Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 4: Meeting with a Green Lady

Two more days of walking left Barnaby ragged and hungry, but in high spirits. He'd slept one night in a hedge, to be awakened at dawn by farm dogs howling at the scent of trespass. The second night he'd been granted the corner of a barn by a kindly farmer, who in return only asked that he chop wood, carry water, card wool and weed the garden. Barnaby did these things; leaving with a pocket of rough carrots and cheerful blessings.

The country lane had matured to a wider cart-rutted road. Not bricked as were the great roads of the world (according to the Friar, who knew such things). Still, this new path was traveled by horse and wagon, tillers and tinkers, monks and millers, fiddlers and farmers. Worn as he was, Barnaby drank in every face met, each song heard. Calling out 'hallo!' to all he passed. Oft getting greeting in return. Other times mere jeers, else indifferent silence. No matter. Weary, hungry, he walked delighting in all he saw and heard. The open world was an orchard of wonders, he the happy wanderer sampling the wind-fall fruit.

Occasionally he consulted his map. It gave no least idea of where he was or where he needed to go. But doing so reminded him that he was no lost donkey, but a bold seeker of treasure. Somewhere on this journey, the map and world would agree. Then he'd get down to the business that sent him from staring at the hearth fire.

At times upon the road, he'd look back, feeling followed. Spying a small creature far behind; lurking in evening light or morning shadow. It was the cat from the moonlit wood, he felt sure. Whenever he slowed to let it catch up, it merely halted.

Other whiles he would spy a figure walking far ahead. A tall man in black coat, black hat. When Barnaby hurried to catch up, the figure moved effortlessly onwards, just beyond clear sight. No telling who that might be.

On the third morning he walked chewing on thoughts and carrots. He wondered what everyone did back home. Without Barnaby, his brother Alf would have to tend the wheels, patch the vanes, oil the cogs, mill the grain, sack the flour. His mother would be fetching kindling, weeding the garden, churning the butter. Try as he might, he couldn't picture them doing these things without grumbling to rival thunder.

They might get the Goat Girl to help. Though they'd best keep eye on her or she'd feed the butter to the cats, and mill cow-shit while riding on the turning vanes, singing her mad songs.

Maybe the friar would help tend the wheels. He was knowledgeable about machinery, for all it had naught to do with saints and scripture. At least, not that Barnaby could see. Who knew but that a mill wheel turned with the angels, or the stars spinning overhead?

Whether turning by winds angelic or earthly, for sure all at the mill cursed Barnaby's absence, wondering when the blast he'd return with bags of gold. They'd have to be patient. As Da said: let the stones turn slow, so long as they go.

Barnaby pictured marching into Mill Town, treasure chest upon his shoulders, same as a hunter returning with a fine deer. He'd drop the treasure before brother and mother, friar and squire. The chest would be so heavy it'd burst, spilling coins and crowns rolling in the dirt. What would everyone say?

"Hey!" shouted someone. Complaining of rolling crowns? Barnaby shook himself from daydreams, looking about. There in the road ahead stood a child. A girl, seven or so. Wild hair and wide eyes.

"What is it?"

"Mamma's about to calf and she can't get over the stile."

Barnaby blinked, prepared to ask questions. But the girl whirled about, running down the road. Barnaby hurried after.

Around the next turn, he spied her climbing rough planks that made a ladder over a low wall. He called for her to halt; but she only waved, leaping into the world beyond.