The Path of the Sword (19 page)

“It was all right.”

“New management,” Daved informed him. “A few years ago, that tavern was the best in town. When Harrold took over, the place went to shit. I should have sent you elsewhere. Sorry, lad.”

Jumping into the bed of the cart, Jurel stood on the only sliver of wood that was not covered and wondered where he would sit. It was laden high with sacks and crates, and there was not enough space for Frieza let alone him. If their poor horse managed to drag it all home, she would deserve a reward. Maybe a medal or something.

“Well Jurel, have you had enough?”

The town almost overwhelmed him. It was like a typhoon inside a hurricane. Even busier now than when they had arrived, the streets were crowded with a mass of sweaty bodies even though it was a cool day, an ocean of people that moved back and forth like the tide. Dizzy, and a little nauseated from his meal, he nodded.

“Well then, hop up beside me and let's go.”

As they made their way through the crowds, Jurel got the last of his sight-seeing in but he was distracted, more interested in learning about the old man who had magically reappeared in his life after such a long absence. And in such a surprising way, too.

“What was Kurin doing there father?”

“As he said,” Daved responded, gently pulling their horse around an overloaded wagon that had snapped an axle and around two individuals shouting at each other, gesticulating wildly, “he's opened himself a little place in town and he's plying his trade.”

“Yes but why here?”

“He said it was the closest town to him when he decided to take root.”

His answers were clipped and he did not even glance at Jurel as he spoke. It would have been easy to assume that he was too busy keeping their cart off inattentive children and away from the other wagons that trundled slowly by, but Jurel knew his father. He knew intentional vagueness when he heard it.

“Why don't you like him? He seems a decent enough old man, if a little crazy.”

Well, that caught his father's attention.

Daved glanced sharply at his son with narrowed eyes. “What business is it of yours boy?”

He was taken aback by the steel in his father's voice, but he decided to go on anyway.

“Well, none really. I was just curious as to why you're always so mean to him.”

“Of all the times for you to find your courage,” Daved sighed. “I know his kind. I don't like his kind.”

“What do you mean, 'his kind'?”

He had to know. He did not know what drove him to risk his father's anger, but something, some nebulous feeling like a faint breath of air tickling the back of his neck whispered that he had to know. But as Daved's hawk eyes bored into him, as he quailed at his father's mounting ire, he wondered if he needed to know quite
that
much.

“I was just curious. I'm sorry,” he muttered, looking away.

Relenting, Daved sighed and pondered his son for a moment.

“Look. I know his type. You may think me narrow-minded for it and that's fine. Just keep in mind that I've seen much more of the world than you. He seems like a decent enough old man, I'll grant you that. But who he is, what he represents, well that's what worries me. Do you understand?”

Of course, since Jurel did not know who Kurin was, or what he represented, he did not understand. He shook his head.

“You'll just have to trust that your old man knows what he's talking about.” A wry smile chased away the thunderclouds. “Can you understand that at least?”

Jurel nodded.

“Fine. Let's enjoy a nice,
quiet
, trip home then. All right?”

Jurel nodded again and Daved turned his attention back to the road.

Chapter 15

The last of the fields were reaped under skies that promised a long winter and Jurel was called upon to help bring the last of the crops to the silo for storage, and so it was that in the early afternoon on the Day of Shadows, Jurel's sixteenth birthday, he was pushing a barrow full of freshly picked cobs of corn and dripping with perspiration in the biting autumn air.

Everyone would be quitting early in preparation for the grand feast ahead but for that moment and for the next hour or two, the farm was abuzz with activity as men and women alike rushed to finish their assigned duties.

Slogging through the field, pushing his barrel through damp soil that sank under the weight, that seemed reluctant to let him pass, he grumbled to himself, though quietly, for as he knew, sour words make for sour work.

His father had roused him at the crack of dawn—though with clouds thick in the sky, it had seemed more like a faint lightening of night than the arrival of morning—and told him that since he was a man grown, he would be treated with all the respect accorded to all men. Apparently, that meant that Jurel would be turned out to work just as hard as anyone. Two evenings ago, his father had magnanimously told him to sleep in, play, do whatever he wanted, but above all else, to rest because he would need it. At the time, he had been all too happy to listen to his father's advice, even as a part of him wondered at the last little bit, the part that had left him with the distinct sense of a guillotine about to drop. He was no longer confused.

“Happy birthday Jurel,” his father had said that morning, ripping the warm blanket from his sleepy grip. “Now get up. There's work to be done.”

Happy birthday indeed.

He halted for a moment, turning his eyes up to the overcast sky, felt the cold breeze turn his sweat into prickles of ice and smiled sourly. Ironically, with the sun so effectively hidden, on that Day of Shadows, there were no shadows. But his shadow had nothing to do with it. Instead the holiday was a day to ponder other darker things. It was said that on that day, the barrier between the world of life and the land of death was thinnest, that shadowy creatures had more freedom to roam among the living. The day traditionally culminated in a grand feast, rivaled only by the New Years feast, still some months away, that was supposed to represent life. By taking nourishment, one affirmed one's living existence, strengthened it, and thus kept the evil spirits away. That was supposedly how the clergy viewed it.

Galbin, not being a particularly devout sort—oh, he held the odd sermon on the value of hard work or the importance of family, but he had been known to call all the rituals and incenses and high flown words spouted by the clergy nothing but wasted effort. “If God's going to love you, he won't care if you're kneeling in some temple or in the dirt,” he often said—had a different reason for holding the feasts: it was a time for families and friends to unite in relaxation and comfort after a long season of work and reaping, a reward for a job well done. With his belly grumbling like one of the underworld shadows themselves, he thought it sounded like a splendid idea.

Arriving at the silo, he waited in a line-up of hands all with their own barrows laden with produce, to get orders from his father, positioned at the wide double door to receive the incoming bounty. When it was his turn (for the hundredth time that day, it seemed) his father glanced up from his clipboard and motioned Jurel through to where the mounds of corn lay heaped like giant bowls of butter, past the sacks of beans and the tumbling heads of lettuce, and when he had carefully dumped his load, his father called to him.

“Go on home and get cleaned up, Jurel. I'll meet you there in a while. We're going to be dining with the hands tonight.”

“Yes sir,” he grinned.

Seeing his son's obvious relief, Daved rolled his eyes and snorted.

At home, he lit a fire in the stove to ward off the damp chill, then stripped off his sweaty, smelly shirt and his mud splattered pants. He sluiced himself off with a bucket of ice cold water and shivering, he toweled himself dry. Donning clean clothes, he decided to add a second layer; the evening would only get colder.

After his preparations, he buttered a roll and sat to wait for his father's arrival. While he stared out the window, he hoped it would be soon. One little roll—already swallowed, lost in the endless pit of his belly—did not do much to quiet the insistent growling. The view through the window was as usual, not particularly riveting. It was nice enough, he supposed, but except for the subtraction of leaves, or the addition of snow, it never changed much so it was all rather familiar. The trees, including the one he used to climb as a boy, and the road were like old friends to him. Old friends who had nothing new to say and it was all getting very boring.

Rising, he decided to keep himself occupied in the cabin until his father arrived, certain that Daved would appreciate coming back to a clean, tidy home. He had used most of their water so picking up the bucket, he made his way to the well.

As he started to fill his bucket from the one that he pulled from the depths, a hard shove from behind sent him sprawling to the ground. A cruel laugh caused him to groan as he picked himself up and turned to face Valik.

“You thieving turd,” Valik growled. “Did you ask permission before taking my water?”

Surprised, Jurel saw that Valik was not alone. Trig stood behind his shoulder though thankfully, he was not laughing. He glanced uncomfortably at Valik and shook his head.

“Come on Valik. Lay off him, will you? Your father has always allowed free access to the well and you know it,” Trig said. “He's done nothing to deserve your anger.”

“Aye!” Valik rounded on Trig, fury mottling his features. “He's never done
any
thing for us and that's
exactly
why he deserves our anger!” Turning back to Jurel, he sneered. “Why don't you get lost,
boy.
I'm in no mood to deal with silly children.” Then he lunged forward and Jurel found himself sitting down hard on the cold ground.

For an instant, for just a heartbeat, a flash of fury like a red hot poker stabbed him in the chest, and he had the nearly overwhelming desire to feel his knuckles crush the fool's nose, to feel warm blood spurt across his fingers. A snarl twisted his features before the feeling passed, or perhaps it was suppressed, and he wiped away the alien expression from his face. But not quickly enough. Valik saw it an his eyes widened in mock concern.

“Oh look Trig. I think the coward wants to say something.”

With a sudden movement Valik reached down and hauled Jurel to his feet by the front of his shirt until they were nose to nose and Jurel could smell the stale alcohol on Valik's breath like rotting corn.

“Eh boy?” Even though his eyes were narrowed to slits, Jurel saw a light like a madness gleaming there. “You got something to say?”

“I-Just leave me alone. I've done nothing to you,” Jurel pled with his voice while his eyes pled with Trig to do something.

“No boy. You've done nothing for me. You were always happy to hang about when it was all fun and games but as soon as your friends need you to help out in a tight spot...well, then that's it. You do nothing.”

With a last savage push, Valik threw Jurel back to the ground and waved a clenched fist at him.

“I hate you Jurel,” he spat. “You're a worthless coward and I hate you. I don't know why the others tolerate you but I will not abide seeing your sniveling face anymore.” Whirling on his heel, he stalked away and called to Trig over his shoulder, “Come on. Let's find better company. Won't be too hard.”

With an apologetic glance at Jurel, Trig hurried to follow, heeling like a whipped puppy.

Shakily, Jurel picked himself up and filled his bucket. He had to try twice before he could manage to keep the water from sloshing on the ground and when he succeeded, he ran home, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

It had been years since that stupid fight and yet Valik still hated him for it. Why was he such a nasty bastard?

Why am I such a coward?

The thought surprised him, but there it was materializing as though from a dense bank of fog. He had felt Valik's strength and for all that Valik was indeed strong, Jurel knew that he was more so. Much more so. Why had he not defended himself? He could have given in to the urge and shattered the idiot's nose, he could have broken teeth or arms or legs. He could have at least stood up and faced his nemesis. But he had not. Again. As always.

He hated himself then. He hated himself with an intensity that left him breathless as though an iron band was wrapped around his chest and squeezing tighter and tighter. Valik was right, and so was his father: he was a coward. A whining, mewling coward.

Nothing in the world feels quite like self-hate. It was as if some vital part of him was torn out, cast adrift on stormy seas like the flotsam of a foundered ship, leaving a ragged hole in the hull of his being, an emptiness that nothing could fill. He told himself that the next time, he would stand up, next time he would defend himself and fight. He shook his fists in the air and played out various scenarios in his mind's eye, scenarios where Valik always ended up bloody and bruised while Jurel stood triumphantly over his defeated foe.

But he hated himself and he did not believe it for a second, and the ragged hole, like a bloody wound, remained.

* * *

It was not long before Daved walked through the door with a pleasant smile and a hearty greeting for his son, and it was not long after that before Daved realized his son suffered.

“What's gotten into you?” he asked, curiosity mixing with concern in a strange way that only parents could understand.

Jurel, not inclined to discuss his latest act of cowardice, shrugged and lied. “Nothing father. Just tired. It's been a busy day.”

A minor mercy: after his father studied him for an interminable moment, he did not press the matter.

“Well, I think your old man can perk up that sour puss of yours,” Daved announced with a rare twinkle in his eye. “Stay here. I'll be right back.”

He stepped back out the door that he had just lately come through and Jurel did as he was told, as he always did. If he was not so full of shame, he might have been bemused by his father's behavior. But instead he sat, disconsolately staring at his useless, coward's hands. True to his word, Daved was back before Jurel could sink any farther into his own recriminations, and he carried with him two packages wrapped in plain yellow parchment.