Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 5: The Sly Danger of Radishes

The Marquise of Millstones walked a country lane little different from those in Demetia. Just a brick road intersecting byways of dirt and grass. At times he passed bits of woodland where small animals scurried in the brush, while birds argued ownership of trees and skies. Other times the road followed long stretches of fenced fields, orderly crops. Above him arched the robin-egg sky, centered with the familiar yellow sun.

And yet summer in Plutarch wore a darker green. The sun warmed a more shadowed land. To the west the countryside lay dotted with small pools and lakes. Fens and marshes, bordered with long dark grasses, where solitary trees stood, twisted and brooding. To Barnaby it looked wet and drear. But he didn't feel in the mood for cheerful views anyway.

Barnaby spied fewer houses, fewer travelers. On occasion he passed ruins of brick or stone, empty of roof, window or door. Just the bones of houses, looking owl-haunted and forlorn. The river wind blew through untended fields where wheat and weed flourished together, whispering their memories of proper farming.

The folk he passed nodded heads, keeping on. Just as well. Barnaby did not feel like talking. Not so much as a 'hallo'.

He found that swift walking kept his thoughts bearable. The river Lethe stayed in view to his right. The dark water shimmered, hurrying south to Persephone, then on to the distant and theoretical sea.

Just once, he looked back the way he'd come. Far down the road, he spied a shadow in form of a cat. And when he headed onwards, there walked the shadow of a man in coat and hat, for all the summer day. These sightings cheered him; some.

Barnaby wondered why his instructors kept their distance. Perhaps they sensed he did not want lessons in magic or fighting. Unless they were disappointed in him for ending the Grand Adventure. Maybe they'd call him tomnoddy or puddinghead, demand he rejoin the others.

No telling, as they kept their distance. Merely letting him know they still journeyed with him. Wherever his idiot journey led. He'd have to decide where exactly he went, he knew. Not just now.

Barnaby stopped on a bridge of arches crossing a brook anxious to join the river. Lichen blurred stonework frescoes of skulls and poppies. He leaned over the edge, watching the water flow beneath. Easy enough for it to know where to go. Across the land, into the river, down to the sea. Where after? The Friar taught him the sea waves rose up into the air again as clouds, to rain down upon the land again. Though Alf had laughed, naming it a lunatic insult to the saints that guided storm and rain.

Barnaby wondered what Friar Cedric did now. Maybe they'd all returned to Persephone. No point in going on without the map.

But they'd been on the road north, bearing a bound Barnaby. Why? They'd seen him burn the map. Perhaps they journeyed to St. Martia or Hephestia. Or they'd decided on some fresh adventure. But if they had some new goal, they could have invited him. Why tie him up, thrown him in the mule cart?

Puzzling, but no longer any business of his. Determined to think of other things, Barnaby opened his pack, seeking lunch.

There he found a bound sack of cheese and dried fruit, and a rolled parchment map miraculously returned from the flames.

Barnaby held it confounded. It had hurt to burn something of Da's. But he'd been willing, to keep friends from a mad journey to a cursed tower for no reason except Barnaby went too.

How was it back in his pack? Not hard to guess. Clever Bodkin picked his pocket, given him a roll of paper to burn. Everyone must have seen what the comic miller was going to do before he'd known himself.

And when he'd walked away, they hadn't gone chasing after him for the map. For sure they had a copy or three. They still determined to go to the tower; and didn't need Barnaby for the venture.