dontravis.com
blog post #327
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| Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons |
I’d like to
try a short story in a slightly different vein. It’s a story of discovery but
told in the language of past centuries. The setting if mythical, the story
mystical. I hope you like it.
*****
THE MOUNTAIN
“Be ye Hargis of Rodenbury?”
The harsh voice pulled me from my
cobbler’s stand. A broad, rough-hewn man of middle years stood straddle-legged,
hands planted on hips.
“Aye. I am Hargis,” I answered
uncertainly. He had the look of the law, but in these times, the ruffians dealt
such misery in the kingdom sheriffs were necessary, I suppose. My mind
scampered over my last few days, searching for offenses committed. None came to
mind.
The stranger’s face eased its stern
frown. “You have knowledge of Lavena and Dirkston of Dag Durgess?”
“I know them,” I answered with a
broad smile. “You have news of them?”
“Aye,” the man replied, accepting
my indication to take the seat opposite me in my small stand at the edge of the
market. Normally, it was a stool reserved for those who bring me custom;
however, he was welcome to it if he could refresh my knowledge of my two childhood
friends. He gave the loud sigh of a heavy man happy to relieve his feet of
weight.
“I’ve but returned from Dag
Durgess; my boat docked at early light. I searched for you in the rock quarry
but was told to find you here.”
“I worked the quarry through the
last high summer, and then found a master who taught me to cobble. But where
did you see my friends? How are they doing?”
The man held up a hand. “Hold! Don’t
bury me with questions. Before we sailed, a fair youth hailed me and asked if I
was bound for Rodenbury. He prayed that I deliver a missive to a big lout
called Hargis. Marveling that a lout could read and write, I agreed. Then a
pretty vision stepped to his side and handed me a message, as well. They
introduced themselves as brother and sister, which was needless wind, since one
could have been the other—give or take a few changes.”
“Aye, they are twins. Born of the
same mother in the same birthing bed, one after the other. He first, and then
she. They are well?”
“Doubtless they advise of their
estate by these,” he answered, holding aloft two sealed documents. “They looked
well fed and decently hosed. Spoke like my betters; acted the part, too,
although there was nothing offensive in their demeanor.” He heaved himself to
his feet. “Tis time to be about my business; I’ve accomplished theirs. May this
day in the next Year of Our Lord find you well, Hargis.”
“And you, sir. Thank you for your
kindness.”
Lavena’s letter reflected my recollection
of her. Small neat letters formed precise words conveying exact thoughts. She
told of her work as seamstress at the nearby Manor and her brother’s position
as gamekeeper at the same. Their parents were in health. They were well-favored
in their lives and content, except for missing their childhood playmate. She
closed with the words ‘All love, Lavena’. No mention of swains or
would-be-beaus. No hint of wedding vows. Nothing to tell me if she was still a
maiden not yet promised.
Aye, and Dirkston’s missive, which
I eagerly read, reflected him, as well. Bold letters carelessly formed yet
conveying straightforward thoughts. He liked his job, loved his family, and
chased the girls. His message closed with ‘faithfully’.
I pictured the two as they were some
three years past when we all had seventeen summers. Lavena was tall for a girl
and possessed a heart face crowned by curly golden tresses. She had budded long
before either of us and had the bearing of a woman while we were yet
striplings. The rock quarry had begun putting muscle and a man’s form on me,
although Dirkston still had the look of a boy. They were both beautiful. Her
beauty was feminine, his beginning to emerge from androgyny.
I reread the last lines of his
letter. “Oh, how I long for you again! You would not believe Lavena. She’s the
rose of this town, as I am its thorn! I catch my share of looks from the girls,
let me tell you. The Festival of the Harvest Moon looms hard on the horizon. It
is a wild time. Wicked…without being evil, if you take my ken. Anything goes. We
could have a grand time together were you but here.”
Seized by an acute yearning, I cast
around with a speculative eye. My parents had gone to The Lord, and there was
nothing to keep me here, certainly not this little stand. A man can cobble
anywhere. And while I had improved my station in life, there was a disquiet, a longing
eating at me at odd moments.
Two fair images floated in my mind,
and I made a small game of trying to decide which I missed the most. Lavena
held the calm and ready wit of the pair, yet I missed Dirkston’s rough and
tumble and his odd moments of intimacy as we shared important secrets of
childhood.
It took three days to sell off my
meager collection of things not required to set up business anew. The effort
reaped barely enough to keep body and soul together during my trek, but far
less than the price of a berth on a ship. One master gave my strong body the
once over and offered passage in exchange for seamanship. I eagerly accepted
but grew so green with mal de mer
on the dory ride to the boat that he sent me back to shore in disgust.
Thus it was that I set across our
island kingdom by foot, and being a cobbler, I was superbly shod. My remaining
belongings strapped firmly to my back, my stout hickory staff in hand, I turned
my face to the east and took the first of countless steps.
The freshness of being on the road
fell off my eyes quickly. By the end of the first day, I was tired and sore. A
twelve-month away from the quarry had softened me beyond belief. I slept beside
the road, one eye open for riffraff and highwaymen and the like. In truth, I
half hoped for a set-to with miscreants to stir my blood.
Days passed as I paced along
watching a distant mountain loom larger. At the foot of the thing, the trail
forked. The well-trod road turned north while a faint path led into the mist-shrouded mountain. There was no question in my mind that the path over the mountain was
far shorter than the highway. Nor was there doubt as to which I would take. The
direct route would gain my goal quicker. With hardly a pause, I strode
resolutely eastward toward the distant sea.
The mountain trail was easier than
expected. This must be some sort of a pass through the hills. And he heavy fog I'd encountered earlier had cleared away. At times I walked
with sheer stone walls on either side; at others, I broke out into pleasant
forested meadows. In the second of these, I halted at the sound of singing.
A rushing stream sparkled through
the trees on my left. Quietly, I left the trail and made my way to the edge of
the forest. Spread out below was a glade of such beauty and peace that it took
a moment to focus on the young woman singing as she stood ankle deep in the
water. Clad only in a thin shift that clearly revealed the long legs and
darkened mysteriously at her pudendum, she removed garments from a small basket
to beat them against a broad, flat rock. Her back was to me when she bent to
the water and rinsed a linen. I grew aroused as her shift tightened against her
buttocks. Realizing she was aware of my presence, I boldly stepped through the
brush and marched down the slope.
“Hail, master,” she called gaily as
she turned to me, not in the least disturbed by my presence.
“Mistress,” I returned the
greeting.
“You travel the high trail, I see. Tarry
awhile. I do not see many travelers. Where are you bound?”
“Dag Durgess on the eastern sea. Before
I’m done, I will have crossed this kingdom from shore to shore.”
“Kingdom? What kingdom?”
“Why this kingdom. This very place
where we stand.”
“I know nothing of kingdoms. Just
this mountain.”
I laughed disdainfully at this
pretty lass’ ignorance of the outside world. “The Great King will be surprised
to learn we are not of his realm.”
“Perhaps so, but enough of this. You’re
tired and require a refreshing swim in my brook,” she declared. Laughing gaily,
the beautiful young woman strode a few paces up the shore to plunge into a deep
pool. I stripped to my trousers before joining her.
The water pasted her thin shift to
her flesh, and at times glimpses of the dark nipples hiding beneath stirred my
excitement, but she turned and swam away. I raced after her. As she rested
against the far bank, I rose to my thighs in the water. Her gaze raked my torso
frankly, and I flamed with unseemly pride in my build. The quarry had laid a
slab of muscle over my breasts and pulled my sides into a narrow waist. My
corded arms had never been a matter of interest until now. She reached out and
touched them gingerly, cooing over their strength.
“What is your name?” I asked for
something to say.
“Gwyndolyn,” she answered, dropping
her eyes shyly, an artifice if ever I’d seen one, since she had boldly examined
me mere moments before. “And yours?”
“Hargis,” I answered. “Hargis of
Rodenbury.”
I cannot explain what happened
next. Gwyndolyn loosed all her feminine wiles on me, which is as it should be
since she was a female, but the sidewise glances, the feigned modesty, the
teasing with fluttered eyelids cooled my ardor. Of one thing I was absolutely
certain, never had such alluring female flesh been so available, and never had
I desired it less. Abruptly, I stood, the water running in rivulets from my
body.
“I’ve a long way to go,” I said
firmly. “Best be on my way. The bathing was welcome. For that you have my
thanks.”
She made a small moue of
disappointment, standing in the water to give me a look at everything blurred
only by the sodden linen shift. “Are you sure? Are you certain? So few come up
this path. I get lonely. I would make your stay worthwhile.”
“I am sure,” I
replied, the sincerity of my tone surprising even me. Retrieving my clothing
and staff, I set off down the trail without looking back.
*****
What’s
with Hargis of Rodenbury? A beautiful young woman throws herself at him, and he
goes mountain climbing. Let’s withhold judgment until we see what happens in
the second part of the story.
Abaddon’s Locusts,
the
fifth in the BJ Vinson mystery series, received several positive reviews. I
hope you’ll consider buying a copy. If you do, please post a review of the book
on Amazon. Each one helps… as do letters to the publisher.
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on
writing. You have something to say… so say it.
My
personal links:
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@dontravis3
Buy
links to Abaddon’s Locusts:
See
you next week.
Don
New Posts are
published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
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