Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 2: In the Witches' Wood

Evening light faded to night; the first stars shone. A cool wind set Barnaby shivering. He looked about for a millhouse where he'd hurry in, curl up by the heart with a wool blanket woven by his gran. But his home had not followed him down the road. Was foolish to fancy it had, any more than to fear it'd been swallowed by the earth.

He weighed knocking on some farmhouse door, asking to sleep in their barn. At harvest time the villagers let the loaders, hay cutters and threshers do just that. But Barnaby spied no farms, no barns. Only a dark wood ahead, the trees arching over the lane, turning it to something black as mountain cave.

Barnaby waivered. Perhaps it were time to turn about, head home? But he knew himself too weary to retrace the day's miles, even if he could bear the shame of returning without treasure. No, best rest in the shelter of the woods, enjoy his put-off lunch. This plan cheered him. Decided, he entered the tree-gloom.

The air within was full of owl hoots and fireflies, bat flitter and the choir of crickets, the scurry and hurry of small creatures seeking shelter for the night, exact as Barnaby. The sun's last light faded with each step onwards. He felt weary; more than when the Squire brought five full carts of grain to be ground all in a day.

Barnaby looked for a spot dry yet soft, with moonlit clover for a pillow. Alas, all he found were hard tree roots, with brambles in between. No comfortable beds here. He chose a likely trunk in view of the path. The roots made sitting uncomfortable. The bark made leaning uncomfortable. But he gathered dead leaves, made what uncomforting bed he could. At last satisfied, he pulled his pack open, took out the lunch sack his mother had gifted him. He no longer smelled the bread, the cheese, the ham. Feeling about within the sack, he found within no lunch; just a lump of rock, a clod of earth.

"What in the world?" he wondered. Had his mother fooled him? With Barnaby she kept short of words, shorter of temper. But his brother oft played such jests. Handing Barnaby a cup of horse piss, vowing it was beer. Putting burrs in his socks, a dead cat in his blanket. Yet Barnaby remembered the earlier, glorious smell of fresh bread, ripe cheese. The sack hadn't held clods and a rock when the day began.

"It was that sour girl at the fence," he told the night. "She had me leave my pack when I fetched her water." Ah; that explains it nicely, replied the Night.

Barnaby debated laughing or cursing. Neither seemed worth the trouble. He tightened his belt, told the growling thing to quiet before it drew bears. He wondered if there were bears about. Or lions? He lay back and decided he'd like to see a lion. For sure there'd be wolves. What wood in a tale ever lacked for wolf? Perhaps he'd best find a tree to climb. No; tree climbing could wait till wolf howls sounded. He shifted about in the gathered leaves, thinking it so prickly he'd never sleep.

He awoke deep into the night. The moon now hung above the treetops, casting strange shadows. Moths flittered in the shine, dancing exact as butterflies in sun's beams. Barnaby shivered, wishing for a fire. Not just for the warmth. A hearth-fire would keep him company. He pictured flames dancing like courtiers at a fine ball, twisting and turning, leaping and bowing...

Barnaby found himself holding out his hands to the imagined warmth. Sitting and staring so into the hearth had been much of his life. For all that his brother and mother, the Friar and the Squire cuffed him, called him dreamy fool. Chided him to get busy, cease staring into ashes.

They had the right of it, he decided. Best to be out and about. Whether carrying sacks of flour or going down the road with a treasure map in one's pocket. Da would have agreed, for sure.

Barnaby reviewed all the things he'd seen on the road today. A girl and a butterfly, several strange houses, and a cloud that'd resembled a castle. His mind kept coming back to the dead stranger. That dunce cap on the dead man had said 'traitor', clear as dog said 'bark'. The farmer read the same; but holding it with the pointed side up. Had the Friar taught Barnaby to read upside down? That, or beyond his village the world was upside down. Who knew but that it was?