by Brad Beals
BOY SOLDIER
by Brad Beals
Copyright©2006 by Brad Beals
There lived a boy once, a very long time ago, whose name was Joshua. He grew up in the country, on a small farm far from the noise and close air of the city, and though he was a boy, he worked a man's day, so he was quite strong.
Part I
The Call
One day, this Joshua was at work in the fields loading bundles of grain onto a wagon when a peddler, leading a mule that pulled a wagon piled high with all manner of things, stopped at the fence by the road and shouted for the boy to come.
"I'm afraid I have no money to buy what you're selling," said Joshua when he was close enough to speak politely.
"Don't mind about that," replied the peddler. "Besides, what I want you to have you cannot buy, for in addition to being a peddler extraordinaire, I am also a servant of the King, and the King has called all who would to come at once to the city. Here." And the peddler held out a handbill—that's an old fashioned kind of flyer—that read, Come! Any who calls himself my soldier, Come! And be prepared for war!
I don't need to say that Joshua's heart got bigger at these words; he was a boy, after all. And a boy who wants more than anything to be a man will let himself be stirred up by words like soldier and war. But even stirred, Joshua had good sense.
"When did the King say this?" he asked.
"Does it matter when it's the King who said it?" answered the peddler.
"It does. The harvest is still in the field. If I leave now, it will be ruined."
"I see.” The peddler considered the boy and the field of mown wheat behind him. And then he nodded. "There is time."
"So I won't be too late?" asked Joshua.
"Now that I can't say. But I can say that if you dawdle, you may be left behind. And once the King sets out for battle, the time for hurrying is done with."
The peddler looked at Joshua thoughtfully, and then he leaned over the fence and motioned for him to come closer. "So...do you?" he whispered.
"Do I what?" asked Joshua.
"Do you call yourself his soldier?"
"Well...I...well,"
"Now what sort of answer is that? Either you is or you isn't."
Joshua wanted very much for his father to be there. He and William, Joshua's older brother, had left a year ago to fight for the king. And when his mother had gotten word early in the season that William had been wounded, she set off that same day, leaving Joshua to gather the harvest alone. If that seems like a difficult thing for a boy, you would be right. But it was also the best of things, for his wise mother had looked him up and down, and then right in the eyes, and she told him that he was strong enough to get the work done. And Joshua had believed her.
But still, he was a boy.
"I wish he were here," he said to himself, though the peddler was still there leaning against the fence rail.
"And what would your father say if he were here? It is your father you're thinking of, isn't it?" Joshua's glanced quickly at him then looked away. "Yes, I thought so. Would he answer the question for you?"
"I don't know. He would give me wisdom, I suppose."
"You mean he hasn't given you wisdom yet?"
"Of course he has."
"Then perhaps it's time to use it."
The peddler did not wait for Joshua to say anything more. Instead he whistled once, and the mule snorting and the wagon jangling began following him up the road. But before the peddler had gotten too far, Joshua stopped him.
"Sir!" he shouted, "Why aren’t you joining the King’s army?”
The peddler turned to him. ”Am I at the end of the kingdom yet?” he asked.
“There’s not much of it left on this road, that’s for sure.”
“Then I’ll see you very soon in the city!” Joshua watched them until they were nothing but a cloud of dust shrinking over the next hill.
He had never thought of such things before, not really. He had dreamed of being a soldier, as all boys will do. He had played at it when he was younger, and even now when he would swing his axe to fell a tree, there was something of a warrior's anger in it. But he had never called himself a soldier. He hadn't even known that he could do such a thing. But then Joshua thought of his parents, and he said to himself, "The peddler's right. My parents have given me wisdom already. They've even told me that the king would call some day and that I must be ready with an answer. Perhaps this is it." And just like that, though it hardly felt like anything he'd imagined, though it hardly felt like anything at all, Joshua was a soldier.
But still, there was this matter of the harvest. The barley was cut and bundled in the fields, but it needed to be threshed, winnowed, and stored. So Joshua (and Miriam, the family's stout little donkey) set about their work, carting the sheaves from the fields to the threshing floor, beating and trampling the stalks to break the seeds away, winnowing out the chaff, sifting and bagging the grain, and storing it deep in the barn. He worked days under the hot sun, and nights by a full moon.
When he could work no more, he would collapse right on to the pile of straw that grew larger each day, or curl up to sleep next to Miriam, who, despite Joshua's indignation at her, slept just as much as she wanted. And when he got hungry, he would not stop to eat but would scoop up a handful of grain and chew while he worked.
And soon, the task that had seemed impossible at first, began to look smaller and smaller until Joshua realized that he could see the end of it, that the last bundles of grain were there by the threshing floor. And after a week of unceasing labor, the harvest was in.
Joshua slept through the night and into the next afternoon, and when he did finally tumble from his bed, his last waking thought was still there as if he'd only blinked his eyes shut for a moment—be prepared for war. It's not an easy thing preparing for something you know nothing about, but Joshua went at the task with the same heart he'd brought to the harvest.
First, after much rummaging through the barn loft where several lifetimes of odds and ends were stored, Joshua unearthed something he was sure he'd seen once as a boy—a helmet. It was tarnished brown and the visor seemed to be stuck in the up position, and though it smelled of horse and old hay, it was solid and no rust had yet taken to it.
Next, he made a shield by cutting apart an old saddle and tacking the heavy leather over a short, thick plank of oak. He then bolted a loop for his forearm and a handle onto the back. As shields go, it was not pretty, but it would take a blow just fine.
And finally, he found an old practice sword, one he'd seen William use, and he set about making it once again into a working sword. It was not easy. The furnace had to be fired, the metal heated to glowing red, and its blunt end forged to a point. Then all of this had to be ground and filed sharp. And though the fullers wandered a bit, and one of the cross guards had a twist in it that he could not seem to straighten, overall, it was not a bad piece of blacksmithing. He had planned on fashioning a breast plate and some kind of armor for his legs, but he was beginning to feel at his back all the hours of this long week. Joshua knew that he could wait no longer.
So at sunrise the next day, he loaded Miriam with supplies for the long journey—food for several weeks, a bed roll, and one change of clothes. Then he put the helmet on his head, slung his shield over his shoulder, and slipped the sword through a loop he'd fastened to his belt (he had no scabbard). And since there was no room on the donkey for himself, Joshua began to walk east, toward the city of the King and—though it would hardly be as he imagined it—adventure.
