August

Two mismatched shadows cast askew from a packed dirt road.

Split by the road south, two fields had separate stories: mature wheat with neatly spaced paths begged for harvest while the opposite side lay fallow, tall grass threatening to turn brown. Marcel had that in common with the grass. He rubbed his moist neck.

Even with his coat open, the brief stint out of shade had left him dripping. An occasional breeze was more insulting than helpful. It carried salty air laden with humidity. What he would do for dry air right now.

A pair of wagons countinued south without them, having gained about twenty yards now. Beyond that, a dark green forest showed their destination for the day. Mast be damned, it looked like salvation right now.

He took a final glance at the rear wagon, saw it lose the battle with a rut; it fell in, passengers swayed. Occupants and drivers alike looked back at them. Some curious to learn why their escort fell behind. No doubt, most just wanted to tell a story themselves.

Marcel turned to the boy next to him and fished for coppers in his coat. He had too many pockets, but the tailor had insisted. It was too late now. He found them anyway.

He wrenched the boy’s gloved hand open and upright. Copper pressed into his gloved palm. He knew what to do, no need to explain. He only needed an excuse to ask.

“Go on. Buy something.” Marcel said.

His calloused hands patted the boy’s shoulders before he gave him a gentle push.

Air escaped through the boy’s nose. He caught himself with a forced stop forwards, stopped again, then his shoulders dropped. With that, he was off.

In front of him, well-trodden grass stretched slightly upward for a dozen yards. The path was punctuated by a simple home with one window.

Marcel watched him go. A minute up the path, the boy knocked and then startled himself. The approach was textbook, other than the boy treating it like a stealth mission: greeting, smile, and a fumble.

He felt himself smile. The boy had perfected it on the second try. Of course he did. He disappeared inside. Marcel ran his finger along a hilt in his pocket.

Marcel looked back at the wagons as they grew distant, occupants still watching. He heard voices from the house and looked back.

Weary strangers withdrew from the humble home wearing newfound smiles.

The barefoot woman had a mug in her dirty hands; she trailed the boy a few paces, stopped as the boy reached the fence. The way she watched him, she must have been delighted to have had the company. Maybe she even relished the rote farewell.

Marcel watched her attention sweep down the path past the boy. Her eyes stopped where the browning path met gold.

The mug tumbled from her hand as she waved vigorously.

“Marcel!” she called out across the field.

Marcel had not moved. The hilt of a cloth-wrapped longsword barely cleared his shoulder. A loose strip of white cloth caught breeze in front of him. Then it snapped backwards, catching his trimmed beard.

He was sick of the damn sword, always finding a way to almost nag him. He pulled the cloth from his beard and wondered who this woman was. He had been through here before, but he never stopped at this house. The odd part was that she used his first name.

Marcel smiled wide enough to show teeth; nice and easy. He raised his hand and waved back.

“Good afternoon, ma’am! Have a lovely day!”

The greeting carried easily across the unkempt field between them. Just two friends seeing each other for the first time in years. People liked that.

A few more waves before his hand fell. The smile followed. He looked to the approaching boy with a cloth bag swinging in his grip.

Heavy footsteps punished packed dirt as the boy stopped where he had started just minutes ago. He pushed the bag into Marcel’s chest and dropped it.

Thankfully, Marcel’s hands always moved faster than his mind. He caught the bag. The boy walked away having pushed his gloves into his pockets.

Marcel blinked as he quietly stormed off. He looked down at the bag. Had something gone wrong?

He pulled at the simple leather cord’s bow, which undid easily. He found no answers inside, just a dozen speckled eggs.

Several quick strides put him beside the boy. The only sound in the farmland between Dammric and Kehrfeld was gravel under his own feet. He used the peace to choose words.

To their left, a patch of sorrowful, drying oaks broke the monotony of manicured field.

“What did she say?” Marcel asked.

Without facing him, the boy held out his hand toward Marcel. The lack of eye contact boded poorly, but he did not press. He let him answer.

A stone’s throw away, an unwanted rooster crowed on a makeshift fence. It definitely intended to do so again. He resented it.

A gloved hand set on the gate and cleared it without breaking stride. The blond man’s dark green coat trailed high behind him for a moment. Something on his back reflected afternoon sun.

The simple house ahead was probably older than him. The lonely window had more gaps than glass; he didn’t need to measure. The door was crooked, but it seemed that was the least of their concerns.

Leather creaked as he tucked his thumb under his fingers. His hand raised and he rapped his covered knuckles thrice on the wood. It yielded and he wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Some hens behind him squawked. He snapped left as they flapped away to no effect. They left his sight around the back of a coop which matched the home in quality.

“A young man?” came from right behind him.

Turning back quickly, he saw the door was slightly ajar. Old brown eyes peeked out through a dark gap. Was she asking him? No way. He should look like one. He blinked twice.

The eyes tracked behind him to the road before returning to him. A couple of seconds passed. Despite protest from the hinges, the door opened fully.

The woman looked fifty-something. Greying black hair tied high on her head. A kettle steaming on a far wooden stove suggested interrupted tea.

“Can I help you, son?” Her caution was louder than her voice.

“Oh. Uh.” He smiled. “Hello.”

He opened his right hand: found brown suede. His face flattened.

Finally he reached into his coat pocket. Relief washed over him as he looked back at her. The smile returned as he held his hand out; three coppers contrasted tan.

“Could I buy some eggs, ma’am?”

She stole another glance at the road. At the wagons, maybe. Or something he had missed. Her head leaned forward slightly, looking at the coppers more closely. Then she gazed up at him.

A softer, wearier grin met his own. That surprised him. The woman took the coins, her rough hands scratching leather.

“Of course, honey.” She turned with the door ajar behind her. Save for a weak light from a single hanging lantern in the center, the room was dark.

The woman crossed the room in a few strides, even with short legs.

“What a sweet thing.”

A small linen flour bag was pulled from a crate in the corner. “Would you like some tea for the road too?”

“No thank you, ma’am.” He entered but stayed by the doorway. “Uh… any chance you have seen anything recently?”

She looked back over her shoulder for a second, still grinning. She picked up an egg on the counter, delicately putting it in the sack.

“Oh, the brigands. Hagen’s group without a doubt.”

Eggs met in the sack with a quiet clack.

“Yes, an hour ago I saw maybe ten headed south.” she continued. “Two were limping.”

She hobbled back toward him, eyes on the bag that was now tied closed.

“Thank you ma’am, anything else?”

“Just the wagons you two came in on, honey,” she said. The woman raised the bag between them. His smile returned as he accepted the eggs.

“That’s good,” he said. Nodded once. Hhe turned back toward the door, looking over his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Marcel ran his hand through his hair, pulling through the motion. Fingertips came back damp.

The boy had done well. Hell, better than well. Which meant it was not her.

Ah, right.

A mockingbird in the oaks began and finished four distinct bird calls.

Something short, maybe curious. Give the boy room to talk. Gods, just do not make this worse.

He looked down at the boy who kept looking ahead, shoulders drawn up and unmoving.

Marcel let out soft air through his nose.

“And the lesson?” Marcel asked.

“You already knew all of that.” The boy pulled ahead.

This time Marcel let him go. His face softened enough that beaded sweat on his brow ran free. It disappeared into his eyebrow..

Marcel looked beyond the sad oaks, where dual paths cut through wheat field. Soggy breeze caught the tall plants, undulating their spikes like golden waves. He savored it for a few steps. Then looked back forward at his boy.

August…

Sixteen now. He himself was once the same age. Sure, a name and countries away. But was it really so different?

Then something almost came loose. He chuckled; that was close. Tucked it right back where it belonged.

The mockingbird started over.