Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 10: Council of War, with Cheese

"I shall speak as necessary," whispered Dark Michael. "None but you will hear my voice. But you must not reply, else you shall awaken the foe."

Barnaby started to say 'understood', but caught himself. Nodded wisely.

"The door creaks," observed Michael. "Open it slowly and steadily, neither stopping nor hurrying." Barnaby took breath, then did so, trembling with fear and excitement. There came a gentle metal creak from the hinges. Barnaby stared past, into the tavern scullery.

"Now scan about," declared Michael. "And use your ears. There will be folk asleep by the hearth fire; perhaps some already awake and about."

Barnaby peered into the dim light, squeezing his eyes into slits.

"Not that way," chided the ghost. "Open eyes wide to get the most light. Turning head left and right. In dark, one sees best out the corners of the eyes."

Barnaby opened his eyes wide as an owl's, twisting head solemnly left, right as did an owl. He desperately wanted to give out an owlish 'whooo' but did not.

"Excellent," declared the ghost. "Now go on. But don't tiptoe. Place each foot down flat. Slowly and evenly upon the seam between the floorboards. Keep close to the walls as possible. Floors squeak loudest where folk most often walk."

Barnaby nodded, making slow steps through the scullery, towards the front of the tavern.

"Stop and spy the battlefield again," whispered Michael. Barnaby halted, peering through a doorway into the common room. There by the fireside lay a soldier wrapped in blanket. Upon a bench, pack for a pillow, lay another. The barred door awaited on the far side of this lion's den. Barnaby made his slow way around a chair into a corner; where he stopped, contemplating the field. Biting his lip, deep in decision.

"Let me guess," said the voice of Dark Michael. "You feel you must keep your oath to become a soldier."

No, I don't, Barnaby wished to say. That'd be a mutton-head thing to think. But he'd been commanded to silence. So he pointed at a great wedge of cheese upon a table. The ghost considered this object.

"Ah," he said. "Rations. Sensible. Seize it. With care."

Barnaby stepped slow as the greater millstone turning on a mild summer wind. But floorboards nearer the table creaked and squeaked for a choir of mice. He froze, waiting, listening. The soldier by the fire stirred, muttering of ale and victory. Barnaby worked not to breathe, until he had to breathe. Then it came out a loud whoosh that made the instructing ghost curse.

A creature glided through the dark room, silent as hawk-shadow passing. A great black cat, eyes white as snow in full moon's light. It leaped upon the table, strode to the plate, sat with tail curled. There it batted a paw at the cheese. Clearly telling Barnaby: See? Here it is. Come get it.

Not daring to step farther upon the treacherous floor, Barnaby bent forwards, reaching out, stretching his arm, wiggling fingers, grasping the cheese... and then near tumbling over. He recovered, all but dropping the cheese, all but falling backwards against the wall.

The cat closed its eyes. Dark Michael hissed. Barnaby stood straight, steadied himself, placing the cheese into a pocket.

"Now for the door," said Michael. Voice rough and low as gravel from a burial pit. "Step light. Be most aware of careless moves when you are almost to safety."

Barnaby opened his mouth to say 'Of course'. The cat hissed, eyes wide. Barnaby snapped his mouth shut again. Continued his slow progress to the door. It was barred and latched, of course; but had no lock. He lifted the heavy bar; began the slow process of pulling it open without least squeak of hinges. And then at last, he faced the open night.