A soft drizzle gently coated his hands in moisture, making the already difficult task of tying up the goats all the more difficult. Pollock had to be careful not to concentrate too much on tying the knot correctly, whilst still ensuring the willy Ms. Hammon and her mate Gando weren’t able to break free of their constraints. He had become cognizant of the fact during the previous fishing trip that if he wasn’t careful, he might end up crystallizing a useless skill which would mean disaster for his future. Just the thought of wasting one of his precious few base nodes on something related to knot tying caused him to once again let his fingers lose purchase on the slick hemp causing the ill formed knot to dissemble. Cursing under his breath, he reached down to collect the fallen bundle just as Ms. Hammon was looking like she might make a break for it.

He sighed, “Alright girl, I’ll get it this time. Be patient and perhaps I might give you something as a reward for waiting on me”. For her part, the doe stopped inching away from the post, fixing him with an intense one-eyed stare that conveyed that she fully expected him to fulfill his end of their bargain. Pollock chuckled as he resumed his work with the rope, paying just a little tad more attention this time.

“Not too much effort, Polly,” he thought to himself absently, his fingers unconsciously moving through the motions, “Just… enough,” he said pulling tightly on one end of the knot. The goat chuffed as the haphazardly tied knot locked into place around the post.

Satisfied with his work, Pollock nodded to the doe, “You know it has to be after father and I return from the river, lass,” he stated firmly, “I can’t go just go giving only you treats with Gando looking on. Think about his feelings for once”. After double-checking the line one more time, Pollock turned on the damp grass and made his way up the shallow slope that led to the riverbank. As he left the shallow clearing with his gear, he could hear Ms. Hammon bleat indignantly at his betrayal.

After cresting the edge of the hill that led down to the riverbank, Pollock was surprised that he was unable to spot his father in his usual spot. This mountain river was one of the many places that his family had earmarked for fishing during this season and while the location where they set up changed infrequently, it was unusual that he couldn’t spot him anywhere, given the bank was largely clear of trees and foliage. Confused, he made his way down to the bank and found the fishing gear neatly arranged a dozen or so paces away from the agreed upon spot. Stranger still was that his father hadn’t even begun to set up the lines or nets yet. While his father was begrudgingly willing to overlook his son’s reluctance to accept the skills he didn’t desire, it was rare the man would delay work for his sake. Confusion quickly changed into concern. At least, his father would have set up the lines even before going to relieve himself. Placing his own gear next to his father’s, Pollock started down the bank to investigate.

This river was one of the largest in the vicinity of their village, the breadth of the river being the that of eight grown men and a third as deep during the dry seasons. Following a heavy melt, it could even grow half as large. At this time of year, when the river was at it’s lowest, the current wasn’t particularly powerful but as a byproduct of the receded water, the bank was made up mostly of slick stone. As a result, the area was still treacherous, and one had to remain vigilant to keep their footing.

While Pollock had confidence in his father’s ability and experience, his inability to find him despite trekking nearly twenty minutes downstream, doubt and worry began to eat at him. He desperately wanted to abandon all sense and call out for him, but discipline worked into him by the man himself stayed his tongue. While encountering them was rare, this was still the time of year when beasts began to emerge from hibernation. If his father ended up being fine, causing too much of a ruckus now might throw the both of them into danger. Steeling his resolve, the young man, for he was a man now, Pollock made sure to remind himself, continued scanning the forest and riverbank hoping desperately to find evidence of his father’s passing.

Another twenty minutes or so passed by and Pollock found himself approaching a bend in the river that saw the water continue down an incline. While on his side of the riverbank the ground sloped gradually, the other side was a steep collection of jagged outcroppings. When he spotted splotches of what could only be blood on those rocks, his dread redoubled. The amount of blood wasn’t much, but as he quickened his descent down his side of the riverbank, he saw that multiple other outcroppings bore similar traces of another’s passage. As fear built at what he might find he cursed himself for taking so long with the goats. Perhaps whatever had happened might have been avoided had he not been so stubborn.

“If only… no, first I have to find father and confirm his condition,” he thought to himself as he made his way to the bottom of the rivers’ bend. As the ground leveled out, he panicked as he caught sight of two neatly arranged boots placed a few feet from the water’s edge. However, realization setting in, he quickly turned his head towards the other bank and relief flooded him. Bent over in the shallows of the opposite bank was his father, severely drenched but by all estimates in fine condition.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“Then, for what reason was there all of that blood,” Pollock mused quietly to himself, his composure now regained anxiety now morphed into curiosity. Picking up a sizable stone, he picked his spot and launched it in his father’s direction. When he heard the splash, his father’s shoulders tensed as he whipped his head around. As their eyes met, Pollock saw his father visibly relax though interestingly, the look in his father’s eyes was frantic. Then to his shock, Pollock’s father called out to him loudly over the dull roar of the river.

“Oi, Polly, we’ve got trouble! Hurry back up the bank quickly and grab the lines and nets!” the usually gruff man shouted in an entirely unfamiliar and hurried tone. Shocked as he was with his father breaking one of his own rules, Pollock dumbly stared back at his father before quickly checking the surrounding forest for movement. Bewildered, he looked back to his father, cocking his head questioningly. Irritation flickered across the man’s face causing Pollock to flinch, that particular look all too familiar.

“You bleeding deaf boy? Do as I say, now!” his father roared. Not one to disobey twice, Pollock swiftly turned to moved to back up the slope. However, just as he was about to move out of sight, he stole one look back to where his father was still hunched over in the shallow water. From this angle, he was able to see now that his father held the head of what was definitely the figure of a small child above the rushing water. However, what he couldn’t tell, as he quickened his pace up the slope, was whether or not that child even still lived.

~

“What do you think Carisa?” Torrol asked the aged apothecary as she busied over the battered child. “Do you think it possible he still might live, even after, well… this?” he said, gesturing to the bloody mangled body on the bed. Carisa, who was bent over the other side of the bed, generously applying salves to the child’s wounds didn’t bother to look up from her work. Rather, she gestured for Pollock who was standing beside her to hand her another bandage.

As she tied the bandage around the wound on the boy’s arm, she replied slowly, “While, I cannot know the answer to that question, young Torrol, I believe the question you truly wish to ask is how he is alive even now.” As she finished affixing the bandage, she glanced up and met the man’s eyes. Despite his age, Torrol couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably under the old woman’s sharp gaze.

“Tsk, Torrol, must I remind you that concern and curiosity are not one in the same,” the woman reprimanded. Stretching some, she patted down her skirt as she stood shakily from her stool.

“All the same, I know not the answer to your unasked question either,” she sighed, “Let us simply be glad that he does live. If he has survived in this state for who knows how long, he might yet pull through. Perhaps, our questions may be answered then.” Torrol nodded respectfully to the elder, properly reproached, and gestured for his son to help the old apothecary to the door. Pollock, steadying the apothecary by elbow, guided her towards the entrance of their home. Torrol tore his gaze away from their retreating forms and looked down at the young boy whose breathing had steadied somewhat. The boy slept so soundly; it was beyond belief considering the state he’d been in. If it weren’t for the dozens of bandages covering his body, one might not even know of the ordeal he had been through.

“What in blazes happened to you child,” Torrel muttered to himself. As Pollock returned from the door, Torrol indicated for his son to follow him to the table. As they sat, his eldest looked at him expectantly. After a moment, Torrol sighed in exasperation and nodded over to the bed.

“You know I wouldn’t ask this of you otherwise,” he began, “Yet, it seems that with another mouth to feed, you are going to have to delay another year. I’m sorry Polly, but I just can’t nurse the kid and care for Torren on my own. You understand right?” While he had expected the look of hurt that flashed across his son’s face, it still pained him to see. He knew Pollock would begrudgingly accept, he was a good lad after all, but Torrel knew all too well how much Pollock had been dreaming of joining up with the group of adventurers who were due to arrive in a few weeks.

Though Torrel knew that the Askker Woodsman Band was little more than a mercenary troupe, he was willing to admit that from the looks of them, they were quite competent. Ever since they had first passed through their little village a couple of years ago, bandying about tales of monsters slain and caravans rescued, nothing could be said to Pollock to dissuade him from his desire to join. Since then, they had returned every year or so, further stoking the imaginations of the young boys of the village. So, while he worried for his son, Pollock, was a man of fifteen now and was free to make his own choices. He knew that delaying him any longer than a year would drive a wedge between them too difficult to dislodge. After a few moments of an uncomfortable silence, Pollock gritted his teeth but as expected, nodded in his acceptance.

“Alright, father,” he said bitterly, glaring briefly at the child who had unknowingly ruined his plans, “But, only one year, I can’t delay it any longer, I’ll be too old otherwise. Understood?” Blowing out a long breath, Pollock crossed his arms and turned his glare on his father, but Torrel simply responded to son’s displeasure with a soft smile.

“Yes, son, and thank you,” Torrel replied with a hint of sadness, “Just one more year, I promise.”