Paul Thompson: The Middle of Nowhere

“We’ve all been here too long. It’s time to go.” He rubbed his sunburnt brow. “If Robien and Raika agree to accompany me, we’ll leave the village before sundown.”

“My home is in the forest,” the elf said, “but I will follow you one last time, Sir Howland.”

“Please, call me just Howland. I’ve had enough of titles. The worst men I’ve ever known all had titles, so leave me apart from them.”

The farmers had rounded a good number of bandit horses, and Howland was offered his pick of the herd. He took three for himself, Robien, and Raika, and a fourth to serve as a pack animal. He chose four stocky, sturdy beasts, each an indifferent color. They were not handsome, but they would walk all day with considerable burdens.

While the warriors packed their sparse gear, villagers prepared food and drink for their journey. By the time Howland, Raika, and Robien rode forth, their pack animal was well laden.

The surviving population of Nowhere gathered at the east end of the village. The setting sun was in their faces. Riding abreast with Howland in the center, the defenders stopped before the assembled villagers. Not a few of the farmers still clutched their spears, but most had abandoned warlike tools in favor of rakes, pitchforks, and spades.

Caeta raised her hand high. “We can never truly repay you for what you’ve done,” she said. “Our loved ones are free, and our homes preserved. How can we tell you what that means to us?”

“You can’t,” Raika said flatly.

Howland was more diplomatic. “For myself, you owe me nothing. I regained something vital here, somthing I thought I’d lost.” He considered his next words carefully. “Don’t forget how to fight,” he said. “Next time, when wolves are baying outside your door, take up swords and spears yourselves and defend what’s yours. It’s your right. Don’t forget that.”

He leaned down and clasped hands with Caeta, as did Raika and Robien after him. Malek and Laila, arms about each other’s waists, waved and smiled. Nils, bolstered by Sai and Larem, added a hearty good-bye.

As she rode by, Raika spotted Bakar, one of the few survivors from her spear company. She turned her horse around, rode up to him, and dismounted. The young farmer, bearing his wounds without complaint, sidled away as Raika approached.

“You,” she said roughly. “Come here.”

He stayed where he was. “You’re not going to hit me one last time, are you?”

“No, fool.” Stalking over, she unbuckled her sword belt and handed it to Bakar. “This is for you. It’s a good blade, if you can get it out of the scabbard. Think of it as a gift,” she added, smiling. She swung up on her horse and cantered away to catch up to Howland and Robien.

Some of Bakar’s neighbors surrounded him, curious about the Saifhumi woman’s gift.

Bakar wrapped his fingers around the sword handle and pulled. The oiled steel blade slid easily out of its sheath. Whatever spell Ezu had cast on it was gone.

Three men, led by Wilf, took it on themselves to repair the cracked Ancestor in the well wall. They pried apart the stones from the top down, slowly isolating the long block of red sandstone. With reverence, two villagers gently lifted the broken top of the Ancestor free of the wall. Setting it down, they turned to freeing the lower half. Caeta happened by, and as she passed the rounded upper portion of the ancient totem rolled on its side, exposing its interior face to the sky. Caeta looked at it and gasped.

“It is them!”

Wilf and his helpers ceased tugging on the lower half of the Ancestor. “It’s who?” he asked.

Caeta could only point mutely.

Wilf knelt by the red stone. The inside face was carved with a number of small faces, each about the size of a man’s thumb, one below the other, from the rounded peak down to the break. The carvings had been turned inside when the wall was built, so no one living in Nowhere had ever seen the markings before.

Brow furrowed, Wilf ran dry, callussed fingers over the images. The bottom face was the smallest, but it had a pointed chin and long ears, like a kender. Above it was a human face, beardless … a woman’s perhaps. Was that a turban on her head?

Lichen encrusted the next two faces. Wilf scratched it away with his thumbnail as his companions crouched behind him, peering over his shoulder. Caeta’s startled cry had drawn others to the scene. They stood around, gazing at the broken totem, murmuring in low, amazed voices.

Under the gray lichen were a pair of similar faces, one facing up the other down, so it appeared they were staring into each other’s eyes. One was depicted with a hood on, almond shaped eyes, and peaked ears. His compatriot was bare-headed, with cropped hair and identical ears. Two elves …

“Carver,” Wilf said slowly, touching the lowest image. “Raika, Amergin, Robien-”

The next carved face had horns. Above it was a mature bearded man wearing a warrior’s helmet.

“What does it mean?” asked the young farmer at Wilf’s shoulder. He had no answer. He put the question to Caeta.

“It’s an omen,” she decided. “A promise from the past we did not see till now.”

Bakar scratched his scruffy cheek. “What good is an omen if you find it too late?” he said, bewildered.

“Think of it as a token from the departed gods,” the old woman replied. “A mark of favor from the great spirits to our humble village.”

With considerable excitement, the men pried loose the lower half of the Ancestor stone, eager to see what it might show. Some prediction of the future, perhaps?

There was another image on the lower portion of the bloc: a full figure in profile, as long as Wilf’s palm, striding vigorously. The relief was low, and the carving worn by years of rain, hot days, and cold nights. But two features were clear: the striding figure wore wide, billowing trousers, festooned with flowers, and on his head sprouted a fine set of deer antlers.

“So that’s who he was,” said Caeta.

Among the people of the plains there was an ancient legend. A legend of a stranger who came to their isolated settlements, spreading new ideas and new knowledge, teaching Nowhere’s ancestors what crops to plant and sharing the secrets of fire and metal. The Wanderer, he was called.

Or, as Ezu always insisted, the Traveler.

The family of a farmer named Vank were clearing their hut by firelight. Vank had fallen in battle, fighting as one of Amergin’s slingers. His hut was on the south side of the village, where the fighting had been the most intense. The roof had been smashed when an armor-clad bandit fell through it. Inside was a rat’s nest of broken rafters and thatch, which Vank’s wife and children patiently pulled apart and removed.

When the floor was clear, Vank’s wife dug down a few inches to the open their storage pit. Where there should have been a plank lid, she found only loose dirt. Surprised, she called for her children to help her.

Digging furiously with their hands, they finally dragged out the broken planks, and Vank’s wife thrust a burning brand into the hole.

A pale, dazed face looked up at her.

“Did we win?” asked Carver.

Vank’s wife swooned. Her daughter ran for help, and soon half a dozen armed farmers came running, thinking a live bandit had been found in Vank’s cellar. Malek was among them. He recognized the kender at once.

“Pull him out!” he shouted. A rope was lowered, and Carver was hauled up. He was covered with fine dust, and one eye was black and swollen shut. He’d spent almost a week in the pit, but he was in remarkably good spirits, considering.

“I tried to dig my way out, but every time I touched the roof, more dirt fell in, so I quit. I figured Sir Howland would get me out eventually,” he explained. “There was plenty to eat and drink down there.”