by Peter David
Thomas and his father were both stunned into a brief silence. It was Thomas who found his voice first as he said, very softly, “You’re right.”
“He’s right?” Thomas’s father was now speaking once more, but he was reacting very differently from his son. “He’s right? He’s a servant!”
“Even servants get to be right now and then, Father. I’m sorry I spoke so harshly to you. I know that you’re doing the best you—”
His father wasn’t paying him any attention. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon James, and James felt his knees going slightly weak. “Your services will no longer be required here. Get out.”
“James, stay put,” Thomas said immediately. He turned to his father. “James is my servant. More than that, he’s my friend. He’s two years younger than I am, but he’s a yard smarter. He’s not going anywhere.”
It looked as if half a dozen replies danced across his father’s lips. Ultimately, he said nothing at all. Instead, he turned and strode out without a word. Thomas, who had been standing, sank back into the chair with a low sigh. He slumped back, putting his hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry you had to see that, James.”
“I’ve seen worse,” said James. “You want to tell me what happened?”
“Why not? Who else am I going to talk to?” he said mirthlessly. “You’re pretty much all I have in the world right now.”
James chuckled at that. “I’ve been telling you for a while, you need to find a girl.”
“There are plenty of girls interested in me,” said Thomas, and he sounded more annoyed by it than anything. “They see me as the son of a wealthy merchant and figure I’ll be able to provide them a lifestyle they’ll find pleasing. I want a girl who loves me for me, not for my father’s purse.”
“That’s fair enough, and I’ll wager you’ll find her.”
“Really.” It was not a question but rather a flat assertion of skepticism. “James . . . even my mother wasn’t in my corner. So I think you’ll understand if I don’t hold out a lot of hope in that regard.”
“She wasn’t in her right mind, and you know that.”
“She may not have been in her right mind, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t speaking from her heart . . .”
“Your mother loves you . . . loved you,” said James. “You must know that. So does your father, although I imagine it’s hard to—”
“Do you believe me?”
The question caught James off guard. “Believe you?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“You know about what.”
“I swear to you, Thomas, I really don’t.”
“The balverine.”
“Oh. Well, I—”
A dagger was hanging at Thomas’s hip. James had grown so accustomed to it that he had paid it no mind, but now Thomas pulled it out of the scabbard and held it up in front of him. “Stephen’s dagger,” said Thomas, his eyes fixed upon it as if it were a hypnotic flame. “He dropped it that day, fighting the balverine. Fighting to save my life because I’d been stupid enough to go into the woods at night on a dare. He dropped it, and it fell near me, and the balverine gutted him, James. It gutted him. I saw the insides of my brother spilled out upon the ground like a spilled plate of noodles, and then the creature came at me. It grabbed me and roared at me, and I faced death at the hands of something that seemed like it stepped right out of one of my books. And it didn’t realize that I had grabbed up the fallen knife just before it took me, and I drove this knife”—and he jabbed it forward—“right into its eye. Right into the damned thing’s eye, James, and it dropped me and grabbed at its face, blood pouring down, and I ran. I ran and I felt like every step I took, at any point, the thing would leap upon me from the darkness and drive me to the ground and finish the job. If I hadn’t been such a damned coward—”
“Coward!” James could scarcely believe it. “Thomas, you were a child! Nothing but a child! You’re beating yourself up because you didn’t press a momentary advantage that, if you had, would have ended with there being two corpses in the woods instead of one that night? That’s as ridiculous as . . . as—”
“As balverines being real?”
James shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “It could have been a normal wolf.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“But it could have been . . .”
“But it wasn’t! Come on, James, you sound like my father!”
“You don’t have to be insulting,” James said defensively.
“Do you seriously think that I couldn’t tell the difference between a normal, mangy wolf and a creature from hell?”
“I think it was dark, and you were young and terrified, and your mind might have built it up to become something torn from the pages of your books.”
“That it might have.”
“Yes,” said James. “Because it might also have been exactly what you say. I mean, I heard rumors . . .”
“Rumors from the huntsmen who found my brother’s body,” Thomas said, nodding. “That there were footprints far bigger than any wolf’s. I heard them, too. But they were shouted down”—and his voice was rife with sarcasm—“by those who knew so much better about such things. You ask me, they were warned against the prospect of hurting our city’s precious economy by possibly starting a panic.”
“That’s entirely possible.”
Thomas looked down as if his feet had suddenly become of tremendous interest to him. “At least once a week, sometimes more, the thing stalks my dreams, James. I’ve tried to read up on them, gone through all my books, learn everything I can. But I haven’t found much beyond references to other volumes that I haven’t been able to acquire. Sometimes I think the books that the legends are referencing are also legendary. The more knowledge I have, the more I’m prepared . . .”
“Prepared for what, Thomas? What in the world are you preparing for?”
At that, Thomas chuckled softly. “I don’t know, James. But when I see it, I’m sure I’ll . . .” Then his voice trailed off, and his nostrils flared, confusion crossing his face. “Do you smell something?”
“Smell something? No, why? What do you—?” Then he stopped, detecting it as well. “Wait, yes. Something . . . burning, I think. The house!” And his voice rose in alarm. “The house is on fire—!”
“No, it’s coming from outside. Why would . . . ?”
Then his jaw dropped, his eyes widening, and he bolted from the room before James could determine what in the world was happening. James sprinted after him, but Thomas had already covered the stairs and was out the door and yelling at the top of his lungs before James could reach him. When he did emerge from the house seconds later, he could scarcely believe what he was seeing.
Thomas’s father had gathered all of his son’s books, created a small pile in front of the house, and ignited them. Thomas was waving his arms, and howling, “You gormless teat! What the hell have you done?”
“I’ve done you a favor, is what I’ve done.” In contrast to his son, Thomas’s father didn’t sound at all angry. It was as if all the anger had been burned away from him in the fire. Instead, he was resigned and yet confident, convinced of the rightness of his actions. “You’re not a child anymore, Thomas. You’re of age. You have responsibilities. It’s time to put aside the playthings of your youth—”
“Knowledge isn’t a plaything!”
“Knowledge of what? Balverines?”
“And hollow men, and banshees, and . . . and the Triumvirate! The three greatest Heroes in the—”
“Knowledge of nonsense is of no use in the real world.”
The flame was crackling furiously, smoke billowing from it and caking Thomas’s face. He looked like a primitive creature bounding around a fire as part of some arcane ritual. Gesticulating wildly, he cried out, “What do you know of the real world? You’ve never wandered beyond the confines of this . . . this cesspool of a city! There’s a whole wild world out there that you co
uld experience, but you don’t have the wit or imagination to realize it!”
“My wits kept you and your mother in a fine house for the entirety of your life, so I’d show a little respect if I were you.”
With that pronouncement, he turned from his son and walked away. “I’ll be down at the market. Join me there when you feel like honoring the memory of your mother and embracing your responsibilities as a man.”
Then he was gone, and the only sound in the air was the crackling of the flames and Thomas’s ragged breathing.
Thomas said nothing for a time, instead simply staring at the fire as it consumed the last of the books and burned itself out. James had never felt more helpless. Uncertain of what to say, he chose to remain silent.
“James,” Thomas finally said, his voice so soft that James had to strain to hear it, “could you get me some water from the well? I’ll need to wash up.”
“Sure,” said James, and he hastened to the well. He drew up two buckets as quickly as he could and hurried back to the house, the water sloshing violently around the tops of the twin buckets. James staggered under their weight and almost lost his footing as he made his way to the cistern.
He stopped, however, upon seeing that Thomas had emerged from the house once again. Thomas was dressed for the road, with a cloak and hood draped around his shoulders. He had also paid a visit to his father’s well-stocked armory, for his father was both an avid hunter and also relentlessly paranoid that outsiders might show up and try to steal his money. He had a crossbow dangling from a holster in his left hip and a sword strapped to his right. There was a pack slung upon his back that was bulging with what James could only assume were supplies: easily transportable foodstuffs, changes of clothes, money, and whatever else one would need for a journey. Seeing the pails brimming with water, he said, “Good. Put them down.” James did as he was instructed and Thomas went over to them, dipped one of the trailing ends of his cloak into one of them and used it to wipe soot and ash from his face.
“Are you, uhm . . . going somewhere?” asked James.
Thomas looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, and there was gentle amusement in his voice. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“It . . . somewhat is.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Just trying to be polite. Where are you going?”
“East.”
“Anywhere east in particular?”
“It is said,” Thomas informed him, “that the true spirit of Albion resides in the lands to the east. Supposedly you can still see Heroes there if you look very closely. I’m going to go see for myself.” He hesitated, and then his jaw tightened. “There’s nothing here for me anymore, James. I don’t belong here. I need to see things that are greater than anything I’ve ever experienced outside of my books.”
“Balls,” said James, and was inwardly pleased when he saw Thomas blink in surprise at the response. “This isn’t about books, or narrow-mindedness, or even the true spirit of Albion. This is about balverines. Even more, it’s about the balverine that killed your brother.”
“No.”
“Yes, it is. You want to find the one-eyed thing, assuming it still exists, and you want to kill it and cut its head off and shove it in your father’s face, and say, ‘See? See here? I wasn’t lying all those years ago.’ ”
“If I did that,” said Thomas with resignation, “my father would claim it was some sort of trick. Or the head of some sort of singular freak of nature. He would never, ever accept what I presented him as fact. There’s no proving anything to him.”
“Then why—?”
He thumped his fist into his own chest. “I need to prove it to myself. I have to see at least one of the damned things with my own eyes. For the past ten years, I’ve had nothing but my father and my mother openly disbelieving me, disputing me, dismissing me . . .”
“You must be running out of words beginning with ‘dis.’ ”
“This isn’t a joke, James.”
“I’m sorry. But isn’t maybe part of it that you’re starting to wonder if perhaps they weren’t right? That you were a scared child with an overactive imagination and a guilty conscience who built a simple wolf into something that it wasn’t.”
Slowly, Thomas nodded. “Yeah. And I just . . . I need to know, James. I need to know, and this is the only way I’m going to find out.”
“Are you planning to come back?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Then you’re not leaving me much of a choice.”
The comment appeared to take Thomas off guard. He looked askance at James, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
James walked over to Thomas and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “The truth is, Thomas, the only part of my life that’s remotely worthwhile is being associated with you. So the idea of not seeing you for the rest of my life just isn’t acceptable to me.”
Thomas visibly tensed. “So you’re going to try and stop me?”
“Hell no. I’m going with you. What?” And he laughed. “Do you really believe I’m going to remain behind in this piss hole of a city while you’re off adventuring in the lands of the east? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“James . . . it could be dangerous. I’m of age; you’re not. It’s not fair to ask you to . . .”
“You’re not asking me to do anything,” James pointed out. “I’m telling you what I’m doing. Besides, you need me.”
“I really don’t. I won’t lie, James; you’ve been a good friend. But there are some things”—and his voice deepened, taking on a manly tone—“that I just have to do alone. Good-bye, James.” He shook James’s hand firmly, turned away, and started walking.
“Thomas,” James called after him.
With a faint sigh of exasperation, Thomas turned, and said, “What?”
“That way is north.”
Thomas tried to laugh dismissively, but then he looked uncertain. “You’re sure?”
James chuckled. “Thomas . . . you get lost in the marketplace. Hell, you’ve gotten lost in your own house.”
“Only that one time,” Thomas said defensively.
Ignoring him, James continued, “I, on the other hand, have a superb sense of direction. I always have. And if you’re going on any sort of trip, and you have the slightest hope of not getting lost, you’re going to need someone at your side who—at the very least—can keep ‘east’ consistently in his head and his feet on the right path. Besides, you think I don’t want to see a balverine? Or a hobbe, or a hollow man, or a kraken or whatever other creatures are out there that anyone in his right mind would be running from rather than seeking out? You think I don’t want to see a genuine Hero? You think I want to spend my whole life in this place? Besides, if by some chance you manage to find your way, survive, and make it back here, I’m going to have to listen to your endless tales of adventure. To hell with that. So unless you’ve got a better reason for my not coming, like maybe that you’re tired of my company . . .”
“We have known each other forever, James, and I have never tired of your company,” said Thomas. “But . . . what of your family? You’re simply going to take off?”
“If you can take leave of your senses, I can take leave of my family. Frankly, it’ll be amazing if anyone in my family notices that I’m gone.” He shrugged. “One less mouth to feed.”
The two young men stood there for a time, regarding each other, sizing each other up. The one who had come of age, and the other who—if matters did not turn out as they hoped—might not live to reach that mile-stone. Then Thomas stretched out his hand, palm up, and James reached out and gripped Thomas’s forearm firmly. Thomas likewise returned the grasp, and they shook once on it.
“Do you need to return home? To get your things?”
“I come from a poor household. I’ve nothing worth taking.”
“Then wait a moment.” Thomas went back into the house and emerged a few minutes later with a traveling cloak
and a short sword. “Here. My father’s. I doubt he’ll miss them, and even if he does . . .”
“It is better to ask forgiveness after the fact than to ask permission and be denied?”
“Pretty much. So . . . east?”
“East,” James said firmly.
“AND DO THEY INDEED EMBARK ON AN easterly course?”
The odd man who is telling me this tale gives me a quizzical look. “If they did not, Your Majesty, then it would not be much of a tale, now, would it.”
“No. No, I fancy that it would not. I am curious, though, about how you know of it. Of how you know the conversations that the lads had, the very thoughts that run through their minds.”
“You have asked me that already, but because you are king and are due all deference, I shall reiterate: For the purposes of this tale, I am omniscient. There is nothing connected to this adventure that is not known to me.”
“And how came you by all this knowledge? Who are you? Or are you more ‘what’ than ‘who’?”
“I am nothing more and nothing less than what you see. Now . . . may I continue?”
I feel a faint coldness in my arm and shake it briskly. It dissipates as if embarrassed that I have taken notice of it. Then I stare at my hand for a time. This prompts the storyteller to regard me with curiosity, and prompt, “Majesty—?”
“There were some who claimed,” I tell him, “that when a Hero walks down the street, they could tell he was a Hero because he was surrounded with a glow.”
“A glow?”
“Yes. A soft radiance that might have been shone down from above or radiated from within; it was hard to determine which it was. And you could tell just by looking that this was someone who had made nothing but positive choices in his life, always striving for the common good. Always taking the proper path when two ways were open.”
“Just by looking, you say?”
“Indeed.”
“Their imagination, surely.”
“I would have thought as much. Still . . . it is comforting, is it not, to imagine that the choices we make enable others to see us in such a literally positive light?”
