The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  The crops had suffered in kind, scorched by the raging inferno from above, and they were beginning to wither away to dust in the fields. Galbin and Daved had reacted with their usual pragmatism. The smith and the carpenter had been conscripted to build stacks of buckets to supplement those that were excavated from the mounds of storage in the smaller barns and a score of hands, armed with these buckets were making endless round trips from the pond to the starving crops. Another score of men were digging out the irrigation trenches, unused for years, that ran from the pond to the fields.

  So it was that Jurel found himself endlessly trudging the beaten path from field to water and back, feeling no small amount of empathy for the plight of a pig roasting over a fire. But, as little as he liked his bucket carrying duties, he understood Daved's reasoning for setting him to the task.

  He was big for his age due largely to a growth spurt that had started just the last autumn. So big in fact, that if a stranger had seen him, he might have been mistaken for a grown man even though he was still a boy of twelve. His father had replaced his wardrobe three times since he had begun growing like a well watered weed and even so, his newest shirts, barely a month old, failed to cover his wrists anymore. Thankfully his wardrobe was humble and did not cost very much but Daved had begun griping incessantly that if he did not stop growing, they would have to eat the clothes to keep from starving.

  His incongruous size made the task of carrying buckets quite sensible and as much as he disliked it, he trudged his payload of four full buckets tied to a pole across his shoulders—bare chested; the issue of his shrinking sleeves was not an issue that day—toward the fields for what felt like the thousandth time since sunrise while his shoulders burned under the hellfire. His throat burned as badly as his shoulders; he was sweating profusely but the air was so arid that water seemed to leap from his skin.

  The irony was not lost on him and he smiled sourly, wryly, with cracking lips. Here he was, parched and burning up, carrying four buckets of sweet, sweet water and he could not drink. Why? Because it would be dumped on the ground. He reminded himself again for what must have been the thousandth time since sunrise (at least once per trip, it seemed) that it could have been worse. At least he was not digging trenches.

  His destination was a check point of sorts, a predetermined spot where the carriers left their laden buckets in one line and picked up empties from another. Carefully, he set down his precious cargo and straightened with a grunt. He had been making these trips since right after breakfast and his back ached fiercely. Stretching out the kinks with a groan, he scanned the dusty fields where the men hunched miserably over, emptying buckets along the lines of crops, scuttling here and there, bent over like the Dwarfenn of ancient stories who worked their stone. Darren and Trig were among them, and even Wag was out there somewhere; everyone had been conscripted in the effort to avert the disaster of the drought.

  With a new pole and four empty buckets slung over his shoulder, he plodded back the way he had come. With nothing else to occupy his thoughts—except the monotonous walk, back and forth, back and forth—he thought of his friends. Though perhaps, he mused with a pang of regret that friend might be a little strong a word these days. Ever since that stupid fight a couple of years back when those stupid boys from the other stupid farm had given his friends a good thumping. That was when it happened. They never kept him from joining them in their games but they also never called on him anymore. When he did join them, they treated him politely like he was a house guest that was right on the verge of overstaying his welcome. He kicked a stone, sending it skittering across the ground and scowled. Valik, of course, only treated him worse. Oh, not so overtly as before to be sure. Galbin had commanded Valik to leave him be and when Galbin watched, Valik was nothing if not coolly polite. As soon as Galbin turned his back—even for a heartbeat—Valik took every opportunity to torment him, right down to a new nickname: the crazy coward. Not particularly imaginative but somehow it stuck. The worst of it was that though Trig and Darren never cheered Valik on, they did nothing to defend him anymore.

  At least they no longer saw the other boys anymore. After berating them for their extreme lack of good sense, Galbin and Daved had gone to the neighboring farm and apparently had a chat with the boys's fathers. After the boys had been escorted—dragged by their ears—to Galbin's farm and had apologized for their behavior, a gruff, surly, and completely unconvincing performance, Jurel had never seen them at the pond again. Indeed, he had never seen them anywhere. That was something at least.

  Of the fight itself, Jurel remembered only fragments, like looking at himself in the shards of a shattered mirror, and he was pretty certain that he preferred to keep it that way. It had been weeks before he was able to eat a decent meal and months for him to stop jumping at every little noise like a spooked horse. As he shuffled his way along the sun-parched dust, he recoiled from thinking too strongly of that day. The terror was still there, lurking like a troll, ready to leap out and devour him if he took a step onto that bridge, though for the life of him, he could not seem to recall exactly what caused that terror. All that was left was the impression of running for his life.

  Immersed in gloomy thought, he decided to detour from the direct route along the fence line in favor of a trek through the woods slightly north. Following the newly re-excavated trench, he made his way to the tree line and heaved an immense sigh of relief at the first touch of shade. The heat was still stifling, grinding at him until he thought he might join the dust at his feet, but at least the relentless sun was off his back.

  Setting foot on a game trail, he slowed, letting the scene unfold before him, letting the peacefulness wash over him and wipe away his dark mood. The woods were old, ancient. Great oaks, so wide around their boles that he would not be able to reach half way around, towered above him, surrounding him like giants from another era, their branches intertwining and meshing so that the forest seemed to have an endless green blanket to protect the fragile life on the ground. Shafts of sunlight penetrated small gaps in the canopy dappling the underbrush, and motes of dust and pollen danced and sparkled in the golden bars like pixies. As he walked, his feet snapped twigs and rustled the dry leaves left over from past autumns and it seemed that he could smell the long gone smells of damp pre-winter in the musty, musky dryness, mixed in with the scent of sweet sap and of the tiny wildflowers that spotted the ground polka-dot white and blue. Birdsong, robins and sparrows, jays and even a cardinal, accompanied the chitter-skitter of squirrels calling to each other, perhaps to stake their individual claims on some bountiful cache of nuts or a particularly homey hole in one of the trees. Combined, it was a natural symphony that eased and comforted him, and he felt renewed. It was not as soothing as a cup of cold water, but it helped.

  Too soon, he began to hear other sounds. Sounds that were discordant, that went contrary to the natural order of the tranquil woodland. Shovels rasped into dirt, and men called to each other. One fellow was singing a song, though not well and even if Jurel had wanted to try, he could never have named it. Frankly, his song sounded more like the grunts of a wounded goat. Peering ahead through a break in the trees, he caught a glimpse of farmhands digging in the trench, trying to coax the all-important pond water to the crops more quickly than a few men carrying buckets ever could. Galbin was there hard at work with his own spade and when he caught sight of Jurel approaching, he smiled.

  “Good day, sir,” Jurel said.

  “Jurel lad. How goes it?”

  He was sweating and flushed red with exertion so that he looked like a man who just finished running halfway across the world. Everyone had seen Galbin work hours on end without a break in the past. No matter the task, whether it was baling hay, herding cows, or digging, he had done it and he never seemed to break a sweat. It was a testament to the force of the heat that he looked like he was about to have a heart seizure. His eyes crinkled at the corners like wrinkled parchment with his smile and a hint of curiosity.

&n
bsp; “You seem to have strayed into our little wood. Might I be correct in assuming that you thought a slight detour would avail you of a little shade? A little reprieve from our harsh sun?”

  “Yes sir,” Jurel said feeling his face heat up as he looked at his toes. “But I wasn't dallying. I swear.”

  If Galbin wondered what was so interesting about his feet, he had the courtesy not to ask.

  “I was implying nothing of the sort lad,” Galbin laughed and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “I'll wager you haven't stopped all day, have you?”

  “No sir.”

  “Aye, I figured as much. These men here,” he called jovially over his shoulder, could learn a thing or two from you.”

  A round of chuckles, tired but merry, followed Galbin's dig and he suddenly found himself pelted with dirt across his broad back.

  “And whiles we're diggin our lives away, breakin our backs, yer leanin on yer shovel prattlin to the young'un, malignin us. Where's the justice I asks?” Meran, a veteran hand and one of Galbin's closest friends, moaned with false righteousness.

  The men laughed, Galbin included, and even Jurel smiled. Every single man working on the farm was hand picked by either Galbin or Daved. They were all chosen for their ability to work, and their desire. A man did not last long on Galbin's farm if he tended to gripe or to sleep past sunrise. All except for the blacksmith, Jax, and he was given leeway only because the work he wrought was masterful—when Galbin managed to lever him from his chair. Even items as simple as nails seemed almost magically well done. The rest of them did their work and not a one complained; there were far worse places to work than Galbin's farm after all.

  “You see Jurel?” Galbin moaned throwing his hands up in mock despair. “You see the level of ungrateful insubordination this poor old man must endure?”

  Following another round of laughter, Galbin narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Jurel. “Turn around. Let me see your back.”

  Bewildered Jurel did as he was bade, unsure of what was to come.

  “Yer gonna be sore young'un!” Meran hooted.

  “By God lad!” Galbin gasped. “You really haven't stopped all day! You're red as a beet.”

  Galbin tried to find the sun but under the dense canopy; nothing but those golden lances penetrated to the forest floor.

  “What time is it anyway?”

  “About midafternoon sir.”

  With a start, Galbin's eyes widened a notch. “Is it now? Well the day is just flying past us then. Once you've gotten those buckets back to the field, you're done for the day. I would suggest asking your father to spread some balm on your shoulders else you'll feel like the sun decided to take up residence.” He shook his head, chuckling. “I don't envy you lad. You've days of feeling like one of Marta's roasts then you'll molt like a snake.”

  Bidding them all good day, Jurel continued on his way, picking up his pace, anticipating the last buckets and the end of his very long day. Behind him, echoing hollowly through the trees, he heard the men laugh at some bit of wit.

  He reached the perimeter of the woods, passing back into the brutal sun without pause. He was almost done for the day. He looked forward to kicking off his shoes which chafed his feet raw and resting his aching body in his chair. Of even more importance, he wanted water. Lots and lots of water. He briefly considered throwing himself down the well when he got back. The well seemed to have an endless supply of cold water, deep enough that it never dried even in the worst drought. Surely he could never drink it all. But he could certainly try.

  As he daydreamed of immersing himself in cold water, hot coals straight from a fire pelted him. He yelped and hissed as tingling pain spread like angry ants. He staggered, spluttering grit from his dry mouth and squeezed his eyes shut against the burn. As he wiped his offended eyes, he heard a malicious laugh. Searching through what looked like dirty glass, he saw a blurry form at the edge of the trench and his heart dropped when he recognized the voice that spoke.

  “Well if it isn't the crazy coward,” Valik sneered, tossing another load of dirt at Jurel.

  He fought to keep his calm. He continued walking as if he did not even notice the older boy.

  “Hey, crazy boy. I'm talking to you,” Valik called angrily but Jurel kept walking.

  Valik's spade hit the ground with a muted clang and two footfalls later, a hand gripped Jurel's shoulder and spun him roughly around.

  “Oh hello Valik. What can I do for you?” he asked, ignoring the searing heat where Valik gripped him.

  He tried for nonchalance. Maybe even a little feigned surprise as if he noticed Valik for the first time, but even he heard the resignation. Could he not go one day without this weasel bothering him?

  “For starters, you can drop dead, you little turd,” Valik spat, a neat trick considering the moisture sucking heat. “You don't answer when your elders speak to you, boy? Where's your manners, boy.”

  “I'm sorry Valik. I just spoke with your father and he bade me finish as quickly as I can.”

  His gambit seemed to work, at least marginally. Mention of Galbin made Valik hesitate, eyes clouding with uncertainty. His father was relentless about ensuring Valik was on his best behavior in front of Jurel. He would not like being reminded of the fact. But his eyes narrowed and he seemed to regroup like a nearly routed platoon of infantry.

  “So what? That mean you can be a disrespectful little turd?”

  “No, I was just trying to do my work,” he replied and indicated the trench. “Just like you. I think your father will be very happy with your progress when he gets here. Probably any second now. He and his men were just inside the trees when I passed.”

  “Don't you dare compare your whiny sniveling self to me,” Valik hissed, red faced with anger but he seemed to consider for a moment, glancing back over his shoulder as if he expected his father to be standing there with arms crossed, tapping one foot in the dirt. With a shove, he turned and went back to his task, growling, “Get lost. Get out of here.”

  * * *

  He knelt at the pond's edge, filling his last buckets of the day, still thinking of his latest encounter with Valik. Why was Valik such a mean bastard, he wondered? Why did he seem to delight in tormenting him? The others never endured half of what Jurel had to. Why? Even before the fight, Valik had hated him, had reveled in making Jurel feel small. Maybe the fact that Jurel, for all that he was two years younger, had always been bigger had something to do with it. The first time he had met Valik, the older boy had looked up at him and sneered. “You look like a troll,” he had said and Galbin had clouted him for it. It would seem entirely in Valik's nature to make himself feel bigger however he could.

  Things had gotten worse since the fight, since Jurel had run like a coward while his friends were beaten black and blue. But that was not his fault. They should never have gotten into that fight in the first place. Yet they had, and they had been soundly thrashed and Valik blamed Jurel for it.

  He lifted the pole onto his shoulders, grunting with effort as exhausted and baked muscles protested, grunting with pain as the pole settled into his sunburns like a branding iron, and began the last leg of his journey, his mood once again tainted by sour memories. He decided to eschew the shade of the forest for the more direct path. He would be done quicker taking that route, and he would avoid anymore encounters with Valik.

  It was with surprise, almost stunned disbelief, that he lay his load on the ground with the other full buckets. He was done. It felt like ages since he had picked up his first buckets earlier that day and now staring down at them, aching, burnt, parched, he was done.

  Spinning on his heel, he sprinted, grunting with every jolting step, toward home, a sanctuary that promised shade, water, and a chair. And, his grumbling belly reminded him, food. Food would definitely help.

  “But first, water.”

  He blasted through the front door of the cabin, and following his own advice, he upended the clay pot filled with water that, though lukewarm, felt like
he jumped naked into a snowbank during a blizzard as it washed into his mouth and down his shoulders. It was bliss.

  Finally sated of that need, he flopped into his chair, ignoring the protests from his sun-blasted flesh and closed his eyes. Just for a moment though. His belly was still taunting him.

  * * *

  “Jurel. Wake up lad.”

  Bolting upright in his chair, Jurel gasped as he scraped against the wooden slats. It felt like he left half his back behind as he peeled away.

  “Galbin wasn't kidding was he?” Daved remarked with an amused chuckle. He shook his head wryly. “Lad, whatever possessed you to take your shirt off?”

  “It was too hot,” he said with a shrug, noticing that Daved had not burned. Of course not. He had gone brown, like mahogany, and though Jurel was not sure if it was sun tan or dirt, he felt a moment of envy at his obvious lack of discomfort.

  “Aye, and I bet not so hot as your hide feels right now, eh?”

  His face flushed as he felt the tightness in his shoulders, the stinging pain.

  “No I suppose not.”

  “Well let's get a better look then. I have some salve that should ease the burn a little. It doesn't smell so pretty and you'll feel like a greased pig, but it works.”

  After rummaging around in their storage bin for a moment, Daved returned with a small pot covered in thick leather.

  “Turn around. Let me have a look.”

  Jurel sat silently while his father smeared the bitter stuff liberally, tsking and tutting the whole time like an old mother hen, grumbling about the foolishness of youth and Jurel had to smile. Wherever the paste was applied, his flesh went through the most interesting phases: first there was almost unbearable heat like a forge fire, followed by icy cold that almost made him shiver, then lastly, numbness, a pleasant painless numbness that spread across his back like a comfortable blanket, and he breathed a sigh of relief.