That Boy, Fidel

It is late afternoon when Renard leaves the mayor, having chatted longer than he thought. The sun is setting and day workers are wandering home. Renard secures himself a room at a local inn, then mounts his horse and leisurely ventures towards the house of Fidel.

The mayor did say that the boy had no information — Renard’s gut would still like to meet him. This ‘odd enthusiasm’ the mayor mentioned suggests Fidel discovered something that struck him as greatly notable, that maybe the mayor did not press on enough, since his overall attitude towards life seems to be jolly and laid-back.

Hooves clop relaxedly over the cobblestone, and the house Renard seeks comes into view.

It’s tiny, not so much humble as simply poor. While Renard himself grew up in a house made and lived in by a family of peasants, this structure is queerer the longer he looks at it. This location is distanced from the heart of town, enough to make getting anywhere inconvenient without a horse, but not so distant as to be useful for anything else. It’s a place you pick simply because you either have the money to make the inconveniences negotiable, or because you do not have the money to pick somewhere more dreamy or practical.

That being said, the street isn’t a slum. The other houses along the way are all pleasant, and even if none scream ‘well-born’ or ‘rich’, they all feel at least ‘reasonably average’ and ‘proudly freemen’. Except this one.

Dark lichen grows over its bricks and shingles are missing from the roof. Gutters strain visibly, full of muck that must be waiting years for a clean. The yard outside has been massacred, reaped into a field of open mud, that hurts Renard’s head to realise must be a crude attempt at a vegetable garden. A potato box sits quietly under the eaves, and a single chicken squawks away in a woven box too small to ever call a coop.

Even living in a thatched peasant home, Renard’s family had the means to properly maintain the house and its assets. That this household, while owning a more expensive property, cannot make its day-to-day match the easy comfort of money is what makes it feel so poor.

Shaking off this impression, Renard hitches his horse to the fence and marches up to the door.

As he does, unease strikes him. The house keeps silent and all its windows are dark, even though the sunset has dimmed the sky enough for neighbours to light candles. But he does not feel the house is empty. A coil twists in his gut, as though he were about to knock on the door of a mausoleum, whose restless spectres he would wake.

Footsteps patter on the cobbles and Renard’s horse snorts, tossing her neck. Renard glances over.

A boy is on the street, staring up at his horse. No older than fifteen or sixteen, the lad’s clothes are so worn they are nearly rags, formerly white and comfortable but now stained yellow and starchy beneath blotches of grease, mud, dried blood, and copious resin. His hair is short, unbrushed, and wild, and though his face has an attractive look of intrepid boyishness, there is a measured quietness about him that says he is not too impulsive. He carries a leather satchel fat with cans and bottles that exude a pungent, chemical smell.

“Hail! Fidel?" Renard calls.

Attention shifting to Renard, the boy quickly nods and jogs to the mouth of the fence. He smoothly jerks his head to pull Renard away from the door — it is a strangely commanding gesture, unconscious, and Renard cannot help but concede an odd relief to join him away from the house.

“Hello, sirrah," says Fidel, quizzical but respectful as he glances from the house to Renard and back. “Are you here to speak with Father?"

“With you, boy," Renard leans on his knee to meet the boy’s eye level. “Do you know who you speak to? I am Renard Cox."

Fidel gapes with the awe of a child who has just found himself in an audience, one-on-one, with Superman.

“Hoh, seems you didn’t. Come, let’s quickly fix that," Renard chuckles and offers a handshake.

“I didn’t know you were coming to Ashurst," Fidel babbles, the lazy kick of the handshake rocking through his body. “I… I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t realise, auh," he mutters, scrambling to stuff the cans in his satchel down, out of view, his cheeks growing red with familiar embarrassment.

“Steady now, lad. Ho!" Renard cheers, drawing Kingslayer with a great flourish. He tosses the blade into the air so it spins once, twice, and smoothly catches it by the hilt with a fluidity that mesmerises Fidel. Renard presents the blade to him, held flat on his palms, and conspiratorially invites Fidel to touch it.

Fidel does so, tracing his finger over the flat of the blade. As if breaking from a dream, he gasps and steps back.

Renard sheaths Kingslayer, grinning.

A lot of him hates himself for even imagining to use Kingslayer in such a frivolous manner. But it has worked to break Fidel’s tension and made him less self-conscious, and probably given him a memory that will stick for the rest of his life.

“Now, boy," Renard barks, “it is on the tail of a letter from Ashurst’s Lord Byrus that I have come to this place…" he begins, explaining to Fidel the circumstances of his visit and divulging his understanding that Fidel was the one to find the anomaly. With that established, he asks if there is anything more Fidel knows that the Mayor may not have said, and expresses curiosity in the ‘enthusiasm’ people say Fidel had when reporting it.

“Yes!" Fidel blurts. “I tried to tell Mr. Klee, I thought he might figure it out… it’s hard to describe, but it looked to me like a scar, sir."

“A scar," Renard considers.

“Yes, a horrible one, sir. It wasn’t large…" Fidel concedes, “but the more I looked, the more I felt that this was… an injury upon the air. I thought it might even be a wound on the backside of an invisible beast," he confesses, “but there were no other indications of that being true, it was only a sense I had."

“You were frightened it may be a beast, and ran in that fear to find Mr. Klee?"

“No… no, it wasn’t that fear, sir," Fidel muses, wandering further along the fence away from the house, dragging Renard along too. “I had to think before I felt fear — when I first saw it, I only felt, ‘that is odd’, as it might be when an egg yolk is deeply orange. It was that inoffensive sort of peculiarity. I was afraid when I thought it a beast, though, but I quickly considered that must be wrong…"

Renard presses his thumb to his lip, in thought.

“…then I thought my wisdom too weak and that I must tell Mr. Klee. I thought I would just need to show him, and he would reach the same impressions as me, but he didn’t have my urgency… once he saw it, he only thought what I had, that it was odd. Nothing attacked us and nothing seemed dangerous, and for the past weeks I believe he has only been patrolling it as a formality."

“And I hear it has been stable in those weeks. Yet the memory of it, it rankles you?"

“Yes," Fidel repeats, hands wandering to mime a globe of air. “It is… it’s an injury," he emphasises.

In dealing with ghoulish matters, gut feelings are often wise. Though Klee and the Mayor may dismiss the anomaly as safe because it has not done anything concerning, it may really only be that it has not done anything concerning yet. Fidel’s apprehension, which the other adults have discounted as the product of a young, active mind, probably carries enough merit to investigate further — if he has such a certain instinctive impression of this being an ‘injury’, it likely actually is.

The question is more about why the implications of it being an injury matter, if that is true. Fidel’s surprising eloquence is plainly failing him on this point.

“You do believe me, sir?" asks Fidel.

“Without doubt, the sceptical perspectives of yourself and Lord Byrus are the canaries that did call me here." Renard thumbs his chin. “I would not doubt Mr. Klee as a diligent man, as I would not blacken my tongue towards any I’ve yet to meet, but perhaps the matter demands diligence more than he can give. Knowing only comes to me once I have seen the cut myself."

“Sirrah, I could take you," Fidel jumps from his seat atop the fence. “The path begins not so far from here, and I’ve a lantern—"

“What! In the dark, boy?"

“—sirrah, I do know the way—"

“Now? Through the night!" Renard balks. “No, no, boy, I will not be stumbling and tired on this hike, however well you do know the hill. Restraint at your age would have frustrated me too, but your testimony serves me far more than would an ill-conceived, ridiculous jaunt. Tell me a last hint, young Fidel, for how long have you known this ‘scar’?"

“It has been in the forest for a month at the least, for two at the most—sir, this forest’s trails are more tamped with my footfalls than many of Ashursts’ main roads. Mr. Klee isn’t here… it wouldn’t be a trifle, maybe not tonight," Fidel insists, rifling through his satchel. He draws lantern oil, rope, a sickle, demonstrations of his preparedness. “Mr. Klee wouldn’t be angry. It would only be to zip up and back, to survey it, before… before he tells you it’s all just nothing," Fidel mumbles to himself.

“Young Fidel, I am already going tomorrow."

“Alone?" he gasps.

“The mayor offered."

“The mayor?! He knows? Sir, greenhorn I may be, but…"

“And I am sure his softness will not blunt my own impressions. Boy, ease your vigour. If it is trouble, it will be treated as trouble, and if it is not, there is no cause to worry."

“I have to show you. I want to show you," Fidel insists, “I just… I do not know how to explain without being there."

Despite Renard’s spoken rejections, Fidel’s insistence does impress him. Renard considers. If the boy is so aflame with drive to be there, is there much harm indulging that? Well, potentially, but…

“Hear, boy, this I propose," Renard says, “I will speak with the mayor on the morrow about adding you to our hike. If he is well for it, then let us bring you along. I imagine this course would suit everyone."

Fidel deflates a slight, the offer too sensible to deny, but his passion still set on going alone as soon as tonight. But, seeming to accept the concession, he composes himself with a calming breath, nods, and packs his supplies back in his satchel.

“Good lad," Renard mutters.

Fidel wanders along the fence to the path back up to the house, turns, and bows fluidly. “It has been an honour to be granted your presence, sir, passing as the moment may be. I wish only for success in all your endeavours and for fortune to join us again quickly."

“Quick I will grant: wait a step, young Fidel," Renard calls.

Fidel pauses midway to the house, glancing curiously over his shoulder.

“Is apprenticeship under the college of bards a course you have much ruminated?"

“Huh?"

“I have thought this for all the time we have spoke. For a pauper’s living, boy, your words flow as would any orator’s."

“Ah," Fidel clicks his throat. “No, I had not considered it."

“Then the wealth of talent you sit upon may be as great as the gold in a mountain. Refined, I imagine success for you far greater than a lumberjack’s pittance."

“My Father once attended Lords’ courts, sir. I sometimes fall into this speech."

“Then you are predisposed to the patterns of the scripts."

“He was a Baron."

Renard falls silent, humbled. Fidel isn’t some untapped peasant with great potential for upward mobility. He’s a former noble, not in any way performing or inflating himself, but instinctively speaking his native tongue around fellow gentry, who fell very, very far down.

Fidel smiles bitterly, thumbing the frayed edge of his raggy shirtsleeve. He sighs, closes his eyes, and fixes his smile straight. “It’s past. Tomorrow?"

“Of course," Renard’s mouth moves, while his mind weighs heavy with guilt. He had not really been thinking of bringing Fidel, but now it feels he owes the boy something. “I myself have been thrown from many courts," he adds stupidly, as if it’s a consolation.

“You haven’t been thrown from the top of one," Fidel darkly mutters to himself. Though his smile falters, as the last oranges of sunset fade, he shrugs and switches thought. There is a surprising air of liberation in his gaze as he pats the lid of his satchel and glances to Renard. “Well, but how much is blood, really? A dove who sits on his pedigree is hardly doing much that’s to laud," Fidel’s voice lowers bashfully as if sharing a secret, “I’m looking at a testament to that, sir, that simple Ashursts can make very great men."

“—Indeed. Indeed, exactly, boy. That is why I am often thrown; I have ruffled up those nestled doves." Renard snorts. “Beautiful words they coo often but little abide — it is in ignoring their talk, and walking the narrow beam of bare truth, that I’ve been afforded my successes."

“Afforded… are you very religious?" Fidel wonders.

“There are waves, boy, there are waves." Truthfully, religion is a subject he has preferred to avoid since meeting Colette. “A keen rider knows which ones will not crush him."

“I’ll think on this, sir. Thank you."

“Do not worry too much upon it. The magicians who ponder this business are dreary folk," Renard advises. “What paddles the ship is ambition, and what steadies the compass is your own heart. When you do not spit at God, you are carried well. That is what I have found." Renard falls silent, then bursts, “so it is, young Fidel! Let me free you to sleep, and see you on the morn."

“I have never considered things as that," Fidel muses. “Sir, I’m sorry to hold you, but there is a last thing I’d wish to ask. I suppose, what is it all for?"

“Fidel! That’s a very big question," Renard laughs, unhitching and mounting his horse.

“But that’s what makes hunters so amazing," Fidel says. “Here in Ashurst… we’re freemen who live here just to live, to wake up with food and money tomorrow. But to wake and be willing to risk yourself so severely — nobody does that merely to reach the morn. There’s a reason, for what?"

Renard straightens himself on his saddle. There’s several decent answers to give: it is for Lacren, for the Queen, for humankind, for the sake of the innocent that I took my occupation. But truly… “Well, boy. Then I am the same as Ashurst; I have taken blades so I may wake and live. I have achieved life," Renard nods to the sky, “at the sides of great men, to land in a lover’s hand, and now I am Lord of Meurille."

Happy with this retrospective on the path of his life, and finding it inspirational that such a wretch as him managed to straighten himself in the end, Renard flashes Fidel a grin. This talk became more personal than anticipated; but with the boy’s receptiveness, that does not feel bad.

Hopefully, he has taken a positive message from all this. Renard cracks his horse’s reins, and trots his merry departure across the night-lit cobbles.

And does not see Fidel, frozen in total silence on the path to a ruined house, jaw agape, then teeth clenched, staring to the ground, with balled fists that hopelessly loosen into resignation.