Jay - Ahern's Burden

“Stop.”

Without hesitation, the driver pulled on the reigns, bringing the carriage to an abrupt halt.

On his left, hidden in the mist, Flog viewed the outline of the fallen capital. The former proud castle stood in ruins.

He scanned the scene and heard a lone crow cawing. To his right, he watched a small wisp of smoke move into the sky.

The constant drizzle made the castle all the more depressing.

From under the canopy of the cart he’d managed to stay dry, but for this moment, he allowed the rain access to his face to see his former capital.

“To Ethen,” he called.

The driver made a quick flip of the reigns and the cart lurched forward.

Flog scooted back into the middle of the cart, to sit on top of his dry straw.

His driver, an old farmer from a valley outside the township of Gretil, several miles south from the Library of Cedar, hadn’t said a word since they set off more than two weeks ago. He wouldn’t tell Flog his name. He refused to help him until Flog offered him a small fortune to drive him to the suburbs of the old capital. He sat exposed on the wooden bench, unfazed by the continuous weather.

A few long hours after passing the castle, Flog and the old man had passed through Ethan and arrived in Theaton, a sprawling city of three to four story stone buildings with narrow streets and alleys connected for many miles in every direction. A rough city to pass through, but it happened to be the last stop in either direction to find food or lodging. Travelers had to pass through to get anywhere within a hundred miles. Its reputation was well-known throughout the region and Flog would prefer to avoid the city had he not needed to meet a friend.

The driver kept his head low and never made eye contact.

Flog hoped his entrance would go unnoticed, but he still had far to go. The cobblestone drives, and the frequent stops from pedestrians not minding the road traffic, tested Flog’s balance. Gazing to his right, he passed alley after alley. Most were empty, but a few presented a variety of unlawful activities surrounded by dense crowds. Down one he saw a boxing match. In more than one the people were gambling in frenzy. He could have sworn he also saw some sorcery.

Flog had lived with the philosophy of allowing men to live as they pleased. He never told anyone to change their ways. He did wish, however, that men would choose integrity and look for ways to better their lives, instead of the constant barrage of selfishness and instant gratification.

He sat back down and kept his head low until they reached the tavern. Kora’s had to be the busiest establishment in town. Not a brothel, it served as a restaurant and bar with dozens of guest rooms on the second and third floors. Flog stayed there each time he passed through, and though he’d made some enemies during his stays, he would risk a run in if it meant seeing Ms. Kora again.

The cart made an abrupt stop and Flog looked to his left. Kora had a full house. Flog watched a constant flow of men enter the main doors. Most were getting off from various day labor and planned to blow their money on the prized house liquor.

Flog took a deep breath and hopped off the end of the wagon. He landed in a thick pool of mud, unavoidable during a rain like today. He swung his small bag over his shoulder and pulled two other large bags to the edge.

A toothless old woman dangled a dead chicken in each hand hoping for a sale, but he waved her off.

Flog grabbed his bags and walked to coach seat. He held up a small sack of coins, which the man quickly snatched out of the air.

“Thank you, sir,” Flog began. “I am in…”

The driver snapped the reigns before he would hear another word and the horse bounced ahead, nearly trampling the old lady with the chickens.

Flog rested his bags on the top of his feet. He knew he had no hope of keeping them out of the drizzle, but the act would at least prevent the mud from seeping in.

“Flog. Flog, over here!” came a call from Kora’s.

Flog had his back to Kora’s, but he knew the young voice when it hit his ears. Crit, as he called him, short for Critter, was a young boy of no more than ten years. Flog had thought him a bother at first, but came to enjoy their encounters when he came to town.

“You early,” Crit said, coming around Flog to face him. “Your letter said you wouldn’t come for two more days. I might have missed seein’ you had I not been out running my errands.”

“Did you doubt I would come?” he asked the boy.

“No,” he said honestly, “I knew you come.”

“Is my room ready? Or will I need to wait two more days?”

“It ready,” Crit said with a smile. “Ms. Kora made it ready the day of your note. Won’t let anyone use it.”

“Good. Crit, I need you to take my bags.”

The boy’s smile faded when he saw the size of each bag.

“Come, they’re not heavy,” Flog said trying to encourage him. “You can take one a time.”

The boy stepped forward and held out his hand.

“I will pay you after my bags make it to my room in one piece.”

The boy stood still. Too many times had other men promised payment, only to claim they had already paid him after he completed his work.

Flog knew he wasn’t going to win the argument, but he made a compromise. “I will give you half to start and the rest when you’re done.”

After a brief thought, Crit nodded. He grabbed the coin and then the first bag. Unaware of the bag’s weight, Crit nearly ended up on his back. He thought it to be much heavier.

“Go on,” Flog said, “The rain hasn’t stopped.”

Crit moved away faster than Flog thought he could and waited. With only his small sack, he thought he could get into his room unnoticed. Someone was bound to spot him walking through with two large duffel bags. No one would pay much attention to Crit.

The boy returned, panting from his manual labor.

“Lock the door,” Flog said in a clear voice, “and when I have the key, this will be yours.” Flog held up a coin twice the size he originally promised.

With added drive, Crit disappeared into the crowd with Flog’s second bag over the shoulder. He weaved in and out of the moving crowd like a professional. In less than half the time, the boy returned and held out his hand.

“Don’t expect this amount every time,” he cautioned Crit. “Where’s my key?”

“Oh,” Crit said, digging into his pocket. “Here.” He shoved the key into Flog’s open hand.

Flog opened his other hand and let Crit take the coin.

Crit closely inspected each side and shoved it deep into an inner coat pocket.

“Ms. Kora knows you here.”

Flog nodded. “Go on, get out of the rain.”

Crit turned and disappeared into the flowing crowd.

Alone again, Flog began to second-guess his decision to stay in Theaton. His homestead was less than a day’s travel, and if he were to go home first he could travel faster, with a much lighter load. Stopping would allow him to clean up, though, and attend to other business.

Flog tightened his pack over his shoulder and made his way through the crowd. He opened the door to the tavern and witnessed nothing short of chaos. A large room, packed with loud grown men, filled every square foot on the main floor. Each of the tables along the far-right wall were full with the town’s wealthy patrons.

He spotted Ms. Kora running the bar to his left and thought to get her attention but stepped to the side and let the steady flow of men continue without interruption.

I’ll see her later, he thought. I need to get to my room.

Ms. Kora would have a meal brought to him later.

Flog tightened his bandana and pulled it down over his eyebrows while crossing the room. He reached the stairs easily and began to ascend.

“Traveler!” yelled someone below Flog’s feet.

He tried to ignore the call and act natural, but a few gathered next to the rail and confirmed his identity.

“It’s him. It’s him!” shouted a small weasel of a man.

“Let me though,” said another man, moving through the crowd.

Flog recognized the voice and stopped halfway up the flight. He turned around to face the man.

The people in ear-shot of the outburst stood and waited for what they thought would be a sure fight.

“You still owe me,” the man claimed. “Don’t make me beat it out of you.”

“Step back Murd,” Flog replied. “You wouldn’t want everyone to know your weakness.”

Three other goons joined Murd at his rear to give support.

Crit lowered another patron’s bag to watch from the other side of room.

“I want my money,” Murd said, pulling a small knife from under his clothes. “Now!”

“Stop,” Flog said, in a calm tone. “You’ll regret it.”

Murd ignored his caution and began swinging and stabbing through the air.

Flog parried and dodged Murd’s advances with ease. When he had a window, he connected his fist with Murd’s jaw.

Stunned and twisted but still upright, Murd turned back to Flog. His face grew furious when his jaw received a volley.

When Murd turned to face Flog a second time he looked almost amused. “Is that all you brought? You’d better run.”

The two men now held the attention of the entire tavern. Ms. Kora watched with one arm folded and the other covering her mouth.

“Those were to clear the liquor,” Flog said. “This is to end the argument.”

Murd hadn’t noticed the club in Flog’s hand when his head turned for the second time. The intoxication slowed his reaction and Flog’s swift strike came down hard on his left shoulder, snapping his collar bone.

Murd screamed. He grabbed his dangling shoulder with his good arm while taking a step back. He looked at Flog and tightened his grip on the knife.

His injury limited his movement and when he used the railing to balance after another miss, Flog smashed his hand with the club.

The knife fell over the railing and Murd screamed again. He brought his broken hand close to his chest and fell to his knees.

The men behind him gathered.

Flog moved his eyes to the bar and saw Ms. Kora’s hand fall away from her mouth. For a moment he forgot about the men on the stairs and stared at her.

She held his gaze until a man requested another drink.

Breaking eye contact, Flog returned to his business on the stairs. He thought he might be in for another fight, but the look on the men’s faces told him they had no intention to extend Murd’s issues.

“Was it worth it, Murd?” Flog asked, looking down at the crippled man. “Is the use of your arms worth the rush you get when you bully and steal from your countrymen? Maybe you’ll think twice before you scam the next person. I paid my debt to you in full last year. Go home. Take a stiff drink with you. It may be all that gets you through the night.”

The men behind Murd helped him to his feet and down the stairs. The crowd parted a thin alley for them to leave. By the time they left the tavern, the party was on, and Flog had reached his room.

The altercation bothered Flog the rest of the day. He didn’t want to hurt Murd, and he hated fighting his countrymen. He had to do it frequently and he struggled with their shortsightedness. While he argued with his thoughts, he hid his two larger packs behind a secret, thickened wall next to the window.

After pouring water into a small bowl, he washed his hands and face. Feeling minutely refreshed, he shook off the excess water and walked to the bed to survey the goods. He separated an extra bandana and his smaller personal items from what he had collected since leaving the Library. At the time he found the objects, he thought they might be of some worth to someone, but as he looked through them, only the dagger from the boy’s guardian seemed to hold value.

He grabbed the dagger and a small scrap of paper and went back to the table. With a cool piece of charcoal, he sketched an image of two interlocking rings and let his mind wonder.

Flog closed his eyes and thought back to the image of the boy glowing red. He shook the memory from his mind and pushed away everything from in front of him. He leaned over and rested his forehead on the top of his crossed arms.

What is his crime? Flog thought. Sorcery came first to his mind. He is powerful. Are they afraid of his power?

Knock, knock.

The rap on the door brought Flog’s head up in a snap. He rubbed his eyes and looked around to get his bearings. He couldn’t tell how long he’d fallen asleep, but the light no longer penetrated the window.

“Who’s there?”

“Crit. I have supper.”

Flog rose from his chair and folded the scrap of paper with his sketch. When he reached the door, he slid the note underneath into the hallway.

“Take the note to Ms. Kora. Leave the food.”

“Ah-hem,” Crit said.

Flog knew this was coming and slid a small coin under the door.

Crit liked Flog the more he dealt with him.

Flog heard the tray hit the floor and Crit take the note and his coin.

The flooring throughout the upper levels creaked with every step and Flog listened for additional noises. After a few moments, he deemed it safe and brought the food into his room.

Flog lit the two candles along the far wall and the one at the table. He ate his food slowly, savoring every bit of Ms. Kora’s cooking. When he finished, he moved his chair to the window and blew out the candles. He gazed out the closed window to the street below. The sun had set but the streets were still busy, and he relaxed as he watched the people busy themselves with their own concerns.

The table had been cleaned and the evening meal cleared off and put away. Jay and Arina had assumed their spots at opposite ends of the couch with their favorite books and pepper tea. Barclay and Nuvi sat across from them, together, without books, on the other couch.

In the quiet of the evening, Nuvi picked her head up and looked at Barclay. He returned her look and smiled. She looked away from Barclay towards Arina and excused herself. “Arina will you help me?”

Arina put her book down and hopped off the couch.

Barclay tilted his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

After a few moments and several hushed voices Nuvi came out from the back room and returned to her spot next to Barclay. “Arina has a surprise for you.”

Barclay lowered his head and raised his eyebrows.

“She started practicing when you and Jay left,” Nuvi said with a big smile of anticipation. “I think she sounds wonderful.”

Arina returned to the main room, holding a violin in her left hand and a bow in the other.

“What is this?” Barclay asked. A look of astonishment covered his face.

Jay closed his book and shifted on the couch towards Arina.

Arina sat on the edge of the couch with perfect posture. She put the violin and her hands into position and began tuning the instrument.

“She’s been taking lessons from Mr. Leor.”

The sounds of the out-of-tune strings waving up and down echoed against the walls.

“Mr. Leor said she has a gift,” Nuvi whispered.

Arina continued to tune the instrument until the four strings rang out in harmony. She brought the instrument down and rested it on top of her leg.

“I’ve learned only one melody,” Arina said. “A Father’s Farewell.”

Koshia was known for its folk music and the popular melodies were still sung by some of the older generation. A Father’s Farewell was Barclay’s favorite and Jay would often here him humming the tune during the day.

Barclay’s father often played the violin when he was a young child and he used to hear the different songs of ages past flow throughout their tiny home.

A Father’s Farewell told the story of a warrior father who again must leave his family to fight in battle. He would leave in the morning and he didn’t know when he would return. The father kisses his wife and kneels down to hug his daughter. He instructs his son that he is the man of the house and needs to care of the homestead until he returns. His travels will take him over the distant mountains and across treacherous seas. The wife calls back to him to be safe and never forget how much they need him. But if he should fall, they will remember his legacy, and she will stay true to the man she loved.

Arina sang the last note and pulled the bow slowly across the string. She had played it beautifully, perfectly. She looked to her parents and saw tears in their eyes. Embarrassed at their reaction, she looked at Jay. He wasn’t crying, and his smile somehow gave her a measure of confidence.

“Did I play it well?” she asked her parents.

Barclay nodded. “You played it well.”

“You sounded wonderful,” Nuvi praised.

Jay didn’t know what to say and gave her another smile.

“The hour is late,” Barclay said, “but we should hear it one more time.”

Arina nodded and brought the violin to her chin. Everyone settled in as the gentle music again flowed through the house.

“Liga came by yesterday.”

Jay and Arina had gone to bed. Barclay and Nuvi sat together on the couch, silently enjoying each other’s company. Barclay had almost fallen asleep when Nuvi’s unexpected message broke the silence.

“Liga came to the house yesterday?” Barclay asked, wanting to confirm he heard correctly.

Nuvi nodded. “Right before you woke up.”

“What did he want?”

“To see you,” she said.

“What did you tell him?”

“I lied,” she admitted. “I told him we expected you to arrive soon to help with the garden.”

“Did he believe you?”

“I don’t know,” she said looking at the floor. “I think he’s been watching us.”

“Why do you think he’s been watching you?” Barclay pried.

Nuvi shook her head. “His parting words bothered me. He gave me the impression that he had been watching us. I don’t know how else to describe how I felt.”

“He is a little odd,” Barclay admitted. “He usually only comes around when he needs something. I don’t mind helping him, but I don’t want him to be a bother or make you feel uncomfortable.

“Did he say when he would be back?”

“No,” Nuvi answered. “He did say he was on his way to see friends to the North.”

“Friends to the North?” Barclay asked, raising his eyebrows. “He never mentioned that to me.”

Barclay’s curiosity turned to concern. He knew when people talked about friends to the north, or in the north, that they referred to Mt. Vintori and people who lived around the Idol’s Capital.

What has he fallen into? Barclay thought. And why does he need to see me? Barclay wanted to visit with his old friend but grew weary of him. This was the second time he’d come to see Barclay since he left with Jay.

“What do you think he wants?” Nuvi asked.

“I don’t know,” Barclay responded, “I hope he hasn’t taken up with the wrong people.”

“Would he do that?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Barclay admitted. “He’s never shied away from anyone or anything for the right price.”

Nuvi put her head on Barclay’s shoulder. “I am so glad you’re here.”

Barclay reached out and put his hand on her knee. “I am glad to be home.”

A few moments passed, and this time Barclay broke the silence.

“Nuvi?”

“Hmm,” she responded without raising her head.

“It’s not safe for you or Arina if we linger,” he began.

“Shush,” Nuvi blurted out. She grabbed his arm and put it around her and snuggled in against him. “We are not going to talk about that tonight.”

Barclay smiled and laid his head back against the pillow.

Beside them, the fire crackled and popped as the two drifted asleep in each other’s arms.