Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 21: Crossing Boundaries

Barnaby followed the road by storm glow, lightning flash. Wind-maddened branches waved as though the trees cast spells upon Barnaby's head. He wondered what spells a tree would cast, were they inclined to do such.

Friar Cedric claimed that in the kingdom of St. Sylvanus, the trees talked. When they wanted. He never said what a tree would want to say. Tonight, it seemed the trees of St. Demetia wished to shout and wave at Barnaby. No telling the what nor the why. Probably they shouted 'idiot, get out of the rain.'

Meanwhile, Master Night-Creep perched upon Barnaby's backpack, lecturing upon things historical, mythical and mystical, laws natural, unnatural and supernatural.

"In earlier days this was an important byway twixt the city of Persephone and the eastern farmlands of St. Demetia," cat informed boy, shouting above storm. "Note the bricks still visible in patches beneath the dirt. The stonework wrapped in tree roots."

Barnaby dutifully paused to consider what seemed mere rock. Lightning flashed, revealing it as jumbled steps leading down to dark places, inviting him to follow. He shivered, declining invitation, hurrying on down the road.

Rain conspired with wind to rush into his collar and fill his boots by way of chest and pants. The cat upon his back seemed indifferent to wet and wind. Magical protection, Barnaby supposed.

"I'm drenched, master. Might you not teach me a spell that sends away the rain?"

"Doubtful. Weather-working is a far-advanced subject. What spells have we practiced so far?"

"Lesser Healing. Lesser flame. Lesser Open. What's the one where I tap the wand to my eyes?"

"Lesser True Seeing."

"That one, then."

Not that I've seen anything yet that isn't what it looked to be, grumbled Barnaby to Barnaby. Silently, unsure if the words aloud would sum to sense. He reached into his jacket, drew forth the wand to tap his eyes.

Quick as the lightning, a cat-paw batted the wand away.

"As I previously instructed, you do not use the spell more than once per day," growled the cat. "Else you'll ruin your sight. Or your mind."

Barnaby sighed, returned the wand to keeping. They continued down the road, while wind blew, storm shouted. Barnaby looked up at the sky, wondering what he'd behold with spell-touched eyes, magic-blasted brain. Storm giants and angels, perhaps. Or the Wild Hunt that was said to ride the night storm

Lacking magic sight and insight, he saw a sky dark as cavern roof, lightning crackles revealing it a vast sea of purplish glass etched with white fire.

He wondered, did this same storm pass over the mill? If so, Alf had best see to the vanes, removing the cloth panels, placing the blocks in the cogs. Or else the wheels would spin till they burst afire. Probably his brother and mother argued who'd go into the rain and wind, get the work done. No doubt cursing Barnaby for being tardy with the treasure. When he returned, they'd sit back, counting coins whilst telling Barnaby to get to the chores he'd missed.

He pondered that. Did he still wish to bring home treasure just to please his stepmother and stepbrother, impress the Squire and Friar? Why not keep it for himself? He was the one on the road in the rain.

It was an astonishing thought, like lightning flashing through his head, revealing things long pushed to dark corners.

They haven't been family. They haven't been kind. They meant me ill. I owe them nothing.

"Consider that statue," commanded the cat.

Barnaby looked about. A stone figure stood to the side of the road. Vine-wrapped, time worn, yet menacing in its indifference to vine and time.