Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 8: The Tavern

Barnaby took the north road from the fountain. Expecting with each step for the sky to blacken. Snow would drop upon him, thick as winter quilt. Wolves would howl and growl pursuit. flashing red eyes and tongues, their fur white as lace on ice,

Yet in open defiance of tales, all that day the summer wind remained warm, the fields remained green, the sky kept the usual dusty blue.

At sunset he spied a camp beside the road. A dozen folk gathered about a fire. Singing, laughing, roasting meats that traveled the distance to Barnaby's nose, setting it to twitch. He might have walked on, unsure of such loud and confident folk. But they spotted him quick as robin does the worm; and called for him to join their circle.

They looked rough; scarred veterans of life, knife and strife. Swearing oaths that astonished Barnaby for the originality of obscenity. Still, they shared their fire, song and bits of venison. He sat listening wide-eyed to tales of towns and lands that sounded like fairy palaces or devil haunts, according to the shading of the tale. He fell asleep by the fire, dreaming of far places, mad battles, courtly dances.

In the morning he awoke to find the troop up and packing. They informed Barnaby they were heading south to the coast. For a second, he felt tempted to ask if their mad troop had use for a miller? But his path lay to the North. So he thanked them for their charity, wishing them well on their path. In reply they laughed, leaving Barnaby with a bit of venison, a dying fire and their own well-wishes. The words came with grins, as if they knew to what end he went, and what end they went.

Barnaby felt sad to see them go. And yet, glad to be on his own again. He'd never met such loud confident folk. They made him feel like a spring lamb, wandering beyond the summer shepherd's eye. He continued up the north road, staring up at a fleecy cloud.

"Am I just a sheep?" he asked it. "I'm strong. I can lift the middle grindstone, and Da could never do that. I can read real letters, if upside down." He considered what else he could do. Whistling had grown old. "I can look at the mill cogs, tell just which turns what, and why the vanes have slowed."

Of course he could also dig and chop and carry, sew cloth, snare rabbits, tend a garden. But so could anyone, excepting his brother Alf, whose back was always poorly for such chores. What did folk learn that made them proud to be themselves?

Bards, shoemakers and stonemasons, blacksmiths, tin smiths and gold smiths, merchants and miners. Tailors and sailors too.

And the finest learning came with a glorious reward: a hat. Wizards, captains, doctors and bishops wore hats that declared the head beneath it of special worth.

"Just 'Barnaby' doesn't impress much," he admitted to the cloud. Staring into the sky exact as he did the flames of the hearth at home. Sailors, he considered, and the cloud shifted sheep shape to become a ship. I'd like to sail a ship, he informed it. I'd be captain at the wheel, shouting orders during a terrible storm. And I'd be forever fighting pirates with my cutlas.

I shall learn to sail and fight, he decided, recalling the acrobatic folk's tales of dueling in dungeons, tumbling in taverns, fencing upon fences. What else to learn? He considered Val, the bard he'd met at the fountain.

I'll learn to ride a horse, and to sing and tell of ancient stones and kingdoms from before grandam's time. Also I'll learn to blacksmith horse shoes for my horse when I have a horse. Oh, and do magic like a wizard.

That last made him laugh right up to the cloud. He pictured himself casting cantrips, drawing lightning down from the sky, summoning ghosts up from the earth. The idea turned his mind to the witches in the woods. Had that been real? Perhaps he'd dreamed it. Perhaps dreaming was all he was good for. Just wandering daydreaming down the road, talking to clouds... he frowned, searching the sky. The cloud had hurried away on business more serious than talking to wanderers.

Barnaby shook himself from consideration of clouds, looked about. Finding himself practically at the gate of a building bigger than the mill. A sign on a post declared its happy purpose: a tavern.

* * *

Within, the warmth was a wonder. As was each separate smell; sizzling sausage, wine and ale and fresh bread. A woman in leather smock gave him a measuring glance and a shake of her head. She seemed about to speak. But shouting from a table by the hearth prevented her words. Barnaby turned, spying three soldiers ruling a table as they would a battlefield. All a host of bottles, mugs and plates lay defeated before them.

They called Barnaby over with smiles and waves of hand.

"Who are you and where do you go?" asked the youngest. His more elegant uniform, more polished armor declaring him their leader. Barnaby stared open-mouthed while they grinned.

"I'm Barnaby." He studied their matching blue tunics, the steel helmets, the bright buttons. Swords to the side. "Are you real soldiers?"

The youngest laughed. "We are that. And so we recognize a man on a long march when we see one. Hungry? Tired? Chilled? Feet complaining of too much road?"

Barnaby laughed. "I am all these things."

"Then sit, and give your feet some rest. Ah, a man's feet are soldiers, you know. Infantry. They keep you safe if you know how to kick hard or run fast. And when following the orders of Captain Nose, they get you safe to your next meal."

"General Stomach agrees," declared Barnaby. He sat, staring wide eyed at swords, uniforms and scarred faces. While the Captain himself called the tavern maid to bring the newcomer a plate of bread and sausage. She did, her eyes down, avoiding Barnaby's. He wondered if she felt his ragged presence defiled this martial gathering. But General Stomach bugled a growl; he fell upon the food before him quick as cavalry charge. The soldiers laughed in delight to see his enthusiasm for battle.

When the plate was empty their leader pushed forwards a mug of ale, inviting him to make a toast to St. Demetia.

"How?" Barnaby asked. He'd never made a toast before.

"Stand," explained the Captain. He did. "Raise the mug high." He did. "Hmm, higher. You're speaking to the sky, not the tavern ceiling." Barnaby raised the mug higher. "Now say these words: 'I pledge my life and honor to the flag and sword of the lands of blessed Saint Demetia'."

Barnaby solemnly repeated these words, while the soldiers grinned, the barmaid shook her head.

"Now drink up!" ordered the Captain. The two other soldiers pounded fists of approval upon the table.

Barnaby did his best. Stronger brew than anything served in Mill Town. It made him cough, and set his head whirling like the mill vanes in high wind. But he finished it off, trying to sit again. But the two regular soldiers stood. One taking Barnaby firmly by the shoulder.

The Captain remained seated, waving his own mug of ale in toast to Barnaby. "Welcome to the army, soldier," he declared.

Barnaby shook his head, attempting to clear it of muddling words and ale. He decided he disliked the grasp on his shoulder. So he shoved the man away, with more strength than the soldier expected. It sent him tumbling to the floor, cursing. The second soldier only laughed. Then put a fist to the side of Barnaby's head, knocking him flat.