“I want to go home!” a boy said, tugging at the skirt of his mother’s dress. He wore a red button-down shirt and shiny brown shoes with silver buckles.
His mother’s yellow dress was the most vibrant thing in the room–frilled and flowering. “Go wait at your table, dear,” the woman said. She didn’t say what she wanted to say. Percy saw the resentment hiding behind her eyes. She was far too important to be bothered with the droll of child-rearing. The Riverview Fish-fry was a quaint one-room building, lacking any decorations but housing many empty tables. The mines around Hollowdale operated day and night. Timber rolled down the Westward Rush, and they pulled fish from the same river. Most people were at work, leaving only the wives of merchants and politicians to enjoy a leisurely mid-morning meal.
“I want to go home!” the boy cried.
“Go sit a moment longer,” his mother insisted. The women at her table shared secret smiles.
Percy nibbled on fried fish, mushrooms, and onions.
The boy huffed and puffed and stomped his way over to his lonely table by the fireplace, fiddling a fork with a spoon. His mother returned to her women in waiting. Their whispers filled the air with incoherent mutterings. What is the gossip of the day? Percy wondered.
Percival rose from his chair. He approached the table of women. They went silent. Percy bowed. “I am Percival, the Bard. A pleasure.” Two younger women giggled. The mother sat rigid and straight-backed in her yellow dress. She held Percival’s eyes and her silence. “I can entertain the boy if you will pay,” he offered. Percival retrieved three wooden balls from a satchel hidden behind his cloak. He tossed the painted balls into the air and began juggling. He stopped the balls and bowed once more.
The women clapped. A hefty old maid in a rough-hewn dress clapped loudest of all. “Bravo!” she shouted.
The mother rolled her eyes and retrieved her purse. She sat a stack of five copper circling on the table. She smiled. “Is that sufficient?”
“It is,” Percival said. Thankfully, I’m after your gossip and not your coin. He approached the boy, juggling balls in hand. The child glared at him.
Percival tossed the balls into the air. He started with a simple round-and-around, then tossed balls behind his back and over the shoulder. The little boy perked up. He didn’t smile, but his eyes became alive with wonder. “You’re good!” the boy cried.
“Hush!” Percival pleaded. “I must concentrate.” He sped up. The painted balls became blurs. Faster and faster, he plucked them from the air with deft hands. He tossed his yellow ball high in the air. It floated up, up, up, as Percival continued juggling the red and the blue. It tumbled toward Percival’s head.
The boy pointed at the yellow ball. “Watch out!” he shouted.
The ball nearly knocked him, but, at the last moment, Percival stepped to the side. Yellow joined the red and blue, falling into place. Percival smiled.
The boy laughed.
Percival juggled, showing off every trick he could summon. The little boy sat wide-eyed and silent. Percival split his concentration between the painted juggling balls and the whispering women: “Who do you think will buy the Heinz Farm, Marsha?” asked one of the women.
“If my husband doesn’t, you mean?” the mother retorted.
The women at the table laughed.
“He doesn’t think it’s cursed?” another woman asked.
“The Temple teaches us that there is no spirit but the Holy Spirit,” Marsha explained. “We don’t entertain superstitions.”
The women’s laughter settled.
“Will they ever find who killed poor Erik?” the youngest inquired.
Percival’s ears perked up.
“I don’t know,” Marsha admitted. “Selling the farm was a bold move. Maybe Master Heinz will make enough circlings to keep his promise, but my husband said his farm isn’t worth nearly that much.”
“A lord’s weight in silver!” the eldest mocked in a deep voice.
The young women giggled.
“Hush that, now,” Marsha said. “It’s no laughing matter. Losing a son…” The table went dead silent. “I can’t imagine anything worse.”
“Going mad and selling your family’s fifth-generation farm because you lost a son?” the old woman offered.
“You’re terrible, Gretchen,” Marsha said flatly.
The women all laughed.
Marsha released an audible sigh. “Sometimes, the elderly are as crude as the babes. Walter!”
The little boy startled, wriggling in his chair. “Yes?”
“Come on.” Marsha stood. “We’re going home.” She marched over to Percival and handed him the stack of circlings. “Thank you.” Percival bowed. He watched the mother leave with her son, the loud old woman in her modest dress following them. The remaining women returned to their gossip.
An unsolved murder?
Percival leaned against his walking stick, standing on a long hill overlooking a valley of farmlands and apple orchards. Grass grew thick. Groves of ash, oak, and spruce dotted the riverside. Their leaves turned with the seasons: orange, yellow, and red amongst hardy cedars, with their brown branchlets, their evergreen sprays. Autumn was here. Soon, winter would bring her troubles, but the Golden Valley had good soil. Their fields were bountiful, and their harvests were always plentiful.
This murder is no business of mine. I can’t solve everything.
His feet guided him back to town, along cobbled paths between stone and timber buildings. The townsfolk of Hollowdale busied themselves with errands, while the merchants busied themselves with trade, speaking in a bastardized mixture of Prarien and Westernesse. The sweet smell of a bakery wafted on a gentle breeze, tempting him, but he didn’t have the circlings to spare for a pastry. Percival wandered into a marketplace boasting a dozen stalls and two dozen tables piled with the early harvests of fall. He joined a press of people browsing the produce and wares. Thoughts of the wealthy mother and her son, and the realization that somewhere out there was another poor mother who recently lost her son, raced through his mind. Doesn’t she deserve to know what happened? Perhaps she shouldn’t. She may find out something she doesn’t want to know. Besides, countless mothers lose countless sons every day. I’m not responsible for bringing them closure.
Did my mother get closure? Does she ever think of me? Is she alive? What is she like–what was she like? I would like to know.
A homely old woman inspected a potato. She brushed it off with the tail of her copper-colored dress. “I bet you saved this one just for me, didn’t you?” Gretchen smiled at the old farmer across the stall from her. He offered a toothy smile and a swift nod.
Percy spotted a pile of ripe apples. They gleaned against the sun. “Get them while you can!” a haggard man with curly black hair and a thick beard called to him. “The last harvest before winter! Two coppers for the reds. Three for the greens!”
Percival approached. “I’ll take two reds.” He dug into his coin purse, retrieved the coppers, and exchanged them, walking away with dessert and a snack for later.
“Percival!” a husky voice called.
Percy stopped in his tracks. He turned–slowly. Gretchen stood a few feet away, smiling broad and bright. She carried a basket full of vegetables and apples. “Fancy seeing you here!”
“I–”
“I thought you were a traveler, like other minstrels,” Gretchen eyed him. “What’s keeping you around? Did my memory haunt you so?” Percival searched for words, to no avail. The old hen cackled. “I’m just putting on! Don’t worry about me, dear, I’m just too old to care!” She laughed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “How do you find Hollowdale? Does it suit you?”
“I find it pleasant–quiet. Maybe too quiet,” Percival answered. “I miss the College of Ottoburg and the stage.”
“Is that where you’re heading?” Gretchen asked. She exchanged the basket from one hand to the other. “Back to the big city?”
“It is,” Percival said with a nod.
“Shame!” Gretchen wailed, swinging her basket arm wide, nearly knocking a youngster’s head. “Marsha is looking for an instructor to teach her son. I suspect you are a musician, as well as a juggler?”
“Of course.” Percival bobbed his head. “Trained in the lute, flute, and drums by–”
“If you want to make money, seek Marsha–or her husband. He’s the one with the money, anyhow!” she laughed.
“I’m not looking for a pupil.” Percival did not share her humor. “But thank you for telling me.”
Gretchen winked. “Thank you for being so handsome! We haven’t seen your like in Hollowdale for many years!” She cackled. “You could pass for a prince!” Gretchen strode away, smiling and talking to anyone who passed her by. The folk of Hollowdale seemed to expect her abrupt greetings and brash comments. They nodded, exchanged pleasantries, and carried on with their business.
Odd woman, Percival mused. He approached a stall with racks of fish and bowls full of mushrooms, berries, and wild herbs. Two near-identical women stood behind the stall, wearing near-identical dresses, and watching as he studied their wares.
“What’s your name?” one woman asked.
“Percival,” he lied. “Your entroot is well preserved to be so late in the year,” he observed. And it was. The fine roots still held some moisture–just enough to be worth the effort of grinding.
“When it’s the only thing you’ve got, you get good at it,” the old woman spoke.
The other lady grinned. She crossed her arms. “And when you’re good at something, it’s all you want to do.”
He pondered the words.
Percival marched south of town, the thuds of his walking stick in rhythm with his feet. A dirt path cut away, toward the riverside. Muddy tracks marked the passing of many wagons. Between the fork of cobbles and dirt, a large stone sat at the head of an oval impression on the soft ground. A grave, he realized. And rather fresh.
Percival followed the muddy trail. Grass grew tall and green on either side. The river’s constant current rumbled in the distance. Soon, the grass broke, and tended fields, scattered with the remnants of their harvest, stretched out before him. At the end of the lane, three timber-built buildings stood: a shed, a two-story house, and a big barn with a steep roof. His feet carried him to the end of the lane and up to the farmhouse’s door. Aside from a few chickens and a goat wandering aimlessly, there was little activity, little life. Percival knocked on the door. He waited.
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The door opened. A sickly woman met him. Her hair was not altogether gray. Some youth clung to her, but her eyes were darkly ringed, and her shoulders slouched. “Who are you?”
“I want to speak with the Master of this house,” Percival informed.
The woman nodded slowly. “Well. Come in.” She turned and shuffled down a narrow hall. She led him through the cramped hallway and into a kitchen. Cupboards sat thick with dust. Cabinet doors stood open. The entire house looked long past due for a cleaning. “Where’s the Lady of the House?” Percival asked.
“I am the Lady of this house,” the woman answered. She didn’t bother looking at him.
He didn’t bother questioning further. The woman moved like a phantom, barely clinging to the world around her–distant. The death of her son weighs heavily on her heart.
They entered a quaint parlor. An old man sat in a wooden rocking chair before a smoldering hearth. Approaching, Percival realized the man was whittling. Wood shavings piled themselves in front of the hearth. “Tilde?” the man asked. A puff of gray hair sprouted from his head.
“We have a visitor,” the woman said. She waved Percival forward, then retreated from the room. Percival stepped inside.
“Tilde?” the man called. He received no answer.
“Master Heinz?” Percival inquired as he leaned his walking stick against the wall.
“Oh!” the old man exclaimed. He rocked in his chair and shot to his feet. “A visitor!” He sat a crudely carved hunk of wood on the mantle of their fireplace, next to a washbasin and a stump of a candle. “Who might you be?”
“Percival.” He introduced himself with a nod.
“Turin!” The old man held out a hand. Percival gripped it softly, but the farmer’s hand was like a gnarled root, stiff and strong. “Are you looking for work? I’ll tell you the same thing I told the others: I’m selling the farm. And I’m not looking for an heir to inherit. I don’t care how good you are with the animals, or how strong your back is! If you don’t have money, you’re wasting your time!”
Percival shook the farmer’s hand. “I want to help you find closure,” he assured.
“Help–” the old man’s breath caught in his chest. “Closure? With my son? I made a lofty promise when offering a lord’s weight in silver.” The old farmer scratched his gray sprout. “I may not measure up.”
“I don’t want your money,” Percival said. “I just want to help.”
The old farmer cocked his head and eyed him. “I want to ask why, but I’m too desperate to care anymore.” Mr. Heinz motioned toward a cushioned bench nearby. Percival sat. “Waldorf did it, the bastard. He’s always wanted my land. He even tried to marry his daughter to my boy! But I couldn’t live to see an heir of Waldorf tilling these fields. He comes from a line of cheats. Everything that family touches goes to ruin. As sure as I’m standing here, he killed my son. And may have well killed my wife, too. She wasn’t always so lifeless. Quiet and shy, my Tilde, but not the wraith who met you at the door.”
“Let’s start with what we know beyond doubt,” Percival counseled.
Master Heinz scratched a gray stubbled cheek. “Okay.”
Percival plodded down the muddy lane. Stories and rumors mingled in his mind. Silver stars peeped out behind scattered clouds, yet a sliver of the sun’s radiance lined the western horizon: yellow, pink, red, and orange. He abandoned the dirt road for a field lined with rows of cabbages and lettuce. He cut across the tended field and entered an untamed land, where grass stood waist high, and groves of trees grew thick. Their dying leaves warned of winter winds, but his cloak bore the brunt of Autumn. Percival waded through the tall grass, wrapped in his cloak, using the tip of his walking stick to check for snags or holes. The rustling of the grass and the roaring river combined to create a thick stream of noise. The ground grew softer and softer. Finally, he arrived at a grove upon a small knoll overhanging the river. The trees formed a lopsided crown, weighing heavy on the waterside. A colorful array of leaves decorated the footworn dirt. They crunched beneath his feet. At the center, a clearing, and a campsite. “I took him camping there when he was five. He’d never slept on the ground before,” the old farmer’s words haunted him.
Percival knelt. He studied the old stones that formed a fire pit. The murder was months ago. What am I hoping to find? Judging by the leaf-littered trails and washed-out footpaths, no one came here after the investigations concluded. The townspeople found boot prints in the dirt, but they were lost to time–not that they would help much.
The clouds had cleared away. The stars shone brightly. For a moment, he forgot everything but that marvelous display of heavenly beauty. He breathed.
An oddity caught his eye: a yellow glow–no–a flowing cloth wrapped in the branch of an ancient oak tree, flapping, caught in a breeze. Percival craned his neck and studied the cloth. Is that a shawl? He leaned his walking stick against the tree and climbed into its thick branches, then thinner branches, working toward the top. It was not a shawl, but a strip of ripped cloth, and it was within reach. He snatched it, and brought it closer to his eyes. The moonlight revealed embroidered stitchings. Green and red flowers spotted the thinly woven cloth. A summer garment? The leaves must have hidden it!
He descended the tree, searching for solid ground beneath his feet. The cloth contained embedded thorns. The thorns ripped it away, then the wind stole it. But the townsfolk found bootprints. They suspected a man. However, if it were a woman seeking to cover her trail… did his lover kill him? Or her mother?
A twig cracked. Percival turned his attention to the surrounding tree line. He tucked the cloth away and drew a bone-handled dagger. “Who are you?”
Silence. Then, footfalls, and crunching leaves. “Who am I?” a shrill voice cried. “Who are you?” A woman stepped out of the trees, and their shadows, into the moon's light. She wore tattered old work boots fit for a man. She held an ax in her hands. “Who are you to ask so many questions?”
“Mrs. Heinz?”
“Who are you to harass my husband?” the woman stalked forward. She looked more tired than angry; her eyelids heavy. “My son is gone. Nothing will bring him back!”
Percival stood stone still, gripping his dagger tight. His heart pumped. Then his blood ran cold. “Did you kill your son?”
“Shut up!” the wraith yelled. She charged, raising the ax high. It fell with a ferocity he did not believe such a small person could muster. Percival stepped to the side, dodging with ease.
“Did you kill your son?” Percival drew his dagger but hid it behind his back. “Why?”
The old woman stooped over her ax, its head buried in the ground. She sniffled and snorted. “Shut up!” Mrs. Heinz spun around, swinging wildly.
Percival ducked under the blow. As she spun around, he closed in and grabbed the ax handle. He positioned himself behind her and pulled on the ax, pinching Mrs. Heinz’s throat between a wooden handle and his shoulder. She shifted and squirmed until Percival stuck the point of his dagger in her side. “Why?”
“Kill me!” the woman thrashed about. “Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!” Out of fear of injuring her, Percival let go of the woman, but not the ax, and kicked her in the lower back. He gave the ax a hard jerk as she spun away from him, tearing it free from her hands. Mrs. Heinz tripped on a root and landed face-first on the ground. She lay weeping.
Percival kept a fair distance, and a tight grip on his dagger. “Why?”
Mrs. Heinz sobbed louder.
“Why?” Percival demanded.
“It was an accident.” She pushed herself from the ground. “An accident! I’m so sorry! My son! My little boy!” Mrs. Heinz buried her face in her hands. “I meant the knife for the Waldorf girl, but my baby boy stepped in the way! Now that bitch is alive, and my son is dead!”
He couldn’t believe his ears. “She was here? The Waldorf girl?”
“Yes!” Mrs. Heinz shouted. “She ran. I chased her, but she got away in the grass. She ran… and now she’s living with her cousins in Ottoburg, while my baby boy rots in a ditch! She wasn’t good enough for him! She didn’t even try to save him! She ran away!” Percival gawked at the woman.
All the town gathered to witness the trial. Mr. Heinz stood witness against his wife, who confessed to him after Percival dragged her home, bound at the wrists–muddy boots on her feet and a dirty dress stained by grass. The prosecutor, one Master Zimmerman, held a bit of ripped cloth in the air and Mr. Heinz agreed that the piece of cloth belonged to a summer dress his wife wore often. The damaged dress was presented. Mrs. Heinz hadn’t even attempted to mend the rips or clean the bloodstains. The evidence was enough. Two watchmen, wearing chain mail and brown tabards, dragged Mrs. Heinz away. She lay in their arms limp, her feet and legs dragging the ground. Execution was her punishment. Perhaps it is a mercy, Percival pondered. Far worse for her to live with the fact that she killed her son.
The gathered townsfolk dispersed. They did not cheer or shout at the criminal. Many approached Mr. Heinz and shook his hand. One such was a bent-over gentleman with long gray hair and a crooked nose. The two old men locked hands and shook. “It’s a damn shame,” the elderly man said. “A damn shame.”
“It is Waldorf,” Mr. Heinz replied.
That was all that needed saying. The widower parted ways in mutual understanding with his rival. Master Waldorf hobbled away, leaning on a carved hickory cane, and the arm of a young man with a similar crooked nose. Percival approached Master Heinz and offered his hand. Heinz took it and shook it. “You think you know someone," the old man remarked. "Do you have a bank that I can send your payment to?"
Percy released the old farmer's leathery hand. "There's no need. Keep your farm."
"I'm old," Mr. Heinz said. "What good will it do me?"
Percival offered his final condolences, then left the central square and set off for his apartment on the southern end of town. He followed a lane onto the Western Road, his elvish walking stick in hand. He followed the ledge of a ridge, plodding cobbles and walking parallel to the wide waters of the Westward Rush, looking out over the farms and fields. The sun was far from setting. It gleamed off the river, flaring brilliant and yellow. Percival studied the beautiful scene he found himself in; the long winding road, the trees in all their colors, and the river in all its glory. He came to the fork in the road where the man murdered by his mother rested. Beside the headstone, Percival spotted something odd. He approached, scanning the ground, and found a little hunk of roughly carved wood in the shape of a heart. He knelt and picked it up. Turning the heart over in his hand, he found an inscription: “Here lies hope.”
He laid the wooden heart back on the grave, then continued down the road.
What was my mother like? Was she mad in the end? He breathed in deeply, then exhaled a slow breath. It doesn’t matter; he concluded. A loving mother becomes her son’s murderer. A husband becomes a widower. The world goes on as it ever has, while we mortals change with each season of life. Is it possible to truly know someone? Ahead, two women marched toward him. One wore a green dress. She stood a head shorter than the other. The taller woman wore blue.
Gretchen and Mrs. Marsha met him head-on. “Oh, Percival!” Gretchen waved. “What fortune, eh, Marsha?” Gretchen smiled and tugged at her mistress’s dress sleeve. She waved at Percival again. “Hullo! We were just talking about you!”
Oh, great. Percival bowed. “Good evening!”
“Did you hear about Mrs. Heinz?” Gretchen asked. “They’re going to hang her as a murderer!”
Percival nodded. “I was at the trial.”
An awkward silence passed between them. Marsha's eyes narrowed. “Why haven’t you come to me? My son needs a teacher.”
Percival remembered the black-haired boy who yearned for his mother’s attention. One day, she would push him out of the nest entirely and into the world, where he would run blindly toward the loving embrace of death. When that day surely came, would she regret pushing him away? Percy didn’t like her, but the weight of his purse was persuasive. I do need the money.
“Oh, come on, Percival!” Gretchen shouted. “You might make a young man very happy! He loves his pipes, but he’s just not very good.”
“Gretchen!” Marsha turned on the woman.
“What?” the old woman shrugged. “The boy’s not here to hear me!”
Percival sighed. “I will come to him tomorrow,” he assured. The women stopped their bickering and turned toward Percival with bright smiles. “What time should I call on the young Master?”
Marsha raised her nose in the air. “No earlier than noon, and no later than supper.”
“I will call,” Percival bowed.
“Oh!” Gretchen clapped. “Splendid!”
Percival stood amid an aristocratic lounge. Paintings hung upon the walls. Carved wooden furniture, crafted by delicate elvish hands, and floated down the river, decorated the room. Neville sat on a cushioned stool, holding a flute to his lips. The boy closed his eyes. A stream of sweet notes flowed from him, then turned sour. He fluttered when he should have held. He missed a note, but he didn’t give up. A small smile graced his lips. Cheeks turning blue, his song ended in a dour tone, but it was solemn, and he hit the note flatly.
The women clapped. “Bravo!” cheered Gretchen. “Bravo, young Master!”
Master Frederick, the Master of the House, leaned against a brick mantle, wearing a finely stitched shirt, breeches with golden buttons running down each leg, freshly shined shoes that gleamed off the fireplace’s flames, and holding a wineglass in his right hand. “That–is what I paid you for?” He eyed Percival, cocking an eyebrow.
Neville looked down his nose at his feet. Percival did the same.
“Neville has barely learned his letters in eight years!” Gretchen shouted. “Did you think he would master his pipe in three days?”
“You’re right!” Frederick blurted. He stumbled over to his son. Percival smelt the wine soaking his shirt. The Master placed a hand on Neville’s shoulder and kissed the boy’s head. “The fault is not with you, son. We’ll find you the right teacher.”
“I like Master Percival!” Neville cried.
“Of course!” Frederick raised his hands in the air, spilling wine from his cup. “Master Percival is the best! That’s why we pay him three silver circlings per lesson!” The Master drained his wineglass. He stumbled back to the mantle and rested his glass dangerously close to the edge. Frederick wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his silk shirt. “Carry on! I have business to attend to!” The Master of the house stumbled drunkenly out of his son’s bedroom.
Marsha sighed. She stood from her cushioned sofa and marched after her husband. “How dare you!” she shouted from the hallway. “You are embarrassing us!”
“You mean I’m embarrassing you! How dare you waste my money on frivolities!” Frederick shouted. “Just so you can show him off like a prized hound!”
“Oh, dear.” Gretchen stood up, hiked the tail of her dress, and shuffled out of the room. “You two go argue somewhere else! Not outside your child’s bedroom door!” A moment later, her head emerged from the doorway. “Watch the young Master for a while,” she ordered Percival.
Percival stared at Neville, who stared at the floor. “You were off a little in the beginning,” Percival said. He adjusted the strap of his hide-bound drum hanging from his shoulder. “I think it was just nerves. Try it again.” Percival tapped the drumhead lightly. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
Neville nodded. He didn’t look at Percival, but picked up his flute and whistled along with the rhythm.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
“Play a little louder. I can barely hear you,” Percival encouraged. Neville’s eyes scanned his bedroom. He closed them and gave his flute a little more air. “Just breathe,” Percival assured.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
Neville’s flute filled the room with a shrill note. The boy cringed. Percival smiled. “Good! Now, you know what not to do! Follow along!” He marched in place, raising his knees high and stomping the floor; tap, tap, tapping away. Neville smiled, too, wide and bright, like the notes of the flute that fluttered through his bedroom that day.
Is that smile not worth a lord’s weight in silver?