Wizard of Jatte by Rowan Erlking (librera reader txt) 📕

“He was trying to apologize,” said Theissen, still holding back.

Snorting, the farmer only shook his head. “Well, he didn’t succeed. My dad chased him out of our village, and your father settled in nice cozy Lumen where he has been making a fortune ever since.”

Theissen said nothing. His father had not exactly described their fight like that, but it had the same flavor as some of the spats he and his brothers had on occasion. Brothers were like that.

The farmer looked down. “I wanted to hide it from you, since you seem to be a nice guy, but—”

“But?” Theissen shook his head and stepped closer to the farmer. “But what? We can’t be friends because our fathers had a fight?”

“Your father ruined my father’s trade,” the farmer said, biting each word out. “How can I forgive that?”

“How can you blame my father’s success for your father’s failure?” Theissen replied with exasperation.

The farmer balled his hands into fists.

Pulling back, realizing too late that he said something stupid, Theissen retreated towards the house again, lifting up his hands to show he wasn’t armed. “What meant was, how can you believe that? If your father was a Carpenterson, then why didn’t he take care of his trade like he was taught? He was taught by the same man as my father, right? Our grandfather?”

He watched the farmer lower his head and loosed his fists.

“That’s better. Now, please, I am sorry if you feel it is my father’s fault that—”

“I know it is not his fault,” the farmer said.

He did not expect that. Theissen watched his cousin lift his eyes.

“I’ve always known. I just….” The farmer shook his head. “Venting. Things are hard out here, you know. Things get lawless away from the towns along the highway. We’re unprotected here. And looking at you with your wide eyes, and all your brothers that passed by without even barely noticing us, I started to get mad. And when dad died….”

The farmer lowered his head again.

“I’m sorry,” Theissen murmured.

The farmer shook his head. “You know, it was him and me after my mother had passed away. And we would hear rumors about the Carpenters in Lumen, especially these last few years. Your family’s fame is nationwide now.”

“I’m sorry about that too,” Theissen said.

“You blame yourself?” the farmer asked, giving him a side look.

With a shrug, Theissen just remained silent, deciding it was unwise to mention that he used magic on the occasion that gave his family fame.

But the farmer laughed again. “Ha! I knew you used magic with carpentry!”

Theissen hunched down. “Shh! You said your village had a witch!”

The miller broke in, pointing at Theissen. “Do you mean he is a magician?”

To that, Theissen cringed. He turned on the ball of his foot and marched back to the farmhouse. “That’s it. I’m going in to dinner. Then maybe bed.”

By that time it was clear Theissen’s cousin was not as mad as all that. It was safe to head back inside. In fact, the farmer smiled at him.

The farmer’s wife was right. They were a lot alike.

“Come on back, cousin!” the farmer cackled. “Meet my brother-in-law properly now. I’m not mad.”

Theissen shook his head. “But I am. You only said, ‘I’m the milk farmer’ when we met. You didn’t even give me your name!”

Waving him back, the farmer laughed. “Alright! Alright. Come on back, Theissen Carpenterson. I’ll introduce myself right!”

Turning, Theissen smirked. He gave him a nod to continue.

Chuckling, the farmer bowed with awkwardness, truly showing he was a simple man. “My name is Brodik Rimtil Sardon Farmer, formerly Carpenterson, of Danslor Village. Will that suffice?”

With the formal greeting given, Theissen bowed, back. “And your brother-in-law? The miller?”

The miller still looked stunned with news that Theissen knew magic, he just shook his head and stepped back. “No. None that formal fancy stuff with me. You just tell me the truth. Are you a magician?”

Making a face, Theissen replied, “No. I am not.”

The farmer, Brodik, laughed, shaking his head at his cousin. “All right. I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on. Let’s go to supper.”

With a frank nod from Theissen, both entered the house without another look back at the gaping expression the miller was making at them. The door closed and they had a warm supper.

Theissen stayed with his cousin for a little longer than a week helping out around the farm. They cleared enough land for a good-sized corral. They also dug ditches to prevent spring floods from destroying the family’s garden. Theissen proved useful in fixing up the holes in the walls and even gathering stones out of the ground so the soil could be tilled without problems. The rocks they used to line their front walk to the rutted dirt road where neighbors stopped by every so often to peer at the stranger working there. By then, everyone knew the farmer’s cousin was visiting.

Walking to the village well with the farmer’s wife, now glad she was not a flirt but pleased to meet the family of her husband, carrying the large water bucket for her in his arms, Theissen asked a question that had been bothering him for some time. “How come all these villages lock up the wells? Our main well is open to all, though it is covered to keep little kids from falling in.”

She gave a sad sounding sigh with a shrug. “No one knows exactly when we started doing it, but it is said that sometime ago spiteful people began to poison town wells. Some say it was demons that did it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Demons? Really?”

The farmer’s wife nodded. “So they say.”

“Have you ever seen a demon?” Theissen asked her.

She shook her head. “Not to my recollection, but if you notice, there are powerful anti-demon charms all around the village.”

He had noticed, which was why he asked. His village had some demon charms, but he had noticed that the kirrel ran about without anything stopping him, so he really wondered if these charms were demon specific. Most of them were statues on rooftops carved like cats with vicious tempers, though there were some wind chimes here and there, painted red and gold with hanging gold chains and dangling red paper talismans on the ends. Their bells rang all around the skirts of the town, with a melodic tone that did have the ripples of pure magic. He could see even the powerful repellant qualities about the combination of the red and real gold written with a beautiful hand on the paper. Passing one, he inspected the words written on it.

Northern Lights bring in

Eastern Seas roll in

Southern Heat draws in

Western Wild grows in

Ward encircle and protect from Goles

Theissen flicked the red paper, he listened the wind chime bell clang against the painted clay shell. He continued on wondering now if all the children stories about monsters in the forests might actually be true. His father never made mention of them, and Yuld Scribeson, his childhood teacher certainly did not consider such tales worth his time. Still, he had grown up seeing demon wards around his own village, and even similar Gole wards hanging on posts on the outskirts though he had no idea what a Gole looked like. Up until then, he thought they were remains of a more superstitious era. After all, the only demon he ever saw was that kirrel, and the magician had made that thing. With all Theissen saw with magic, it was clear that demon things were merely mishandled magic and not mythical monsters at all. However, going among the northern villages, he started to wonder if there truly were such monsters.

There was a line of people at the well. They all looked drawn out and tired, though some had a bit more heartiness to them than the other places he had seen. It was like a good village run down.

“Here. Bring the bucket here,” the farmer’s wife said to Theissen who was obviously getting distracted.

He joined her side, politely nodding to the somewhat haggard looking Bakerswife and the dour Tailorswife. Both women eyed him and his clothes as if they had just sipped vinegar. The farmer’s wife nodded to both women, saying nothing. In fact none of the women talked except in hisses, whispers and snippets. None of it was like the chicken hen gossip of his home village. For once he missed the jovial, yet nosy, remarks at the fences and doorways. Here he caught cynicism laced with jealousy. The object of their jealousy seemed to be his nicely tailored cloak.

“What’s a fine gent like you hanging around in a ruined village like ours?” a woman asked to his right.

Theissen blinked, seeing a dumpy potato-faced woman in a hat. Her arms were plump, so it was obvious she ate well. She even had a double chin. It was a wonder she had reason to complain, but apparently all being well-fed did for her was to make her more outspoken in her complaints.

“Uh, actually, I’m working for the farmer,” Theissen said with a bow. “My cousin.”

All the women lifted their heads, now looking more like the birds he knew from home.

“Your cousin, did you say?” One woman repeated.

The farmer’s wife smiled at Theissen, taking another step as their place in line led them closer to the well.

Theissen gave another nod.

“What kind of work do you do?” another woman in line asked.

“Carpentry, though I will do just about anything for a warm bed and a meal these days,” he said.

“That’s your pay? You don’t want money?” the dumpy potato woman asked.

Theissen felt it would be robbery to ask money from these people. So he shook his head with care, also fearing to insult them. “At present, no. I’m a journeyman.”

“He’s waiting for a city to work in, he is,” a lean shrewd looking woman replied with an unladylike snort. She gestured at him with her bony finger, making his mind wander back to those mythic witches he had heard about. “Look at his fancy robe.”

“Cloak,” Theissen corrected. “It was a parting gift, from my uncle, the weaver.”

The women all threw back their heads with another group nod, looking ready to make him the brunt of a village joke. Yet, the farmer’s wife and he were now two paces away from the well. He clutched the bucket closer to him. These women were more like crows than chatting hens. They seemed to circle for carrion.

“Did you hear that? His uncle, the weaver!”

“That’s too fancy for a real weaver, that is!”

Theissen blinked at them and then looked at his cloak. “A real weaver?”

A stringy woman with barely a woman’s figure raised her hand and then nudged the woman standing next to her. “I’m a real weaver.”

“So, my uncle is a fake weaver?” Theissen said, raising his eyebrows.

The woman snorted and nodded. “He don’t make real cloth. He barely makes any, and I bet he lives in luxury for it.”

It was Theissen’s turn to chuckle, shaking his head. “Then you don’t know my uncle. He’s often busier than my father, and he’s the busiest man I know.”

All the women circled with dark looks, though they were closer to the well by one turn.

“What do you know about hard work? Look