The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  But Jurel saw Galbin's face then, saw the features still contorted in fear, saw the wide open eyes that stared at nothing, or perhaps at something, some world, that the living were not allowed to see. Blood leaked from his nose and ears, dripping on the snow, a lurid black-red that disappeared immediately, obscured by new pristine white that blew over top as if the storm itself were trying to hide damning evidence.

  “Get him inside,” Daved ordered the men who gathered in a tight circle around them. No one moved. Jurel saw his own blank incredulity reflected in each of their expressions.

  “But Daved,” Jevin said. “He's dead.”

  His father surged to his feet with a glower that would have sent an entire army running.

  “I said get him inside,” he roared causing the men to jump.

  It took a great deal of effort to hoist the remains of their master and friend for he was very large indeed and he somehow seemed heavier in death than he ever had in life, but they managed it, gripping him by arms and legs and hoisting him until he rested on their shoulders, and they marched with their heads down through the snow to Galbin's home like pall-bearers.

  Daved spun on Jurel with teeth bared and eyes fevered by grief and shock. “What happened?”

  Jurel took an involuntary step back, an alien terror seizing him—oh, he had felt terror, plenty of times; this time it was different, this time...

  “We were trying to free the tree limb and we couldn't move it.” His words stumbled over each other in his haste to get them out, breathy and full of tears. “So Galbin said he would go on the roof. I-”

  Daved surged forward and grasped his son's coat. As if he was not a foot shorter than his son, as if he did not weigh half what his son weighed, he shook him like a dog shakes a toy. His rage exploded with all the force of a volcano. “Why would you let him go out on the roof?” he howled.

  “No! Father I-I didn't. I told him not to. I told him it was too slippery and windy. He wouldn't listen, father. He said it was the only way.”

  Poker-hot eyes glittered, gored him, gutted him. Teeth bared, face carved in a rictus, he looked more like a demon than like Daved. Jurel swallowed with an audible click as he stared helplessly. A low growl burbled from deep in his father's throat; Jurel was certain he was about to be struck across the face.

  His father released him then with hands gone suddenly numb. Jurel stared miserably, trying to get a grip on the roil of feelings that threatened to leave him cored, to leave him as scoured as the farm itself would be when the wind died down.

  “I told him not to go. I said he should hang the canvas to make a wall. But he went anyway. He said they had to get that tree out or the barn might collapse. What was I supposed to do?”

  Daved glared into his son's beseeching expression, his nose flaring like a bull's. It was with obvious effort that his father took hold of the rage that gripped him, took hold of it and pushed it down, away, so he could think straight. “What happened next?'

  “He went on the roof. We got the limb loose. When I looked up, Galbin was fighting for balance. And then...and then...”

  The words caught in his throat, refusing to emerge as if the very act of putting voice to what had happened would make it real, as if by not saying it—Galbin fell. Galbin's dead.—they could somehow deny it and Galbin himself would come sauntering around the edge of the barn with a chuckle and a wave. “Got you good, didn't I?” he would say.

  Daved's glare was relentless. It drilled with the strength of a thousand men, burned as hot as a thousand suns, and he trembled. A long moment passed and Jurel knew he awaited judgment. And sentencing. But then, his shoulders slumped, collapsed downward and for the first time in his life, Jurel saw his father not as the powerful man that always got his way, but as a frail man past his prime, a man, though middle aged at most, seemed even older, as decrepit as the most ancient of ancients and Jurel mourned that almost as much as he mourned Galbin's death.

  “I'm sorry father. I tried. I did.”

  In the howling wind, he was not sure if his father heard him but Daved's eyes met his, and he nodded.

  “I know, lad. Galbin is a-” He cut himself off and his voice hitched strangely. “Was a stubborn fool. He should have known better.” He kicked at the powdery snow, sent a cloud up that was torn apart by the storm. “We'd better go to the house. Ingirt should hear what has happened.”

  He turned and trudged, not waiting for his son, after the men who had disappeared into the night like phantoms already transporting their newest member into their private world.

  Even though it was New Year, the day had not felt special, any different from all the other anonymous days that came and went, filing past in a procession that made life what it was. There was a brutal storm, but it was the middle of winter. Those things happened. Earlier, he had been toting hay, and sorting stores. Nothing special about that. Nothing new. Then there was the party. Not an every day occurrence, certainly, but still there was nothing special there; parties happened every holiday. Perhaps the discovery of the mutual feelings he and Erin shared was something noteworthy. If he thought about it, he could still see those eyes gazing at him as if she were standing right there in front of him, he could still taste honey and spices and wine when their lips had brushed ever so briefly and he ached with the memory. But even that, though new to him, was certainly nothing that did not happen often enough.

  Then there was Galbin. As usual, he had been at the forefront of things. Still nothing of note there. Galbin fixed the roof last summer. He had been up there, in nearly the same spot, prying old tiles away and hammering new ones on. The fat man was always ready to pitch in to whatever work lay ahead, no matter what it might cost him. Digging the trenches during that horrible drought—the same one that had brought Kurin to their door, now that he thought of it; that was something unusual he supposed—had nearly killed the man. He had complained of chest pains and he had been bedridden for days after. But he had not shirked his responsibility. As he had not this night. So how, when nothing particularly out of the ordinary had happened, on a day that was supposed to be joyous, celebratory, had things become so drastically not ordinary?

  Galbin was dead. Everything was changed. Everything was skewed sideways, like he was watching the world happen apart from him, a play on a mummer's stage perhaps, instead of around him. His grief was gone, replaced by a numbness that matched his fingers and he trudged, empty and cold, toward the home of a dead man he thought of as an uncle.

  Chapter 18

  The fire, mostly dully glowing embers, licked tiny tongues of flame as if it too was mourning Galbin's death, as if in mourning, it could not find the heart to produce more light. Ingirt sat on the couch in the sitting room, staring blankly at the wall with hollowed, sunken eyes so she looked like a corpse hours dead, no small resemblance to her husband, while other women clustered about her speaking and weeping quietly. They pressed close, drawing comfort from each other as a sponge draws moisture.

  The room was chilly but no one was certain if it was the weather and the lack of a proper fire, or if they were all cold because of other things: shock, exhaustion, sorrow. The wind outside yet howled, though fitfully, in hiccups that reminded Jurel of a child sobbing, and a small mercy: the snow had finally stopped. Perhaps the storm regretted what it had done, felt guilty that it had caused the terrible tragedy that befell them all.

  “Where is my son?” Ingirt whispered.

  Since the moment Jurel broke the news to her—to everyone who was at the New Year festivities, she had not spoken a word. Her features had frozen into a mask that hovered somewhere between disbelief and terror. Most of them, in fact, wore such expressions as they silently regarded their mistress.

  “Where is Valik?” she repeated.

  “I think young Shenk has gone searching for him,” Marta said with a comforting pat to Ingirt's arm. “I'm certain they will get here any moment now.”

  “I cannot bear to see my husband until my son is here.” Her
voice was wooden, as empty as her expression, as hollow as her eyes.

  With nothing to be done there, Jurel left the doorway where he watched the tragedy continue to unfold, left before he crumpled to the ground sobbing like a baby.

  He found his father almost immediately sitting in the dining room with a few of the men. Others were still out at the barn, bracing the roof—they would have to wait to mourn. A flicker of surprise wormed its way through the hard shell of numbness when Jurel saw his father's eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks wet. He could not remember the last time his father wept.

  “Ingirt is here father. She is in the parlor,” Jurel whispered. It did not seem right to speak more loudly.

  “I know. I heard you come in. How is she?”

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose. She doesn't want to see Galbin until Valik is with her. Where is he?”

  “Valik? I don't know.”

  “No, not Valik. Galbin.”

  “He's in his bed. He deserves to rest in comfort.” Daved blinked and looked around as if he searched for something before rising out of his chair. “Well, I should go and see her.”

  When Ingirt saw Daved, her face crumpled like parchment and she threw her arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably with her face buried in his shoulder. Jurel watched miserably as his father patted her shuddering back and spoke soft soothing words, trying to hold back his own tears: “There, there,” and “I know, my dear. I know.”

  It took a long time for her crying to slow and when it finally did, she looked up at his father with a tremulous smile. “Thank you, Daved, for bringing my husband home.”

  They spoke quietly, somberly for a time about Galbin, about the farm, about what to do next when the sound of the front door slamming open reached them. They all jumped in surprise.

  “Where is my father?” Valik roared. “Shenk told me he's dead. Where is he? This is some cruel prank to play. On New Year no less.”

  They heard footsteps as Valik ran into the dining room and then the door to Galbin's office crashed against the wall while Ingirt hurried from the room to meet her son.

  For the briefest instant, Jurel pitied the young man. For all his bluster, for all his anger, there was a note of terror in his voice, and of desperation, like he was a child all over again. Jurel had to wonder if that was what death did to the living, if death took away not just a loved one, but a part of all those nearby as well.

  “Please Valik,” Ingirt said with fresh tears in her voice. “Please, come with me.”

  “He can't be mother. Shenk is playing some cruel joke. That's all it is,” he said though Jurel could hear that it was what he wanted to believe, that he needed to believe it. But that he did not. Not really. Not in that place deep down where true belief existed. “Isn't he?”

  “Come with me, my son,” Ingirt repeated and started up the stairs to the room she and Galbin had shared for the past twenty-two years with Valik trailing behind like a lost lamb.

  All was silence, eerily so, deathly, for a moment as the men and women of the farm waited, clustered in tight knots, holding their breaths. Maybe it would all turn out to be a joke after all. Maybe Galbin would come walking down the steps with a broad grin on his face. “What's everyone doing here? There's a party to go to!” Maybe it was all a bad dream, one that at any moment, Jurel would wake from, shivering and sweating while slowly, slowly, relief warmed him. It was just a dream.

  A despairing wail echoed from upstairs. Anguish and agony melded into one funereal dirge and the gathered crowd at the bottom of the stairs began weeping. Friends clutched each other, and even those who were not friends held on as though something threatened to wash them all away. For the first time, the reality of it all struck home, really struck home, as if those anguished wails made it all true. For the first time, everyone was certain: their master, their friend, was dead. And it was no dream.

  Nonetheless, it was a nightmare.

  Part 3:

  The Journey

  “It is through the travels we undertake and the

  trials we face that we understand ourselves

  and our place in the world...”

  -excerpt from A Philosophy on Life,

  Author anon

  Chapter 19

  The fire in the dining room had been stoked and it was pleasantly warm but a long time had passed and the feeble light that remained streaked the walls with phantasmic patterns; light and shadow intertwined as lovers writhing in the throes of passion, or specters struggling against the shackles of a confinement too heinous to name out loud.

  Jurel and his father shared stories of their old friend as they shared brandy. Some of the stories made them laugh, though it was a muted laughter bruised and withered like an old apple, while other stories made them weep, and their weeping unlike their laughter was pure. It was through those shared tales that they began to truly mourn Galbin's passing, to celebrate a bright flame of life that went out unexpectedly, doused, as it were, by icy water. He was wracked with guilt, wishing he had done more to stop Galbin's foolhardy actions that night. He said as much to his father, but Daved shook his head sadly.

  “No Jurel,” he said heavily. “Galbin was a good man, but he was stubborn. He made his choice, a choice he knew was deadly dangerous, and he paid for it. You are not to blame for his rashness.”

  Jurel wished it was that easy to quell the pangs but try as he might, his remorse clung to him like a second skin.

  Everyone else had gone to their beds hours before and the ladies had taken Ingirt and Valik with them. No one thought it a good idea for them to stay at their house for the night, especially since Galbin's body yet remained in Ingirt's bed. As they had left, she had invited Daved and Jurel to stay as long as they liked. She did not want her husband to be alone for his last journey.

  So they stayed, keeping a vigil of sorts, and traded their tales and sipped their brandy.

  “What's going to happen now, father?”

  With a heavy sigh, Daved hitched his shoulders. “I imagine there will be a funeral in the next few days. With the ground frozen solid, we will likely have a pyre near the pond. Just like you, he spent a lot of days there when he was young. He would have liked to know he will spend eternity there.”

  “And after?” He knew it was selfish. He knew that the thoughts that had come to him a short time ago should have been the farthest thing from his mind. But it seemed that the words of an old traveler that had stopped by all those years ago had been prophetic indeed. “Valik owns the farm now. I don't imagine he'll want me around.”

  “I don't know Jurel. Don't discount Ingirt's influence. She can be vain and shallow, but in her way she loves us both.”

  Not overly convinced, Jurel grunted. Even if Ingirt somehow managed to convince her son to let him stay, life would not be easy. But perhaps there was enough reason for him to stick it out as best he could. His thoughts turned to Erin and he could not help but smile. It was not much of a smile, but it was what it was. If life would not be easy, if it had to be riddled with sadness and hardship, well at least he might still be able to plug some of the holes.

  Before she had left with the other women, Erin had given him a hug so fierce he thought he had heard his ribs creak. She had reached up and caressed his hair and whispered that she wanted to see him the next day and the day after. She had kissed him then. It was a lingering kiss, soft and gentle. A promise.

  Amidst all the heartache of the day, that at least had helped to buoy his spirits, comforting him enough to keep him going when all he wanted was his bed. His smile was bitter-sweet as he stared into his cup. He had lost a beloved friend, but perhaps he had found something more.

  “What do you think of your young lady Jurel?”

  Jurel glanced up, surprised. His father had always had the uncanny knack of reading his mind. Chuckling softly, Daved regarded his son with fondness. “Don't look so surprised, lad. I can see that silly smile. I know what you're thinking about.”

  He was
not certain that this was the best time to discuss it. Galbin lay upstairs, not even cold yet after all. But perhaps remembering life was more important than focusing on death. Perhaps thinking of it could be as a bandage over a wound. His father had hired a man some years back who had lost his wife and daughter in a terrible fire. Even though years had passed since that horrible night, the man was dour, always sad in a way that Jurel could never quite fully grasp. The new hand had worked hard enough but he was so quiet that no one had heard more than a handful of words during the two years he worked at their side; he never made any friends. In fact, wherever he went, he seemed to carry with him rain and a grimness that had pushed all others away. Even on the day he left, even when Galbin had asked him to stay on, the man did not speak, so wrapped up was he in his own living nightmare. Perhaps if someone had reminded him of life, of breathing and of letting the sun's warmth fill him with joy, he could have found some measure of peace. But instead he wrapped himself in his own torments, waiting for the day when death finally took him too, looking forward to it.

  “She is lovely father,” Jurel spoke quietly, whimsically, and almost guiltily; it did not feel proper to discuss it. “She is so beautiful, and gentle and I think I love her. I think she feels the same for me.”

  “Aye, you're a good man,” Daved said, smiling softly. “She could do far worse than to land a man like you. What are your intentions?”

  “I've had my eye on her for some time-”

  Daved snorted, rolled his eyes. “Really? Hadn't noticed.”

  “-but I never knew how to approach her,” Jurel said ignoring his father's interruption. “At least now I know she's interested too.”

  “I would think that the doe eyes she's been making at you lately would have been quite a clue, don't you?”

  “Really? She was?” Jurel asked wonderingly.

  Daved laughed, a real laugh, closer to true delight than at any other time since...before.

  “You're hopeless lad. Yes she was. Has been for months. How could you not notice? Everyone on the farm has been snickering behind their hands at you. 'He's in trouble, that Jurel is' Jax said just the other day,” Daved made his voice all raspy and rough, rendering the surly old smith's voice with surprising accuracy. Then his face went very serious and his look grew sharp. “Mind you keep it quiet for now, out of respect.”