The Wanderers

Kline grabbed the bunched linen of his rolled sleeve and wiped his forehead with it. The cloth had been white once, and the shirt had fit properly too, before he’d sprouted like a beetle weed in spring. Beetle weeds. His once-pale tanned face, softened by a last rounding vestige of baby fat, took on a look of exhausted frustration as he looked at the stubborn plants surrounding him. For every one he wrestled from the ground two more seemed to have sprouted the next time he came. The leather workman’s gloves on his hands were covered in the clinging green seed pods of them, and he felt one sticking to his face now. It must have been on his sleeve. He wriggled his nose and bunched his brow in an effort to dislodge the seed, but it held fast.

He dropped the hoe he’d been applying to the ground since midday next to the disordered pile of waist-high leafy stalks sitting beside him in the dry tan soil of the unprepared field. He was sure anyone passing by would think he was just a simple laborer instead of the land-owner’s son and heir to… some portion of the Kadron family holdings. Heir to a part of the profits I guess. No one in the family will ever divide the land if they’re smart, we might lose control of the beetle trade. That was fine with him. He didn’t need to feel like he owned his part of anything as long as the family continued to make enough to maintain their lifestyle and the little honor that was left to the Kadron name.

I’m sure the city families would have a laugh at seeing me work my own fields. The brief smile that crossed his tanned face, accompanied by a slight nasal huff that shook his soft belly, said that he would probably laugh right along with them. I asked for it though, -no, fought for it. His father had initially refused his request to work at a new cultivating method, decrying it as a fantastic waste of time. The offhanded way he’d rejected Kline’s ideas would have made one think people had been farming beetles for a thousand years instead of just three generations and that improving the process was impossible.

In the end, after what Kline assumed must have been some unseen intervention from his mother, Torrel Kadron had relented. But he’d still given him the poorest corner of land in the farthest field to work with. So here he stood, in a dirty shirt and breeches that should have been given to a Child’s Camp when he grew out of them a year or two ago, sweating like a workman pulling weeds. If he thinks giving me this blasted field will make me quit, he’s going to be disappointed.

His arms were even more sun-darkened than his face, although with the thin layer of dirt that unevenly coated his skin he looked even darker than he actually was. Naturally of a pale complexion, with hair the color of a dark stout ale, he was grateful that his skin took to the sun well instead of burning to a painful red like his sisters’. He had become so dark over the last two weeks since he had started working the field his siblings had jokingly taken to calling him their Eshen brother and asking him to dance a whirl for them.

Stripping off his gloves, moistened and slimy now from sweat, he surveyed his small field. At just twenty spans by ten, he could walk it end to end in a matter of two or three minutes. Notwithstanding its size, he had started to think of the small patch of inconveniently located dirt as his estate- The small kingdom that was his alone. It made the hard work and longer hours of the day, to which he was not opposed but nevertheless unaccustomed, seem easier. And it helped him ignore the possibility that he may end up looking even more the fool for working at a task below his station if his theories proved incorrect.

Part of the problem was that his father didn’t understand where Kline’s “wandering” ideas came from, and why he would want to put time and effort into them. It certainly didn’t help his cause that when his father asked him precisely that, he couldn’t really give an answer. He didn’t know where the idea for a new method that he thought would increase beetle yields had come from. It just… came. And as for why he latched onto it enough to see if it would work… well he wasn’t sure about that either.

Brodan said it was because he wanted to stand out from the brood of 11 Kadron children, but Kline didn’t think so. A fool way of standing out angering the patriarch of the family would be! Unless it all works… No, making his father proud of him couldn’t have anything to do with it. Nothing at all… he thought as he walked to his horse and the water skin hung from the pommel of his saddle, jamming his worn leather gloves into a saddle bag with enough force to cause his horse to glance around to see if something was amiss. The horse tossed its head and gave a snort as if to tell his rider he didn’t appreciate being disturbed if nothing was wrong. He unslung the water skin and took a long pull of pure water he had drawn from one of the wells that dotted the fields.

The sun was near to setting, no more than an hour and a half of daylight looked to remain. Time to start heading back. It would take almost that long to reach the town’s gate, and sleeping outside the walls without a bed roll was not appealing. Not that there would be any real danger to it; Round Vale hadn’t needed a wall to keep people out for generations, but working like a fieldsman didn’t mean he wanted to sleep like one too.

Untying the lead rope from the felled elm he’d used as a makeshift hitching post, Kline put his foot into a stirrup and swung up onto the back of his waiting horse. No one that saw his mount would think him a laborer, in spite of his clothes. A bay Hunter with rangy legs and a powerfully sloping shoulder, standing almost 16 hands high at the withers, the gelding was clearly as fine a horse as any Lord in any city would ride.

Aside from having pioneered the cultivation and trade of nut beetles, the Kadron family was still well recognized for being among the top breeding families, producing some of the most sought-for stock in both Hunter and Saddle mounts. Kline’s horse wasn’t even one of the family’s prize studs, else he never would have been gelded. Bolt tossed his head and danced a step as he sensed his rider’s impatience to get home. Settled in his saddle, Kline gave a slight flick of the reins and the bay launched ahead true to his name.

He let the horse run out his ever-present restlessness, perched skillfully in the saddle, letting his knees absorb the bounding motion of the full gallop. After rapidly eating a few miles of the East Road leading back to town, he reined in and slowed to a quick canter. The setting sun dropped slowly, just beginning to merge unevenly with the low hills that rose in sparsely forested waves to the west of Round Vale. Off to his right, the southern edge of the Valewood began with small copses and thickets breaking up the gently sloping land that hinted at the hills gradually rising the further west one rode. Between the intermittent stands of witch elm and brambleberries, the ground was clothed in knee-high grasses that still ranged through several shades of green in the late summer warmth. The grass quickly gave way to thicker forest though, and within two miles of leaving the road, the Valewood took over entirely with a thick expanse of elm, oak and cedar that extended over 100 leagues to the north.

Even miles from his corner field, the Kadron family holdings still spread into the distance on the south side of the road, as they would until he reached the walls. Miles of flat dirt fields, with evenly spaced sheds for tools and perhaps a well, alternating with orchards of finch apple and pepper trees. Other things grew here, but the soil wasn’t rich enough to produce the bumper harvests of wheat and alfalfa that would be needed for trading, although farmers in the area grew enough to feed themselves and the surrounding populace. The poor soil didn’t matter though; nut beetles were far more valuable than wheat and hay, and this was the only soil they liked.

The familiar scenery passed unnoticed as Kline, lost in thought, allowed Bolt to carry him home to the family stable and a waiting portion of oats and sweet hay. His great grandfather had been the first to profit from the walnut-sized insects, finding them as a local delicacy during his search for a place to breed horses after being banished from the city. Bayron Kadron had recognized the potential of the beetles in trade when he first tasted the nutty flavor of their segmented flesh and had immediately taken to devising a method for cultivating them en masse. Since that time nearly 70 years gone, the Kadron family had risen in wealth built on the burgeoning beetle trade, rather than on their horse breeding as his father’s grandfather had originally supposed.

Beetle fields certainly weren’t pretty. And the dust storms kicked up by all that bare dirt were often troublesome. If rain didn’t fall for two weeks, the entire county would be blotted out by a haze of dust hanging in the air and blowing by turns. Everything in town would be covered with a layer of pale grit that seemed to waver between orange and yellow. The phenomenon had caused many people from out of county to refer to the inhabitants of Round Vale and environs as dirty beetle farmers, or just beetle farmers, the dirt part being implied by profession alone. Not even the wealthiest family in the district was exempt from the jibes. Of course, it didn’t help that Kadron was the wealthiest family, and they were beetle farmers, and a dust storm got them just as grimy in their manor house as it would a beggar in his hovel.

Kline’s rueful expression was mixed with a humor that spoke of resignation as he remembered occasional visits from city merchant families who would come to negotiate trade terms with his father, and how they would carry an air of condescension as if they were forced to stoop below their station to deal with a yokel country Lord who was little more than a… a beetle farmer. Knuckles whitened around reins as Kline thought of the disrespect his father had been forced to tolerate. That all of them in the family had to tolerate. Knowing that Kadron had become more wealthy than many of those overweening fools by selling the very things they were mocked for producing almost soothed Kline’s damaged pride. Almost.

Let us shut out a few of those families from the beetle crop one year and see how they look down on us then… We could force even the largest family out of- He was pulled from his reflection as Bolt slowed of his own accord with a slight toss of his head. For a horse that always wanted to go faster, slowing meant he was uneasy about something up ahead. Kline pulled the gelding to a walk and leaned in the saddle to scan the road ahead.

It took only a few seconds to find the way clear, and to find what must be the source of his mount’s uneasiness. A lone child walked perhaps fifty paces in front of Kline’s position, having just crossed the road, following a line that would take him- it looked like a little boy- toward the Valewood in a shallow angle away from the road. He gently touched Bolt’s ribs with his heels and gave a little rein to move him to a quicker pace toward the child.

“Ho there, little one!” He called out, trying to sound inviting so as not to startle the boy.

There was no response; the boy continued walking as if he had not heard. Kline’s brow creased in worry. Not another… Closer now, he could see that the child’s gait was that of a puppet on strings, unshod feet rising up, hinged on flaccid ankles, coming down to strike the ground as if expecting the turf to be an inch higher than it was. A gray woolen shirt, stained and smeared with muck, that was clearly too large for him hung haphazardly off of one shoulder, reaching low enough to barely cover dirty knees skinned from multiple scrapes and falls. It looked like a father’s shirt that had been relegated to the role of night clothes for a child rather than being discarded.

Kline guided Bolt off of the road and drew to a halt a few spans in front of the child’s path, taking a fresh look at the surrounding fields and distant forest, scanning as far as the horizon for any sign of someone the boy might be travelling with. There was no one. At this hour so near to sunset, not even laborers were evident in the fields. He dismounted and gave a reassuring rub to Bolt’s neck, knowing he wouldn’t run even if he was still a touch unsettled- he had been named for speed, not for any propensity to flee. He wondered fleetingly why a child, even a wandering one, should cause a horse to become skittish.

He approached the boy, who was still plodding lightly forward, entirely oblivious to the horse and rider blocking the path he followed. Kline knelt resting on the balls of his feet in the grass a few paces in front of the boy, waiting as he approached. He was filthy from toe to tip, covered in patches of mud in various stages of drying and flaking and his thick russet hair was wildly matted with twigs and an errant leaves, all entwined and cemented together by the presence of yet more drying mud.

The boy could not be more than 6 years old, but showed no fear at being met by a stranger; his eyes held a far-off stare, not exactly blank, but unfocused, or perhaps focused on something only he could see. Without breaking stride, he walked directly into Kline’s outstretched arms. He pressed close to his chest as if wanting to be held, and Kline gently embraced the child, unconcerned with the filth that encrusted him. Kline was shocked, never had he seen a wandering child respond with anything that hinted at any emotional need, but he quickly realized that emotion had nothing to do with it. The child was still trying to walk through him, leaning his meager weight into his chest as if he were nothing more than a curtain of willow branches.

“So you’re alone then are you little one?” He knew by now that there would be no answer, but he had to believe talking had some positive effect on the child. It certainly made him feel better. “There isn’t time to get you to the camp tonight. I reckon you’ll be our guest this evening. How’s that sound to you?”

The boy stopped trying to maintain his forward motion and his head turned slowly to either side as if surveying his surroundings. His gaze met Kline’s for the briefest second and continued on without expression as if the man holding him was a bush, or a fence post, or anything other than a human being. Just something that had gotten in his way. His face, caked in dirt, held no expression, and only the fact that he was craning his neck about gave any indication that he was anything other than blind.

“Well, we’d best be on our way if we’re to make it through that gate.” Rising, Kline scooped the child up and found holding him awkward because he made no move to wrap his arms around his neck as a child would normally do. He shifted the boy from one arm to the other trying to find a grasp that would enable him to mount his horse without dropping him, and ended up slinging the boy over his shoulder like a sack of beetle meal. The child bore it all without reaction, his body bending naturally and without resistance to Kline’s manipulations.

Kline was alarmingly surprised at how little the boy weighed, and noticed with anguish now the myriad cuts and scrapes, many already scabbed over, that covered the child’s feet. Bolt’s uneasiness was gone, except for a glance back with rolling eyes, as Kline gripped a rein and stepped up into the stirrup. Settling himself in the saddle he lowered the boy from his shoulder and turned him to face forward. The saddle wasn’t made for two and sitting so close to the pommel wouldn’t be an enjoyable perch for the child, but he couldn’t put him on the back behind the saddle and expect him to hold on, so it would have to do.

He glanced at the sun, now halfway eaten by the horizon. I’ve got maybe half an hour to get there. Nothing for it but to gallop. This little one will have a sore bottom tomorrow… he thought with distress. A feeling of guilt briefly penetrated the sorrow he always felt around wanderers. Just because they don’t react to pain doesn’t mean they don’t feel it. He grimaced and heeled Bolt to a gallop. With only one hand free to grip the gelding’s neck, and fragile cargo nestled between seat and pommel, he was unable to compensate for the horse’s bounding strides, and bounced roughly against the saddle. You may not be the only one sore tomorrow little one. he thought to himself.