Michael Foster - The Young Magician

Four soldiers came knocking at the door later that day and Tom’s parents asked them in. The soldiers looked untidy and smelled like horses and wet leather. They had scruffy beards and kept eyeing Samuel suspiciously.

‘Seen or heard anything new?’ the sergeant asked.

‘No,’ Tom’s father replied. ‘Not a word. Everyone’s a little worried now; staying in their homes and such.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘That’s understandable. What are you going to do with the boy?’ he asked.

Tom’s father looked to his wife. ‘We’re sending him to the city,’ he replied, ‘so his family can look after him.’

The sergeant nodded again.

‘What have you found, Sergeant? Any news of the culprits?’ Tom’s mother asked anxiously.

The man sucked at his top lip and scratched his nose before answering. ‘Nothing. If there’s not enough trouble here already, there’ve also been some killings in Cotter’s Bend. My men are spread so thin, I don’t even know where half of them are any more. I’ve sent word to Haywood for more men. These pox-ridden curs will show up eventually, and then we’ll hang ’em good and proper.’ With that, the sergeant stood and made for the door. ‘For now, keep your door barred at night.’

Tom’s father closed the door behind the sergeant and his men. He looked to his wife with mixed anger and despair. ‘You and your damned friends, Woman!’ He opened the door again and slammed it behind him as he stormed outside.

Tom’s mother came by Samuel’s side and squatted beside him, at eye level. She held both his hands in hers. ‘Don’t worry, Samuel,’ she said earnestly. ‘They’ll soon catch those men and punish them. Everything will be all right.’

Samuel nodded dumbly. His world felt strange and numb-as if from the moment he had fallen into the river, all warmth had been clawed from his marrow and dragged away into its depths and its own icy touch had leached into his bones. No clothes or fire or bedding could warm him and he felt that his life had been reduced to a tiny, trembling thread.

It was well over a week before a stranger appeared atop a wreck of a wagon, asking after Samuel. Tom’s mother went out to speak with him and when she looked back towards the house, Samuel knew it was time to leave. Tom’s mother rushed back in, while the grey-haired old man remained on his wagon and she quickly stuffed a few things into a tiny bag for Samuel.

‘Now you be good for your uncle and aunt,’ she instructed as she rushed about. ‘And if you get into any trouble, you just send word to us.’

Samuel nodded dumbly as she finished packing his bag and pulled him outside. He was lifted up and hoisted onto the wagon and Tom’s mother smacked his cheek with a wet kiss, pushing his bag onto his lap.

‘Farewell, good lady,’ the old man croaked with a wave of his arm and the wagon lurched forwards, drawn by an animal that looked at least equal in age to its owner.

‘Farewell, Samuel!’ Tom’s mother called out. ‘I’ll say goodbye to Tom for you!’

Samuel kept watch of her over his shoulder until the roadside branches obscured her from view. He wished he could jump down from the wagon and run back through the woods to his home, but something inside Samuel told him he was powerless to move. He would have to cling to the wagon like a bug on a leaf and just hope it led him to somewhere better.

Samuel turned to face forwards, still clutching his bag in his lap, and found the wiry old man looking him in the eye.

‘Better make yourself comfortable, boy,’ he said. ‘It’s a fair way to Stable Canthem and a bumpy road, to be sure. If you keep sitting like that you’ll have blisters on your arse before we round the next bend.’

An odour wafted from the old man, a stale smell like a wet sack left in the corner of the barn for far too long. Samuel’s heart beat strongly in his chest; the old man was strange and scary and his healthy glow was thin and yellowed. Samuel edged away from the old man as much as he could and pushed his bag down beside him, wedging it into a corner so it would not shake free.

The village was only a short way ahead, but instead of crossing the bridge towards it, the wagon turned aside and began down the busy road that led to the Great Highway. It was only a few minutes before Samuel was passing ground he had never before stood upon or played upon. His heart was full of uncertainty. He could not help the feeling that tomorrow he would return home and his family would be there, as they ever were, waiting for him. Surely, all this was just some kind of dream and he would eventually wake up in his own comfortable bed. Yet, the wagon continued to crawl along the highway, being passed in both directions by other wagons and people on horseback and sometimes even by people on foot, and Samuel had no idea where he was going, nor what the future would bring.

Samuel soon became used to the smell of the old man, who barely said a word the entire time, unless to point out some obscure landmark or announce it was time to stop and have a rest. Then they would lurch to a halt and sit by the roadside while the old man wandered around his wagon and tapped various parts of it with his smoking pipe, as if trying to discern whether or not it would soon fall apart. After a while, he would say ‘Let’s be off, lad,’ and they would crawl back up onto their seats and begin away once more.

Samuel did not know why they had to stop and rest at all, for all they were doing was sitting on their behinds while the old horse pulled them along. Most of the time, the old man did not even have hold of the reins, as the old fleabag seemed to know the way by itself. Perhaps the rest was for the horse then? It looked every bit as haggard as the old man and smelled almost as bad. The poor animal stared straight ahead all the time, even when there was no pulling to be done. Its eyes were watery and seemed dull and lifeless. Its healthy shine was faded and yellowed, much like the old man’s. Samuel felt sorry for them both.

When it began to grow dark, they slept on the roadside and ate sinewy meat that the old man boiled up in his dented, blackened pots. At first light, they would simply get up and get back on the wagon and be off again.

They passed through several villages that reminded Samuel of home in one way or another. Men loaded and unloaded wagons with fruits or vegetables or bags of grain. Women carried basketfuls or armfuls of produce. They gave Samuel and the old man barely a moment’s attention as the two of them passed slowly by atop their rickety wagon. Occasionally, a few soldiers would overtake them on horseback with their blue and gold armour glistening, their swords swinging by their sides and Samuel thought they looked quite impressive. The old man would curse and mutter as they passed and Samuel supposed he did not like them very much at all.

The only thing that never changed was that they were always heading down. Their wagon zigzagged down hill and gully, along paths and across shallow riverbeds and hour after hour the mountains crawled away from them until the various hills they descended obscured the snowy peaks altogether. With the familiar heights now gone, too, Samuel was only just starting to realise how much his world had changed.

After several days, they reached the edge of a village that just seemed to keep getting bigger and bigger, until Samuel finally realised that this must be the town of Stable Canthem, for it was much larger than anything he could imagine. Buildings rose several levels high and were made from blocks of stone, with many bearing motifs and carvings upon their walls. People seemed to come from every direction, filling the many streets that crossed and joined. It was a very busy place, indeed, and more streets and buildings lay all around in every direction as far as Samuel could see.