“Color fair, green and stout.

Sitting by the wayside of water’s edge.

Melody disconcerting, fully disillusioned,

Satisfied and unfulfilling same.

Rays cascading upon his brow,

Dancing in the glossy finish, a speculative mask,

Questioning my own saneness.”

I finish my recital, as Vern plucks his lute idly to my words. He waits a moment to ensure I’m finished before he sets it aside. Slowly rising from his back, he turns to me and gently slaps me across the face. Without enough force to harm me, but just enough to irritate the bullocks out of me. 

“What was that for?” I ask angrily, raising one hand to my right cheek. 

“Nothing much. I’ve just been having the urge to slap that white blotch for a while now.” He stares back at me innocently, sincerity marred only by the irreverence of the small blue and gold striped hat sitting on top of his lopsided curls of black. I laugh in spite of my initial irritation. I would question the man or woman who wouldn’t laugh at Vern, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be around them too long. Vern exudes comedy simply in the way he acts. And dresses. 

“Why are you still wearing that?” I look pointedly at the oddly festive hat, which doesn’t match his gray homespun tunic, brown pants, and black boots. 

He pulls it off grandly, “Every good jester must have some kind of defining attire or look about him. As I’m lacking in your magnificent blemish, I have to take it upon myself to find something that separates me from the common folk.” He smiles a wide smile, so earnest that I can’t help but break out into laughter. 

“Whatever the reason, you keep wearing that thing and somebody is going to beat you bloody just for fun. It won’t be long before someone gets fed up with your ridiculous dressing habits.” I say it jokingly, but both of us sense the subtle truth beneath the words. There is a silence then, as each of us thinks our own thoughts, most likely of similar things. 

“We need to leave. I know we talk about it a lot, but seriously, we need to leave. There isn’t anything here for us, Ren.” His words are old and worn, bringing up a topic that is as natural to us as the air we breathe. “I’m telling you, we pool our money together, buy food and supplies for the road, and we leave. You could get us two swords from your father’s shop to protect ourselves. I know I would be useless with one in the beginning, but you could teach me.” Vern’s eyes are hopeful and he picks up steam, as a fire is ignited behind his eyes. He reminds me of a child when he gets this way, and similar to dealing with a child, I wait patiently for him to finish. “We could travel east to King Yodel’s castle…” 

“Yudeli not Yodel,” I interject gently. 

“Close enough,” he waves my comment away before rushing ahead, “You could become a poet in the court, and I an apprentice to the royal jester. It would be perfect.” He smiles fondly, and looks up at the cloudy sky. “You wouldn’t have to work as a blacksmith and I as a baker. We could actually find work we enjoy.” His voice trails off and his smile fades, as his thoughts turn from fond imaginations to more realistic thoughts. “At least they might take us seriously at the castle. Maybe they wouldn’t laugh at our dreams.” I stare at the same blank space in the sky that Vern does. 

“It would be nice.” I admit. “But, what if they don’t take us at King Yudeli’s court? What if we run away, and have no place to go?” 

“Then we come back. But, only as a last resort.” Vern speaks firmly, and despite the obvious faults, I find myself starting to agree with him. In the end, I know that I want to live in his fantasy, yet I cannot see it as anything other than that, a fantasy. Something to be talked about in quiet voices on late nights, or on lazy summer afternoons. Contemplated with all the reasoning of a child, beautifully separated from reality. Just then, Vern leans in close, looking me intently in the eye.

“Tonight.” I sense no timidness in his voice, and while I suspect what he means, I play dumb nonetheless. 

“Tonight what?” 

“Tonight, we leave. I’m sick of all this talking, and I know you are as well.” I sigh inwardly, and put a smile on my face, not truly believing him.

“Alright Vern.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but shouting interrupts him. 

“Vern! Arren! Get yer arses back to work!” I recognize the voice as Henry’s. He’s older than everyone else in town by at least twenty years, and looks it. His skin stretches so taunt over his bones that it’s translucent and whatever hair remains grows in patches, concentrated in the middle of brown blotches dotting the vast landscape of his head. Contrary to everything I’ve heard in my life, it seems that age doesn’t always slow someone down. Henry revels in any opportunity to yell at ‘youngins with no respeck for their betters.’ Although, since Vern and I are the only people considered ‘youngins’, we get the majority of his rants.  

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I’m supposing that we ought to get our arses down there quick.” Vern says with a wide grin. I smile back and we make our way down the hill. 

The rest of the day passes much the same as always. I work at the forge with my father, running to fetch tools, putting finishing touches on metal for horseshoes, scythes, and a couple swords for the garrison, and being silent so as to avoid my father’s quick temper. 

Now, I don’t mean to imply that my father is abusive, nor is he usually an angry man. The taxes have been hard, and combined with my mother’s passing a couple years back, as well as the fact that I seem to lack a general interest in the family business, it all boils in him until eventually he has to let off steam. Never physically lashing out against me, though he does enjoy a good barroom brawl at times of particular pressure. My father is a man that has earned respect in the town through his dedication to work, and a sheer effort of will. I admire him as much as any child can their parents, even though I don’t wish to share the same pursuits in life. I understand him to the marrow of his bones, and perhaps even further to the substance of his soul. That’s what makes it so frustrating that he doesn’t even comprehend the bare hint of my shadow.

As I finish pounding the last piece of metal into a hilt, for a longsword, my father pats me on the back. Two rough pats just below my shoulder, which causes me to stagger forward slightly. I look back at him and see his grinning face. 

“A good day’s work, eh son?” He says in his gruff voice. I smile and nod. I may not enjoy the work itself, but I know better than to disagree when my father is in such a great mood. 

“It sure was satisfying.” I say keeping the mask of a smile on my face. My father, not one for many words, suddenly pulls me into a hug. I’m so startled that I stand with my hands by my side for a few seconds before I return the embrace. 

“I’m happy that I can do this with you, son.” I feel his thick beard move by my ear, as he speaks, and although I cannot see his face, I can sense the emotion in his voice. 

“As am I, father.” My mouth speaks on autopilot. He pulls away from me, keeping his hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze before walking away suddenly. As he leaves, all I’m left with is the pungent odor of alcohol in the air, and a vast tangle of emotions. I don’t judge him. Everyone’s heart is a puzzle of emotions and events, which they piece together delicately. Occasionally, a strong wind borne of memories will blow those pieces awry. In that time, there is little to do, but find a means to cope with the long process of fitting them back together again. I don’t know if my father has been able to shape the puzzle of his heart since my mother’s death, nor do I know if he ever will be able to. I just sway, but never move, to the winds blowing through him, attempting to give him a template to build around once more. 

I sigh, and move to put the tools away, dousing the fire and placing the finished swords into a chest for storage until tomorrow when the soldiers come for them. This doesn’t take much time, and soon I’m standing in the empty room, with one lamp keeping the impending darkness from encroaching inside the hut. 

Clunk!Clunk!Clunk! 

Three loud knocks come on the window of the room. I can’t see through the mirror glass created from the darkness outside, so I go to the door. I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob, then grab a sword hanging from a peg by the door. I unsheath the short sword, the metal brightly reflecting the lamplight. It has no nicks from use, nor even any scratches from a whetstone sharpening the blade. 

Sword in one hand, I slowly open the door. It opens a crack before someone bursts through, causing me to scramble back. I raise the sword in front of me, ready to defend myself. 

“Vern!” I recognize him immediately from the permanence of the lopsided hat atop his head. He grins at me, putting one finger to the flat side of my sword and moving it aside.

“It is time!” He intones in a somber baritone. 

“For you to get rid of that dumb hat?” I ask, hopeful. Vern doesn’t answer me directly, instead taking another sword down from the wall and strapping it to his waist. He grabs my cloak from a table and tosses it to me. I catch it in one hand and wait patiently for him to explain what he’s doing. He turns and gives me a brilliant smile. 

“Alright, let’s be off. Our adventure awaits!” Vern leaves through the door at a brisk pace, without looking back to see if I’m following him. I stay where I am, knowing that he’ll catch on sooner or later. A couple minutes pass and still Vern doesn’t come back. Curious, I put on my cloak before heading out in the chilly autumn air, sheathing my sword and strapping it on as I walk. Vern is waiting on top of the hill leading out of town. He stands with the moon behind him and his cloak billowing. All in all, he cuts quite a figure, though I can still see the shadow of his silly hat. I walk to him, as he waits with the same bright smile plastered on his face. 

“What are you doing?” I ask him. We stand side by side on the hill overlooking our town. 

“I told you it’s time. We’re leaving.” 

“Leaving? We’re not even prepared for that.” I reply in a reasonable tone. 

“Yes we are,” he shakes the travelsack over his shoulder. “I have everything we need to travel: flintbox, apples, cheese, hard sausage, lots of bread obviously, a map, compass, a new sword,” he points to the one he took from the shop, “and of course my lute.” He pats his battered lute case lovingly. I simply stare at him. His eyes soften and his grin fades. “Ren, come on, I know you want to leave as badly as I do. If we keep dreaming without doing anything, we’ll regret it one day. If we leave though, we at least have a chance to achieve our dreams. I want to do this; I need to do this. I know you do too.” His speech is short and simple. It isn’t poetic and doesn’t flow with the rhythm of well-spoken words. Yet in its raw form, it’s far more compelling. I sense his emotion and feel my heart resonating with every sound uttered from his throat. ‘There is nothing here for us.’ I know he speaks the truth needed, and though uncomfortable to hear, I cannot help but heed it. I grin at him with a child’s exuberance, the freest smile I’ve had my entire life. I grip his shoulder and recite a poem that comes to me on the spot, 

“Memories deeply etched

Leave us fairly intrepid

Though, our feet planted solid

We do not look behind.”

Together we walk away from the town of our birth, from our lives spent in the shelter of those who birthed us. Forward, into the land of the unknown, we travel without a single glance behind. 

Sometimes, it is all we can do to prevent ourselves from being trapped by nostalgia and regret alike.