Gray Cloaks and Oakleaves (An RA Fanfic)

Chapter 7

*Flashback-Justin's POV*

"Pass the bread, mom!" I pleaded.

"What's the magic word?" She asked, dragging the last word.

"Oh, wait, it's umm...please!" I said with pride that I remembered the word. She passed me the basket and I happily helped my self to another slice of the warm, soft bread.

"There you go, you're such a smart boy!" 

My family was sitting at the family dinner table, where a crispy baked chicken loaded with savory spices and caramelized in barbecue sauce and lemon zest. It was supplemented with garlic-toasted potatoes smothered with butter and gravy. It was the Harvest Day meal, in which my family enjoyed a meal to commemorate the hard work we had done during the year and the arrival of a good crop harvest. 

My little sister and I had sat down with forks and knives in our hands, eager to begin feasting. But as the eating was about to commence, we heard the sound of footsteps on the porch. Wondering who it could be at the time, my father grabbed the spear which was leaning by the doorway and peered out the window. He didn't see anything of interest but called out anyway.

"Who is out there! If you don't tell me who you are and what you're doing out there, I'll sick the dogs on you!"

"Oh, don't worry about me," a deep voice responded with the small little house carrying the sound through the hallway. "I just want a bit of shelter, that's all. And I can't say I fancy staying out in the rain."

"Wait! Who exactly are you?" My father questioned.

"Oh, I'm sorry. My name's Arratay; I'm just a simple herder. I just sold my stock and I was hoping to stop at Wensley Village when the storm blows over."

"I suppose you can stay the night. You can sit by the fireplace to warm up. Would you like anything to eat?" My father said as he gestured towards the food that was still warm on the table.

"Thank you for the offer, but I'll stick to the provisions I've carried with me; you've already offered me a lot of hospitality." Arratay replied. As the man walked by me, I noticed how strange this man really was. 

The man wore a cloak with a cowl that hid most of the stanger's facial features, aside from his evidently obvious gray beard. He was of less than average height; the burly figure of my father easily towered over the stranger. He carried an odd scabbard of knives that were carefully tucked away. He also held a massive longbow with a quiver of black-shafted arrows. But what worried me was not the weapons he used, but the attitude he had. He had a hard look to him; most herders would cow away at the very sight of a weapon. I also noted how he carried his weapons so easily, as if he was naturally used to carrying around with him. The weapons made it clear that this was no "simple herder" as he said before. But it was eyes that made me most wary of him. They reminded me of the look a wolf gave to its prey before it pounced. It was clear that this was a man that I would never want to mess with. 

But the fact of the matter was that the man was sleeping on the floor next to the fireplace and wouldn't cause any trouble. So I sat back down at the table and continued eating. After a few awkward moments, the amusement and good-nature eventually receded back into the dining table and cries of laughter returned. 

After eating so much food, I walked up staircase and and slumped into my bed. As I lay groggily from eating all of that good food, I thought to myself how much I have to look forward to: I would turn 11 in only a week or so, my little sister Amy was starting school next month, and soon we would finally pay off our farm mortgage. 

Life is good, I thought.

As I slowly drifted to sleep, a loud sound entered my sleep and sat up in my bed. I realized that it came from our kitchen and I bolted for the door.