Boots Chapter 2

It was with a giddy swirl of emotions that Boots set off along the path, pushing his handcart towards his actual fields. He was barely aware of the ground beneath his feet as he relived every word, look and gesture that had passed. He had moments of doubt that drove him to panic about being discovered and his mother’s ensuing disappointment followed by happier thoughts of a future when he could safely boast about his feat and ridicule the potential danger. 

Every now and then the venom in the lord’s face as he spat the word “filth” cast a shadow over the memory, like a cloud passing before the sun. But he pushed those thoughts along, focusing on the rhythm of his tools working through the dirt and the look on Colin’s face when Boots had implied he was able to hit the downed target. 

There was a fantasy he started to replay in his mind, he could imagine the arrow whistling towards the ground, the triumphant ‘thunk’ as it sank into the target. He wondered who had been the first to arrive at the fallen target to see the lone arrow lodged in its centre? He wondered if the rest of the crowd had gathered in awe, whispering in astonishment. 

Boots entertained his daydream as he worked. He paused for a drink and eyed the sun as he did so, gaging how much time he had left on the workday. The field he was working currently was not his own, and Boots wanted to make sure his adventure earlier in the day did not set him behind; he could not afford it.  

The field belonged to Balert, the wealthiest man in Holding, who was a merchant by trade and a right ass by reputation. Balert had acquired some of his brother’s land through a series of scandalous events; but the merchant found that he did not have time to tend to the land and travel for his business. His sons did a little of the farming, but spent most of their time working with and for their father. When Balert had approached Boots with an offer to hire him to tend the field and share a percentage of the yield Boots had jumped at the opportunity. After some fine scrutiny from his mother, an agreement was met, which included the borrowing of Balert’s oxen to plough Boots’ field. In the past few years, Boots had seen his meagre savings grow at an exciting rate. It was still a pittance, he knew, but more than he could have hoped for working his field alone. 

It was lost in thoughts of the future – where he imagined he would eventually own two oxen of his own and be renowned for his archery skills at competitions at which he would win gold and horses – that Boots was discovered by Balert himself. Boots jumped as Balert loudly cleared his throat. 

“Balert, welcome back, I hope it was a safe trip. Does that mean Siggu is home too?” Boots said with a wide smile to cover how startled he’d been. 

In response Balert frowned and made an unfriendly, “Hmph” sound before dismounting from his horse.  

It was a strange working relationship that Boots had developed with the man. Balert had always disapproved of Boots and Colin, labeling them as lazy trouble makers destined to become drunken layabouts (today, at least one of those opinions was true, and from time to time the other as well – although they generally managed not to be both at once). Balert particularly wanted his son, Siggu, to distance himself from his childhood friends and find friends with more ambition. Siggu, of course, had other ideas on the matter. 

But whatever Balert’s opinion on Boots the villager, his faith in Boots the farmer was well-founded; and Boots had not given the man cause to regret his decision. As Balert crossed the field, he inspected everything carefully. And though he frowned, because he always frowned, he had very little to criticize. Of course, that did not necessarily mean he would be lavishing compliments. 

“It seems as though you’ve made it through another start to the season without a complete disaster,” Balert said. “What’s this over here then?” he asked noticing some wild greens growing in an area that would usually be cleared by now. 

“That was my mother’s advice, I planted it at the end of last season. Something about enriching the soil before ploughing. It’s purple harrow, you can make salad and poultices from the leaves and a nice purple dye from the flower. I was going to see if you wanted to split the yield, or maybe sell or trade it off. But if you don’t like it, I’ll dig them up right away,” Boots added quickly. 

“No, no. But I will discuss the particulars of payment with your mother should this experiment fail.” 

Boots opened his mouth then clicked it shut. Balert was pompous and arrogant, but he was not an idiot. He would not go shaking his finger in Meranin’s face unless he wanted one less finger. Besides, Balert had to know that Meranin’s advice would likely result in a bountiful yield. 

No, it was an empty threat, one made because Balert simply did not know how to frame simple statements like “thank you” and “that was well done.” 

Balert bent to examine the plant, lifting the leaves and peering at the undersides and at the stem. 

“Have you noticed any dry, brown patches along the stems of anything? Closer to the ground,” Balert asked. 

“No,” Boots said, bending to peer at the leaf Balert was examining, “what do you see there?” 

“Nothing,” Balert said, standing and brushing the dirt off of his hands, “just some concerns I saw while out on my travels. A few farmers further South complaining about some sort of blight so early in the season. A few of them swear they noticed it at the end of harvest last fall too.” 

“I haven’t seen anything of the sort, but I’ll keep watch for it,” Boots said. 

“I expect you will,” Balert said. “I will want to know immediately if it does.” 

He was staring at the leafy rows of purple harrow as if they were preparing to defy him in some way.  

“Any advice on how I should deal with this blight if it does appear? I mean, if you are away and I can’t ask you,” Boots inquired. 

“I’ll have Siggu give you the details, I asked him to gather information about it while I dealt with several business matters,” Balert said, with a wave of his hand to indicate his “business matters” as something too complicated for Boots to understand. 

“Will Siggu be at the feast?” Boots asked, repeating his question from earlier. He would not tell Siggu about shooting the target – at least not tonight – but Boots was looking forward to hearing the story retold and watching his friends marvel at it while the excitement was still fresh. 

Balert made a sour face that gave way to a smirk, “I suppose, that is, if I decide he needn’t attend the formal dinner at the magister’s house. It seems that the attending lord has had some feather’s ruffled and old Yuggen is looking to me to help smooth them over. I suspect it may cost me a rather expensive bottle of crimson port that I was saving for a cold winter’s night,” he muttered, managing to brag and complain at the same time. 

“Oh, the lord is unhappy?” Boots ventured in a weak voice that was trying to sound casual. 

“Oh yes. Apparently, he was threatening to leave immediately, or arrest the entire village and prevent all the visitors from returning to their villages – I’ve not had time to gather all the details being fresh from the road. There was some to-do at the archery contest. I assume you weren’t there and can tell me nothing?” Balert asked drily, his eyes cutting over to Boots. 

Boots had to remind himself that it was an honest question and not a suspicious one, that was just how Balert looked at people. 

“N-no,” Boots swallowed, fiddling with his shovel, “I’ve been working all day. And, as you know, I only go to the village competitions.” 

“Yes, and it’s a pity. Should you ever change your mind let me know and I’ll arrange for your sponsorship. Maybe get you some decent clothes to help you make a good showing,” Balert added, looking over Boots’ rough garments with a sniff. “My name and money will take you much further than the handful of coins you could scrape together, I can guarantee that.” 

Boots felt his cheeks flush with anger and shame all at once. He looked away to hide his expression and caught sight of a few large rocks in the ground. He gratefully bent down to pull them up and toss them to the edge of the field with a little extra force. He didn’t trust himself to ask any more questions, and could not possibly grind out the ‘thank you’ Balert expected. 

“In any case,” Balert continued, an edge of bragging to his voice, “I’ll not only be dining with the lord but also his captain. Quite a distinguished military man as I understand.” 

Boots thought about the orange bearded man and wondered if that was the captain Balert would be dining with as Balert continued, 

“It will certainly be nice to end my journey with one more evening of cultured talk and discussion. I’m glad I could be back in time to assist the magister thusly.” 

Boots made a general sound of agreement and tried to look impressed. The thought that anyone could actually request Balert’s company for anything more than his crimson port seemed unlikely to Boots. And he could not think of three people he had less interest in spending the evening with than the lord he had angered, the captain he had fooled and the merchant that he worked for. The fact that all three would be stuck at some stuffy dinner with magister Yuggen for a portion of the evening actually made the upcoming festivities even more attractive to Boots. 

“I’ll be off then. Must scrub up and inform my wife that her presence will be requested. Oh, and let your mother know I’ve found the items she’s looking for.” 

Before Boots could ask what “items” he was referring to, Balert had turned to leave. He stopped at the edge of the field where there was a little clay bowl for offerings. Balert, in all his finery, squatted on his haunches to place something in it and bow his head in a short prayer before mounting his horse and trotting away. Boots went back to digging up rocks, unvoiced anger and frustration behind every push. 

“Tell that beanpole with a pickaxe for a nose to bend over and shove it where the plants don’t grow,” Colin would say. Boots would laugh at the mental image and shake his head, knowing he would never do it. Knowing that Colin did not really understand. 

Colin’s father was a successful wheelwright by trade, but could also make carts and barrels, and held a position of authority in the village. His mother was a seamstress who even had the occasional commissions come through from Balert on his travels. Colin, as the oldest son, would inherit skills, a business and be part of a long history within Holding village. Colin, for all his flippancy, was grounded in a way that Boots was not. 

Boots, living in his cottage on the outskirts of the village, often felt that was a symbol of how he was placed in all things – just at the edges. This field, this employment with Balert, those were the things that would help to make him a foundation. Something solid that he could build on for his future. 

Besides, it was not in Boots’ nature to be sharp or clever with his replies. He had an idea of it, having grown up with Colin’s quick wit and his mother’s sharp tongue, but more often he went with an honest response or a careful silence. This probably worked in his favour in his employment with Balert, who certainly inspired sharp comments from most. 

Boots packed up his tools and stopped at the same place that Balert had, the little clay bowl. Some sort of exotic looking petals were in it, probably from some rare flower Balert had picked up on his travels. Boots knew it was not supposed to matter what you left to honour the spirits of a place; the real gift was the time you took to do it and the strength of will in your heart. All the same, Boots felt his inferiority as he placed a small sprig of the purple harrow he was growing atop the bed of fancy petals. Boots realized, with a little twist of guilt, that it was the most full the little bowl had been for days. But if it helped keep the field healthy then Boots supposed he could take a bit of extra time to honour the unseen spirits of the place. He said a few generic pleas that he tried to feel in his heart and then went on his way. 

His thoughts as he made his way home were much the same as his thoughts had been on the way to the field; but with the weight of consequences dragging at the edges. 

He and Colin had thought very little about what would happen after the arrows were shot and they escaped the woods. The unexpected quickness with which they had been found and questioned emphasized that. And now Balert was reporting that the lord was ruffled and needed soothing with food and expensive liquors. The village was likely abuzz with what had happened. He imagined rumours and wild speculations were flying about. He realized, with some trepidation, that if the story reached his mother’s ears, she might be very quick to determine who the likely culprits were. His hope was that she had spent the day at home, as she often did, with little interest in the crowds and gossip the newcomers would bring. 

The path that led to the cottage he shared with his mother meandered along a gentle slope in the land. To get there you took a dirt trail off a path that was itself an offshoot from the main road. It was not a place you reached without knowing where you were going. It was unusual to live so far from the safety of the village, and inconvenient for Boots to travel so far to his fields, but his mother preferred the seclusion.  

The dirt trail that eventually led to the cottage wound on a slow incline upwards. Hazel and elder trees dotted the fields, filled in with dark pines and denser woods as you rose upwards. At this time of the year, the leafy trees were brushed with the fresh green of early spring buds, and their branches waved in the wind. Chimes made of wood, bone, feather, bits of metal and colourful beads clicked hollowly in the branches. He marked the different charms as he went, using the knowledge he had learned from his mother to identify what they were likely for: that one with the claws is to keep away bears, feathers and pinecones to ward of carrion. He slowed his steps as he passed one that was unfamiliar, it had several layers that dangled down from different branches that were carefully balanced despite the many ornaments hanging from each stick. He puzzled over it as he walked, mulling over the herbs and bits of nature strung up in it. Protection, or hiding of some kind, he reasoned, I suppose that one would also deter predators in its own way. Looking toward the final bend in the trail that disappeared behind the trees he thought, I wonder if there is one to protect errant sons from a mother’s wrath. 

As Boots came around the screen of trees, his thoughts smooth over as he took in the familiar sights of home. At the top of the rise, the trees gave way to a large clearing. The trail his feet were on would meet up with a path of reddish dirt and clay set with large, flat stones that led to their cottage. 

Although it was early spring, there was already a riot of colourful blooms lining the path through the field. Bees wove through the flowers, gathering nectar to fill the beehives his mother kept. Later in the spring and summer, the green grass would be adorned with sprays and mounds of colours from bright orange to deep violet-blue. When the summer winds swept across the long grasses it would set butterflies and blossoms swaying through the sun-kissed air. 

But these long grasses, he had learned, were just as likely to hold gruesome surprises as pastoral beauty. His mother and Jayna, the village healer, were often found with their heads bent together over some of Meranin’s books or out in the gardens and fields discussing and testing ideas. Their interests and experiments ran the gamut from healing, to gardening, to creating better dyes and more durable clay. 

As if to confirm his thoughts, Boots spotted a square of dark earth cleared of grass and flowers. There were markers in it, twigs with varying strips of cloth tied to them. Who knew what his mother and Jayna were up to with that? Many years ago, his curiosity had unearthed a cow’s head covered in squirming white maggots. His mother had lamented the interruption of her study while Jayna laughed at the high-pitched screech from young Boots that had set them running. 

Boots smiled and felt a swelling of fondness for his home and the years of memory gathered around it. Remote as it was, it had many blessings. But all the beauty and blessings of the hilltop clearing could not fully make-up for the worn modesty it contained. 

The cottage itself sat in the middle of the large clearing. Roundish and with a mushroom-shaped roof, it always had a sort of squashed look that was not helped by the uneven and mismatched repairs. When Boots had managed to secure his own fields at fourteen, and add Balert’s a few years later, he had felt his fortunes were set to turn. But it was a frustrating victory. 

With all the work he was doing on the fields, he found little time or energy to work on the cottage. Things that had merely looked worn a few years ago now looked shabby. Attached to the back of the cottage there was a small enclosure and lean-to that was under constant repair and reshaping to house whichever animals his mother chose to keep. This year, as it often was, they had geese. 

Boots set down his cart at the end of the red clay path and sighed at crooked window sill that would need re-setting. The one at the back needed sanding down where it caught on the shutter. The cottage finish was a patchwork of limewash and daub in various hues depending on what materials were at hand when they had the time. Ivy and other climbing plants were always creeping up the walls, hiding cracks and creating new ones with their seeking tendrils.  

His mother cared as much for status and money as she did for appearances. And she was content to live as they did, with just enough to make a living and pursue her interests. But Boots had begun to want more than just enough. Enough, perhaps, to one day attract a certain round-cheeked girl that lived in the village. 

“Mother. Are you here?” Boots called as he entered the home that had changed little in the seventeen winters he had known it. 

Although worn and patchwork with repairs like the outside, the inside of the cottage was neat, cared for and even had its own peculiar displays of luxury. Boots slept in a hammock that he strung and unstrung from the rafters as needed; the design of it changed over time to fit his growing form. But his mother slept in a bed that was hidden from view by a heavy woolen curtain dyed a rare, deep blue and painted with a yellowish, leafy pattern. 

He walked in and set the bag of edible roots he had gathered on the large, unremarkable table surrounded by mismatched chairs and stools. Beneath the table, under the carpet of rushes, was a clay-lined pit for storing dry goods covered by a heavy wooden door. Pushed up against a nearby wall were an equally plain wooden chest and cupboard that contained their clothes and any other worldly possessions they had. Shelves set higher up in the walls of the cottage were home to the jars, pots, bottles and drying herbs of his mother’s trade. But by the back window, unexpected among these common furnishings, was a large, ornate chair fitted with cushions stuffed with goose feathers that his mother nestled into as she gazed out at the garden and read by the light of the afternoon sun. 

Across from the shelves and cupboard, between his mother’s bed and the back door, was a large fireplace that would not have been out of place in a more affluent household. The fireplace was built of stone and clay and equipped with iron bars and chains to hold cauldrons, swing pots in and out of the flame and spit meat for roasting. There were four extra alcoves set in the fireplace that he had seen his mother use for everything from baking bread to drying shoes. Outside the cottage, attached to the back of the fireplace and near the animal shelter was a clay dome that could be used as a small kiln, a place to dry foods, or a way to create more heat for the cottage and animals in the winter. The fireplace was remarkable enough on its own for size and design, but lining the large mantle and hanging from the rafters was a decidedly unique assortment of cookery and utensils for a poor village healer, including some wicked looking knives and a set of copper pots. 

 Boots looked up above the fireplace at a few long pieces of yew up in the rafters. He would take a turn at making a bow again when they were good and seasoned. His wood skills were average, except in this regard, where his skill at shooting seemed to guide the shaping. It was something to look forward to, provided his mother did not find out what had happened and turn the seasoning lengths into firewood. 

He took a deep breath and went out the back door knowing he was likely to encounter his mother there. The large garden sprawled across the yard and received more care and upkeep than the rest of their house. The back of the cottage was bathed in sun from mid-morning until the tips of the cedars and pines in the valley beyond painted shaggy shadows across the grass. The garden grew any number of plants to consume, heal or serve whatever purpose his mother intended or discovered. Most of the plants he recognized, but there were always areas he was told not to meddle with or eat from. Between the garden and the trees sat his mother’s beehives, there black and gold bodies whizzing in and out in a constant state of duty. This was his mother’s domain, and the place she loved most to be. 

His mother’s large-brimmed hat was immediately visible on the other side of the poles that had been staked out and strung with twine for climbing plants. He stifled the panic he felt and tried to keep his face open and smiling. He imagined if she had heard about the competition she would be waiting, arms crossed, at the front door. Then again, she could be waiting to calmly bait him into lying so she could spring her knowledge on him like a trap. To call his mother prickly seemed a betrayal to all she had done raising him on her own. But if he was being honest, the description fit. 

She looked over her shoulder, as if she had sensed him standing there, and by her warm smile he knew he had escaped culpability yet again. He felt his own smile become genuine. 

“Boots! You’re home later than I’d have thought,” she said.  

She came around the trellises to greet her son. 

“Sorry mother. I got caught up talking to Colin and a few others, all of us are looking forward to tonight. I checked on the purple harrow and it’s taking very well. Balert has seen it, and I explained it to him, he doesn’t seem to mind.” 

His mother transferred the basket she was carrying to her hip so she could link her arm through his as they walked back to the cottage. 

“Of course he doesn’t mind. Does he think I’d steer my own son wrong?” she asked. 

“I did tell him if he had any questions he could ask you,” Boots added. 

She gave a small laugh at that, knowing how unlikely it would be, then asked Boots if he had made an offering to Gefion. 

Boots made a face his mother could not see and replied, “I left something at the field bowl, but I’ll be sure to bring something to the shrine tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow, he had some errands to run in the direction of Gefion’s Grove and it would be convenient. Although his mother would comment that it did not count as much of a sacrifice if you were not going out of your way, or going only for the purpose of giving. But Boots had found that his yield always had more to do with the weather and his planting cycle than leaving mounds of perfectly good food and bits of metal to decay outside some mossy grove. 

“Did you go watch the archery competition?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “I thought that might have been what kept you.” 

He did not bother to stifle his sigh. 

“Well. Did you?” she stopped and drew her arm out from his to turn and look up at him. He needed no more warning than the tone of her voice and the sharpness in her face to be careful with his answers. He felt a flush growing from his neck, 

“Like I said, I saw Colin, for a bit. And a few other people, and Balert, but I didn’t go to the contest.” 

He turned towards the cottage before she could see the flush creep past his collar and across his cheeks. As he stalked away, he could feel her eyes, sharp and green as a cat, following him and he hunched his shoulders against her glare. 

He went into the cottage and looked around for something to do to keep himself occupied. He set on clearing ash from the edges of the firepit. It did not need to be done just yet, but he wanted to avoid an argument, and his mother’s scrutiny. 

I just pretend that I actually did the thing I am pretending to do – forget all about what you did, Colin always said, believe your own lie. Boots tried to picture what his day was supposed to have been like, but the hulking shape of his actions kept blotting out his lie with the very real feelings of a bowstring tense across his fingers, the flap of branches and budding leaves as they ran, the flush of panic as the horses rode towards them along the road, and the exhilarating mixture of fear and triumph he felt the whole time. 

He heard his mother enter the cottage and in a matter-of-fact tone said, “These contests come and go; and are not nearly as fun as those we hold in the village. My understanding is they are not really a test of skill, but an opportunity for the nobles to show off. And, I have heard, they are not particularly gracious winners or losers.” 

A huff of laughter escaped him at that comment, but it passed as part of his sweeping and scraping. Filth, he remembered the lord saying, the vicious look in his eye before he turned away. Ungracious losers indeed. 

“And there is still the festival tonight, that will be fun,” she said, the tone of her voice at odds with the words. Concerns about archery aside, there were few things less “fun” for Meranin than a long evening spent in the company of nobles and strangers. Boots made a sound of agreement as he stood and dumped ashes into the pail. His mother’s warnings following him as he went. 

“Just don’t get goaded into anything unnecessary. No knife throwing. Not even a game of nutters. There will be people from three different villages there. And those nobles. What is his name again, Narosh?” 

It was as though she was trying to make arguments against points he may be thinking, and was making him defensive in the process. But he was after smoothing feathers, not ruffling them, to avoid being caught out. He realized his shoulders were hunched again and he tried to relax them. The silence stretched out behind him, and he hoped it would go long enough that the topic might be dropped. 

Then his mother said: 

“Maybe you should not go tonight.” 

“What?!” his head whipped around. 

“I need to go out, I won’t be around, and I’ll worry if you’re -” 

“No mother, I’m not staying home. You weren’t going to go to the festival anyway. Why would it make a difference if you were here or somewhere else?” 

She watched him with an unreadable expression, then the lines of her face relented. 

“I know I cannot prevent you from going, the gods know you are not tied to my apron strings anymore,” she said. “I only want to make sure that you are safe. That you always remember to be careful.” 

He could not stop himself from rolling his eyes as he said: “Yes, because of a dream you had years and years ago, with a bloody arrow, and a bloody flag with three golden crowns, and something about a crow and maybe a fire,” he said, rattling off the key bits of the dream his mother had told him about. The reason, she said, that he could not participate in any archery competitions outside of Holding.  

Now it was his mother’s turn to be irritated and she dropped her pretense of being reasonable as she added, “which was a true dream, and one whose warning you’d best heed. Because the true dream I had before that was the one that predicted -” 

“My father’s death. Yes, I know,” Boots finished for her; his voice ridged with anger and frustration. It was as much with his mother as with the whole argument. How did you argue against death? Predicted or otherwise? You couldn’t. 

He completed his cleaning with force, communicating his frustration through banging and clattering rather than words. They were veering towards an argument that they’d had many times before. One that was sapping the triumph and excitement from his day; one that had no resolution. His mother never felt easier about his attending these sorts of events, and Boots never felt less restricted by her warnings. 

But there was more than just the chafe of these restrictions that wore at Boots. He had made the choice to accept his mother’s fears and follow her warnings; but acceptance was not the same as belief. 

In moments of frustration like these, he could not help his thoughts from veering down darker paths, ones that were forged by bitterness and skepticism and a strange, cold logic. These were the paths his thoughts traveled now as he leaned out the door to bang the ashes off the brush. 

When he pulled his head back in his mother was watching him carefully. 

“Well?” she said, “I cannot interpret all these angry noises you are making. And I can’t have you leaving if I need to worry about what mutinous thoughts are on your mind and what sort of trouble you and Colin will get into because of it.” 

Too late. He thought, with a bit of a jolt.  

He did not think it was possible for he and Colin to have done anything more troubling to his mother short of walking into the clearing and letting loose the arrow in full sight of everyone present. And there was that uneasiness that he had pushed deep into his mind these past few days as they prepared, the weed of doubt that kept growing back. He had not actually disobeyed his mother’s wishes, but he had come very close; so close that he worried the difference may be indistinguishable. 

He knew it would make no difference to her anger, but would it make a difference to his supposed fate? 

Boots put the ashes in the bucket and put the cleaning tools away, his movements as careful as his thoughts while he chose how to put his question into words. If he went about this in the wrong way, his mother, irritated as she already was, would shut the conversation down. He was hoping that her need to have him understand would overcome her habitual secrecy. 

“If our lives are a single thread spun by the gods or the fates,” he said, “if when we are born that thread is already dyed and woven and, as they say, measured to be cut, then how can a true dream not be part of that thread from the beginning? How…how do I know that what you dreamed won’t come to be whether I do something foolish or not? And if these threads are already made, if some sort of pattern is already set, then what if some other thread is destined to intertwine mine no matter what I do?” 

She pressed her lips together; and to Boots’ relief the resulting frown was more of thought than of disapproval. He did not want her to think he was questioning her prediction, he just wanted to understand. 

She sat down on a stool by the table. 

“That is a very good question,” she said, after some thought. “One that deserves a good answer. She took off her straw hat and smoothed out her brown hair. Boots noticed in the slanting afternoon light through the window that it was threaded with greys.  

“It is true that I have some talents with herbs and plants and charms. I have always had a way with living things. But that does not make me a seer any more than carving wood can make you a seamstress. And just as you may, on occasion, produce a passable pair of socks despite your lack of skill, so might I be visited with the sight the odd time. But like your efforts with socks are likely to be full of snags and ill fitting, my dreamings will suffer similar weaknesses. 

“A true seer has powerful visions with symbols and messages that speak to them with strength and clarity. They have a natural ability, and perhaps training, to interpret what they have seen and understand how it fits into the threads of life. But I do not have those skills. I see by chance at the whim of the spirits, as if peering through a fog. I often do not understand how what I have seen fits into a larger pattern. And I am sorry that my not knowing causes you distress.” 

She meant that last part, he could tell. 

“I think I understand what you mean, about not being a seer,” he said. “And I don’t want you to think I doubt what you are telling me. I just, I still don’t understand. Why do you think a true dream can be prevented? I mean, if you can prevent a true dream then doesn’t that mean it wasn’t really a true dream to being with?” 

She nodded as he spoke. 

“I see what you mean,” she said. “Seers can have prophetic true dreams that tell us what is to come. But they have other skills as well. They may have dreams that give us warnings, or trances that help to find missing objects, or answers or even people. These do not predict what will happen but are still considered to be ‘true’ because they are gifts from the spirits and the fates.” 

 Her answer had begun thoughtfully, but her explanations held some surprising detail, more than Boots had expected; and she stopped abruptly with a small smile. 

“Sorry, I am going on quite a bit. I have done some work on my part to understand, partly because I have many of the same questions that you do,” she said. “But you are no doubt wondering if what I have seen for you can be avoided.” 

He nodded and her smile went a little bit sad. 

“I wish I had a better answer for you, Boots. I wish I had better answers for myself. For all I can tell, fate is, I think, like a swift current in a river that is speeding towards an ocean.” 

She traced a line on the table with her finger then outlined a large circle to be the ocean. As she spoke, she traced lines shooting off and away from that first pretend stream, but all leading to the pretend ocean. 

“You will always end up in the same ocean; but you never know what current will pull you along, or perhaps sweep you off to another stream entirely. So, because I am not a seer, because I know my dreaming may have gaps and flaws, I can only offer a warning. Maybe what I have seen is a warning. I cannot be sure. But if following my directions can help keep you safe, can keep you from being pulled away by that other current I saw in my dream, then it would be well worth doing.” 

His mouth went dry as he listened to her. He stared at the table and could almost picture gleaming trails left by her fingers that pulled and pushed the streams to and fro before spilling into a circle. Maybe she had said these things to him before, maybe he had never listened well, or been too angry to try and comprehend; but he felt the pieces in his mind connecting as it suddenly made more sense than it had before, and for the first time that day he felt a proper fear about what he had done. What if, he thought, that was the moment. What if I have stepped into that other current? 

“Boots?” His mother asked, seeing the change come over his face. 

He looked at her and considered, for a moment, telling her everything. But the festival would happen tonight, in the morning the lord would leave, and by dinner it would be falling away to memory. He had to hope it would. 

Instead, he asked another question, one that voiced the shape of what had remained unspoken between them. 

“When you had the dream for my father. What did it -” 

“No,” she said. 

“But why won’t you -” he tried. 

“I said no, Boots,” she said with force. “I will not discuss that with you. It will not help you. You think it will, but it cannot.” 

Now it was Boots’ turn to press his lips together in anger. He muttered something about looking after the garden and left out the back door. He wandered through the rows of seedlings and sprouting plants at random before sitting down to weed a section. 

He dug through his thoughts as his fingers dug through the dirt, rooting out ideas like the stalks of unwanted weeds. He was not surprised that his mother would cause him to regret what he had done even without knowing he had done it – that was, he understood, a special talent of mothers. What he had not anticipated was the fear. 

He thought back to when his mother had first sat him down and explained that, despite his incredible skill, he could not enter any competitions. Stung by this, Boots had lashed out, angrily, questioning the logic behind the decision. And then she had blurted out, if your father had listened maybe he would still be alive. 

He remembered, vividly, the look on her face when it had happened. The faint look of surprise that she had said it, and the resignation that she would now have to offer some sort of explanation. And she had laid it all out, her true dream – or vision – and the warning. It isn’t safe, Boots. It just isn’t safe. 

He tried to be angry about it, about her not telling him sooner, but he had to admit, there was a part of him that wished she had never told him.  

This argument, this topic, was like an ill-fitting shoe that was easy to slip into but quickly brought pain and blisters that left you regretful and calloused. But that did not mean you could not take the shoe off, heal a little, forget. 

He could already feel the anger loosening inside of him. His mother’s fear was real, and at the end of the day he respected that because he respected her. Just as she understood his frustrations and respected them the same way.  

Soon, he heard footsteps approaching. 

“Come on in Boots, I’m preparing some soup for dinner. And I need you to get me some dried goods from storage,” his mother said. 

He stood and dusted his hands and pants off. She cocked her elbow out and he linked his arm through hers with a half-smile. They walked back to the cottage in the same way they had earlier, before the argument. She patted his hand, as if thinking the same thing. 

And so, the disagreement and the resulting prickliness dissipated as they fell into their routines. It nearly returned when Meranin pointedly placed a handful of goods on the windowsill and proclaimed them to be “for his offering, tomorrow.” But Boots had just grunted an agreement. 

Then he went out behind the cottage to the attached storage room. It was dug into the ground, to keep things cool, and you reached the floor by a short ladder. Boots was making plans to expand it over the spring and summer, thinking to fill it with goods to sell and trade. He climbed down the ladder and looked wistfully around the dingy space trying to picture the brightly washed and neatly shelved room him he would create.

The small space was also home to the aelph stone. The aelph stone was a nub of light grey rock, a little more than a handspan high. It was covered in lichen and riddled with holes and lines that could have been ancient carvings or the ravages of time. It poked out of the ground like a finger, and Boots had no idea how deep into the earth it went. If the storage had not been dug in this place, no one would have known the aelph stone was here. 

He had a memory of sprinkling herbs on top of the stone after his mother had poured honey or cider overtop of it. He and Colin used to scare themselves silly by seeing how long they could sit in the dark, earthy cellar with only the mysterious aelph stone for company. For the aelph were fairy creatures of the forest, twig like and sharp featured, that were rumoured to snatch children from their homes, or pull them under the earth into the Aelphdom. 

Boots grabbed what he needed and hurried out. Even without childhood fears of the aelph, he had never liked the dark, cramped space and the damp earthy smell. 

His mother had dragged the table closer to the fire and was preparing the soup, adding what Boots had brought home to the mix in a large copper pot. Boots was never clear on where she had got those pots. When asked she would say ‘your father got it somewhere’ with a vague wave of her hand. Boots did not really believe the story was that simple, but it was the only answer he got. 

He spied a pot of honey on the table and dipped his finger in for a taste. Meranin waved him away with her cutting knife, which was, as Boots knew, very sharp. But he risked one more swipe of the sticky, golden goodness before fetching a basket of his own work. 

In it was a small assortment of carving tools and some pieces he was working on. New spoons, some bowls and cups and a little figure that he intended to be some sort of bird. He had first wanted an owl, but had made the head too narrow, perhaps it would be a large bird of prey, but that seemed a lofty idea for such a simple piece of wood. So, now it was the sitting profile with folded wings that could be any one of the common songbirds that sat in trees and pilfered from their back garden. He sat the bird carving to watch him as he worked on a bowl, thinking maybe he could have one of the village girls paint it, if his mother would spare some of the dyes she made. 

He flipped over one of the bowls and examined the decorative pattern he had begun before selecting a tool and continuing the design. 

“Is it time to collect pine sap yet?” he asked. Between the regular household uses and his mother’s many medicinal needs, it seemed they could never gather too much of the sticky stuff. 

“I’ve just finished up with gathering elder sap, so not yet. I like to boil sap and store it before I start on the pines, it just seems to get the timing right,” she said. “Jayna will likely come by to help, and take some with her too.” 

Boots nodded and continued on his carving, thinking over, not for the first time, the strange role his mother had in the village. Meranin was respected for her knowledge and reason. And her skills extended beyond healing to any of the arts that required mixing, extracting, fermenting or any other process by which you could turn “this” into “that”. But if you asked anyone in Holding who the village healer was, they would point to Jayna. 

Jayna was a very competent healer, better than most in Meranin’s opinion, but she was not better than Meranin herself. However, in a situation ripe for rivalry, the two women had instead grown a strong partnership and a genuine friendship. 

Which was nice, because if Boots was honest, his mother did not really tend towards making close friends. Jayna was one of the few people that Meranin would leave her hilltop to visit for reasons other than business.  

“Such a clever carving,” his mother commented with a fond smile that made Boots feel like a child once more. In truth he was a very average carver. 

“Not so clever. Enough for a farm boy,” he tried to sound dismissive, but a grin of pride crept into his features nonetheless. 

“Clever enough? More than clever enough. Think of all the skills you have gained and honed. You name someone that can farm fields, shoot a bow, build furniture and even carve bowls and plates half as well as you. And name one that could do all four.” 

“Well, I can do those, sure,” Boots said, arguing just for the sake of it, “but Colin can farm a field, build sturdier furniture than mine and stitch a fine pair of trousers and cook a decent meal of gruel.” 

His mother harrumphed, not intending to admit at the moment that any son was as fine as hers. Instead, she replied, 

“All you need is a good lass to fill in what’s missing. Between the two of you, you can figure it out.” 

“I suppose.” Boots grinned impishly, “failing that, I guess I could always marry Colin.” 

His mother gave a bark of laughter. 

“Now wouldn’t that be a match to make the gods watch,” she said. “You and Colin don’t need to have even more time together to find trouble. No, I think before long you will catch someone’s eye. Although possibly not with that field on your face.” 

She gestured at Boots, and Boots rubbed a hand over his jaw. He had noticed that his beard was getting longer, it grew patchily across his cheeks and chin and it did itch, especially in the heat. He gave a copper pot sitting on the table a shine with the edge of his shirt and studied his reflection. The curved surface stretched his features, and he made a few comical faces before tilting his chin up to see how unkempt he was. 

Then he reached for a knife, no need for a shaving blade when his mother was the one doing the sharpening. Meranin put a fine edge on her tools, just as she put an edge to her voice as Boots raised his hand to begin trimming. 

“Not at the table, you are not a thrall. Go outside. There will better light too,” she scolded. 

Boots stood to obey, taking the knife with him and grabbing another of his mother’s smaller prized pots as he went out the back door. 

“And not in the -” She began, calling after him. 

“I know!” he threw over his shoulder, turning right to avoid the garden, not wanting to find beard hairs in his beans any more than his mother did. 

He stopped at the rain barrel to splash some water into the pot, thoughtlessly flicking a few drops into the air to honour the water spirits, daughters of Runna the ocean deity. He then went away from the garden and found a stump to rest the pot on as he worked. 

He made quick work of trimming. His beard was not very full, so it was easy to get a smooth face. Part of Boots held out hoped that his beard would fill out a little more in time, but another part of Boots knew he would not be keen on the effort needed to keep himself tidy. He had asked his mother about his father’s beard once, in an uncharacteristic moment of sharing she had paused and thought for a moment before answering; “He had a full beard, very dark. He kept it quite trim most of the time, although sometimes he would shave it all off. You get your beard from my father, I think.” 

Boots spent a few moments turning his face from side to side, trying, as he sometimes did, to see what features he may have gained from his father by subtracting what he had gained from his mother. But, if he had also gained something from each grandfather, neither of whom he had ever met, then it was a hopeless task, made even more difficult by the curved and coppery pot that stretched and pinched his face in funny ways and gave everything a golden hue.  

Boots brushed himself off and went back in to return the pot and knife. 

“I’d best get everything I collected today stored up, and go down to the creek and see if I’ve caught anything in the traps.” 

Beyond the gardens and beehives, the land dropped off steeply in a treed ravine. A small creek ran along and it supplied water for the well, fish for their bellies, clay for building and reeds for weaving. 

“Can I do anything for you before I go?” He asked his mother. 

“No son, I’ll be fine. This will be ready for dinner. Although you may have to cook it on your own,” she said. 

Something about how she said it, he paused in going out the door. 

“Where are you going to be?” He asked. 

“Out,” she said. 

She scraped the rest of the peel off of the potato she held then added, “Maybe for the evening, maybe until tomorrow.” 

She had said something about that, when they were arguing earlier, that she wasn’t going to be around. He realized that she did not mean she would be staying home, but that she would be going out.  

At first, he could not believe his luck. The festival that would be held, the talk of the mystery arrow would be everywhere and no chatter of the secret archer would reach Meranin’s ears tonight. But filial guilt snagged at his thoughts. 

“Do you want me to go with you?” he asked. “When do you leave?” 

She waved him off. 

“No need. I have it all arranged.” 

He hesitated, still in the doorway. 

It was not as though it was new or unusual for his mother to leave for a few days. Often, she wanted to gather some plant she knew would be flowering, or wander around some obscure glade looking for something only she recognized. Very rarely she would meet with someone, they would exchange ideas, or some kind of substance wrapped in paper or sealed in clay pots, or even writings in books and papers. Sometimes she and the mystery visitor would spend a few days talking while Boots poked around the surroundings. 

He had memories of these outings from when he was young, although they were mostly vague and fuzzy, having no names or locations to help stick them in his mind. There was one distinct memory though, some large men, and his mother flashing a knife. His face buried in the smell of her woolen cape as she sheltered him under it and hurried him away.  

It seemed after that she had started leaving without Boots, having him stay with Colin’s family, or Jayna, although that happened rarely. And it was not until Boots was old enough to stay in the cottage on his own that she started leaving again with more regularity. 

It did not sit completely well with Boots when she left. But then, there was something so competent and sure about his mother that when she waved away his worries it almost convinced him. 

But she was still his mother. And his only living family.  

“I should go with you,” he said. 

“Not at all Boots. Thank you for offering though.” 

She gave him a reassuring smile, “really, I will be fine. Go and have fun, I am the one who will feel badly if you do not. Look, I’ll bring my knife,” she said, waving the blade around, “it’s sharp enough I barely have to aim, just slash.” 

His answering smile was wry. He had never discussed the memory of the men, her knife, and the sound of falling bodies. She probably thought he did not remember. 

He watched her slice a potato into pieces with neat efficiency with a mix of emotions; a little bit of worry, some genuine concern, and a lot of irritation that his mother was so consistently difficult. He knew that other mothers in the village – and few fathers for that matter – did not travel alone the way Meranin did. The area around Holding was not particularly dangerous, but the roads were not free of hazards from nature or people; it was considered good sense to travel with others and let people know where you were going so that they knew where to look if you did not return. Her behaviour would certainly raise eyebrows and Meranin’s desire for secrecy was not the only reason Boots kept her wanderings to himself.  

 He was also feeling a generous helping of guilt in his mix of emotions, because he was so relieved that she would not be around to hear about the mystery archer that sabotaged the competition. 

“Well, if you decide you want me to come too, I will be sure to return here as early as I can,” he said. 

“Thank you, Boots. I will keep that in mind,” she said. 

They both knew she would not, but it made him feel better to have it said. He left the doorway to come back in the house to kiss his mother on the cheek before going out to finish the day.

<– –> <– –> <– –>

When Boots returned his mother had already left. Likely taking advantage of what daylight remained. Boots wondered where she would arrive by nightfall, then stopped wondering to avoid worry. He ate the soup that had been left bubbling in the pot and put on his nicest shirt and trousers, trying not to think about Balert’s pointed comments from earlier. Boots’ clothing did not have the intricate embroidery and fancy trim Balert’s and Siggu’s did, but it was a good, finely-woven cloth and dyed in a unique and catching green that his mother had created.

As Boots set out towards the festival he fell in with others heading in the same direction, and passed those who had decided to return home for an early night. He found out that there had indeed been concern that the festivities might be cancelled because of the debacle at the archery competition. 

Boots hopped on a cart that was bringing villagers to the fair ground and started gathering gossip. The story was that a jumpy competitor had loosed their arrow early and hit the rope holding the target, causing it to fall to the ground. 

“A lucky shot!” someone declared. 

“Or unlucky,” said another, “seeing on how that noble reacted.”  

That was met with muttering agreement and Boots sought out more of the story. It seemed the noble had become very, very angry. Yelling for retribution and insisting on keeping the entire crowd for questioning before the captain (the orange-haired man, Boots assumed) started sorting things out. Boots recalled noble’s pinched face and voice when he had spat out the word ‘filth’ at he and Colin. Boots could imagine the man’s equally poisonous response the moment he was thwarted in his own competition. 

“And that’s the man they think the people of Holding will accept as some sort of lord? Like I’d give a hot-head like that any authority.” 

There was a mixed reaction to that comment. Some people quieted up right away, but some threw out opinions. 

“But he is a lord,” someone pointed out. 

“Sure, but no one really needs him much, take your bag of gold from Yuggen twice a year and be on your way, I say.” 

“We’ve got our own mill, our own tradesmen, and our own justice. The new king has taken care of that whole unpleasantness with the you-know-what and made some changes, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with us.” 

Boots ears perked up at this last part. There were rumours of some sort of magician or wizard and corruption and the old king, and that King Harald had vanquished the evil and saved the court from ruin. Boots had barely been born and had no memories of it himself. His mother and the people of Holding knew no more than the rumours that Balert and other travellers carried back. Which was to say, very little. 

It was funny how no one used King Harald’s name, but just called him the ‘new king’ and his predecessor the ‘old king’. It was really an indication of how Holding felt about the king and his authority. The year Boots was twelve and the river froze the length of Holding for ten days would be immortalized forever as Svell Winter, children born that winter all had names that reflected the event, and the story would be re-told in Holding for generations. But when King Harald died, or was deposed, he would become the ‘old king’ and his successor the ‘new king’; and Holding would take less interest in the men themselves than the stories that brought them to ruin or power.  

That is, until recently, when the new king had started wanting to make changes to the laws. Changes that involved granting more authority to nobles under the guise of protection. At least that was how it was always presented to Boots, who did not fully understand these changes, but he was starting to think he should try. 

“I’m sure we all have feeling on this matter, but maybe it’s a discussion we should not be having tonight,” was the caution coming from Fered, a farmer Boots knew to be reasonable and kind. “Like you said, if this was the reaction to a difficult shot being made, imagine how the man would take to outright criticism.” 

There were nods of agreement on this. But them someone cuffed Boots on the shoulder and said, jovially, 

“But not so difficult a shot if it was our Boots!”  

Boots had been prepared for this type of comment and felt a little jump of excitement and anxiety and plastered a smile on his face that he was sure looked a little goofy. 

“Now, don’t go dragging my name into this mess,” he protested, “I wasn’t even there.” 

“How come? How come you never do go to the big competitions?” someone else asked, “You could’ve won a good purse.” 

Boots shrugged and assumed a prim smile, “I promised my mother I wouldn’t.” 

Though true, the delivery made the answer seem a jest and there was laughter all around. The topic quickly flowed back to the night ahead and Boots was free to let his mind wander a bit. He was disappointed that there was no mention of a second arrow hitting the target. But he had plenty other moments to swell his ego; because every time someone expressed awe at the luck of that “unlikely arrow”, Boots wondered at how much more they would be impressed if they knew the reality. 

 It was in good spirits and without trepidation that Boots approached the grounds set up for the feast. He had thwarted the noble of his victory, and now he would attend the festival to drink the fine ales and dance to the fine music. Boots found his clandestine victory did not lose its potency for being kept secret, if anything, he felt an extra thrill as he approached. 

There was already a large crowd gathered in the flickering torchlight when Boots hopped off the back of the cart. Dirt, wood smoke and ale mingled in the night air with laughter and strains of music from the fine instruments brought by the noble’s personal musicians.  

“Boots!” a voice called. 

Smiling, Boots walked towards a tall, lanky form. 

“Siggu,” Boots greeted his friend with a smile, “it’s been days and days since I’ve seen you. Did you get taller?” 

“Ha ha.” Siggu said. 

As children, Siggu had always been the thinnest and the shortest. When all the other boys started filling out with muscle, Siggu had only seemed to fill out in the joints, becoming all knobbly knees and sharp elbows. Then, as if overnight, he had sprouted taller than all of them. He was still lean, but he was more like a sapling, springy and strong. He could best most of them in wrestling now, having the tricks he learned when he was still smaller than everyone bolstered by his new-found strength and reach. 

“So did you escape dinner with the noble then?” Boots asked, “I saw your father out by the fields earlier.” 

“It was hard won,” Siggu said, he grimaced and rubbed a hand on his stomach as if it pained him. Sometimes Siggu had stomach troubles, Boots’ mother said it was a nervous condition and tsked at the behaviour of Siggu’s father. 

“It helped that I made a good showing this time around. We made some trades with the visiting villagers and managed to procure some goods from the noble’s stores.” 

“Procure some goods?” Boots said raising an eyebrow at the language. 

“It’s just how they talk, Boots. Leave it alone,” he said testily. 

“Alright, alright!” Boots said, raising his hands to show he would stop. 

Siggu had always been more serious; partially because it was in his nature, and partially because his father was constantly after him to set an example for the family name. This attitude had intensified since Siggu had been taking on a greater role in the trading business. One might think that, in those circumstances, the son would start to fall in line with what the father needed. However, the greater responsibility had stoked the stubborn streak of independence Siggu had always had; and it was no secret in Holding that father and son were frequently at odds with each other. 

“Is your father here yet? Those nobles with him?” Boots asked, taking a quick look around. Boots had no interest in seeing that lord again, but he could do without Balert around to prevent Siggu from getting good and drunk. It was Boots’ and Colin’s opinion that Siggu needed to relax more, and several tankards of ale did the job quite nicely. 

“I’m not sure if he’ll come or not. You know my father, he’s only really here to rub shoulders with that noble. Once he’s had dinner with the man, there won’t be any need to scuff his boots tramping around in the dirt with a bunch of drunks.” 

“Well done!” Boots declared at the well-deserved criticism. Clapping Siggu on the back he steered him towards the crowd with an impish grin, “now let’s go see if Tafner’s here and if she wants to dance with a beanpole like yourself.” 

Boots and Siggu found Colin and the others quickly. They were gathered around a felled tree being used as a bench for the evening. Maybe in the months to come, maybe even the next day, the trunk would be part of a cottage rafter or a cart bed, but today it was privy to the wild laughter and outrageous boasts of young men. 

Gathered in their own group a stone’s throw away were some young women. They munched on sweet cakes and sipped their ale, honeyed to taste. A few had pinched a flask of their mother’s berry cordial. Flouncing and ruffling in their dresses and ribbons, they tried to catch the firelight with their bright colours and steal the boys’ attentions. 

Tafner was there, and Siggu seemed to brighten and straighten knowing she might be watching. She was 17 winters, and although none of the males would admit it, the most boisterous of the lot. She was bright, not just intelligent, and had a snapping personality that drew you in. She was naturally inquisitive and teasing and loved to be contrary for the sake of argument. She was the bane of her mother’s existence and the apple of her father’s eye. Siggu’s father disapproved of the match. Though this caused Siggu even more distress, in Boots’ opinion, this made the match even better. 

There was a chance to meet girls from all the nearby villages tonight, but Boots was looking for only one. Sitting on the edge of a cart, dangling her feet, Fauna already had the attention of one young man. Boots had spotted her, and was always edging a bit closer to where she was. He was certain to be the first one to ask a girl to dance when he was cut off by a voice of the female persuasion. 

“Hey, Colin. Those legs do anything other than look like a chicken?” 

Everyone laughed. Colin nodded towards the speaker. 

“They’ll give you a right good boot, Tafner!” he replied. 

Tafner, the girl in question, gave a snort of laughter. And now she stood at the edge of the group of young women, facing the group of young men, goading Colin into asking her to dance. Unpredictably, she switched her target. 

“Boot, what a lovely idea. Let’s go, shall we?” She said with a sly grin. 

And before he knew it, Tafner had grabbed Boots hand and pulled him into the dance. He never even had time to utter a protest before he was in the circle, and either his feet had to find the rhythm or he would tumble the lot of them into the fire. The laughter of his friends faded as he and Tafner turned the steps that took them round the fire with the other dancers. Tafner grinned from ear to ear and he smiled widely in turn. It was an energetic dance, with some athletic foot taps, knee slaps and hand claps. By the end they had both lost the rhythm, and Tafner missed a beat and almost knocked herself over trying to switch from foot tap to hand clap mid-beat. 

Everyone who was watching had seen it, and when the dance drew to a close it was to applause and laughter. Young men and women mingling and giggling, all the distance between them lost. 

When the musicians plunged headlong into the next dance, there was a scramble of partners grabbing hands and jumping into the song. Siggu caught up Tafner as she flew by and set her down for the next dance. Boots had grabbed hold of Fauna and spun her into the circle. She smiled happily and bobbed along to the beat. She didn’t attack the faster parts with the same gusto as Tafner, but she twirled prettily instead then stepped right into the next part without missing a beat. Her pink cheeks and light hair glowed in the firelight, and every time Boots grabbed her hand he felt the smooth skin and he tried to shield the wicked thoughts from his eyes. 

He danced the next song with Fauna again, then stopped to fill his beer. Colin was whirling about the fire with one of Fauna’s cousins from the next village. Tafner, he was not so surprised to see, was dancing with one of the visiting hob-nobs. She seemed at ease teasing him as much as she would be teasing any other boy at the festival. He wondered briefly if the visiting hob-nob women minded, and if he would dare ask one of them to dance. 

“Thank you for the dance,” Fauna said, stepping beside him. 

“I think we should all thank Tafner, she really got us all going,” he replied with a grin. 

“Well, Tafner gets a lot of people going all the time,” she said, rather flatly. Before Boots could ask what she meant she changed the subject. 

“I wasn’t sure you would come tonight; I know you don’t always come to these things,” she said. 

Boots didn’t explain his absence from bigger festivals, but the villagers expected it. Boots’ heart leapt at the mention of the competition. 

“How was the competition?” he asked, failing to hide his excitement. 

“Well, it had started rather well. That man there, so you see him?” she pointed to the man currently dancing with Tafner. It was, Boots realized with a little jolt, the same noble from earlier. The man’s eyes were watching Tafner with a curiosity and fire, she even surprised a laugh out of him. For some reason it made Boots uneasy, he could not stop hearing the venom in the man’s voice when he uttered his departing ‘filth’ at them. 

“That man was doing the best by far, but the ending was ruined,” Fauna said. 

“Ruined?” Boots asked, attempting to sound only mildly interested. He was also distracted by adjusting how he sat to turn his face away from the noble. Boots also hoped that, newly-shaven and decently attired, he was not recognizable. 

“Yes. The target just fell out of the tree. Most people claim that it was shot out of the tree, by an arrow. But the officials are denying it,” she said. 

“Oh.” Boots was not sure how he felt at this point. A perfect shot, and it could just be denied existence by officials? 

“But I don’t believe it. Soldiers immediately went running into the woods, they say an arrow was found,” then she leaned in conspiratorially, “besides, you know what I heard? I heard that there was a second arrow from the same shooter. And that the second arrow hit the downed target. Right on the bull’s-eye!” 

Her lips were inches away from his own, but Boots was grinning to wide to think of planting a kiss on anyone. Right on the bull’s-eye! He repeated the words to himself and felt his inner pride grow. Did Colin know? He would tell him. But first he would tell Fauna that he was the one who- 

His thoughts went no further as someone drunkenly draped themselves between Fauna and Boots, an arm slung over each of their shoulders, shedding beer from an unsteady mug. It was their friend Jove, he was younger than Colin and Boots. Jove had a handful of older siblings and a second helping of younger siblings, and this was the first festival of his young life. His eyes were bleary with drink, a sloppy grin sprawled across his face, he leaned heavily on their shoulders. 

“This is the most fun Iver, Ivevver,” he hiccoughed and burped, “I ever had.” 

“How much have you had?” Boots asked with amusement. Fauna was too busy sniffing at the splash of beer down the arm of her dress to be amused. Jove was too drunk to remember what was being said, and so launched into a topic at random. 

“Rember, rewem, remember when you taught me to swim?” 

“That wasn’t me, Jove, that was Colin,” Boots interrupted with a wide grin. Jove continued, heedless of his mistake. 

“We went down to the river with ole’ Boots’s bost, Toots’s toat. No, Boots’s boat.” 

While Jove tried to place his consonants with his inebriated tongue, Boots listened intently, not wanting to correct the storyteller any longer. He had often wondered what had happened to his precious “boat” that Colin always swore he never laid a finger on. Even though Colin was the only one who knew where it was moored. Fauna sat huffily with her arms crossed, angry at being ignored by one boy and slopped on by another. 

“Don’t tell ol’Boots you yed, said to me. Don’t tell ol’ Boots or he’ll, he’ll. Oh.” 

Jove had finally leaned in enough to recognize the triumphant grin he was finally focusing on did not belong to Colin, but to Boots: the one whose raft had been sacrificed in an adventurous lesson in swimming. 

“Oops.” Jove said, then hiccoughed and swayed away as if to vomit. “Really!” Fauna said, disgusted and hopped off the bench. 

Colin sauntered over, his cheeks pink with drink and dancing. He laughed when he saw Jove’s retching form. 

“Well,” he said, “little Jove. He’ll feel like a man in the morning.” 

“And tonight he’s spilled the beans more than once,” Boots said. “Jove was just filling me in on his first swimming lessons. Helped him out, did you?” 

A wide grin split Colin’s face. “I confess. I led your little raft astray and lost it upriver. It’s probably coasting the waves of the wild sea and lounging with sweet-breasted mermaids beneath the open sky.” Colin said, stepping away from Boots. 

“I knew you had something to do with it. Liar!” Boots said, launching forward. 

Colin was ready and darted into the crowd. Boots shouted in pursuit and followed the trailing laughter, adding his own to the mix. They dodged dancers, hopped benches and swung around women with tankard-laden trays. Being tipsy, they knocked a few elbows and trod on a few feet before Boots caught Colin and attempted to trap him in a good-natured headlock. They were brought up short by a series of angry shouts. Assuming they were the perpetrators both stood up straight and held their hands out. But no one was looking at them. 

“A fancy party, with fancy guests, but we musn’t trod on their toes,” a voice sneered from beyond the heads of the crowd. 

Boots and Colin lowered their hands and peered between the shoulders and heads to see what was happening. 

“It’s Siggu,” Colin whispered. “He’s been jealous of Tafner dancing with those fancies all night.” 

Siggu, as tall as the noble Tafner had been dancing with, became visible as people cleared away from him. 

“They can barely string a bow, right? Putting on a show that only lets them look good, so’s to keep us riff raff looking like dirt. Well, you can lie all ye’s want, but who looked like dirt today? Who was shootin’ arrows at no target like a village idiot?” 

The tall noble Siggu had focused on clenched his fists, and the firelight flickered across the thin line of his lips and his pinched brow. A few men dressed as guards had eased in behind him. Boots’ mouth was dry. Where was Siggu going with this? He was going to cause himself trouble, they should stop him, distract him. 

“He’s drunk,” Boots whispered. “We gotta get him out of here.”  

But before Boots could think of anything it was too late. 

“Want to know who took out your fancy target?” Siggu blurted out, “It was me! Shot it down and hit the bullseye anyway. What do you think of this riff raff now you pansy? I can see like Wodan and shoot better than you!” 

The dark-haired noble’s face flashed triumphant for a moment before settling into anger again. 

“Blasphemy on top of insults!” He yelled. “Threatening the safety of the king’s men! Hiding in the bushes and shooting arrows into a crowd! And now he insults the all-father Wodan! Does this man have no manners? I want him seized!” 

There was a rumble from the crowd, of confusion and displeasure, people were jostled as guards threaded their way to the noble. Boots started to weave his way towards them too, his heart was pounding and he was floating on his own liquid courage. 

“Boots!” Colin hissed, grabbing for his sleeve. 

“No!” Boots shouted, “No!” he repeated, breaking through the crowd to stand beside Siggu. 

The noble glared at Boots, but held up a hand to stay the approaching guards. Boots gathered that he was to speak his piece. 

“No,” he repeated, as calm as he could. “I shot down the target, and the arrow. It was my doing.” 

Everyone, including Siggu, was now looking at Boots. Siggu had been drinking, but not enough to forget that if anyone could have made the shot, it was Boots. But Siggu held his ground, determine to claim the moment as a victory. 

“That man is a liar. I shot down the target,” Siggu said, his anger now directed at Boots. 

“I shot down the target. It was my arrow, I made it and I can tell you what it looks like,” Boots countered, glaring back. 

The noble looked from Siggu to Boots before announcing, “I care not, seize them both.” 

The guards that had been but shadows at the edges of the festivities were suddenly very clear in their matching uniforms as they entered the circle of light. As villagers stopped dancing, the music had stopped playing, and the silence that had spread out from Siggu and the noble had started to fill with mutters. Those who had lacked the fermented courage stoked by jealousy that had prompted Siggu to lash out were voicing some of their own displeasure. 

Boots saw Colin’s face look hastily through the crowd and dart through the bodies towards the nearest guard. Boots knew that look and had a moment of foreboding; what was Colin planning to do? Would he make everything worse? There was no way to stop Colin without also drawing attention to him. 

Suddenly, one of the tall torches swayed and started falling towards the crowd, several shouts went up, and as people scrambled to get out of the way one of the guards pitched forward, his feet stumbling where there should be nothing to stumble over. Only Boots noticed Colin thread from one incident to the next. 

The falling torch landed in a cloud of sparks, the fallen guard in a cloud of curses. People leapt to smother the fallen torch, the guard who fell yelled that he had been tripped, causing fresh cries of dismay and anger. A second torch wavered then pitched to the side amidst cries of warning. 

For Boots the next moments unfolded quickly, but each one with a heavy weight in his belly. 

The noble yelled out to seize the troublemakers. 

The crowd, starting to panic, started to press in different directions jostling more guards and causing suspicious and angry responses. Colin had slipped out of sight and Boots waited for a chance to grab Siggu and run. 

But then someone bumped Siggu from behind causing him to stumble into the noble. The lord’s already angry face grew furious as he turned his glare back to Siggu. 

“You dare!” The man hissed. 

Siggu’s confused face turned hard as he looked up at the noble. 

Boots felt the danger of the moment as he saw Siggu ball his hand into a fist. 

Around them, some of those in the stumbling crowd seemed to be taking advantage of the chaos to stagger into the approaching guards and knock them off balance. 

Voices were being raised with increasing anger with an undercurrent of fear as some hastily made for home. The lord’s face twisted in a smug grin as Siggu lunged at the lord and Boots leaped at Siggu. 

With Boots grabbing clumsily at his back, Siggu’s hand connected awkwardly with the lord who had raised a hand to block A look of shock crossed his features, as though he had not really thought that Siggu would strike him. 

Then everything seemed to move very quickly. 

A guard came out of nowhere and slammed his ham-sized fist into the side of Siggu’s face, causing Siggu to stagger sideways and drag Boots along with him. The guard lunged again, Siggu was still dazed but Boots kicked out, knocking the guard back.  

The crowd was suddenly all around them, shouting and cursing, torches were guttering and falling in the dirt to be smothered, ale and food was trampled underfoot 

Boots kept reaching for Siggu while shoving others back. Boots was not overly tall, but he was broad and solid, he kept moving his shoulders to try and both shield and contain Siggu, who was still swinging his fists in the noble’s direction. Boots delivered a few more blindly thrown kicks and punches, feeling a few of them connect, before he was knocked to the ground, his cheek pressed into the damp, smelly earth, his hand sprawled out. That was a good way to break a hand, he pulled it under his body just as some heavy boots tromped by and pushed himself up. 

Through the din Boots could hear one voice that seemed to be rising above the others. He recognized the sound of Tale, Colin’s father, fighting his way into the centre of the melee.  

“Enough Boots, Siggu. All of you shut up,” he yelled harshly just as a deep sound rang out over the crowd. It took Boots a moment to recognize the sound of the bell in the village hall ringing out. It had the desired effect, calling the attention of the villagers, giving them a moment to pause and consider what they were doing. 

Boots was grasped by the shoulders and hauled upright; his arms twisted behind his back as he was dragged to stand beside Siggu. Siggu also had his arms secured behind him, in this case though it was doing much to keep the lanky man standing. One eye was covered in blood from some cut, and his shoulder was hunched up against the guard’s grip as though it hurt. As Boots looked his friend over, another guard walked over and punched Siggu in the stomach. 

Boots was shocked. 

“Enough!” Tale, said again. 

Boots head swung towards Tale who was standing with some of the men that made up the village guards, such as they were, on the rare occasion that they were needed. They had no uniforms, or matching weapons, or even much training, but they were still rather large and armed with some very dangerous looking farmer’s tools. Albo the blacksmith was there, a large hulking shadow glaring at everyone. His two sons, one even larger than him, were also nearby. 

The three of them were keeping the other villagers busy, at a safe distance, helping to right and relight the fallen torches and tidy up the spilt food and tables. Every now and then a face would turn to look anxiously at Boots and Siggu before quickly turning away and finding something else to do. 

Boots had thought that a brawl had erupted between the villagers and the guards, but it seemed it had been mostly himself and Siggu and the guards. Boots gaze returned to Tale, the man had a deep frown on his features, and anger in his eyes. Boots was no stranger to Tale’s disapproval, he and Colin earned it often enough, and usually worked it off with hard labour and bashful apologies. But there was an extra weight in Tale’s look tonight one that spoke of consequences that would be more permanent. 

Tale turned away from Boots and addressed the nobles in a tight voice. 

“My name is Tale, I am head of the council in Holding. I apologize for this deep offence,” he said. 

“There is no apology you can speak that would possibly be adequate,” the noble responded in angry tones. 

As the torches were restored to light Boots could see that the man’s clothes were askew, and marred by dirt and bits of hay. Had the noble ended up rolling on the ground with the rest of them? The heavy feeling in Boots’ stomach knotted and he felt a sort of panicked fear. He worked to breath, to look unafraid if he could, and try to understand how to fix what had happened. 

“All the same. I can only remind your lordship that in all the years that nobles have ventured through our humble village, there has only ever been deep respect and appreciation that you bestow the honour of your presence upon us,” Tale said, with a respectful inclination of his head. 

One of the guards, a broad, bearded fellow stepped forward. 

“That may be true. But it does not excuse what has happened here tonight!” He was blustery, angry, and stepped right up to Tale. It was a credit to Tale that he did not step away.  

“You are correct. There is no excuse for what has transpired,” Tale said, looking from the soldier before him to the noble to make sure they both understood he meant what he said. 

“And it is clear that these two,” and now he looked over at Boots and Siggu, “do not understand the great favour you bestow upon us with this festival. I fear they are forever looking for what is beyond their reach, admirable qualities for success in life, but hardly inclined to graciousness.” 

“Well spoken, and well to be considered,” a new voice added, “the kind of measured thinking that should be valued in a councilman.” 

The woman, the one Boots had seen earlier with the captain, nodded at Tale as she stepped into the clearing. There was a shifting of postures, a shuffling amongst the soldiers at her arrival. She pretended not to notice. 

“My lord,” she said, offering an efficient bow to the tall noble, then she turned to the large soldier and nodded: “Commander.” 

“Commander,” he responded in kind, after a moment. 

The woman’s hair was knotted in a series of small braids tight against her head, she was of an average height, although she seemed very solid, a sword was at her waist. She still did not wear any livery that matched the other soldiers. Bridda, Boots recalled, her name was Bridda. He hoped she did not recognize him. 

“I speak for Captain Burig in his absence,” she said, “and I believe that we should hold these young men until tomorrow, when we can address what has happened with clearer heads and add the captain’s counsel to our own.” 

“You don’t even know what hap -” The large soldier began. 

“Exactly,” she said, cutting him off smoothly, “I do not know, and I plan to spend the evening finding out. These two are clearly intoxicated, that one almost at the point of unconsciousness.” 

And here she looked pointedly from Siggu to the other soldiers. Siggu was still on his knees and slumped over from when he had punched in the stomach. “Nothing of use can be gained from them under these circumstances.” 

“This is preposterous!” the noble burst out. “My word is the only one that is needed!” 

“It is true that your word holds much weight, more so than theirs. But it is not the only word we must consider,” she replied. 

“That man assaulted me!” He yelled, pointing at Siggu. 

“Yes. And that will be addressed. But that is not all that has happened.” 

There was now a bit of heat in her voice, maybe even irritation with the noble as she explained. 

“Today has been a series of unexpected events. And it would be unwise to proceed until we know just how dangerous they may or may not be, regardless of how these young men are involved. And if there is more to this than the drunken ramblings of two country lads at work, then on whose words and plans did they act? There are too many unanswered questions, my lord. Trust me in this.” 

There was silence in the little group of people at the centre of the problem. What she was saying, what she was implying, hit Boots with a sickening weight. He realized how it might have looked, from the perspective of the nobles, to have two arrows fly from the trees. In his arrogance, he had not even considered that. Had he missed, he could have struck someone.  

More than ever, Boots did not want the woman to recognize him; he kept his face down, hoping his recent shave and the uneven torchlight would keep him from being recognized. If she realized that he had not been at the archery competition, that he had been spotted already by that red-bearded captain in the field, it would look very suspicious. 

Tale had been getting the village guards, or the men who acted as such, to clear the area and send people home. He had been listening, though, and he made his way over to respond to the woman’s observation. 

“Surely you do not suspect some ill-intent here. We are simple villagers here, farmers and craftsmen content with our lot and loyal to the king. We’ve no reason to complain, and little time to do it.” 

Tale was trying to keep his voice calm, but Boots heard the anger creep in, or was it fear? He wondered if Colin was listening from somewhere nearby, and if he heard it too. 

“Yes, the proud people of Holding and the surrounding territories. The one’s who have no need for nobility. You’ve made your thoughts on King Harald’s new policies very clear,” he said it like it was some kind of proof. 

Bridda stepped forward, Boots was sure only he, Tale and Lord Narosh heard her murmur, “and are we here to change their minds like this?” 

 The noble worked his jaw, his angry glare went from the two commanders, to Tale, then Boots and Siggu and back again before he spoke. He sounded bitter, but he relented. 
“Hold these two in the supply carriage until morning. By the light of day, we will see if any proof can be shed on these crimes,” the noble said, then he looked angrily at Bridda. 

“No,” Tale intervened again, “forgive me for my interruption, but they will be held here in the town, on my honour. We are as deeply offended by the implications as you are.” 

“And I will set guards as a precaution,” Bridda followed up. “It will be a good show of faith, and a test of the village’s loyalty.” 

The noble did not seem happy with the arrangement, but he had also lost much of his bluster. Maybe it was that last thing Bridda said, maybe he just bored or tired with it all. Whatever the reason, the noble raised a hand. 

“So be it,” he said. “Have them held here in the village. They will be called to answer for their crimes in the morning.” 

“Or as soon as we can provide a fair and deserving punishment for their crimes once we identify them,” Bridda amended smoothly. 

Arms twisted uncomfortably behind his back, craning his neck to see, Boots felt a flood of gratitude and respect for Colin’s father. Having grown up with no father of his own, the man had been his role model in more ways than one. And here Tale had manoeuvre Boots and Siggu out of the custody of the lord for the evening. Looking at Siggu’s slumped form, Boots was sure that was a blessing. 

He also felt ashamed as he realized that his actions had caused this conflict. Perhaps Tafner would still have danced to make Siggu jealous, but perhaps he would not have responded with such outlandish claims. He had a sickening thought that caused him to stumble. He thought of his mother. How many times she had prevented him from this very sort of competition. The arrow, the bloody flag, the three crowns, all the images she had told him about whirled through his mind. 

 It isn’t safe, Boots, she had told him so many times. He should have listened. He should have never loosed that arrow. His mother. When would she return to hear of this? 

Boots bowed his head and allowed himself to be escorted to the cellar beneath the village inn that was often used as a makeshift lockup for the rare occasions that it was needed. He and Siggu were thrust into the small section that had been fitted with iron and a lock. 

A small, barred window high up in the wall at ground level let in too little light and too much sound. The musicians the lord had brought with him resumed their playing, and the sounds of the guardsmen continuing to enjoy the ale and food filtered down to him in snippets. The rest of the village, it seemed, was silent. 

Siggu, too drunk to muster more than a few minutes of fretting, had fallen asleep in the corner and snored. Boots sat on the ground, his broad shoulders against the stone wall and his legs splayed out before him. He looked across at Siggu’s slumped form and tried to muster more than frustration but he couldn’t. He had known Siggu for so long, Boots wasn’t completely surprised by what had happened. Siggu was always under pressure from his father to be perfect, to be better than everyone else. There was always a tight kernel of anger in the tall young man, ready to lash out against anyone. Boots rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to think through what had happened, predict what he should say tomorrow, what he should tell Siggu to say. 

But he had drank enough to soften his reasoning, and the combination of alcohol and panic sent his thoughts spiraling dizzily away every time he tried to put them in order. Slowly he too drifted off to sleep; the only image he could keep in his troubled mind was Fauna, hands held delicately in front of her mouth and her eyes wide in horror, watching him before the first torch clattered to the ground in a shower of sparks and curses.