Jonathan Rogers: The Secret of the Swamp King

“It was a strange thing,” said Aidan, “to look into my brother’s eyes and see what he had become. It was like looking at what I might have become-who knows, at what I might become yet, if I don’t guard my heart.” Bayard nodded, listening, but he didn’t say anything.

Aidan went on. “I know my brother is a liar and a fraud. But some of the things he said sounded right, made me wonder if I have what it takes to be the Wilderking.” Aidan paused, collecting his thoughts. “He said that everything I ever had was given to me, that I haven’t deserved any of it. I’ve been thinking about that. And I don’t know. Maybe it’s true.”

Bayard threw back his head and laughed. “True? Of course it’s true!”

Aidan was hoping for something more reassuring from the Truthspeaker. “What do you have that wasn’t given to you?” the old man continued. “That’s grace, man-what you’re given, not what you deserve. And that’s as true for Maynard as it is for you, as it is for me. Grace is the very air we breathe.”

Aidan was still thinking about the things his brother had said to him. “Maynard said I didn’t deserve to be the Wilderking any more than he did.”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Bayard answered. “Does a tall man deserve to be tall? Does Prince Steren deserve to be the son of a king? A bird might think he deserves to swim as well as a fish, but if he sits moping on the riverbank instead of using the wings God gave him, the fox is going to eat him.

“Your brother would rather have his own way than be happy. He’s thrown away the grace he was given because it’s not the grace he had in mind.” The Truthspeaker paused to reflect on that. “There’s not much hope for a person who won’t live in the grace he’s given.”

When the River Road brought the travelers to the gates of Longleaf Manor, they went their separate ways. Bayard insisted that he had to get to the hill country above Tambluff before dark. But there was another reason, a truer reason why the prophet wouldn’t accompany Aidan to his father’s house. Aidan had to face his father alone. It wasn’t for Bayard to explain to Errol what had become of his second son. That was Aidan’s task.

Moira, the cook, met Aidan in front of the manor house. “Aidan!” she called. “Welcome home!” She looked down at the orchid in Aidan’s hands. “Your quest was successful, I see.”

Aidan gave Moira a weary nod. Now that he was home again, he was starting to feel the exhaustion of his quest for the first time. Moira fingered the brown-edged orchid. “Looks like it has seen better days,” she remarked. “I’ve grown orchids all my life. Why don’t I see what I can do for this orchid while you go see your father. He’ll be glad to see you safely home.”

“Where is Father?” Aidan asked.

“You can find him in the cotton field,” said Moira. “He’s breaking in some new field hands.” Aidan thought he detected a sly smile play about the corners of the cook’s mouth. He handed the frog orchid to Moira and began the long walk to the cotton field. He still didn’t know what he would tell Father about Maynard. His son’s apparent death had crushed Errol. Would the news of Maynard’s living be an even greater blow?

Father’s back was turned when Aidan arrived at the cotton field. He had a heavy hoe and was vigorously chopping around cotton stalks while five slack-faced, surly field hands looked on. He was showing the proper method for hoeing a cotton field, and he looked as strong and healthy as Aidan had seen him in a long time. Errol motioned to his recruits to try for themselves. Their shaved heads bobbed up and down with their halfhearted effort; they looked more like storks than field hands. “Chop, men, chop!” Errol urged. “I’ll make you farmers yet!”

Aidan sidled up alongside him. “Hello, Father,” he said quietly. The old man turned to look at him. “Aidan!” he yelped with spontaneous joy. “Returned from the Feechiefen!” He took up his son in a bearish embrace. “My lost son is found!” he shouted. “Welcome, welcome, welcome home!” He called to the farmhands. “My boy Aidan! Home from the Feechiefen!” The farmhands gave him a sidelong look but didn’t lift their heads from their work.

Errol broke into a little jig of excitement and relief. “So,” he asked, his arm draped over Aidan’s shoulder, “did you complete your quest? Did you find the frog orchid?”

“Yes, Father. Moira is tending to it now.”

“I knew it!” Errol whooped. “I knew you’d come back with it!”

“I would have told you, Father,” Aidan began, “but-”

Errol interrupted him. “Don’t say another word about it.”

Aidan was perplexed to see his father doing so well. This was the Father of old. Aidan hadn’t seen him so energetic and chipper since before Maynard went away.

One of the farmhands straightened his back and pulled at his curling mustache. “Lorrrd Errrol,” he said. “I think it’s time to rrrest!”

“I’ll say when it’s time to rest,” Errol answered sharply.

Aidan knew that voice, that curling mustache. These were the plume hunters he had met near Bullbat Bay. His eyes bulged in wonderment.

“You sent these boys just in time,” Errol said. “With Jasper getting ready for the university and Brennus off at his own farm and you at Tambluff, I was in desperate need of help in the cotton field.” He gestured at the plume hunters. “We burned their plume bale, but I thought they might like to have a chance to make some more respectable bales. They’ll be here through the summer, then at harvest time we’ll split the gold from whatever cotton bales we produce.”

Aidan chuckled. “What makes you think these rascals will stay around till autumn?” he asked. But then he heard the clank of a heavy iron chain, and he realized that the five farmhands were shackled together.

“We got your pigeon note,” Errol continued, “and when the plume hunters showed up with their plume bale the next day, we were ready for them. Your brothers and I and all the servants on the place threw them in chains.” He smiled, remembering the scene. “Even Ebbe got in on the act.”

Aidan looked at the two weeks’ stubble on the five men’s heads. “I didn’t recognize them without their big hair.”

“Well, I told them Tambluffer hairdos had no place on a working farm, not my working farm anyway.” He nudged Aidan and whispered, “I plumed the plume hunters. I just can’t find a hatmaker to buy the plumage.” He slapped his knee, laughing at his own joke.

Aidan laughed, too, and shook his head. “It’s going to be a long, hot summer for those mountain boys.”

But every mention of the plume hunters stabbed at Aidan’s conscience. He knew now, or thought he knew, the plume hunters were likely connected with Maynard. They were a reminder of the secret he was withholding from his father.

Father and son walked back to the manor house. Errol asked many questions about Aidan’s journey into the swamp and back, but Aidan answered them evasively, studiously avoiding anything that would reveal any information about the false Wilderking. It just wasn’t worth it, Aidan finally decided. Father was looking healthier, happier. Even in the three weeks since Aidan had seen him, Father seemed to have come to terms with the loss of Maynard. Why open that wound again? Maynard was better off dead. And Aidan was better off getting out of there until he was better prepared to talk to his father about what happened in Feechiefen.

“I’ve got to get back to Tambluff tonight,” Aidan announced when they reached the manor house. “But I’ll come back as soon as I can.” Errol was understanding. He packed Aidan’s supper himself and had his horse brought from the stable-the same horse Aidan had ridden down from Tambluff three weeks earlier. Moira’s brief ministrations to the frog orchid had worked wonders. It wasn’t exactly good as new, but it looked much more presentable.