepped back into the doorway and raised his voice. “Everybody, get out to the barn, load every wagon we’ve got with as much as it’ll carry. I hope we still have time to make it before the Madeline departs. I want you heading toward the docks within the hour. Jeremy, you run back to the house and get the kids out to help.”

  “Father, I didn’t—” Fillip began to whine.

  “Quiet,” Gordon barked. “I’ve got to catch the schooner. I just hope there’s room for the rest of our crops. And Jeremy,” he shouted, “tell Ma to pack my travel bag.”

  “Father, I’ll go. That’s my job.”

  “That’s something open to debate right now,” Gordon said acidly. “Get out to the barn, now. I don’t know how you flummoxed me with your nonsense but I’ll hear no more of it. I’ll deal with you when I return.” With that, he stomped out the front door and headed for the stables.

  Stung, Fillip stared at his retreating back. “Ass,” he mumbled.

  Chapter 5