Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 1: On the Road

Barnaby walked in no least hurry. The views left, right and ahead gifting his eye with all the greens of a slow, rich summer. Grass blades bordering the country lane showed a simple innocent green. Cabbage rows in farm plots offered a darker green, touched with blues and purples like bruises three days old. Stands of wheat waved stalks of palest green, halfway to the harvest scythe. The shy creek courting the path shimmered green as broken bottle glass. As he passed beneath a tree, the canopy turned sunbeams to emerald dapples, touched with a king's gold.

Barnaby halted, looking back. He could no longer see his mother waving from the steps of the chapel. Even the vanes of the mill had vanished, as if sunken beneath the earth. Barnaby pictured the ground opening, swallowing down mill, chapel, smithy and all the little village. Like a pike gulping mayflies. Maybe he should go back, make sure all remained un-swallowed?

But it'd look foolish to return so soon after brave goodbyes. His mother, his brother and the Squire all waving him on to adventure; giving him a treasure map, a copper piece and a fine lunch. He'd just have to trust that his home still shared this sunlit earth.

Barnaby turned again, considering the way ahead. The countryside made a quilt of farm fields; the tree-shaded lane wandering in and out, taking no more hurry than Barnaby. Far, far in the distance a house crowned a hill. Large and brick. Barnaby's eyes widened to realize he did not know the faces, names and family history of whoever lived there. Didn't know their dogs' names. Their dogs wouldn't know his smell. They'd all have to stare and sniff astounded, unable to comprehend one another.

On consideration, the folk ahead mightn't even have a dog. He was beyond the bounds of his world. Well, so be it. He took a deep breath, smelling fresh cut hay, leaf rot and summer dust. And the bread, ham and cheese in the bag given by his mother. He weighed sitting under a tree, having lunch. But she'd ordered him not to so much as sample a crumb till evening light. And Da always said 'work done, then the fun.'

Barnaby walked on, kicking at dust. Da had been a cheerful sort, always whistling. Barnaby wished he knew how to whistle. Behold a blue-sky day and an open road. Absolutely made for walking while whistling. The birds flitted about, showing off. They knew the trick. But Barnaby's brother had solemnly assured him that boys with names beginning with 'B' could never whistle. Shouldn't even try. It had something to do with how you shaped your lips for the letter 'B'.

"I might have been Frank," he told a robin. "Or Fortinbras or Philodendron. Then I'd puff music out same as you."

The robin cocked an eye, considering, doubting. It gave a quick rolling trill in open challenge.

"That's not whistling," Barnaby argued. "Whistles are when you puck out your lips like you're going to kiss the Goat Girl. Then you puff." He showed the robin how this would work for those not christened 'Barnaby', 'Beelzebub' or 'Benadictus'. To his shock, out came a string of sound. Not near so pretty as a robin's trill. But definitely, clearly, undeniably: a whistle note. He stopped, meeting the robin's gaze. It gave a wing shrug to say 'hmm', returning to stalking worms.

How strange, thought Barnaby. Had it something to do with the air beyond the village bounds? He walked on, puffing out, pulling in. By the time he passed the farmhouse on the hill, he'd put bits of air into a song. Imagine that.

A girl leaned on the fence separating the lane from the house, watching him approach.

"What are you at, boy?" she asked.

"I've made a song," he declared proudly. "Do you want to hear?"

"No."

"Very well then."