Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 6: Introduction to a Stone

Dawn found Barnaby alone in a cabbage field. He stirred, yawned, looking about. Were it not for the blood-muddy ground, the scratchy blanket and a bundle of barley bread left for his breakfast, he might have thought he dreamed the previous day.

He rose, sat on the wall, enjoying the sun, eating the bread, staring at cabbages and crows. Wondering what they would name the baby. Maybe they'd name it after the noble stranger who nobly sat by the woman in travail? Not to any least noble use, granted. And anyway 'Barnaby' would make a silly name for a girl. Not even considering the issue of whistling.

Thoughts and breakfast completed, he took up his pack, heading down the road, glad to be moving again. Whistling whatever song that wind, heart and breath requested he so blow.

A farmer throned upon an oxcart rumbled up the road. Barnaby moved aside, but the man invited him to ride with the hay. Barnaby accepted gladly, rested in scratchy straw while the farmer declaimed upon kings and wives, angels and chickens. He didn't want Barnaby's opinion of these things any more than he wanted the ox's. Just an ear to receive the Truth Declared. Barnaby lent ear gladly, fascinated by all he heard.

The farmer left him at a crossroads, his cart rumbling on, his talk upon kings and chickens rumbling on. Barnaby stretched, brushing itching stalks of hay out his jerkin. He approached a stone fountain centering the crossroad. Water dribbled out the mouth of a carved face, too worn to discern whether man or beast. No matter; it offered cool drink to weary folk. Barnaby drank his fill, then sat on the rim, consulting his map. Glancing from the parchment to the world, then back again. Searching in different directions for a great mountain with a castle atop it. With a central tower higher than the clouds, the glow of treasure shining out the windows.

He spied clouds and fields, a thatch-roofed cottage, a pasture of goats. A flock of crows in a just-threshed field huddled together, muttering of murder. An approaching horseman riding a fine beast, with silver jangles that rang pleasant as light summer rain. Barnaby observed how the rider threw head back, declaiming to the sky. Singing, for sure.

What a fine thing, he told himself. To ride the road singing. Even better than whistling. I shall get a horse and do the same. When I know how to ride a horse. And to sing. Do folk learn to ride? Do folk learn to sing?

As he pondered these important questions, the rider halted before fount and boy. Dismounting with a flourish that set all the bells jingling. The crescendo made Barnaby laugh, which made the rider laugh. The horse rolled its eyes at their easy amusement, pushing towards the stone basin. Barnaby moved politely aside. The horse slurped, eyeing him in suspicion.

The newcomer stretched, clearly glad to be on foot. Put hands to backside, facing Barnaby. "Do you know that old stone?" he asked, nodding to the fountain.

Barnaby considered. Did people know stones? Certainly he knew the greater and lesser grinding stones of the mill. They were old friends. He turned to the fountain, wondering whether he should introduce himself.

A tall stone construction, with water dribbling out the mouth of the time-dimmed face. Words and symbols carved into it; weather-worn as worm-rot on old wood. Barnaby decided he'd never met this rock before; shook his head.

The newcomer crossed arms, clearly pleased to instruct. "Well as it happens, we stand at St. Herman's font. That worn face is Herm himself. Has little shrines up and down all the older highways. Patron saint of travelers. Looks out after them, they say."

Barnaby widened eyes, impressed. He studied the ancient stone face. If one stared sideways, the features grew clearer. Surely that was a smile? A rough rogue's grin, welcoming all in their coming and going. A trick of sun-shadow upon the carving granted Barnaby a sly wink.