Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 16: First Instructions

Far into the night, Barnaby sat by Val. Wondering whether to wake her, offer her broth. Else bring her closer to the fire? In the end he let her sleep. Deciding he'd best sleep himself.

Of course, he could not. His gaze kept turning towards the dead men lying in the night gloom. Would they become ghosts? Might be angry spirits, complaining how Barnaby made free with their blankets, rations and firewood.

Perhaps they'd start following him, giving lessons in being a bandit. He didn't want their company or their lessons.

Closing his eyes, he found the view there just as dark. Grim images wandered his head, as though it'd become a wood full of robbers and sly soldiers, witches and ghosts.

He wished he were closer to the campfire, trading his dark thoughts for pleasant fancies with the flames, As he'd done at the hearth at home.

He gave sleep up; opening eyes to search about for Master Night-Creep and Michael. Perhaps one was ready with some lesson in magic or swordcraft.

Finding to his surprise that he was no longer in the robber's camp. He lay on the floor of his father's mill. But it was changed, grown vast to store a winter's supply of cathedrals. The wheels and cogs were become great mountainous circles turning slow and inexorable as worlds. Watching them made Barnaby dizzy, as though the sight were more than a miller's head could hold.

Far, far above in the rafters, he spied the cat-shape of Master Night-Creep, watching Barnaby; white pupilless eyes small and bright as winter stars.

Barnaby turned away, spying his mother and brother rushing to feed grain to the grindstones. He'd never seen them work so hard. Pouring great baskets of corn, barley, millet and wheat into the funnels; but out the slider came only the faintest puffs of flour.

"We've not nearly enough," howled Alf. "They grow hungrier with every turn."

And indeed the mill began to shake, as though the turning wheels began to question the point of their ceaseless spinning.

"Let's feed them Barnaby," shouted his mother. She and Alf rushed to him, seizing his arms. He did not resist as they dragged him, threw him between the ever-turning grinding stones.

He awoke to find himself shivering in the lean-to beside the bard. He blinked upwards, eyes searching for the great turning millwheels. Seeing only a night sky at the borderland of dawn. Cold and chill. And the face of Dark Michael staring down; also cold and chill.

"Up," said the ghost. "Blade practice."

Barnaby yawned, stretched, shaking dreams from his head. Checked on Val. She seemed no better, no worse. He went behind a tree, peed sleepily, then wandered towards the campfire. The ghost stood before the fire, casting no shadow.

"Your bard has moved me to alter your instruction," said the ghost. "It's too early to learn swordcraft. Particularly when you have no sword. Find a knife. Something more fierce than your pocket blade."

Barnaby sighed. The dead robbers wore knives they no longer needed. He went to the corpse lying beside the fire. Flies buzzed about it. He'd have to do something about the bodies soon, or the glade would be unbearable He struggled at the belt, the swelling stomach holding it tight; till he'd pulled free a long knife of hammered iron.

Heavier than a kitchen knife, with a broad leather grip. In the firelight it looked practical yet sinister. Barnaby wondered if anyone had ever been killed with it.

"We begin with stance," said the ghost.

As time passed, as daylight filled the clearing, Dark Michael became increasingly difficult to see and hear. At some point Barnaby found himself alone, listening to birds chirp, squirrels chatter, waving a knife at the smoke of the dying fire.