“Those storm clouds are moving fast,” Augustus said. A steady breeze–a strong current–caught in his cloak. The fabric rustled and fluttered about.
“We better move faster!” Padair’s hooves clapped against cobbles. Yellow eyes beamed beneath curly shags. “There’s nothing worse than wet fur on a long march.”
“Where does a satyr find shelter during a storm? In a cave?” Gus thumbed his chin. Where am I going to find shelter?
“Caves are the best, but you have to watch out for trolls, gnolls, and bears. Sometimes a ditch–sometimes a hollowed-out log.” Padair shrugged. “I know a few good places around here.”
Gus shook his head. “I’m not sleeping in a log.”
The goat man smiled. “The place I had in mind is a farm.”
“A farm? You?” Augustus was genuinely shocked.
“I have relatives there. Farmer Joe is a good man. And his wife makes the best blackberry pie in the kingdom–I promise you that, friend! We’ll have warm bedding, fresh food, and peace. I’m not sure how he’ll feel about me bringing another guest, though.”
“It sounds pretty nice,” Augustus said. Thunder roared and lightning cackled above. Streaks of white scarred the darkened sky then disappeared. But that… does not.
“The farm isn’t too far from here.” Padair scanned the skies.
The first fine drizzles fell softly to the earth. In the blink of an eye, the drizzles turned into a deluge of fat droplets.
Augustus held tight to Ninathril’s handle. With his hood drawn close, and the rain battering his back and shoulders, soaking him to the bone, Gus battled the elements. Though it was not his to hold, the sword comforted him. I’m almost there, Augustus pondered. The City of Chios is getting closer daily–and the Pendragon heir. He still wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish, or why he felt compelled to do so, but deep within his soul, Augustus knew the sword must return to its rightful owner. I just have to keep moving forward.
A muddy path led off the Western Road, cutting a trail between two grassy mounds. Rainwater settled in the little valley. Gus’ boots squished bubbling mud. Loose cobbles and pebbles drove themselves down into the soft earth beneath his weight.
“Please tell me this isn’t a shortcut!” Augustus bellowed as the raindrops clapped in celebration at the wrath displayed by the storm.
“Just hurry!” Padair skipped along. His hooves created sounds of suction as they escaped the mud.
The valley ran a quarter mile before ending at the face of a hillside. Two more valleys stretched to his left and right. The road split in two, one path cutting through the valley to his right: the other climbing the hill that faced them. Augustus and Padair climbed the hill, following the road, which had turned to pure muck. Gus slipped and slid. He banged his knee against a rock. Looking down into the valley behind, Augustus mused at the temporary river created by the storm and the hills. A heavy breeze picked up, whisking his ears like a whirlwind, but his cloak lay wet and flat. The steady stream swelled. White waters roared into the valley below. Rising high on the hills, the flood waters pooled together, stopping briefly to gather their strength, before draining into the road he had just traversed. Earth and rock displaced, muddy footpaths were washed away. Augustus, wet, cold, and hungry, eyed Padair, who looked down on him from the knoll of the hill. If we were a few minutes later, the flood would have washed us away! This satyr is going to be the death of me!
A pleasant view awaited at the top of the hill: a small farmhouse built of stone and mortar and a barn made from seasoned cedar, both bearing thatched roofs.
Even the march to the house was miserable. Augustus shook violently beneath his cloak. The winds of autumn stirred, cutting cold. Padair banged on the door. “Let us in!” A moment passed in silent misery. Padair banged on the door again.
The door flew open. An old man, his thin gray hair falling from a liver-splotched forehead, greeted them with a lantern in one hand, and a hatchet in the other. Bewilderment widened his eyes. They lit up with recognition when they fell on Padair. He lowered his weapon. “What do you want?” The old man croaked.
“To get out of the rain!” Padair cried.
The old man eyed the goat man, then studied Augustus for a long moment. “I suppose you’d get in if you wanted to.” The old man motioned towards Gus’ sword. “So come in!” He retreated into his home.
Padair and Gus followed.
A candle-lit lantern hung from the rafters at the center of an open room. Embers smoldered in its fireplace. Four beds sat on opposite sides of the house. One of them was a double bed. The single beds were clean and tidy–their blankets pressed seamlessly. The double bed had seen recent use: its blankets thrown back, its sheets wrinkled. Beside the big bed was an end table fitted with a shrine: a wooden bowl with a single gray stone, and a single candle standing tall behind the bowl. A kitchen table, fit for a large family, sat at the center of the room, tinted gray by a thick layer of dust.
“It’s been a long time, satyr,” Farmer Joe said. “Don’t mind the leak.” He pointed at a drizzling waterfall in his ceiling. It landed on the dirt floor and dug a shallow ditch, disappearing beneath a wall. The mortar of the wall cracked and crumbled away. “I’m too old to climb up on the roof, so it’ll probably be the death of me.”
“It’s not even been ten years,” Padair responded. “Has so much changed?”
“Well, let’s see here… What’s happened since the last time you stopped by? Jerod got married eight years ago. That left us with just John, Abby, and me to run the farm. Then, four years ago, Abigail passed away from a fever. Nearly a year later, John ran into a gnoll den when he was out hunting.”
This poor man…
“Farmer Maggot found him out in the hills. I wasn’t allowed to see him before they buried him. I don’t reckon-” Farmer Joe sighed. “The gnolls really got him. I’m just glad Abigail didn’t have to see our youngest die. We lost one child early on and it damn near killed us, too. Our relation, I guess I mean to say. Abby took it much harder than I did. I had work to do–a farm to tend.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Padair said.
Farmer Joe shrugged. “That’s life. There’s seasons and reasons. Who’s your friend?” Joe turned his eyes to Gus.
“Augustus,” Padair said.
“I’ll call you Gus,” Farmer Joe said.
“He’s from Ottoburg,” Padair explained.
“And how did you end up traveling with a freeloader?” Farmer Joe smiled at the goat man and winked.
Augustus feigned a scoff of insult. “I’m not a freeloader. I’m a mercenary.”
“And I’m a farmer but a peasant, too. I have taxes to pay and work to be done.” Farmer Joe’s chin lifted ever so slightly. “You Westerners think everything should just be given to you. Well, if you want to stay on my farm–freeloader–you will work for me. That’ll be your payment for food and rent.”
Augustus eyed Padair. “What does he have to pay?”
“It’s good luck to harbor a satyr! He doesn’t have to pay!” Farmer Joe cried.
Padair smiled.
“Now, I’ve got some super stew over the coals. I’ll just need to rake them a bit and warm it up. Mira and Lilac are well and good in the barn if you want to see them. Prized goats, they are!” He chuckled.
“They come from a strong bloodline,” Padair said.
Farmer Joe smiled at the satyr, but then his face fell somber. “Those damned wolves have been sneaking around my farm and stealing chickens. They tried to get into the barn after the goats, but Billy got after them. There isn’t a tougher old goat all around!”
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“If they show up tonight, Billy and I will put a beating on them!” Padair exclaimed. He balled his fists and swung them through the air.
The old farmer laughed. He turned to Gus. “You can sleep in my son’s bed.” He pointed toward a dark corner of the house. “That one is Joe’s–if you mind.”
Gus did. He would not sleep in that bed. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Augustus offered.
“Having a swordsman on the farm already makes me feel better about the gnolls and wolves. I’ve been having nightmares. It seems more and more lately. I feel the reaping coming on–like a grape, ready to fall from the vine.”
“Billy and Padair aren’t the only ones those wolves have to fear,” Augustus assured. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword.
Farmer Joe eyed Ninathril. “Didn’t King Arthur’s sword have a black gem in its handle?”
Gus’ heart descended into his belly. “So the stories say.”
“Is it a copy, of sorts? Or do all the wealthy sellswords put gems in their weapons? Seems silly to me. What if you lost it on the battlefield? That thing must be worth a fortune!” Farmer Joe stood up from his seat.
Augustus closed the folds of his cloak over his sword. “What makes you think I’m wealthy? Perhaps I took this sword from a dead Alexandrian Lord?”
Joe laughed. “You don’t have to worry about me trying to rob you! A fortune wouldn’t do me any good. It would just bring trouble, as fortune tends to do. But I’m rambling, now. Let me stir up the stew and get you fed.”
A clear sky offered ample sun. Steam rose from the thatching as rain and dew turned to vapors. Gus dug his hands in deep, feeling the rushes and straws scrape his skin. “No! To the left!” Farmer Joe yelled. Sweat dripped from every inch of his body. Gus stood, shirtless, on the roof of Farmer Joe’s house. “Haven’t you ever thatched a roof, freeloader?”
“No!” Gus shouted. And it was the truth.
“Then listen to me, or you’ll just make it worse! Take the one on the left,” Joe explained. Gus did as the man said. “Good!” Joe clapped slowly.
“Bah-ha-ha!” Padair bleated.
“Maybe you should get up here and do this.” Augustus scowled at the goat man.
Farmer Joe nudged Padair’s shoulder and chuckled. “Imagine that–a satyr on my rooftop!” Joe laughed aloud. Padair joined in his merriment.
After thatching the roof, Gus packed buckets of rock and dirt, pouring them beneath the foundation of Joe’s wall, where the rainwater had washed out a sizeable hole. Last night’s rain turned the ground into soft sludge. The weight of each haul caused his feet to sink deep. By noon, Gus' whole body ached, and his legs felt like two dead fish. He sat beneath the shade of a cedar tree, looking over a patch of poorly tilled dirt that nurtured vegetables and weeds. “I’m just too old to keep up with everything,” Joe explained. He stood looming over Gus. “There was a time when I could weed the whole garden in a few hours. Now, it takes me days of fumbling about.” He shook his head. “Well, I’ll let you get to work. I’m rambling again.”
Gus spent the next few hours wading through ankle-deep mud, packing a large sack over his shoulder, and plucking rocks and weeds. Thankfully, that was something he had some experience in. Thorny stems jabbed at him with barbs, while little runners crawled away from him like the worms wiggling amongst the roots. When his sack was full, Gus packed it out of the garden and disposed of the contents near the back of the barn. Once the garden was weeded, Augustus chopped firewood and stacked it close to the house's entrance. The old man had been burning brush and broken limbs. Gus worried he would be too weak to pack the chopped-up logs, so he busted them into small slivers. By the time Gus’s labors were done, the sun sank toward the west, and darkness fell upon the Red Hills. His muscles were numb, and his bones were tired, but it felt good. The evening air was cool and refreshing, licking away the lathe of sweat on his skin.
Sitting on the chopping block, he watched the sun set behind a sea of grassy knolls. The world became red and orange, purple and gray, pink and yellow–still and quiet. On a small farm in the middle of nowhere, everything felt right. His job was done. In that peace, the world passed him by, and he didn’t care.
The fire blazed, casting a bright light. Joe spent most of the day preparing a fresh stew. By the smell of the spices, it held promise.
Augustus stood by the little bedside shrine, inspecting the dry stone and the long candle. He picked up the stone and weighed it in his palm. “You don’t often pray,” he observed.
Joe, stirring the stew with a long metal spoon, nodded. “Father Richard brought me that candle when Abigail died. And he said the same thing when he came to perform Jacob’s funeral rights.” He lifted the spoon from the stew and sniffed it. “I'll tell you what I told him: praying never did any good, anyhow. God isn’t worried about little folk like me. Now, stew’s done! Don’t be shy!”
Augustus sat the stone back in the bowl and sauntered over to the bubbling cauldron. He poured himself a bowl of stew. He took a seat across from Joe at the large table. Gus dipped up a spoonful of stew and huffed away some heat. Then, he swallowed a chunk of potato and absorbed the spiced bone broth. Joe cooked the potato to perfection. It melted away on Gus’ tongue. The broth was well-seasoned and savory. “I’m impressed,” Gus said.
Joe chuckled. “Me too. My stew rarely turns out this good.”
Both men laughed.
“Abigail did the cooking,” Joe said.
Gus nodded.
“I’m impressed by you, too.” Joe smiled. “I suppose I can’t call you a freeloader anymore. You’re a good worker, Gus. A quick learner, too.”
“Thank you,” Augustus said.
“Tell me, Gus, are you a noble of sorts?” Joe asked.
“Why do you ask?” Gus responded.
“You’re just clever. I watched you work–you’re smart. And the sword speaks pretty loudly,” Joe offered. He shrugged his bony shoulders.
“Of sorts,” Gus admitted. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you hate your family or something?” Joe asked.
“No,” Gus said. “I just don’t like talking about it.”
The old farmer huffed. He chuckled. Then he swallowed more stew. “My oldest son hated me. He hated the farm, hated the animals, hated the work. I think he hated me the most, though.”
Augustus looked into his steamy stew. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I tried to do better after Jeffrey and Jennifer married and moved away,” Joe said. “And that’s probably why Jacob turned out to be such a fool!” The old man cackled. He laughed so hard that his bones bent, and he doubled over. Wrinkles wrung tears from squinted eyes. Gus chuckled along. Joe sighed as the laughter subsided and he regained his composure. “I was too easy on him. He ran off with a gang of bandits when he was twelve. I loved them all to death, though. I still do, even though they never come to see me.”
“You sound like a good father,” Gus said.
“I don’t blame them, you know? I moved away young and started my own family. From the moment I wed, my life became all about my work and keeping my family housed and fed. I miss having kids in the house. Well, I miss having anyone around, but those were the best days–when they were all young and running around the farm with their mom and the animals. I wish I could turn back time, Gus. I wish I could stay there. I wish I would have savored that sweetness more, and worried less. I was a damned fool at times.”
Gus sipped broth from his spoon.
“Seasons and reasons… Ah, well, listen to me go on again!” Joe stood up.
“You didn’t finish your stew,” Gus said.
“Pour it back into the pot. I don’t eat much anymore,” Joe said. Gus did as the old farmer bid him.
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Augustus?” Joe asked. “I’ve done a lot more talking than I’m used to. And I’m growing tired of it.” They spent the next hour talking as Gus devoured three bowls of stew. Joe enjoyed the conversation, despite Gus’ attempts to sound boring and normal: just another mercenary who left home young to seek his fortune, finding only hardship. Ninathril–his only spoil from years at war. Farmer Joe fell asleep as Augustus recounted his crossing of the Blackroot River.
Gus watched the logs of the fireplace crackle and burn. He watched their flames dance about their momentary display. Soon, they would burn out. What do I have to savor?
An image flashed through his mind: a woman with brown curly hair that dangled, teasing him as they bounced about. She had fair skin and wore a brown dress. She held Gus close to her bosom. Gus remembered a toy knight he owned, living in an orphanage with urchins, castaways, and bastards like himself. He thought of the day Father Bernard showed up at the orphanage and took him away to join the Holy Order. There was nothing sweet about his life in the Temple.
Is that it? Is that the bounty of my life?
The next morning, Augustus prepared for travel while Joe stirred the coals and his stew. They shared one last meal before daybreak. Afterward, Padair met them at the door, and Farmer Joe walked them down the lane. The road was wet and treacherous.
“Watch out for gnolls,” Joe reminded the travelers.
“We will!” Padair said. “Take care of yourself, Joe.”
Joe chuckled. “No promises.”
“Perhaps you will find a farmhand to help you,” Augustus said.
“Well, speaking of that…” Joe coughed, then found his words. “You’re a pretty good worker yourself, Gus. I know it’d be foolish to ask–given you’re a lord of sorts–”
“A lord?” Padair jumped as he exclaimed.
“My father is a merchant lord in Ottoburg,” Gus reminded.
“Oh, yeah, that,” Padair said.
“Anyway, what do you say, Gus? You told me yourself: the farm feels like a small world of its own, where your hard work makes things right. If you don’t want to be a merchant like your father, perhaps you could take over my farm.”
Gus thumbed Ninathril's black gemstone. “I have other matters to attend to.”
Joe sighed. “Well, I can’t say I blame you. The years pass, and we farmers toil away, with our noses in the dirt. Life passed me by.” The old farmer looked into the rising sun.
I wish I could… But then, couldn’t I? The words of a dying man echoed in his mind. “You don’t owe these people anything.”
“Well, I guess that’s that, then. Safe travels!” Joe smiled and waved. He turned back toward his house and hobbled away.
“Goodbye, Joe!” Padair waved.
No one would ever find me out here. Gus watched the old farmer, anchored by indecision.
“What are you waiting for?” Padair asked.
Do I stand still, or do I move with the world?