Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 6: Sephie

Of course I spied on the boy. I had this mad idea the radishes would rise up and attack just to prove me wrong. But the vegetables left him alone, he arrived safe at the gate.

The second wall looked no higher than his waist. I worried he'd try clambering over it. That wouldn't have ended well. But plow horse that he claimed to be, he kept the furrow straight. Went to the gate, set key to lock, opened and entered.

Beyond that gate it's anyone's guess what one will meet. Dreams, ghosts, three-headed dogs. Violent giant radishes, maybe. Probably not that last.

Barnaby followed the path through a peaceful orchard of pomegranates and apples. Stones lined the way, perfectly clear by the lamp. He passed a pretty fountain where a marble hippocampus spat water. I worried. You get fellows who think they are clever, deciding any water will do. But after carefully deducing that a half-horse, half-fish made no lion, he went on.

Soon the trees grew thicker, no longer a tended orchard. Just a bramble-filled wood. Tantalus cook me dinner, but of course they set themselves to lead him astray.

First sortie: a pretty girl sitting on a tree stump. Posing for a strumpet in the moonlight. Skirt high, bodice low. She called to Barnaby as he passed.

She was lonely. Did he want to come to her bower just a bit off the path, and make her less lonely?

Well, no he did not. At least, so he affirmed. I watched his eyes trace the moonlit bosom. He did want to, just wasn't going to. The noble boy gave a most polite goodnight, walking on.

She hissed at his back, revealing teeth sharp and thin as a weasel's. Ripping at the stump with nails that'd fright a bear.

Next was the Bloody Wood. I wished I'd spent more time in warning: draw no weapon, front no foe. But over-many words just make a mortal defiant to the business. Same as for the saints.

To left and right came shouts, came screams. Of a sudden the dark wood rang with the clash of swords. Men rushing through the brush, falling upon one another. Ragged banners rose and fell, the air awash with bugle calls and battle cries.

Our sweet miller hesitated; looking about with eyes big as the millstones of the mill he lacked.

I could only hold my breath, watching Barnaby reach for his axe... then stop himself. Instead, he raised the lamp high, continuing down the path. Excellent creature.

But now to left and right along the path gathered soldiers and knights, blood-drenched, mortally wounded yet immortally determined. Entrails spilling from their opened guts, arrows still fixed in their hearts. They waved fists and blades, shouting for him to fight them, else to turn and run.

Through this gauntlet of blood and bluster, Barnaby walked. Trembling; or so hinted the wavering lamplight. Which showed him sensible. And yet he kept on, tremble or no.

When he passed beyond their view, all shouting ceased, each sword fell. The furious warriors crumbled to the earth, mere bits of bone and squirming shadow.

Master Plow Horse continued on, passing a fountain of silvery bowls trickling water that shimmered like liquid diamonds. Quite pretty. He held the bottle, debating whether to fill it here. Surely there could be no water more magical? But in the end he shook his head, walking on.

Beyond the wood lay an open field of lilies and daisies, bright by moon's light. Soft music played from out the shadows. A long table stood decked with candles; set with goblets and dishes glowing glorious and golden, filled with every delicacy of cake and meat, fowl and fruit. About this grand table, dressed in satins and velvets, ermines and sables, sat princely folk with faces declaring them lords and knights, ladies and holy matrons. All gathered together to feast in peace, in honor, in common joy.

Then did noble Sir Barnaby halt, staring at the wondrous food and drink, the fine gathering. The revelers spied him, waving joyous, calling him to join their gay company.

Now a great solemn servant stood forth, to stand just beside the path. With an elegant bow, an eloquent wave, he motioned for Barnaby to take the very chair of honor at the head of the table.

Eyes wide with wonder, the miller lifted a foot from the path... a glitter of hunger shone in the servant's eyes, and I trembled. But the boy did not set the tempted foot down. No, our slow plow horse recovered his balance and his sense. Stepping back, shaking head. He would not be joining in the feast.

The servant waved hands to persuade, to cajole; the revelers called for him to return. Still he continued on the path, giving no least glance back. And so did not see the bright company turn to a gathering of hags and ghouls, and the feast to offal and excrement, and the solemn servant into a great toad snapping out tongue at its escaped prey.

I watched Barnaby reach the path's end. Only then did I dare take breath. That had made harder trial than I meant to set the boy.

But he came safe to my garden of poppies. Searching about, waving the lamp. Trodding on over-many of my blooms, dammittoinfernum. Made me growl, but I suppose it was to be overlooked. At length he spied one poor black poppy, dead yet not dead, curling in upon itself, the suffering thing. Plucked it, put it to pocket.

Only on the return did he spy the font of the lion, pouring out the ever-joyous Water of Life. Not that he knew its name or nature. I suppose he might have guessed. As Master Plow Horse himself said: slow, but not stupid. He filled the bottle exact as instructed.

I watched him cup the water in a hand, take a sip. Well, I hadn't told him not to. His eyes lit up, of course. Excellent. He looked the better for it.

That done, he returned down the path. Encountering no least resistance. No phantoms, no temptations. Even the radishes left him in peace.

* * *

"I've brought the flower, ma'am. And the water." He holds these things out, looking pleased to have the task done right. Making no question of what the Infernum it was all for. You see why Mother took to him?

"Hmm, I'll take my lamp back. You keep the flower and the bottle. And the key. Never know when you need a good iron key. I'm going straight back to Demetia before I'm caught out of bed."

"What am I to do with these things?"

"Have you not been paying attention, Master Miller? You are to present them to the novice of whom I spoke. She's in dire need of these things."

"What will she do with them?"

"She will choose between them, of course. It's one or the other for the poor thing."

"Where do I even find her?"

"Ah, farther up the road north. Exactly where you were heading, I do meekly point out."

"Well, how shall I even know her?"

"Oh, you just will. But if it helps, her name's Beatrice."