THE SUN WAS SETTING BY THE TIME THEY FOUND A FARMHOUSE.

The day had been warm, but dusk brought a cold wind with it. Bernard shivered. Agatha turned her head so she could see him.

‘Get down here. You need to go in on foot.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll be fine for a night. A little boy like you won’t.’

Bernard stifled his indignance at being called a little boy. He was almost fifteen, and not small. He’d almost overtaken Pepin in height. Then again, compared to a horse like Agatha, most humans would be little. He dismounted stiffly.

‘How will I find you in the morning?’

‘I’ll stay nearby. I guess, come to the road here and sneeze loudly to signal you’re ready to go.’

It was a fair plan and he wasn’t in any condition to argue with her. His whole body hurt from the exertion of the ride, but that was nothing compared to the pain in his shoulder. He walked unsteadily up the path toward the farmhouse. He could see a chicken coop, but no barn. The firelight from the windows looked warm and inviting. He shivered again, and called out;

‘Hello? Anyone home?’

He reached out to knock on the rough wooden door, but it was snatched open. Inside, a sturdy-looking man glowered down at him.

‘What do you want?’

‘Somewhere to sleep for the night, and some food if you’ve any to spare.’

The farmer was too wise to trust strangers. He’d seen his share of conmen and thieves. He’d beaten some of them bloody for what they’d done to his more credulous neighbours. The boy spoke too well to be a common thief, and he didn’t act much like a conman. The farmer could see the bruise blossoming under the boy’s collar. A real conman would have used that to garner sympathy. He’d have had a sad tale, maybe something about being attacked by bandits on the way to visit his sick mother.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Bern- adyn’

Bernard hadn’t prepared a fake identity. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He hurt too much to think straight.

‘Bernadyn or Bern, son of Adyn?’

‘The first one.’

‘And your father’s name?’

‘Lou.’

Bernard swayed on his feet. The farmer was fairly certain that he wasn’t faking his injuries. He was trying too hard to hide them.

‘Alright. Come in. You can pay for your board by splitting firewood for me tomorrow morning.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Walden. My wife’s name is Sade.’

Bernard stepped into the one-room house. It smelled of wood smoke and cow manure. Glancing to the left, he realised why there was no barn. Four cows occupied stalls at one end of the room. He smiled to himself. Poor Agatha was outside in the cold, and these perfectly normal cows got to enjoy the warmth of the fire. She’d be livid when he told her in the morning. If she still existed in the morning. Sade was standing by the fireplace, stirring a large pot.

‘Hello Mrs Sade.’

She looked up.

‘Oh my stars! You look like you’ve just come back from war. Sit down. This will be ready in a minute.’

Bernard sat on a simple wooden chair at their small table. When Sade brought him his bowl of stew, he was already asleep. She was worried. She checked that he was breathing, then felt his forehead. He wasn’t running a temperature. She saw the bruise and lifted his collar slightly to look for punctures or swelling. The angle made it difficult, and she didn’t want to move him. She didn’t see any obvious blood stains on his clothes. Lots of dirt, a torn seam, but no blood.

‘Wally dear, he’s fallen asleep at the table. Would you bring over that blanket by the fireplace?’

Walden draped the blanket over the boy’s shoulders. In a low voice, he said;

‘He’s probably on the run. He’s been in a fight, and must have been running all day to be this tired. Reckon we’ll have someone coming by tomorrow to ask if we’ve seen him.’

‘I wonder what happened. He’s so polite. It’s hard to imagine a boy like that getting into that kind of trouble.’

‘Polite isn’t the same as smart or lucky. He might’ve met someone who was looking for some action.’

‘Did you see his hair?’

‘Yeah, he made a terrible mess of it.’

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

‘Should I fix it while he’s sleeping?’

‘Wouldn’t hurt.’

Walden watched Sade clip the sleeping boy’s hair. He hoped that his own son was keeping out of trouble. He’d left the house to ‘find his fortune,’ whatever that meant. They hadn’t heard from him in almost a year. She didn’t say it, but Walden knew Sade was grieving. As far as either of them knew, the boy was dead. Walden held out hope… but it wasn’t easy. He said;

‘Should we ask the lad to stay? I could use the help around the farm.’

Sade glanced at him. He couldn’t tell if she was sad or happy.

‘I think we should. Harvest isn’t too far away.’

BERNARD WOKE TO THE CRY OF A ROOSTER.

He was stiff, and sore, and… on a table? He sat up. A blanket fell unexpectedly from his shoulders. He saw the glint of the scissors by his elbow and reached up to touch his hair. His shoulder still hurt, but not as badly as it had the day before. His hair felt shorter and a lot more even. It was still dark outside, so he couldn’t see much the house. He didn’t think the farmer would own a mirror anyway. He pushed the chair out as quietly as he could, and stood, stretching. He felt like he’d been run over by a cart.

He carefully made his way back to the front door and opened it. His stomach grumbled. He glanced up to the road. He could leave now, find Agatha, and be off before the sun rose. If he stayed and cut the wood, he’d get breakfast. He looked around. There was the wood pile. He stepped out into the cold morning air. The rooster atop the chicken coop crowed again.

‘Don’t suppose you can tell me where the axe is, can you, Mr Bird?’

Bernard felt silly as soon as he’d said it. Just because Agatha could speak didn’t mean he had a good excuse to talk to other animals. The rooster crowed.

‘Oh well. Worth a try.’

The farmhouse door opened as Bernard circled the woodpile, looking for an axe.

‘Good morning Bernadyn.’

‘Good morning Mr Walden.’

‘The axe is in the shed over there. Should be just left of the door.’

Bernard had never split wood before. He’d seen it done, so he had an idea of how the axe was supposed to be swung, but it wasn’t easy. His shoulder made it worse. The angle of the woodgrain had to be right, and the axe had to hit the log just right. If it wasn’t the axe would bounce off, doing nothing, or he’d just chop a little chip of wood off. Despite the cold pre-dawn air, he was sweating. He took off his jacket, mopped the sweat off his face with his sleeve, and kept hacking away.

The sun peeked over the horizon. Sade called out;

‘Breakfast time, Wally. Bernadyn, you too.’

The two returned to the house. Walden asked;

‘You’ve never cut wood before have you, son?’

‘Ah. No. I have two older brothers. I never had to.’

Bernard felt bad. He wasn’t really lying, but it still didn’t feel honest.

Though there wasn’t much to show for it, Walden was impressed at how much effort Bernard had put into the unfamiliar job. The boy didn’t complain. He didn’t try to sneak away. He was the first up - he could have run off easily.

‘What happened to your hair?’

‘I uh. I fell into a bramble. I cut it off myself. Thank you for fixing it.’

‘Wasn’t me. Sade did it.’

‘Thank you Mrs Sade.’

Sade placed a hot bowl of leftover stew into Bernard’s hands.

‘I couldn’t rightly let you walk around looking like that.’

Bernard ate quickly. Walden felt the little sprout of hope that the boy would stay wither.

‘Looks like you’re in a rush to be somewhere lad.’

‘I’m sorry. I really can’t stay long.’

‘If you’re on the run, you can lay low here for a while. I could use a hard worker like you.’

Bernard shuffled his feet in the dirt.

‘I can’t. If my brothers knew… you’d be in danger.’

Walden pointed to the boy’s bruised shoulder.

‘They did that to you?’

‘Yes. They meant to do worse.’ Bernard laughed sadly to himself. ‘In a way, old Gus was right. I was in a lot more danger than I thought. I should have listened to him. I- ah. Sorry.’

He handed the empty bowl back to Sade. She took it, but didn’t look him in the eye. She asked, quietly;

‘Do you know what you’re going to do now? Where you’re going to go?’

‘Sort of. I have a friend. We’re helping each other to get to an ally in the east.’

‘At least you’re not alone.’

‘Thank you both for your hospitality.’

Walden patted the boy’s good shoulder.

‘If you’re ever in these parts again, come and let us know how you’re doing.’

He turned away without saying goodbye. He thought, perhaps, that had been his mistake when he saw his son off. When you say goodbye, you mark the end of a meeting. Goodbye doesn’t offer the promise of meeting again. If he didn’t say it, then the meeting never really ended. That thread might have been all he needed to pull his son back for another hello.

Bernard returned to the road. He looked about, then sneezed loudly. He didn’t think she would return. Still, Agatha lumbered out of the bushes, little twigs tangled in her mane and tail. They reminded Bernard that there are actually a lot of things that need to be done to care for a horse - and he was equipped to do none of them.

‘Oh no, I don’t have a brush for you.’

‘What? That’s what you’re looking so gloomy for? You didn’t even say hello.’

Behind them, Sade gasped. Agatha whispered;

‘Bernard. We have a problem.’

‘No, no, there’s no problem. I just wanted to bring Bernadyn some things for his journey… here.’ She held out a small sack. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul about you. Nobody would believe me anyway.’

‘At least she’s a sensible human.’

Bernard took the sack, but felt guilty he had nothing to give her in return. Sade began to hurry back down the path.

‘Wait, Mrs Sade. Take this.’

She didn’t have any use for parchment, and he needed to keep his knife. That left the ribbon. He held it out to her. She returned and took it gingerly.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Sade.’

‘Goodbye, Bernadyn.’

Bernard slung the sack over his good shoulder and awkwardly remounted Agatha. She started at a trot.

‘Bernadyn? What kind of name is Bernadyn?’

Bernard laughed.

‘I don’t know. I almost said my real name, but remembered I’m supposed to be incognito halfway through. It just came out.’

‘I suppose it could have been worse.’

He nudged Agatha’s side.

‘What kind of name is Agatha? You’re a magic talking horse. That’s such a normal name.’

She snorted.

‘My brother’s name was Falada, and I have a cousin everyone calls Gorbunok, though that’s not his real name. Is that the kind of thing you’d have preferred?’

‘Those names do sound a lot more magical and mysterious.’