“This is all the welcoming committee I get?” Hemmett said, looking around.
“Everyone’s been working on the new dumbwaiter and they’re taking lunch,” Borsen said suddenly.
“He talks too,” Hemmett said in mock amazement to Katrin.
“Don’t tease, he’s the one making your new trousers, and he’ll leave a pin in the backside seam if you’re rude,” she retorted.
Menders was pleased to see camaraderie bloom between Hemmet and Borsen during Hemmett’s holiday. Hemmett, despite his madcap ways and tendency toward irreverence, had a warm heart and was intensely protective.
Hemmett always rejoiced in returning to The Shadows. He adored the country life and stepped right back into his role there as if he had never been away. If there was a hunting party or dance, Hemmett was in the midst of it, cracking jokes and laughing. His toil in the woodlot was something to see, as he hurled logs around and made chips fly like bullets. He was now an enormous youth, with big muscles and a deep baritone voice.
Menders could see Hemmett was still in love with Katrin, but he also mentioned girls he admired in Erdahn, as he and the other cadets were now of an age to be introduced into society. His manners, when he chose to use them, were impressive and polished. He was capable of disciplining his naturally raucous nature into a controlled bearing that was awe inspiring. He’d had the highest recommendations for his work and was considered one of the up and coming men at the Academy.
Commandant Komroff mourned that Hemmett consistently turned down opportunities that would groom him for a senior position in the Army, but Hemmett always insisted that his ambition was to captain Katrin’s Guard. Although that in itself was a worthy and noble posting, the Commandant argued that it would not sufficiently task Hemmett’s natural abilities for leadership and military organization.
Menders, despite his considerable regard for the Commandant, backed Hemmett unswervingly. Hemmett would not be cannon fodder, not even high ranking cannon fodder, if Menders had anything to say about it.
***
While in Erdstrom the week after Hemmett’s homecoming, Menders took Borsen to visit his oculist. The man marveled that Borsen could manage at all with such limited vision. After his examination of the boy’s eyes, he confirmed that Borsen and Menders suffered from the same condition.
“Your nephew, you say? Well, you both have the same ailment, though this young man’s problem is not as advanced or as severe. If you begin to wear spectacles and guard your eyes from bright light, young man, you should avoid some of the complications your uncle has had,” the oculist told Borsen. “Now, let’s see what sort of spectacles you’ll need.”
After considerable fiddling and switching lenses, the oculist found a formula that would correct Borsen’s vision a great deal, though he warned Borsen he could not expect perfection. He recommended not only clear spectacles, but dark ones for bright light as well.
Excited by the prospect of restoring sight to the near blind, the oculist ground Borsen’s lenses right away and the glasses were ready within a few days. After a brief period of dizziness that quickly passed, a new world opened before Borsen’s eyes. Colors, shapes, details he’d never seen before leapt at him from every angle. By the time he and Menders left the oculist’s office, he was skipping around in excitement, crying out about things that he was seeing and tugging on Menders’ hand to get his attention every few seconds.
“Look Uncle! What is that?” he would shout in Thrun, pointing at a street lamp or clothesline. Menders would tell him, trying not to laugh. He walked Borsen down to the ocean, where the boy gazed open-mouthed and then watched the seagulls, brown eyes moving rapidly, trying to take everything in at once.
“I must draw this,” Borsen breathed. Menders handed him a pocket sketchbook and pencil he’d carried along. He waited patiently, strolling the boardwalk while the boy drew frenetically, unaware that he was attracting a crowd of the curious and admiring. He sketched with such furious energy that smoke curling from the paper would not have been surprising.
His drawing completed, Borsen looked up and found himself surrounded by people. For a moment he looked panicked, but when he saw Menders coming toward him he breathed a sigh of relief. People were asking to see his work. He held it out for perusal.
“I quite fancy that sketch,” a man said. “Would you take ten florins for it, young man?”
Menders looked at the page and blinked. Now that Borsen could see, his drawing was phenomenal. The sketch was the sea, sky and wheeling gulls. The perspective was slightly wobbly but that could be overlooked because of the sheer emotion that the boy had infused into his pencil strokes.
“Should I sell it, Uncle?” Borsen asked.
“That’s up to you,” Menders told him. Borsen considered the question, and then carefully tore the sketch from the book and held it out toward the man who wanted it.
“Oh, but you must sign it,” the man told him, taking out the money.
Menders was greatly amused to see the boy sign it with a large ‘B’ in the corner, in imitation of Menders’ own way of signing things quickly with a large initial ‘M’.
“You’re a sold artist,” Menders told Borsen with admiration. “Some artists wait their entire lives to sell a work.”
“I can’t wait to tell Katrin and Hemmett!”
“We’ll make our triumphant return to the hotel then,” Menders said grandly, gesturing up the street.
Smiling people nodded as they passed, their attention drawn by the little boy’s obvious happiness. Borsen was far from filled out, still very small for his age, but he bore little resemblance to the pitiful child who had come to the Shadows. He was a winsome picture as he hopped and skipped along, clinging to Menders’ hand.
***
On the last night of their stay in Erdstrom, Menders sat up late with Eiren.
It had been a delightful trip all round. Katrin’s security network had functioned marvelously and having Borsen along had been enjoyable for all. His enthusiasm was infectious. He’d been thrilled by the ballet and sketched the costumes frantically until he fell asleep against Hemmett’s shoulder, his soft snores occasionally making an obligato to music.
“I almost hate to leave for home tomorrow,” Menders said, curling a lock of Eiren’s hair around his finger as she snuggled against him on the sofa.
“Until you get in sight of The Shadows and think of a million things to do,” Eiren smiled. “Or see Demon in the pasture and decide to let him try to break your neck.”
“Ah, a nagging wife, there’s nothing quite like it,” Menders teased, then cocked an ear and listened closely to sounds from the corridor.
“Little boy about to appear,” he said to her. She laughed aloud.
Borsen wandered into the lounge from the room he shared with Hemmett, blinking through his spectacles at the light.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Uncle and Auntie,” he said politely, “but I just thought of something important and wanted to ask you about it.”
“No apologies needed, son,” Menders answered. “What thought troubles you?”
“How would I go about changing my last name? I hate it and I don’t want it. Carvers is my father’s name and since he left me behind, why should I use it?”
Years ago, when he was eleven, Menders had gone to the Commandant of the Royal Military Academy and asked a similar question, wanting to drop his father’s family name in favor of his mother’s.
“If you don’t have a birth certificate, which I doubt you do, it’s a matter of simply using the name you prefer until you’re of age and can change it legally,” Menders said. “I did the same when I was younger than you and took my mother’s maiden name.”
“That’s the name I want too.”
“Your mother’s maiden name? Just start using it, drop Carvers.”
“No, not Tailors. I have a plan. When I have my great establishment, I’ll call it Borsen’s. That will honor my mother, since she made my name after hers
,” Borsen said with such sincerity that Menders couldn’t laugh. “I want my last name to be Menders.”
“I’m honored, Borsen,” Menders replied. “Please feel free to do so.”
“I’ll be sure to sign things with my first initial, so that there isn’t confusion. People might think I’m you,” the boy said, turning and shambling off to bed.
No, you’ll never be mistaken for me, Menders thought as he watched the small figure retreat. You will become someone wholly remarkable in your own right, your own person, not the shadow of another.
Menders and Eiren held their breath until they heard him get back into bed, and then dissolved in silent laughter. Eiren finally caught her breath.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” she whispered. “How to keep from laughing? He’s adorable, but he’s also so funny!”
“He’s a joy,” Menders answered. “All three of them are, from the military man to the Princess to the diminutive future owner of a great establishment. He’s welcome to my name and anything else he wants or needs.”
“You know he worships you,” Eiren said, going quiet.
“Yes,” Menders replied, suddenly equally serious. “At first that bothered me, until I realized that even at his age, his personality is powerful. He thinks he wants to be like me but in time, he will be his own man.”
“Still, he worships you,” Eiren repeated, her eyes gleaming in the soft light. “He’s not the only one.” She reached up and kissed him.
***
From Menders’ Journal
The great house is asleep. Winterfest night, another year gone by, its passage duly marked and celebrated. The revelers are all abed, with one exception - myself.
I cherish these solitary hours when I can feel the house around me, the weight of the great beams that make this building a fortress, the heartbeat of the tall clock in the entryway.
Although alone, I am not lonely. All I hold dear surrounds me. I keep my solitary enjoyment close, hidden from those I love. I fear they might be hurt, thinking that I wish to shun their company.
On this night it seems I was not alone after all. Long after midnight, I heard a boy’s high treble, clear and true, one that could have been my own in the days when I was Aylam Josirus, filtering down from above. It seemed to be the spirit of Winterfest itself and was filled with the mystery of the falling star that brought men to Eirdon. It sang an ancient Thrun lullaby that I have not heard since I was a boy, more years ago than I care to calculate.
Climbing the stairs, I traced the sound to its source – Borsen, sitting alone in the dark tailor’s shop, watching the dazzling pageant of stars through the high windows. He sang with the freedom of one who believes himself alone and unheard, perhaps communing with the mother he loves so much and misses still. The purity of it was heart aching.
I sensed Borsen’s desire for solitude and chose not to announce myself to him. Presently he went to bed. After a while I looked in to find him peacefully asleep.
This child catches at my heart. So like me, yet so blessedly unlike me as well. My Little Man, the son I never had.
(41)
“The Three Chosen Children”
Icicles crashed from the eaves of The Shadows at the shattering sound of the great Thrun gong. Ifor, nursing a severe head cold, bellowed from his suite as the vibrations rattled his aching skull.
Katrin ran toward the front door, pausing only as Menders shouted from his office for her to wear her coat.
Hemmett gave a great whoop and dropped a sheaf of coded messages he’d been filing with Kaymar. He ran down the hall, ignoring Kaymar’s amused scolding.
Borsen leapt from the tailor’s table, scattering pins far and wide. Tomar watched his fleeing apprentice and was thankful that he owned a magnet.
The three young people scrambled for coats, hats and furs, then boiled out of the front door in a knot of flailing youthful exuberance. They raced down the drive toward the advancing Thrun.
Borsen slowed as they drew close.
“Whoa, look at them!” he gasped.
“Come on, you’ll miss it!” Hemmett yelled, backtracking. He hoisted Borsen onto his back and ran effortlessly along.
“Miss what?” came Borsen’s voice, distorted by all the bouncing as Hemmett pelted across the snow.
“Miss the part where Tharak picks Katrin up and tosses her in the air like she’s a tiny baby,” Hemmett replied, racing onward. Katrin was leading them by several paces. She had become leggy of late and ran like the wind.
“That’s not possible, she’s a big girl!” Borsen protested.
“And Tharak’s bigger!”
As they reached the Thrun, Hemmett slid Borsen to the ground as Katrin ran up to the huge man leading the column of people and animals. The giant swung her up off the ground and flung her into the air, then laughed as he caught her and held her high. Katrin’s hair flashed gold in the thin winter sunlight. The huge man turned, still holding her up and shouted words in Thrun, then repeated himself in Mordanian.
“Light Of The Winter Sun!”
“What does he mean?” Borsen asked Hemmett.
“The color of her hair – and something else that nobody will tell us about.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t know,” Hemmett answered. “That’s Tharak. He’s the high chieftain. You watch, he’ll be giving Katrin presents constantly. She’ll make out like a thief while they’re here.”
“Presents?”
“Furs, jewelry, gems. You wait and see. Wait till you see their clothes, tailor boy.”
Someone pulled off Borsen’s fur hat and ruffled his hair. Borsen looked around at Menders, who had come up behind him.
“How do you like the show so far?” Menders smiled. Borsen grinned up at his uncle, then turned abruptly as a shadow fell over him.
He looked up, to a great silver and gold belt buckle the size of a plate. Then up some more, across a broad chest criss-crossed by silver studded straps, then up further into a huge grinning Thrun face, topped by an enormous horned hat. Borsen shrank back against Menders.
The man stopped grinning and crouched down to his level.
“I see my childhood friend in you, Little Man,” he said kindly, putting out a hand for Borsen to take. “Who might you be?”
“I’m Borsen Menders,” Borsen squeaked. He felt Menders’ hand tighten comfortingly on his shoulder and felt less afraid. “My mother’s name was Tailors.”
“I’ve found a nephew,” Menders added.
The big Thrun cupped Borsen’s chin in his hand and looked deep into his eyes.
“I see your Thrun name is Tharkul a’ Thrunar,” the huge man said. “Reflection Of My Friend. I am Tharak Karak a’a’ Thrun, High Chieftain of the Thrun and of the Tailors clan. Since my first wife is the half-sister of Menders, I am also your uncle as well as your cousin, little nephew. That makes you a Chieftain among us,” With that he pulled Borsen into a huge embrace and Borsen was no longer afraid.
Tharak Karak rose and threw his arms around Menders, laughing, then picked Borsen up as though he weighed nothing and set him on his shoulder. The enormous gong crashed again, low horns started to play, and the procession swaggered toward the house. Borsen was wildly elated, and exchanged grins with Katrin, who was holding Tharak’s hand as they walked along.
***
Later Tharak and Menders strolled through the camp, as was their habit on the first day of the Thrun’s usual winter visit. The children were moving along ahead of them happily, Hemmett occasionally lifting Borsen so he could see things more easily.
“Your family has grown, Aylam,” Tharak said. “Katrin has become a woman, I see.”
“In many ways, yes she has,” Menders answered. “Then Borsen appeared out of nowhere.” He outlined Borsen’s past and the events of the last few months. Tharak listened closely as he explained the relationship between himself and the boy.
“The mother was called Thara Borgela, you say” Tharak mused. He stood still, furrowing h
is forehead.
“I know these people. You are correct, my friend,” Tharak continued. “Borsen’s mother was your father’s child. Her mother stayed with the Thrun for a while, but then left for the cities as so many of the women who had half-Mordanian children did. She was not seen again, but I remember the white-eyed baby, Thara Borgela. She was older than you, Aylam, you would not remember. You came to us later.”
Menders nodded, seeing vague shadowy outlines of people’s faces in his mind’s eye – people he had never met, yet felt drawn to.
“So your child has found you.” Tharak spoke solemnly, watching Katrin, Hemmett and Borsen perusing a pile of furs. “I thought it would be a child of your body and Golden Heart’s, but the time for that is past. Such a child would not be the right age if born now. There they are, Aylam – Light Of The Winter Sun, Light Brighter Than The Sun, and Reflection Of My Friend, the three chosen children. The prophecy is coming to pass. Perhaps this time it will play out to completion and the Circle will turn. It has not before, though the opportunity has been there.”
Menders backed away from Tharak, cutting the air sharply with a slash of his hand, a Thrun gesture that indicated no more was to be said.
“Don’t tell me,” he said abruptly. “Don’t start going on about that. Prophecies make people try to force them into being. If something is going to happen, it will.”
Tharak shook his head and then caught Menders around the shoulders.
“Your reservations are known and noted my friend. However they do not change that which is and the choices that are to come. I will only say this. The threads are coming together in your hands, Weaving Man. Now, let’s go and find your lovely Golden Heart, so I can begin to barter for her to be my seventh wife!”
Weaving Man: Book One of The Prophecy Series Page 52
