Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 19: Of Acorn Bread and Pockets of Emeralds

The next day, after blade practice with Michael followed by magical lecture from Night-Creep, Barnaby was given leave to do whatever chores the merely living and breathing required.

He gathered wood, then took the water bucket to the spring, filled it, returning to the fire. He scrubbed the cooking pot; set about making a fresh mix of deer meat and gruel. Hanging this above the fire. That done, he went to a tree with a knotted rope.

Climbed, the rope led to a rough platform where waited a tin box of salted deer meat, a basket of nuts, a sack of flour. Provisions placed here by the bandits, out of reach of animals.

He sat on the platform edge, legs dangling, nibbling on acorn bread, gazing out over the sunlit woodland. It looked wide as a world. He wondered what creatures it held. Bears? Wolves? More robbers? More millers? No, for sure he was the only miller for miles. No bards, probably.

He looked northwards, hoping to spy the Borealis Tower glittering with treasure. Seeing only trees, clouds, a blue line that might be mountains or clouds or an ocean or the world's edge.

He felt anxious to get on with his journey. But each day his tutors cajoled or downright ordered him to learn some trick of wrist, some twist of wand. No doubt the tower was dangerous, and they thought he'd perish on the steps.

A thousand steps of black stone, marching up to a doorway to ten thousand dangers. So Friar Cedric described it.

Barnaby watched a storm move slowly from the south; the wind fretting tree branches, tasting wet with rain. It'd reach him by evening. The lean-to would be poor comfort.

The robbers should have had a cave. Granted, a farmhouse would serve as well. But a cave seemed more proper. With candles and rugs, chests of weapons, a waterfall and secret exits through hollow trees. And a door that only opened with a magic password.

"You should be practicing," advised Michael. "Not daydreaming."

Barnaby nodded. It was the sort of thing said to him oft as a donkey heard 'whoa' and 'git'.

"Did you climb up the rope?" he asked the ghost.

Michael's reply came slow and sour as the honey gathered from the wasp nests of Plutarch.

"Why would I climb the rope?"

"Well, you might just feel like climbing a rope, I suppose."

"Climbing a rope makes no sense for a ghost. I have no need to climb a rope. No, I did not climb the rope."

"Very well, then."

"When we leave, take the road west."

"Isn't the tower north?"

"Yes, but west is the city of Persephone."

"Why do I need go there?"

"Have you food for long journeying?"

Barnaby considered the remains of the robber's rations. "Some venison, carrots and acorn bread. Truthfully, the venison is gone green and my teeth are tired of acorn bread and my stomach is tired of carrots."

"Exactly. And have you winter clothes for northern wind? Have you shovel for digging, pickaxe for breaking? Candles and lantern for dark tunnels?"

"No. But I have the robber's blankets. They aren't very clean."

"And when at last you find treasure, have you sacks to carry it away?"

This was a new and interesting idea to Barnaby. He pictured standing in a spill of glittering stones and shiny gold. He'd need a broom to sweep it up. Or a shovel. And a donkey or three for carrying. Would sacks serve best for gold, or would barrels serve better?