Roots - Chapter One

Chapter One: A Gift

Aldon, be back soon, make yourself useful and start the harvest. I’ll be back around noon with a few extra cows and bales of hay. Glenn’s in the forest chopping wood and Denrir is doing trade. Don’t forget to separate the Piranha Tulips from the Guppy Blossoms or else they’ll start fighting. Oh, and we need to place another coin in the well tonight. See you soon, boy.
--Muren

The letter was written in Muren’s scrawly handwriting, probably written in a hurry, and tacked to the front door. The boy moved through the morning-lit room and sighed deeply. The windows were already open and the sunlight streamed in with a warm glow. The sky was blue and the weather fair, only the animals betrayed the silence as they awaited their chores as well. They too knew it was time for work.
The boy opened the heavy oak door, and readjusted his trousers to accommodate his high boots. He closed the door with a quick glance at the insignia adorned upon it and fidgeted. An eagle holding a sword in one claw and a scroll in the other stared back at him. He knew it was neither his insignia nor his blood kin.
He set to work quickly, milking the cows first and placing the frothy cream in the cellar to cool, then moved on to the pigs that needed slop, and finally the chickens who clucked for feed. He did these routine tasks mindlessly and was finished before a single trace of thought had passed his mind. He looked to the sun and marveled at how serene the farm was when he was alone. Well, not truly alone, but the only one capable of speaking.
A loud voice broke his train of thought.
“Hullo there!” A deep husky bass called out from behind. The boy whirled around to see a tall thick man with a red mustache and bald head poorly hidden by a straw hat. “Is yer father in ter’day? I’ve got his bushels of Dragonlilies and Butterbyes,” The man continued, unaware of his sudden and unwanted intrusion.
“No, he’s out to town for business.” The boy replied shortly, not wanting the conversation to expand. But the red mustached man bustled about unpacking Muren’s things and proceeded to sit.
“Ah well, I was wantin’ ter take a pause anyway.” He said as he lit the tobacco of his pipe and puffed. The boy watched him idly as the man scratched himself and lounged about. His fat face folded on itself and blushed from the exertion of walking with a pack in the day. True it was rather warm, the boy thought, but it was scarcely hot enough to try one’s reserves. Several minutes had passed and he had just had enough when the man suddenly stretched and stood. “Well, I’m off. Can’t be slowin’ yer work any longer. I’ll stop by later to see if yer father’s in.” The man waved and continued on down the trail to the town simply known to the nearby residents as Town.
The boy, relieved, thanked the heavens above and rushed off to finish sowing the seeds before Muren returned. Several hours later, the soil was tilled, any remaining weeds plucked, and the fertile earth impregnated. The small seeds ranged in size from a corn kernel to that of a fist, with every color in the rainbow. Everything was planted accordingly, the slightly hopping Piranha seeds away from the quivering Guppies.
Before long, the boy was laying against a tree with his hat over his face, the shade cooling his skin and the wind caressing his face tenderly. His shaggy blond hair tangled in the wind and his pale skin shone in the sunlight like pearl. He was considered a normal child despite being adopted. But only as Muren demanded he wear his hat at all times to avoid unnecessary eyes. The boy complied gratefully as he hated being the center of attention and cursed himself for having such a heavy burden. He often wondered to himself where his real parents had gone off to. Where they were now living, or buried, and why he had been chosen to live with farmers.
He held no contempt for them whatsoever, he loved them dearly, but he knew there was something more. All his life he had felt the call to leave and seek out whatever beacon yearned for his presence. Already he was sixteen years old and devoid of any such answers. He was nearly a man and expected to raise a roof and barn within the next four moons. His hope of finding his destiny faded as quickly as it rose and buried itself within his worries.
The sound of voices awoke him then, several men's' laughter and slow spoken words. He would recognize them anywhere. He rounded the corner of the house and smiled at the two men before him. The first was Muren, scarcely taller than the boy had been at fourteen and wide around the middle. His hair was curly and dark like mahogany, the same as his deep set eyes. His face was round and puffed whenever he laughed which was quite often. His clothes reflected his personality and were worn and repaired; only earth colors like green and brown. His bushy eyebrows lifted when he saw the boy appear.
“Ah, Aldon, we were just talking about you!” Muren chuckled and settled Biel the mule to a halt to unload the goods he had purchased.
“We were discussing your soon to arrive rite of passage.” The other elaborated. He was a tall, thin man, well fed yet still gangly. He stood over a head taller than the boy and had a great beard of silver that wrought to his chest, tied to a point. His head was covered in long hair reaching down his back and was as gray as a storm cloud in autumn. His thin face was gaunt and cheery, but beheld great wisdom, only noticeable in his deep blue eyes. He wore a long cloak despite the heat and seemed perfectly at ease. The boy had never seen him without a walking stick and often stared at his long crooked nose as a young child.
“Oh.” Was Aldon could say. He had dreaded this for well over a year now.
“Yes, yes.” Muren piped in. “It’s all accounted for, fourteen pounds of grain and flour, two sacks of lard, and two bales of hay.” He said cheerily as he motioned for assistance, interrupting the conversation he himself had started.
“Uhm, yes.” The tall man said after a short silence of carrying the goods to the cellar. “We have been awaiting this occasion for many years and I have something special to give you.” Aldon looked up at him utterly surprised. He had never received anything the others hadn’t gotten as well. He looked questioningly at Muren who leaned against the wall silently for once, then back to the other who now held out a small wooden box with an iron latch.
Aldon eyed it suspiciously wondering if it was a trick. He suspected foul play after a snake had been magically found in his bed and a spider in his cup. He recalled the stings of past betrayals however small with his amazingly good memory. He wondered how his many experiences were readily available for reviewing as he reached his hand out toward it then pulled it back, flinching. It was then he noticed the silence. He looked back and forth then back to the box.
His instincts told him to avoid it with a pleasant nod of the head and thank you. But his curiosity grew and ate at him. He picked at his fingernail as he debated whether it was worth the risk or not.
“Well what are you waiting for?” Muren shouted, louder than he meant to, shattering the silence. Both the others jumped at the sudden outburst. An apologetic Muren stared at the ground and fidgeted with his hands impatiently. Hesitantly, Aldon took the box from the man’s hands, looking away from it, arms stretched away from his body. The box was heavier than he’d expected and made of solid cherry wood. It was old and musty, covered with dings and scratches, smelling of smoke and cinders. The boy slowly, very slowly, unhooked the iron latch.
He looked up to see the old man smiling then, Aldon realizing too late grimaced.
Instantly the box’s lid swung back, a torrent of ice cold wind blasting from within with a shrill whistling; chilling Aldon’s entire skinny frame. The rush of arctic breeze refused to cease and grew in intensity until Aldon’s hair was blown back, his face waning and his back to the wall of the house. Muren watched on in a raucous laughter, slapping his knees as he doubled over crying at the hilarity of the situation.
Aldon slid down the wall and onto his back, the box still in his hands and sweeping the wind tunnel over Muren. His laughing stopped as he cringed and bellowed at the sudden chill.
The other man however stood smiling in silence as the boy wrestled with the box. He attempted to close it but wasn’t strong enough to prevail against the wind. He set it down and the box blew harder. Exasperated, the boy flung the box in the air and cried out to run, Muren right on his heels. They leapt behind the wagon and slid to imagined safety. The box landed with a hard thud and wailed, flipping the wagon over with a groan of the wood and screws. It landed atop the two like a prison, holding them in the icy wind’s grip, until Aldon crawled out; Muren having too much girth to squeeze from his cell.
Aldon charged at the small wooden box, struggling against the hurricane that would have frozen him in place if not for his new persistence. He clawed at the box, slowly inching closer and closer until he could reach out and touch it. He did, standing nearly parallel to the ground with only his toes touching the earth, he placed both hands on the lid and pressed with all his weight.
The lid closed suddenly and he fell to the ground exposed, knocking his forehead against the most disastrous gift he had ever received. He rolled over and stared at the box, its plain appearance from the outside. He cursed its very existence then looked up to find the old man still smiling, his hand on his bearded chin.
“Why would you give such a curse to anyone? I wouldn’t wish such a thing on my worst enemy!” Aldon exclaimed from the flat of his back. His hands were roughened and his hair a mess. His clothes were torn and his entire body felt like he had fallen through the lake in winter. He shivered and shook uncontrollably, staggering to his feet with trembling hands. His teeth chattered and his head ached, a whelp where he had fallen and struck the box. He rubbed it tenderly with stiff fingers and eyed the old man angrily.
“Well I should hope not as it was meant as a gift of friendship.” The old man said humbly. “It is a token of gratitude and a very rare object of immense value. However I would ask you not to sell it. You see, they are made of very powerful magic—“
“Magic?” The boy cried out involuntarily. He had felt such a thrill and excitement whenever he witnessed the old one do such small tricks. As a child he sat for hours watching campfires warp into scenes of heroics under his friend’s command.
“I knew you did tricks but this? Wherever did you find it, Garenford?” Aldon asked, suddenly curious.
“In the small town of Nilrem, I bought it from one of my oldest friends, Fladnag. We apprenticed together at a young age under the great Iniduoh. But that is another tale entirely for another time.” Garenford said smiling, steadying Aldon with a sure, long-fingered hand.
“What were you taught, you and Fladnag?” Aldon asked as he lifted the box and began to see it in another light. Garenford lit his long pipe and breathed deeply of it, then exhaled it in a great plume. Aldon could have sworn he saw the smoke twist and dance, suddenly animated, and then return to spiraling into the sky. He looked back to Garenford with a crooked smile.
“Oh this and that.” Garenford replied nonchalantly, chewing on the tip of his pipe stem. He twirled it in his nimble fingers and stared at the smoke rings. He seemed completely oblivious to Aldon’s existence and waiting expression, a master of feigning such, and continued to twiddle his thumbs.
“Fine, keep your secrets.” Aldon said, lifting the box and setting it just inside the front door. “I know the answer already.” He said, sitting down and stroking the dirt and leaves from his hair. He tried to keep his face calm and uncaring against the rising anticipation within. He pictured Garenford casting fire and lightning from his walking stick and summoning great storms when he grew angry. He imagined his blue eyes glowing with immense energies and his long hair and beard flowing in the turbulence of his might.
“And what would that be?” The old man asked with a smile.
“You wouldn’t care what I have to say, a simple farmer’s boy.” Aldon pressed, dismissing the subject.
“Amuse me.”
Aldon weighed his answer before his replying and decided it was of no consequence ultimately.
“A wizard.” He said, letting the word come out slowly for effect. Garenford went silent then, his head low. ”Am I right?” Aldon asked eagerly, ruining his charade. Garenford looked up then and burst forth with booming laughter, his rough voice echoing with a bass.
“A wizard?” He guffawed. “We were nothing of the sort.” He said between gasps for breath. Aldon stormed off angrily to the fields and into the woods. He could still hear Garenford’s mocking laughter as the old man left for home, his walking staff always a step ahead of him. Aldon leaned against a tree and bitterly thought of other options for the old one’s apprenticeship, each idea crazier than the last.
Time passed quickly as the sun began to set. He stayed a while longer to camp, and decided to stay the night. The boy started a small fire and placed his hands around it, warming his arms first, thankful for the light and heat.
Meanwhile at the house, Muren was still trapped beneath the wagon, his belly his true prison.
“Somebody help!” He called out to the night as the temperature dropped, cursing the old scarecrow and his accursed box.