When Koppa woke up the next morning, he wished he hadn’t.
The morning was colder than he had expected; the wind overnight seemed to have
turned the year into premature winter. He lay a moment on his pallet, breathing
in the chilly dry smell of the earthen floor, then in an instant of resolve threw
the blanket off. He stood up, dancing a little jig, and drew his clothes on.
Even before he entered the main room, he could feel the
emptiness of the house. When he came into the kitchen in search of breakfast,
he found a rough parchment note hanging conspicuously over the chimney’s
mantle, anchored under a chipped cup. He removed it and read, in the old
wizard’s spiky handwriting:
“An idea occurred to me in the early hours of the morning.
I must go and explore it. Pack up your things and go into the city to see your
folks for the festival. Close up the house. This may take quite some time.
Expect me when you see me.”
Koppa stared at the note for a while, then crumpled it and
threw it into the fireplace. Very well. He had been meaning to leave today
anyway, and this meant an earlier start and more time with his foster family.
He stirred the gray ashes before him, dousing them with water from the kitchen
cistern. He ate a cold breakfast of milk and buttered bread, which finished all
the fresh food in the house. Then he treated the fire in the main room in the
same way as he had in the kitchen.
It did not take him long to get
ready. Dunwolf had a philosophy that a wizard shouldn’t have a great deal of
personal property to weigh him down; even the house and most of its
appurtenances were held from an owner in Ravenglast. Koppa had adopted this
attitude, and a spare shirt or two wrapped in his blanket for a pack tied round
with a twist of rope concluded most of his preparation. He hung his knife on
his belt, and then there was only his pouch to fix on the other side.
Apart from his small hoard
of copper coins, of which he seldom had need but which might prove useful at
the Festival, the pouch held what the old wizard called his unmagical charms.
There was a waterworn stone with a hole in it, a snail shell of unusual size
and thickness, one perfect shining raven’s feather that he had caught as it
fell from the sky, and one of the enormous acorns from the Ravenglast tree, big
as an egg. They were worthless but comforting somehow, and Koppa had a
superstitious attachment to them that all Dunwolf’s gentle mockery could not
quash. Besides, they were pretty.
He laced the thongs tightly
and felt the comforting weight of the pouch at his side. Now he felt ready for
whatever the day would bring.
After a final glance around
the house, Koppa stepped out the door and turned to face the tumbledown
dwelling. Arms spread wide, he secured the place with a simple little spell,
not very powerful but enough to keep the bugs and beasties from coming in and
invading the potato bin or tearing apart the old books for a nest. He reached
out and felt the reassuring tingle of the magic as he touched the door.
Satisfied, he turned and headed down the hill and into Ravenglast.
The sun had not got quite
over the horizon and the streets were still a little shadowy, with lights
streaming out of scattered windows here and there. Koppa passed hurrying
figures in the greyness, but none too busy not to wish him “Happy Harvest!” or
remark briskly “A cold one this year, ain’t it?” to which he cheerfully replied
as appropriate. His spirits rose with the growing light until he happily found
himself standing before his foster-family’s home.
It was a modest enough
place, but tidy and well-cared for. Some folks had moved into the grander
houses which stood empty after the destruction years ago, but Retta had more
common sense. Those people, even some with bigger families, haunted the
cavernous dwellings which they could not keep up as they were slowly falling to
ruin. Retta, who had served as maid to Koppa’s mother, ran their house like a
trim ship.
The boy slipped noiselessly
around to the back of the house, where he was just in time to see the kitchen
lantern blown out in the increasing dawn. Quietly he entered the open door and
stood a moment as his eyes adjusted.
His foster-mother was
standing at the wash basin, rinsing off a few last dishes, thoroughly engaged
in her work, humming. He watched her silently for a moment. Her hair was
prematurely grey, but she still stood erect and commanding, her arm and legs
muscle working as she scrubbed a huge ladle, throwing her weight from one foot
to another. How many times had he watched her doing that dance, just like this,
when he was small? It had been months since he’d seen her. In a sudden rush of
emotion he moved forward and put a hand on her shoulder.
In the twinkle of an eye she
turned, ladle raised, a look of fury on her face, which turned to pleased
surprise just before she could bring the heavy utensil clonking down onto his
flinching head.
“Koppa!” she cried, grabbing
his face, soapy ladle still in one hand and sopping wash rag in the other. “Oh,
Happy Harvest, my boy!” She kissed him, and he kissed her back, with a hug
thrown in besides. She suddenly noticed she was dripping on him and hastily
dropped the things back in the tub and began drying her hands on her apron,
eyes sparkling. “And happy birthday, too! Aye me, it’s been so long since I’ve
seen you!” She hugged him again.
“Too long, Ma,” he agreed.
“But I’ve been busy learning a lot from Dunwolf. Seems I’ve got to a very busy
part of the training.” He grinned. “Would you like to see some magic?”
“Why waste it on a silly old
woman like me, hey?” She grinned. “Who knows when you might need it, and then
be all tuckered out?” She turned back to the wash. “Besides, who has time? I’ve
got to get my Brine to the Harvest Festival.”
Retta’s Brine had begun as a
sort of joke one season when she was handing out pickled sausages. She had run
out, then people had started asking for the tasty leftover juice, a fiery,
tart, meat-flavored drink that scrimpled the jaw and tickled the tastebuds. It
had become an odd unique favorite, and now each year she made the Brine for its
own sake, with only a few sausages added in for flavor.
Koppa looked around as his
foster mother finished her chores.
“Where’s Larr? Where’s Yad?
Surely they could be helping you?”
“Your poppa is helping set
up the Hall. And Yad – you hadn’t heard, I guess – is apprenticed to Master
Bodge since we last saw you, so he’s working in the bakery right now.” She
dumped out the dishwater then dried her hands proudly. “But he’ll be free
before lunch. I’m sure you’ll see him.”
“Old Bodge, eh? That can’t
be pleasant. So, no-one to help you, eh?”
Retta snorted, then reached
out to slap her hand on a keg that stood ready in the corner.
“The moment I can’t move a
kilderkin on my own, that moment you can put me in the ground.”
“Oho! The famous Fiery Water
itself, eh?” Koppa reached into his pouch and with a flourish drew out a penny.
“Then let me be the first to take a sup.”
Retta cast her eyes skyward
and threw her arms across her shoulders.
“Ortha forbid I should
charge my boy for a drink,” she said piously. She smiled and uncrossed her
arms. “But help me get the barrel to the booth, and your cup is on the house.”
Koppa moved the gurgling
barrel through the door as the old lady brought the barrow from out of the
garden. Together they heaved the brine on, then Koppa wheeled it into the
street. Retta followed, ladle in one hand and a bag of cupules in the other.
They trundled through the waking streets, heading towards the city center with
crowds that grew thicker and thicker as they went along.
They pushed along, talking
about the small doings of their daily life, Retta now mostly interested in the
details of how a wizard took care of cooking and housecleaning. She seemed to
think it was all done in the blink of an eye, but Koppa assured her it was all
most mundane and even dreary.
He kept an eye on the
Festival preparations as they passed. He understood that there used to be
colored banners hung along the streets in the old days. Here and there at
crossroads were draped a few ancient flags flapping bravely in the morning
breeze, but mostly there were common household curtains billowing along the
lanes, a new tradition adopted in defiance of the city’s destruction. People
had brought in scarecrows from the fields to line the streets like guardians,
and for a month a great pile of leaves had been growing in an abandoned square
for the final bonfire of the night.
Koppa grew happier and
happier. It reminded him of his childhood days when the greatest joy he could
imagine was a harvest apple and romping with Yad on thoughtless adventures with
the comforting fallback of Retta behind them. Then he glanced up to the city
wall to gauge the sun and had a sudden vision of fire and crawling Ogres and
howling wolves. He shuddered, and the morning wind was colder again.
They turned a corner just
then and there at the other end of the street was Larr, his tall, bony body
hunkered down at a vacant booth. A red-faced woman with an enormous bundle was
arguing with him. He just shook his head. Suddenly he looked up, saw Retta and
Koppa, and pointed. The woman glanced over, sighed theatrically, and left in a
huff, flouncing away hurriedly is search of an open stall.
“Hello, boy,” he said as
Koppa turned the barrow into the booth. He looked at Retta with a twinkle in
his eye as she plopped the bag of cupules with a clatter onto the countertop.
“Been watching the stall since we finished the Hall. Seems ever’body wants your
spot.”
“It’s not MY spot,” Retta
replied briskly, as she began setting her things up. “I’ve just been lucky
enough to get it the last five years.”
“Yup.” He nodded his greying
beard. “Only with Yad camped out in it now and then.”
“And you this year,” Retta
concluded, putting the last cup in place. “Aren’t I LUCKY to have such a good
family?” She came over and, taking both cheeks in her hands, gave her husband
kiss. They grinned at each other, then Larr turned to Koppa.
“Good Harvest, son,” he
said, shaking hands. “And Happy Birthday.”
Koppa felt his calloused
hand as they shook and thought that either his foster father was getting weaker
or that he himself was getting stronger. The latter seemed the more likely.
Larr had been a City Guard, one of his father’s own men, and one of the few
soldiers who had survived the devastation. He had taken it upon himself to protect
the widowed Retta with her own year-old son and the orphaned Koppa. After a
while he had married Retta and taken to farming. It was a trade much in need
after the war.
The couple had never had
their own child together. Koppa wondered if that was a choice or a secret
sorrow between them. If it was, it had never shown in Larr’s affection,
although as Koppa’s foster-father he evinced respectful distancing from the boy
sometimes, like a rooster in charge of an eagle’s egg. Not that he coddled him.
Rather, Larr expected more of him, and of himself as a father.
“Hey, Dad,” said Koppa
warmly. They nodded; then, wordlessly, in one instinctive motion, together wrestled
the barrel of brine into place. Larr’s knotty fist knocked the kilderkin’s lid
ajar and Retta was quick with her ladle to dip them all out a draft.
“Happy day,” she toasted,
and they raised their cups. She finished hers in one smooth sip, then “I must
start,” she said. She hung a towel over the counter to signify the stand was
open and launched into serving the folks who were already gathering around the
stall. “Happy Harvest, Happy Harvest,” she beamed, and coins began ringing in
the black teakettle she had brought along for that purpose.
Koppa thought that she
looked just as happy as if the money were going to her. At the end of the day,
it would all be gathered into the city chest for the poor, and the only reward
was fame, as the largest contributor was declared Benefix of the year. Retta
had never won yet, but she held out hope every season. In the meantime, she
liked watching people enjoying her unique potation.
Larr and Koppa settled down
on the bench in the back of the stall, the older man with a noticeable sigh.
They were silent for a moment, then Larr leaned over and spoke out of the side
of his mouth.
“Don’t tell y’Ma, but I
can’t stand that stuff,” he muttered.
Koppa burst out laughing and
Larr shook with silent mirth. After a moment Larr sighed again, then looked off
into the distance, his mouth a tight line.
“How’s your work with
Dunwolf?” he asked warily.
“It’s going fine,” said
Koppa. “Learning more every day. Would you like to see ...?”
“Maybe not now,” Larr cut
him off. “Might make some folks jumpy. This is the annivers’ry of that Groka
business, and with the Breath last night ….” He trailed off. “Best not call to
mind any magic, even good magic, today.” He cut his eyes over at the boy. “Some
folks ain’t happy with even Dunwolf living so near. Wizards been turned before,
they say. They draw trouble.” He snorted. “Damn foolishness, but even so.”
“Ah,” Koppa answered, taking
the hint. He sipped his Brine. They sat quietly for a bit, watching the passing
people. Then Larr spoke up again.
“So,” he said. “Your
birthday. Your seventeenth.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands in front
of him, his elbows on his knees. “I guess that makes you a man.”
“Technically, I suppose,”
Koppa smiled. He leaned back stretching to his full height. “I still have a lot
of growing to do, I guess.”
“Rightfully, legally,” the
old soldier mumbled, knitting and unknitting his knobby fingers. He bowed his
head. “By rights, I should be handing over your legacy today. Ever’thing your
folks left behind.”
Koppa lifted his eyebrows.
“What my folks left behind?” he asked quizzically.
“’Cept there ain’t nothing
there no more.” Larr raised his head and looked Koppa straight in the eye. “The
City Council took it all.”
“Oh.” Koppa was stymied. The
thought of an inheritance had never really occurred to him before. As far as he
had known, anything like that had gone in the fires of war. To have its
possible existence brought up and then crushed in two sentences left him
light-headed. “How did that happen?” he asked, voice distant.
“Wall, you got to consider
the situation,” Larr said grimly. “The Ogres ran off with quite a lot after the
attack, and what they didn’t take they burned. Ravenglast wasn’t left with much,
and what was there had to be used to keep the city alive. And … well … your
parents weren’t there.” He bowed his head again, then stared out at the passing
merry makers.
“There was some stuff they
tried to reserve for you at first, but bit by bit it was sold off to buy
supplies from other cities. Finally, in the fifth year, even Lord Kharis’s land
– along with quite a lot of others - had to go; it’s plowed and harvested by
our farmers, but three-quarters of what it makes is shipped off to the real
owners.”
“Huh.” Koppa looked
thoughtful. “I always wondered why Ravenglast wasn’t doing better.” He
chuckled. “I kind of thought our merchants just weren’t very bright.”
“No, just desperate.” Larr
put a hand on Koppa’s shoulder, deep sadness in his weary eyes, and a little
shame. “I’m sorry, son.”
Koppa smiled.
“Don’t fret over it, Dad.
I’m not a penny poorer than I was ten minutes ago; I was very happy then and I
am now. Besides, what would a wizard do with fields and treasure?” He put an
arm around his foster-father’s shoulder. “As long as I have a corner in the
kitchen with you and Ma, that’ll be land enough for me.”
“A’course you will, son, whatever
you do.” Koppa couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a tear in the old
warrior’s voice. Larr shook himself and stiffened his back, clearing his
throat.
“Now I don’t want you to
think you won’t have nothing of your parents, ‘cause you will. It’s just that
it ain’t much.” He unhooked his pouch and started digging through it with stiff
fingers. “It’s not silver or gold or such, otherwise it might’ve been sold
before now. Your Ma and I decided this was the day … Ah! Here it is.”
Koppa leaned forward
curiously as Larr fished out a small disc and held it up between thumb and
forefinger. It was about the size and shape of a coin but stamped in the middle
with a square hole. It hung on a simple leather thong. Larr handed it over.
“Used to have a gold chain,
but that had to go.”
Koppa accepted it and turned
it over curiously.
“What is it? What’s it made
of?” He weighed it in his hand. “I mean,
it’s metal, obviously, but it’s so light.”
“Some kind of pot metal,
Nolan says.” The farmer sat back and relaxed a little, as if relieved of an
awkward responsibility. “Ain’t worth spit on the market. It’s the story behind
it what’s important.
“We found it on your father
after the battle. Netta knew what it was. Seems your ma -your real mother, that
is, Lady Emlish – came with a fairly hefty dowry, paid by her folks and raised
from their people, not to mention her family jewels, which she never considered
her own property. That there’s the one personal thing she had to give to your
father; she said she’d carried it since she was a baby almost. Lord Kharis
treasured it above a mountain of gold and wore it secretly wherever he went. Of
course Netta, being the Lady’s right hand, knew the whole tale, so we made sure
to hold on to it ‘til we could pass it on to you.” Larr shrugged. “It ain’t
much for a lord’s legacy.”
“Well, I think I’d rather
have it – and the tale.” Koppa tested the leather thong, then slipped it over
his head. For a moment he looked at the dull little disc hanging on his chest,
then he slipped it inside his shirt and patted it where it lay. “It’s like
having their hearts next to mine,” he announced.
Larr’s wrinkled eyes slid up
into a smile.
“Boy, you’ve got more of a
poet than a warrior in you. I suppose it’s lucky your gone be a wizard.”
“I guess it is at that.”
Koppa chuckled, then looked around. “I wonder how Yad is doing? This little
family gathering only lacks his presence to be complete.”
“Probably run off his feet
already, if I know Bodge.” Larr gestured down the humming streets of festive
citizens. “Why don’t you go along and have some fun, maybe drop in on your
brother and cheer him up with your smiling face? At least one of you will be
having fun. Go on, now. Your Ma and I have got this.”
Koppa hopped up.
“Sounds good, dad. I’ll see
you all later at the feast, if not before.”
Larr lifted his hand in a
dismissive salute. The boy took a moment to give Netta a peck and a squeeze and
pull out the leather thong a bit to show her he had received his gift. She
beamed and hugged him back, then returned to ladling out brine for her
insistent customers. It seemed to Koppa that she was well on her way to winning
the award that year.
The air was now clear and
clean, as if scoured by the rising sun and spiced with the smells of cooking
drifting from every direction. Koppa walked along, sometimes passed by knots of
running, yelling boys and girls, sometimes by more sober couples dressed in
their holiday best. He waved to those he knew and ducked his head respectfully
to passing elders. With every “Good Harvest!” exchanged he could feel the
shadows of the night before fading away and a growing contented excitement
taking their place.
He got an apple cider at one
stall, then a carved walking stick at another: a light piece of ash with the
handle shaped into a raven’s head. Koppa proceeded with a sort of holiday
swagger after that, tapping the stick ostentatiously, sometimes giving it a
flourish as he greeted old neighbors, and now and then a twirl if he felt
suddenly merry.
As he neared the center of
the celebration, he came across one of his favorite amusements, crowded with
clamoring children and indulgent parents. There, removed from the Ravenglast
warehouse and set on blocky platform, grinned the varnished and yellowing skull
of the defeated Pounder from so many years ago. The attendant was giving out
three polished pebbles for a penny, and awarding paper flags of different
colors and sizes, according to how many of the stones the child could toss into
the empty eye sockets.
Koppa watched as the pebbles
went pinging and rattling off the bones, wondering how many more years the
skull would last and remembering how much fun he had had with the game before
he had gotten too old for it. Before he left, he gave a penny to a sad little
girl waiting at the periphery, obviously yearning to play but apparently
without the means. She accepted the coin from Koppa with glee and began
squirming her way into line. He went down the street humming.
Koppa turned into the main
square and there was the booth for Bodge’s Bakery, right across the way. It was
at least twice as big as any other stand, the largest of Ravenglast’s three
bakeries. Besides making hundreds of loaves daily, many people brought their
joints, chickens, and geese to be roasted in the side ovens. But the Autumn
Festival was when Bodge really took the opportunity to show off with his
special cakes and pies. Koppa could hear the wild-haired baker’s deep voice
huckstering before he could even see him through the crowd.
“A fine spice cake, this
next one is,” he bellowed. “Cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves, brown sugar and
walnuts! Available by the slice, perhaps, but who will make me an offer for the
entire cake? I see there are some takers. Starting at a silver krett, I’m accepting
bids!”
On either side of the vast
baker his apprentices, dressed in white aprons and caps, labored at handing out
sweet rolls and cuts of lesser cakes. As Koppa drew nearer he identified the
figure of his foster-brother Yad, a somewhat grim look of amusement on his flushed
face as he handed out sweets and took pennies. Koppa sidled up to the booth and
got in line, waiting his turn unobtrusively.
“Yes, sir, what would you
like?” Yad said automatically. Then he looked up and his eyes went wide at
Koppa’s mischievous smile. The older boy’s face split into a matching grin.
“Well, well,” he laughed.
“Look what the Harvest Pilgrim has brought me!”
“Yad, my lad! How are you
doing, big brother?”
“All the better for seeing
you, little brother. Happy Birth…!”
“Hey! What are you doing,
boy? Quit flapping your lips and get busy serving. I’m not paying you for
family reunions! Your cake, sir.” Bodge turned his red face back to the
customer for a second then squinted his furry gray eyebrows at Yad. “Get back
to work,” he growled.
Yad bristled, shoulders
almost swelling out of his apron.
“You could give me just a
couple of minutes to talk to my brother, sir.”
The old baker turned in
anger on his apprentice, wagging an enormous sausage-like finger.
“Do it on your own time!
You’re working for me, and you’ll do what I say, under the articles!”
“That’s right, the
articles!” Yad bellowed, snatching the white cap off his head and making a
sudden leap up onto the counter. His sandy yellow hair uncurled like a lion’s
mane. “I been working since two in the morning, and under the rules I’m due a
break! Rights, rights, rights!” he stomped.
The crowd took up the chant
with holiday glee, stamping and clapping at the show, amused with the boy’s
antics and Bodge’s livid dismay. The old man looked back and forth, jowls
quivering, and saw that the crowd was clearly with Yad.
“All right!” he conceded.
“You have fifteen minutes! But be back on the dot, or I’ll … I’ll … bah!” He
turned away, squared himself, and took out a glazed pie from under the counter.
“Apple!” he bawled. “One of
my fabled apple pies, red and green, sour and sweet, and tender enough for the
youngest babe or the oldest gaffer! What am I offered?”
Yad jumped down, clapped an
arm around Koppa’s shoulder, and started moving them away from the baker’s
stand and into the more peaceful currents of the Festival.
“You know, you really are
crazy,” Koppa said. “I’ll bet you Bodge really takes it out of your hide for
that.”
“He can try,” Yad grinned,
flexing his muscles a bit. “The worst he can do is let me go. I’m just hanging
around until a place opens up in the City Guard, anyway. Then I’m off like an
arrow.”
“Why’d you take the job in
the first place, then?”
Yad grinned.
“A man turns seventeen, he’s
got to do something, right? As you should know, as of today.” He let Koppa go
and gave him a punch on the arm. “You gonna give up your little tricks and find
a real job? Maybe join up with me when I get in the Guard?”
Koppa twisted aside and feinted
a blow back at his brother.
“You know it’s not all
side-show conjuring and lighting candles,” he shot back. “This is serious stuff
I’m learning.”
“But will it make you a
penny back, is what I’m saying,” Yad teased. “What has old Dunny got but a
shack outside town? Face it, it’d be far better for everybody if you were with
us here and in the Guard. Do you even remember any of the stuff that Dad taught
you?”
“Of course I do …” Koppa
began, but at that second Yad grabbed up a pole from a nearby pile and yelled
“Guard yourself!” Koppa had only an instant to reflexively raise his stick and
ward off the blow with a sliding motion. He looked at his brother in surprise,
then saw the merry look of triumph as the older boy raised the pole again.
Koppa grinned, and the fight was on.
It was all thrust and parry
for a bit then, Yad, the bigger boy with the longer stick attacking, and Koppa
eluding and defending with his slender cane. A small crowd gathered around
them, amused as if it were another festive display, calling out encouragement
and even laying wagers. Then Koppa, taking advantage of his lither physique,
slipped behind Yad and threw his walking stick around his brother’s neck in a
firm chokehold. The bigger boy gagged,
then laughed, dropping his pole in acknowledged defeat. Koppa let him go as the
crowd dispersed as quickly as it had come, to mingled exclamations of amusement
and disappointment.
Yad laughed again, feeling
his throat.
“You do remember,” he
admitted. “All the more reason to come back to us.” He looked around, then
pointed to a nearby stall. “Come on, let’s get us an ale, then I’ll have to be
getting back to Bodge.”
They got their mugs and sat
at a nearby trestle table, clinking their cans and half-draining them at the
first draft. Koppa caught his breath, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and cocked
an eye at his foster-brother.
“I don’t understand you.
What’s so wrong about wanting to be a wizard? What do you have against magic,
then?”
Yad’s face became serious
for the first time. He took a contemplative swig as if gathering strength for
an unpleasant task, then looked up at Koppa.
“I don’t think it’s the sort
of business you should be in. Okay, maybe you only learn a few tricks and some
illusions and crap. What then? You’re no better off than a showman, and how are
you going to earn a living like that around here?”
“It’s not like that at all
…” Koppa began hotly.
“All right, all right,” Yad
said. He hunkered in closer. “Suppose you learn some real magic, start getting
powerful. What then?” He took another drink. “What happens to you? We’ve heard of
it happening time and again. The Black Lord comes after you.” He nodded
knowingly. “And then what? Either his minions kill you or they recruit you.
Neither option I find pleasant. Think you can hide under Dunwolf’s cloak if you
get ripe enough to pick? Or will he be taking you into battle so you can throw
whizz-bangs at Bharek’s boots?”
Koppa swallowed his ale
defiantly.
“Give me enough time and
it’ll be more than that.”
The older boy looked at him,
worry in his eyes.
“How much time do you think
you’ll have? You remember last night, don’t you? Evil is moving.” Yad looked
around uneasily at the merry-making surrounding them. For the first time, Koppa
thought he caught a desperate, almost defiant undertone in the crowd,
especially among the older folk. “It might not be here, but it’s somewhere in
Forlan, and it wouldn’t surprise me if that old wizard had to move out soon to
face it. And then what of you, little brother?” He shook his head.
Koppa looked around, then
finished his ale, setting the empty mug carefully on the table. He folded his
arms, thinking deeply a moment, then looked at Yad with a firm eye.
“I don’t know,” he said
simply. “I only know that I’m on a path now that I don’t see leaving. I think
I’m going to have to follow it wherever it goes. Good or bad.”
Yad sighed, drained his ale,
and set his mug next to Koppa’s. Then he smiled.
“I guess we’ve all got a
path, eh? And right now, mine leads me back to old Bodge.” He laughed. “Let’s
hope it doesn’t lead to me becoming old Bodge one day.”
The vision of another
Harvest Festival, a night of blood and fire, passed through Koppa’s head.
“There could be worse
things,” he said.
They shook hands.
“I’ll see you later at the
Feast, with Mom and Dad,” Yad said, waving as he left. “Take my mug back, will
you?” Then he was gone.
Koppa sat a moment,
contemplating the empty cups. Then he sighed, returned them to the stand, and
wandered off into the crowd himself. He pulled the hood of his cloak up over
his head. The joy of the day seemed to have gone out for him, overshadowed by thoughts
of the future.
He drifted along, trying to
recapture some of his early morning spirits. But it proved futile. At last, he
gave up and returned to Netta and Larr’s house for a quick nap. With no-one
there it seemed to him just a ghost of his childhood home, or rather that he
was a ghost walking its halls, noting changes that had happened since he had
departed. Even his old bedroom had been converted into storage. Finally, he
went out and settled down in the stable on a pile of hay, hoping that a rest
would restore his mood. One of his last thoughts before he stopped thinking and
drowsed off was that he might as well get used to the wanderer’s life and
sleeping on straw.
When Koppa awoke, the
afternoon shadows were laying long in the dusty light. He sat up, slightly
fuddled. He had been dreaming of war, the after-effects, maybe, of his vision
yesterday, and the sounds from his dream seemed to mingle and change into the
distant noise of celebration coming from the Festival. He shook his head and
sprang to his feet. By the feel of things, the festivities should soon be
coming to their highpoint.
He jumped up, slapping the
straw from his clothes and slinging his cloak around his shoulders. He felt
refreshed, and there was a growing chill in the air that was at the same time
thrilling and admonitory. He picked up his walking stick and headed outside.
The streets were mostly
empty except for a few figures hurrying toward the park as if driven by the
rising evening wind. The houses on either side were dark. Overhead in the
deepening blue of the sky Koppa could already see a star or two flaring into
light. He smiled to himself, the anticipation in him growing, and he quickened
his pace. He was once more in the holiday mood.
He reached the city square to find it crawling with
activity. Trestle tables and benches were being pulled together and set in wide
rows, encircling the park. On the south side were crowded tables filled not
only with traditional Harvest Cakes, but also whatever leftover food from the
booths that had not been sold. Even as he watched the last platters were being
pushed into place. The Rhavenglast oak loomed over it all, its bleached white
wood gilded rosily in the setting sun.
In a ring of stones, a respectable distance from the aged
tree, people were still adding to a pile of burnables for the Bonfire. Besides
bundles of useless wood and bales of fallen leaves, Koppa could see the beams
from fallen houses (still being cleared away even after seventeen years) and
broken furniture and piles of rotten straw. Several experts were supervising
the building of the heap.
Amid the bustle he saw a
raised hand waving, and found it to be Yad, seated with his foster-parents
squeezed around a table with two other families. The old people were laughing,
and plates of food were sitting piled before them.
Koppa waved back but turned
to fix himself a plate. After he had gathered half a chicken, a small brown loaf,
and an enormous harvest apple, he grabbed a cup of golden ale and brought it
all back to sit with his folks. He wedged himself cheerfully onto the bench and
greeted them all.
“And how did the Brine go?”
he asked Netta.
“Sold it all,” his
stepmother chortled. “Made more than I ever have yet.”
“Not enough to win the
title,” Larr said, frowning. “They told us when we turned the money in to the
judges.”
“So what?” Netta grinned.
“It was a sensation, and the money all goes to the Festival next year,
especially to the young’uns and their Harvest gifts. That’s what I like to
think of.”
“And what of Master Bodge?”
Koppa turned to his brother. Yad laughed.
“Overbaked, I’m afraid.
Didn’t win the title either, and thus has donated more than he’d like to the
Feast.” He pointed with a pork-chop bone. “He’s over there, trying to eat the
most expensive cakes on his own to cut down on his losses. A vain endeavor, I
fear, even for one of his appetite.” He tossed the bone down and wiped his
hands. “But I managed to snag these earlier, when he wasn’t looking.”
The older boy opened the
poke hanging from his waist and pulled out a tightly tied bundle of white
cloth. He undid the folds with care to reveal four plump discs of rich gleaming
brown, each about the size of a palm. Glazed fruit and raisins glinted like
jewels in their earthy crust.
“Harvest Cakes!” Netta
exclaimed, eyes twinkling like frosty stars. “Oh, they look delicious!” She
reached over, then paused looking up at her son. “And did you -?”
“Yep. Whipped up this batch
myself,” Yad said proudly, handing the pastries all around. “Snuck a little bit
more fruit in than the Master usually allows, but no matter.” He lifted his
cake up as if toasting the family. “Eat up, folks. Every cake is good day next
year!”
Larr sniffed his
dramatically and raised his grey eyebrows.
“You made it, eh? Sure it’s
for a good day?”
“Oh, Da!”
Everyone laughed. “Happy
Harvest!” they proclaimed together and bit into their cakes. Koppa felt the
rich, fresh cake dissolving in his mouth as he chewed, plump raisins bursting
sweetly on his tongue. If I have even one day as good as this next year, he
thought, I’ll be lucky indeed.
From a draped stand erected
opposite the towering bonfire pile there was a sudden blare of trumpets, and
all turned to crane their heads. On a podium there, flanked on either side by torchbearers,
was old Master Grippen, the leader of the town council. He rose to his unsteady
feet, his black robes falling like the night around him. Murmurs fell into
silence as he began speaking.
In a creaking but powerful
voice the old man welcomed all to the Festival and praised their year’s efforts
in both the fields and at the Feast. He declared young Mistress Helka the
Benefix of the year, at which there was hearty applause; she had developed a
roasted sausage baked in a bun. Master Grippen waited for the congratulations to
quiet down, and then in a solemn voice thanked Ortha, the old Earth Mother.
There was a reverent silence for a few seconds and bowed heads and some
shifting of uneasy eyes. Ortha was in some sense the earth, but She gave and She
took away with what seemed an arbitrary hand. Naming Her seemed a mischancy
action, and then it was best, like now, to be quick and complimentary.
The moment passed, and the
old Master spread out his hands. The torchbearers left the podium and tramped solemnly
down either side of the stand and through the crowd. They approached the
bonfire pile, and as the last light of the setting sun died in the western sky,
they thrust the torches deep into the kindling material. There was at first a
low sizzle and then a whomp as the oil on the packed tinder took flame, and the
night was suddenly illuminated with a tower of flame. There was a roar of
delight. Master Grippen shouted “Happy Harvest!” in as loud a voice as he could
muster, and then the real heart of the party began in earnest.
People with horns, fiddles
and drums ascended the platform, arranged themselves, and with a whoop and a
roll of the drums, song sprang into the evening air. The crowd sang together to
the familiar strains of ancient harvest hymns, jumped up and danced to the
lively squawk of fiddles, and hushed themselves as a lone singer with a harp
recited a ballad of remembrance for the fallen of Ravenglast.
Sitting next to Larr, Koppa
was surprised to see a tear fall down the old man’s stoic face, glistening gold
in the fire light as it made its way through his silver stubble. For the first
time the boy really felt his foster-father’s age, and he wondered uneasily how
many more harvests Larr would see. For a moment the warrior looked grim as the
song ended. Then Netta came bursting out of the crowd, grabbed her husband, and
Koppa watched as the two broke into smiles and began twirling away among the
throng as a lively new tune began.
After a while Koppa stood up
to stretch his legs and wandered off into the celebrations to pick up a new mug
of beer. Besides a few acquaintances that saluted him briefly as they passed,
he felt strangely invisible, detached from the mirth all around him. As he
walked along, he noticed some of the smaller children had already fallen asleep
on the benches here and there, with their mothers nearby, who patiently waited
to awaken them for the supreme moment of the night.
For soon the Autumn Pilgrim
would be coming for his yearly visit. Koppa smiled fondly at the thought. Since
he was a small boy, he had looked forward to this figure of fun appearing at
the end of the Festival, with his japes and jests and presents for the children
after a hard harvest season. Now that he was seventeen, he thought, those
simple gifts would never be for him again.
Even while he was musing on
it in a sort of smiling melancholy, there was a roll of drums, a burst of red
fireworks, and a blare of horns and there, against the glare of the bonfire,
was the Pilgrim.
He dressed a little
differently each year, but was easily identified by his scarecrow’s outfit, head
masked by an ancient hempen sack, broadbrimmed hat, and patched cloak. He was
decorated with various withered weeds and plants, and his shirt stuffed with
fallen leaves that leaked out even as he spread his arms wide in greeting. Koppa
had figured out long ago that the Autumn Pilgrim was impersonated by some local
or other, and wondered who it was this year. Even so, his instincts told him
that there was something deeper being manifested here and the more he learned
the more he felt this.
Koppa sat down on top of a
trestle table, the easier to enjoy the spectacle and to be out of the way of
the children, who were starting to flock around the Pilgrim. As the strange
figure began handing out his gifts, the children, instead of stopping to enjoy
their presents, ran along after him, partly to see who got what, but also
trying to catch the leaves that fluttered out of his costume. Koppa knew that
it was supposed to be lucky, as each leaf meant a happy day next year. The
laughing and shrieking grew louder as the Autumn Pilgrim paraded to and fro
through the park.
The young man sat there,
sipping his beer, and feeling oddly grown-up as he gazed in happy condescension
at the merry crowd rushing here and there. He watched as they drew nearer, grinning
at their antics and especially at the Autumn Pilgrim, as he flapped and twirled
his cloak as if it were blown by northern winds. Koppa sat there, smiling, as
they were about to pass him by.
But suddenly the Autumn
Pilgrim stopped and cried out “Hold!”, hands raised and eyes rolling in
exaggerated surprise as he looked side to side. The boys and girls stopped,
squealing gleefully at his mummery. Koppa laughed too, until the scarecrow
figure unexpectedly turned on him, pointing a bony figure straight at him.
“You!” he cackled. “Koppa,
foster-son of Larr and Netta! I have a gift for YOU!”
Koppa blushed and all the
children exploded in laughter, poking and slapping each other in glee. That the
Pilgrim should have selected such a big boy seemed to them an excellent joke,
and Koppa’s obvious discomfort only confirmed the matter. Koppa drew himself
up, trying to muster his dignity.
“I think you’re mistaken,
Autumn Pilgrim,” he said stiffly. “I am seventeen today.” He tried to smile.
“Better give your gift to somebody else.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” The
scarecrow figure wagged an accusing finger, as at a naughty boy. Several leaves
fell from his sleeves. “The Autumn Pilgrim knows better. He knows everything,
doesn’t he, children?” There was a high-pitched roar of agreement. “Although
today IS your birthday, he knows you were not born until right before the
stroke of midnight. And so…” he reached into his nearly-empty sack and plucked
out a brightly wrapped package. “FOR YOU!”
The children screamed in
delight. Koppa grimaced, arms still folded as if in refusal. The Pilgrim
suddenly leaped up and sat himself uncomfortably close next to the young man.
“Don’t miss this chance,” he
said huskily through his mask, almost in a whisper. Koppa started at the
familiar sound and looked closely at the eyes peering through the ragged hempen
holes. They were the familiar, startlingly blue eyes of Dunwolf.
Koppa took the package in a
daze. He started to open his mouth to ask a question but before he could, the
ragged figure jumped to its feet with a yell.
“Happy Harvest!” he whooped
and cast the last contents of his sack into the crowd. There was a general
scramble and for a moment Koppa was blinded and confused by the whipping
tattered robes as the Pilgrim jumped down. When his vision cleared, the
disguised wizard was nowhere to be seen.
Koppa slowly unwrapped the
package with careful fingers, then looked down for a moment in confusion at
what lay revealed. It was the book of The Fall of Ravenglast. There were dim
red letters on the cover that faded even as he read them:
“The enemy is abroad in the
East, and I must go to turn it aside. Take the book to Thron, now. Go quickly
and quietly with Nolan; that will draw no suspicion from watching eyes. All is
arranged; he leaves soon after the Feast.”
Overhead, the great bell of
the city tolled midnight, and Koppa looked up with dread into the darkness
looming over the burning fires of Ravenglast. All celebration was done.
NOTES
If you have read this entire
chunk of prose all the way through, I congratulate you. It is long, almost 50
pages, and at first I considered breaking it up for posting, before I decided
to be done with it in one go.
This was as far as I ever
got with the Goldfire rewrites. I fell in love with the Autumn Festival,
and I think it might get mentioned in nearly every Ortha short story. A lot of
its lore was developed right here. One of these days we might hold one in real
life.
Koppa used to have a friend
Apokka in our first efforts, a sort of Sam Gamgee, but more of an equal, not so
destiny driven. He survives in vestigial form as Yad, his stepbrother who stays
in Ravenglast. I think their names got switched around a bit as we tried to decide which would be better for our main hero.
Goldfire,
though never completed, remains as a backstory and lore-mine for all the Morg
stories, our own personal mythology that lends an air of historical depth to
all subsequent tales. It is our far-off and mystical time of youth, recalled as
if through flames, rather like the vision of the Fall of Ravenglast, that
propels the narrative forward.
That drawing has nothing to
do with the story but reflects a mood.
