THE MORNING OF Isaiah’s fourteenth birthday he had woken up in unease. It had nothing to do with the fear of getting older, that often came later in life, or frightening dreams, that he just barely remembered tormenting him earlier. Rather, its origin was the book sitting on top of his tiny nightstand – a beautiful gift that he’d been given the year before. Its thin, brown, leather binding, slightly rougher after being brought around their house, their garden and to the surrounding forest that belonged to nobody at all. Despite its journeys, it still didn’t have a single drop of ink in it. It was missing two pages that’d been torn out on the first day, and so, if anything, its insides were even more hollow than it’d been before belonging to him.
Isaiah’s only comfort was that it could have been worse – and it had almost turned worse on a number of occasions. The book could’ve just as well have been filled with bad writing and silly stories that’d the world would be better off without. Having discovered how easily such useless words came to him, he’d been waiting patiently for an idea – one good enough to put down on paper. It had seemed like a good strategy, seeing there was no real urgency to the matter. Yet, it had occurred to him some days before, that since he would receive a new gift today, it would be quite a bad thing not to have anything for his grandfather to read. A story, then, needed to come to him, as he couldn’t bear seeing him disappointed.
Isaiah was not completely wrong to worry, for this same morning Theodore was just as excited about making his request to read, as his grandson was dreading to decline it. Lately, the boy had been even more quiet than usual, but he’d felt certain it had to do with him finding his niche. Such things took time, as an academic he knew this well. Though more of a reader himself, he’d known and even taught a few skilled storytellers in his days. He’d been careful not to make his grandson one of his students, however, teaching him nothing less and nothing more than what he ought to know. Ever since he was a child he’d been a clever and curious boy - qualities Theodore would’ve appreciated more, had their circumstances been different. Subject wise their focus had been on simple, relevant things, and though this had manifested a certain ignorance and enclosement within the boy’s mind, it seemed a necessary and rather innocent evil within the much larger picture. He was safe.
For some time it’d been inevitable that his grandson was coming of age. Had Theodore been a different man than he was, he would perhaps have seen the increasing silence that followed with this, as a completely natural evolution– another phase that would come and go as it should. But he’d lost a boy to restlessness before, and rather gradually his mind had started imagining the worst. After many sleepless nights, contemplating on how to prevent the many disturbing outcomes in his head, he’d finally found a solution to the matter a year back. It seemed that what his grandson needed was simply something to put his thoughts into, and that writing might be that perfect something. He’d seen how the pen could keep a man’s wilderness condensed. How it could protect him (and others perhaps) from himself.
As Isaiah walked down the stairs, one year after receiving his very first book, his grandfather was too blinded by his own excitement to see the worry in his eyes. Having waited so patiently to read his first work, the possibility that he hadn’t written anything at all, hadn’t crossed his mind.
“How is my storyteller doing?” It should not have been the first sentence coming from his mouth, but since it was, Isaiah’s nervousness doubled.
“Good,” he responded, resisting the impulse to run up the stairs again. “Though I didn’t sleep too well… “ He added.
“Oh, what’s the matter? So excited about the day ahead perhaps?” He nodded, not wanting to worry him. His grandfather had an ability to fix almost any concern he had, but there was very little anyone could do with his obvious lack of talent.
“Something like that.”
“You’ve been sleepless for the best of reasons then, for your birthday begins right now.” Theodore opened up the oven and just as he’d smelled from his room, he’d made the world’s tastiest apple pie, with too much of everything in it. A good solution for almost any problem, and the only reason he’d finally decided to come downstairs.
“Only on your birthday, my boy – and no matter how old you get.” Theodore said, smiling from ear to ear, as he cut out one large piece for each of them. What he said was not completely true, for though it used to be an exclusive detail for his birthday, he’d been making it almost every moon span lately. This fact didn’t make it any less delicious, and for some minutes Isaiah was able to forget about the book – fully indulging in the sweetness of the mushy apples, with the cinnamon and cardamom. A year ago he’d just barely stomached two pieces, but he now had four before his belly forced him to put his fork down. His grandfather then held up a small gray seed, his earnest smile reaching all the way to his kind, hazel eyes.
“Ready?”
Leaving their plates uncleaned on the table, they walked out to the garden. Compared to their modest house, it was nothing less than enormous, and it would take anyone with a normal set of feet at least five minutes to reach the hedge that marked the ending point of their property. Nobody had ever reached it at that pace, mostly because very few were welcomed to enter, and because whoever did, always stopped in awe – admiring the gorgeous variety of flowers and shades of green along its paths. Standing at the right end of the garden, was the Sterculia alata. Surrounded by herbs and vegetables, it was beyond a doubt the tallest tree there, and carried strange, large fruits at its branches. Isaiah did not have a favorite out of the hundreds of species they hosted, but if he’d had to choose, it might be the one he appreciated the most. It wasn’t only its size and fruits that impressed him, but the way it swayed in the wind. The way its bole twisted elegantly from its roots to its top, making it both firm and flexible – at least for a tree that had been standing still for over a hundred years. It seemed this tree had, and would always, be there.
Their garden was his favorite place in the world, and though he’d never been in any other garden, it was unlikely he’d find one that could compare to theirs. Every seed had been precious gifts from all over Araktéa, resulting in a variety almost nobody would even dream of. Despite the blessing, this was a fact Theodore found unfortunate. People didn’t dream of beautiful gardens anymore, and the few who did, cherished such dreams only for brief moments, before telling themselves they’d be better suited for brighter days. Days that might never come. He also knew all his blessings came with responsibilities that had to be taken seriously – responsibilities he was committed to fulfil at almost any cost.
As they walked barefoot into the grass, both of them got ready for their annual ritual – one that indeed had kept its sacredness over the years. It was of course impossible to completely avoid looking at last year’s plant while it grew, as they spent a great deal of time maintaining the garden. Still, Theodore always insisted it was only on that very day it would reveal its true colors, and though the garden usually calmed both of them, they were always excited as they approached last year’s seed.
“Well look at that, Isaiah. Have you ever seen something quite so joyous? Does this mean there will be a great harvest this year and lots of sunshine?” Theodore asked hopefully, as they looked at the tall, bright sunflower, stretching almost six feet over the ground.
“I didn’t ask about the harvest.” Isaiah responded and his grandfather smiled patiently.
“I know you didn’t, dear. Now, are you going to tell me what you did ask about?”
Isaiah usually didn’t keep the question a secret from him, for he was a very intelligent man, and could answer most of them almost instantly – without having to drink rain and eat soil for a year.
“It was stupid…”
“No, my boy. Stupid is the one who doesn’t share his questions with his wise grandfather.” Isaiah sighed. It was a lesson he’d heard many times before, and yet, he still found a great many things too strange to speak about.
“I asked whether I was an adult yet.” Theodore looked at him, his eyes unusually widened and disapproving.
“Now, why would you ask that?” Isaiah shrugged, but this response did not seem to satisfy Theodore.
“I don’t know. I guess I started feeling different, and it seemed like a logical reason for it...” He’d felt different a year ago but standing there now he felt a different sort of different. Perhaps it was just an adult thing he needed to get used to, for the plant looked tall and bright. Yet, he couldn’t say adulthood was something he found enjoyable. As he’d told him some years before, “Adults don’t dream, and we worry a lot.”
“Nature never lies.” Theodore sighed, “I guess you are an adult now...” Isaiah was at least relieved he wasn’t about to be lectured on the limitations of his questions. Instead, his grandfather had that absent look upon his face now, that hardly ever led to conversation.
“It seems so.” Isaiah said at last and forced a smile. It had sounded like a good thing to ask at the time, and he’d been hopeful. Now, he wondered what would need to change accordingly.
“Perhaps I should start calling you Sir, then?” Theodore joked, thinking humor might hide his worry, and stop him from browsing his memory for when this change could have occurred – when and why his grandchild suddenly felt he was not a child any longer. Even if he’d dared to ask, Isaiah wouldn’t have told him. As with most, the sensation of change had crept up on him rather gradually. What he remembered very well, was when it had manifested into a question – yet another thing he couldn’t speak of. He knew that worrisome look on his face, and that it always seemed to worsen when he attempted to explain something like this. He’d worn the very same one, when a tall, light-haired man had come riding in last year – just a week or so before his thirteenth birthday.
It had been a very long time since they’d had any visitors, and the people that came and went, mostly had not paid any attention to him. His grandfather had explained it was because he was a child, and having none of their own, they were no good conversing with children. Because of this, it’d been a surprise when a young, uniformed man greeted him while fetching water from the well in the front of their house. The encounter had been brief, as Theodore had explained that the two of them needed to talk in private. Isaiah had watched his grandfather’s private conversations many times. Not because they were particularly exciting, but the visitors that had once come with more frequency, had often looked different from the Deltans in the nearby villages. Simply observing them had been fascinating. This time Theodore had made it clear, such behaviors would be even less acceptable than usual, and so instead he’d stayed outside with the man’s horse – a beautiful, white stallion. Stroking his hand over its soft mane, he thought he’d wish for one for his birthday. Remembering his grandfather was afraid of horses, it had then occurred to him that perhaps if adults spoke to him now, there was a possibility he was becoming one himself. If this was the case, it would mean he could in fact get a horse without anyone’s consent. With this in mind, he’d decided this might be the question that could change everything.
One year later, he understood how foolish his thirteen-year-old self had been. How juvenile the idea was, and how up till that moment, he’d imagined life to be an easy thing where he could have whatever he wanted. It wasn’t that simple for an adult. Nothing was.
“I guess now that I’m a man, perhaps it means I should have some new privileges?” He suggested, though not so sure if he wanted a horse anymore. His grandfather had convinced him they had no use for one and Isaiah had been unable to answer who would teach him to ride and where in Araktéa he’d want to ride to. Still, he didn’t want the question to have been asked in vain. Surely, there had to be some other benefits tied to adulthood.
“Actually, it is usually the other way around. But if you wish Sir, I can review your latest writings and share my humble opinion on them. Then afterwards we could discuss some privileges.” He was ready to give the boy almost anything, just to get a peak of one of those precious pages.
“I really haven’t written anything good yet, grandfather.”
“Oh, I doubt that, dear. Remember that talents need some time to expand and come alive.”
“I would just rather work on it by myself for a little while longer…if you don’t mind.” It was just then that Theodore noticed how oddly melancholic he seemed about the matter. “No, he must just be nervous to show it to me.” He thought. His grandson had always been such a perfectionist.
“Alright then. I will stay patient.” Theodore said, leaving his grandchild ever the slightest calmer. It was a lesson he’d taught him at an early age, and he felt he couldn’t force any story out of him that wasn’t ready to be read. Perhaps, it was finally time for him to write to one of his old acquaintances in Dabár. In circumstances such as these, the boy finally seemed to need advice beyond what he himself and his seeds could provide.
“So, what will be your first question as an adult?” he asked, bending down to make a pocket in the soil, while his grandson studied the seed of the purple iris. Isaiah had known for almost a whole year what he would ask. Usually it was something he would change his mind about hundreds of times before deciding, but not this time – it had come to him clear as day and stuck to his mind like a hungry leech.
“I just want to know if things will ever be the same again.”
“The same as what, boy? Same as when?”
“The same as they used to be.” Though he didn’t know when or exactly what it was, their world had started feeling different. Already a year ago, he’d been waiting for some time for it to return to normal. Now, he found himself waiting still, and though ready to continue being patient and hopeful, he was less eager to wait for nothing. His grandfather knew this very feeling better than anyone and staring at the boy as he planted the seed, he feared the worst of answers. “He can sense it too.” he thought solemnly, and watched him plant the seed, hoping they were wrong.
*
After the seeding, Theodore decided they’d pay a visit to the close-by village. Isaiah found it rather pointless, seeing that all they’d done was to change apples for mushrooms that they might as well could have picked in the forest. Isaiah dreaded crowds. The feeling had amplified further that day, as several villagers had bumped into him, and rather than apologizing, they’d turned around with strange, confused looks upon their faces. Staring out into the air like the clueless sheep he believed they were. “Pay them no attention, Isaiah. They don’t know any better.” His grandfather had reminded him, and returning home things had turned for the better. They’d played three rounds of cards, before preparing the dinner – finally finding themselves chatting about anything but books and serious questions. Almost having forgotten about both matters entirely, his grandfather’s cheerful humming turned silent. Then, listening more closely, he heard the rare sound of galloping hooves.
“Keep on chopping, I just need to go fetch something. Don’t let anybody in.”
Theodore rushed down the steep stairs to his office. Over the years, he’d developed a certain talent for recognizing sounds. It had begun with bird chirps, but now he could almost always tell the breed of a horse, simply from the rhythm and length of its steps. Though he hadn’t taken his time to listen closely, he knew it was a rather large horse – meaning it would likely be accompanied by a collector or some noble man. More likely than not, it would be the collector that had been there a year earlier – just as had been promised. He was more prepared this time and had both his papers ready and a copy of the contract he’d signed when he’d left Nagár. It should not be any major trouble to have him leave again – still, his heart was beating as if it was about to get speared, and he couldn’t help but think the answer they’d received that morning, had been a very bad omen.
As Theodore ran back upstairs, he heard two heavy knocks on the door. “Damn them for coming right on his birthday,” he thought, then he took a deep breath and put on his most solid and authoritarian face. He stood up as tall and wide as a man of his size could, and then opened the door. At his doorstep stood a muscular man with a sharp chin and a dripping, wet forehead. He appeared tall, but was leaning towards his leg, making it hard to tell if he was bowing or just badly injured. Nobody had ever bowed to Theodore before, and so he assumed the latter.
“Good day, Sir.” The stranger said.
“Good day.”
“I am sorry to bother you, but I’ve been passing through the woods for days and yours is the first house I’ve found. I’ve injured my leg, and it is making riding back home quite… difficult.” Theodore measured the stranger while holding the papers hidden behind his back. They were not for just anyone to see, and though he’d felt certain about what sort of individual was coming, life had taught him caution. He stayed on guard, knowing it might be a trick. It would have been a strange method to get into their house, but a clever one, nonetheless. Refusing to help somebody badly wounded was dishonorable, and Theodore even suspected it had become illegal – though he hadn’t cared to read the newest laws.
“I am sorry about your misfortunes, but perhaps it’d be better if you went to the nearby village. It is only a seven-minute ride from here, and there will be both doctors and healers that can assist you better than me.” The man’s clothing revealed he was not just another poor drifter. The odds of him being of the Kadoshi were low, as he didn’t carry their uniform – but he could still be anyone. Theodore’s biggest fear, by far, was that the realm itself had sent him. That his secret was no longer safe and that they were trying to lure their way out of the agreement.
“I understand, thank you.” The stranger stuttered, his steely, gray eyes were yet to have tears in them, but the red lines revealed fatigue. With great effort he started stumbling back to his horse. As Theodore had predicted, it was a large breed, but taking a good look at it, he noticed it was not of the common, noble man’s horses as he’d first believed. “Peculiar.” He mumbled, and then said, “Hold on, Sir. Perhaps I can take a look at the wound for you. I am no healer, but I do have a salve that might help.” He damned himself as the words left his lips, but seeing the limping man bending over in pain, and already having been wrong about his horse, made him second guess his judgement. It also made him strangely curious as to who he was, as something about him seemed awfully familiar.
“Thank you for your kindness, Sir. You’ll be paid for the trouble.”
“Now, none of that.” He replied. Noble money was the last thing he wanted in their house.
Theodore did not introduce Isaiah to the stranger, but he did not send him to his room either. Uncertain whether this was one of these new, adult privileges or if he was just being inattentive, he stood silently in the kitchen entrance. It’d been a long time since anyone else had been in the house, and so, he couldn’t help but glaring rather unshyly at the man. His dark, blonde hair laid messy behind his ears, looking as sweaty as he smelled. The stranger responded with a short nod of acknowledgement in his direction. Followed by this, there was a subtle, alertness on his grandfather’s face before he turned to tend to the stranger. The tall man fell down on their sofa with an awful expression on his face. He bit his lip as he pulled off his right boot, revealing wounds Theodore saw were more serious than he’d prepared for. Many men fell off their horses, down hills or even treetops if they were truly foolish – but these were not wounds of the sort. They were thin and clean, nearly making up a pattern that made it look as if someone had torn the flesh up deliberately. For most, they wouldn’t seem particularly threatening. Not very deep, nor showing obvious signs of infection. Having seen similar wounds before, Theodore happened to know that if not treated properly, death was a certainty – and even then, the chances of survival would depend on a thin stray of luck.
“I will get some equipment from my office.” He said, rushing back down to the basement with a sudden urge to help. He found his last jar of medical salve, a cloth infused with turmeric and just as he was about to exit, he saw the flask of water once gifted to him. According to his former student, it ought to have miraculous healing qualities and should only be used in emergencies. The past ten years, there’d been none, and though Theodore wasn’t sure he believed in miracles anymore, he thought it had to be the only thing that might save the man.
“It seems I came to the right house.” The stranger said, looking ever so astonished by the old man’s efficiency. The small cuts had turned to a darker shade of red, since he’d last looked at them, and the surrounding skin a grayer shade of pink.
“I will do my best…” Theodore said as calmly as he could, cleansing the wounds thoroughly. Meanwhile, the man stayed silent. His long, pale face revealed no pain until he put the salve on and Isaiah covered his ears as he started cursing viciously. It’d been some time since he’d gotten any injuries, but with the salve’s strong smell he recalled the pain from past wounds - this and perhaps the strange words made him feel a little lightheaded for a moment.
“Pardon me. I forgot there were children around.” The stranger said, and for a moment, Theodore stopped what he was doing. He looked the man straight in the eyes, before slowly turning his head towards his grandson, still standing silently in the entrance to the kitchen.
“Apparently, there’s not...” He uttered.
“What’s your name, boy?” The stranger asked, turning his head towards him. Isaiah looked towards his grandfather – oddly empty of instruction. “Speak only when spoken to,” he remembered, and then he said “Isaiah, Sir.” The stranger nodded with no major interest, while Theodore bandaged his leg as tightly as he could. Raising up from his knees, he noticed he’d left the contract on the table.
“Excuse me for a moment.” He said, grabbing it before rushing downstairs, locked it inside the lowest drawer of his desk, and brought back some tea leaves.
Once both their mugs had been half emptied, and the stranger’s pain seemed to have settled on a more moderate intensity, Theodore cleansed his throat.
“May I ask where you obtained these injuries, Sir?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” He responded. While the two of them silently regarded each other through the rising water steam, Theodore felt a growing urge to ask much bolder questions. He knew these kinds of wounds, and if they came from the place he suspected, he couldn’t keep himself from believing the stranger had come to their door for a reason. Not out of his own selfish agenda, or even his pain, but reasons he himself might not even be aware of. Reasons worth the trouble of saving him, as well as the risk of being completely mistaken in doing so.
“I heard you cursing in Birdú, and I see your wounds, so, I must ask you….” His lips were narrow, so that his grandson might not hear him from the kitchen.
“Have you gone to… the Parda?”
“What do you know of it?” The stranger asked, almost spilling hot water over himself.
“I… I’ve heard more than just a few tales, you might say. I didn’t believe anyone dared enter these days.” He said as casually as he could, while the stranger measured him.
“I didn’t get too far this time... As soon as my leg is better, I’ll head back.”
“Mmm.” Theodore responded, and for a flick of a second, the stranger saw admiration along the lines around his eyes. A rare encouragement that made him an inch more relaxed.
“It happened just over a week ago.” Theodore nodded slowly to this. Had it been himself, he wouldn’t have wanted to know it was his last night alive, and so he smiled kindly and said:
“I don’t have much space here, but you are more than welcome to stay in our common room till you feel better.”
“You’re too kind, Sir.”
“Oh no, too kind would be offering you my bed, but unfortunately my back wouldn’t bear the sofa these days. Not that it is unpleasant in any way, but I am getting… old.” he sighed, and got up from his seat.
“Please have some rest while we finish dinner.” The stranger nodded, and for the first time in years, Theodore locked the door to the kitchen before rushing over to his grandson (busy stirring the pot).
“Isaiah, the brave adventurer who is staying in our living room is very ill. He will most likely die during the night, and so, we should go on and celebrate your birthday like usual tomorrow. Tonight, we must try to give him the best time possible, seeing he has very little left. Do not mention to him that he is dying, for it might devastate him and devastated men are difficult to amuse.” Isaiah had never heard his grandfather talk in such a way before – nor seen him so eager to share dinner with a complete stranger.
“Are you… alright?”
“Yes, I am quite alright. I am not the one you should worry about – and not the adventurer either, for that matter.”
“But he’s dying… isn’t there anything we can do?”
“I will put something in his food for the pain. He will die with a full belly and in good company – that is the best thing we can do for him.”
*
The tea had made the stranger drift off into a strange sleep, and only an hour or so later he woke up to the smell of Theodore’s slow cooked, Deltan mushroom pot. It was considered a luxurious meal for most – particularly for travelers that always found themselves on the move, and he’d personally only ever smelled it from afar.
“Not only do you have impressive healing skills, but you’re a great cook as well. Are these the talents unmarried life forces upon a man?” the stranger asked, seeming far less stern than he had before, as the three of them had gathered around the dinner table.
“It seems so – although my late lady was not very talented in either.” Theodore cleared his throat and looked down on his plate. He shouldn’t talk about Elora that way – if not a talented cook, she’d been an extraordinary woman in her own right. Perhaps even too extraordinary, but he’d be damned if he were to sit there and spit poison upon her name.
“What about yourself, do you have anyone special waiting for you at home? Children, perhaps?”
“I do not, and I intend to keep it that way.” The stranger was quick to respond.
“No fairness in keeping a lady caged, even more so if she never sees me. And I don’t believe in bringing innocent children into this…world.” Theodore felt relieved. As most drifters he was a loner, and so, hopefully, nobody relied on him, and few people would need to miss him.
“Wouldn’t you rather tell us about one of your journeys then? We would love to hear about them.”
“Yes, please, Sir, do tell us a story.” Isaiah said, hoping it might inspire an idea for his book. Other than his grandfather’s plain tales of life, and a few about the Nagárian revolution, the only ones he’d ever heard had been from a distance – hiding on top of the stairs with his heart in his throat. They’d been tales he’d been too young to understand – ones he couldn’t remember anymore.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Theodore filled his glass a bit higher, and then poured one for himself – breaking yet another house rule, that would make his tongue looser and his laugh louder than usual. He excused himself with the fact that having a good time with a dying man was a hard task.
“You two are a convincing pair.” The stranger said with a half-smile and a softening gaze suggesting he was already well affected by both the wine and the food. Shaking his head, he took another long sip of red liquor, oblivious as to how many years it’d been locked behind closed cabinets. Then, he started speaking. He told tales like Isaiah had never heard any of his grandfather’s friends do. Of faraway places, large animals, and wild adventures where he’d fought death and won time and time again. Where he had climbed tall hills and swam across the wildest of rivers. Isaiah had asked for a miracle that day, and now, he had a dead man in his living room – telling stories truly worthy of being penned down. All the candles on the table had melted down and the sky was pitch black, before the storyteller started h