A Day of Adventure

Renard wakes the next day and goes to meet with the Mayor.

Dawn yet glows below the horizon. The town’s piney air is even fresher, crisper, and more vitalising than usual, scented and moistened with the dew that clings to every leaf. Thick mist carpets the boughs of the forest up on the hills, but this potential impediment to Renard and the Mayor’s hike will doubtless fade by morning. Early as it is, the streets are quiet, but the windows of the houses Renard passes are warmly lit, the people awake.

Renard arrives first at the Mayor’s office, its door locked and windows black. Crossing his arms, he breathes in, breathes out, and lets himself coolly focus on the upcoming task for today, leaned against the building’s facade and staring up at that thick, hilly forest. Water, rations, spare clothes, first aid kit, compass, matches, rope… he has everything essential while still packing light.

The Mayor’s rotund figure toddles around the bend of the street, his silhouette disrupted by a towerlike protrusion that extends high over his head. Renard squints as the figure approaches, and is both stunned and alarmed to realise this ‘towerlike protrusion’ is a comically massive backpack, stuffed to stretch its seams.

“Good man, is that load not too heavy?" Renard asks once the Mayor drags himself close.

Panting and puffing, he nonetheless smiles chipperly. He assures Renard, seeming not to understand his concern at all, that it is a little weighty, but nothing he can’t manage. He is simply so excited that he had to bring everything good. As he explains this, he drags a second heavy bag forward from behind him — this one, he packed for Renard.

Brow clenched with growing uncertainty, Renard peeks through the pack to see what on earth the man thought to bring. Inside are blankets, biscuits, pieces of a tea set, a foldable seat, a backgammon board…

“What is this?" Renard questions, presenting the backgammon board.

“Oh, that is for teatime! In case we would like a little game when we rest."

Luxuries! Renard massages his cheek, hopelessly confused by the Mayor’s carefree attitude. Though the packs have useful things like water and rope hidden in there, it is squeezed between layers of junk. Gutting this mess could take hours, especially given that the Mayor is ready to argue the merits of every fun bauble, and will need to be convinced to abandon anything.

He is a simple, jolly man excited for a pleasant adventure. Headache as it is, Renard struggles to snap at him — he means only well, would not understand the problem, and it would rattle his mood, a burden even heavier than the damnable bags.

With permission, Renard sets to dissecting the bag, not exhaustively, but at least attempting to strip ten or twenty pounds off. As he observes, the Mayor chirpily informs that he got a letter from Mr. Klee last night. The news that Renard would be coming to Ashurst has taken much pressure off him, and, trusting that Renard will handle things in his absence, he will be spending a few more weeks away to manage his personal problems.

“Great confidence the man has in you," Renard notes, presenting the Mayor with the lightened pack.

“Oh yes. He’s a wonderful fellow," says The Mayor, testing the weight of the new pack. “He helped me write all the directions down right here, so that I can remember." He unfolds a map from his pocket — one more of Ashurst than of the forest, with the path lined abstractly in pen alongside such instructions as, ‘left at the mossy rock.’

Suddenly suspicious, Renard asks the Mayor if he has actually gone into the forest before. The Mayor asserts that he has, though only with Mr. Klee guiding him, and as the subtext tells, only once. His actual grasp of the forest and skill as a navigator smells weak.

Renard is not a navigator by trade, but he’s not new to orienteering either. This being a completely unfamiliar forest, he may have to muster himself to compensate if the Mayor begins getting lost. As Renard thinks about this, the Mayor asks what is to be done about all the items Renard has removed from the pack, desiring to return to his house and deposit them. He has forgotten to bring his keys to the office and cannot simply put them in there.

Renard packs the junk into a sack and hides it under the garden veranda, noting a trip back would cut into their daylight. The mayor, though troubled to leave such treasured things there, is assured enough by Renard’s confidence to accept it.

Finally done with this rigamarole, Renard shoots the Mayor a smile, points to the crest of the forested hills, and begins the march. “Ho! Onward we go, into the pines that tickle the clouds!"

“Oh yes!" The Mayor chirps, toddling into step. Map in hand, he takes the lead.

The enthusiasm is cute. But not even a minute goes by before Renard’s endeared smile freezes and melts, a shock jolting his chest, as he realises he is already tempering his pace so as not to overtake the Mayor, whose gait is extremely slow.

And further than that, they have not even left the main street, but the man is already panting. Wheezing in… out… in… out…

Clarity then strikes like a lightning bolt that going with the Mayor is a horrible idea. Dread clenches around his gut like a clawed fist, scrunching and twisting his insides. Of course! Why on earth did he accept this? It is the Mayor’s atmosphere — it is so harmlessly tender, it completely sucked Renard in. He hadn’t even thought twice about it! Renard automatically shifted into the position of tour guide on the Mayor’s stupid adventure! (And yet would that adventure not be pleasant—

Those heavy breaths wheeze in, out…

“Excuse me," Renard says. “Greatest apologies, I have just remembered that my horse is terribly ill."

“Ohh? Oh no," moans the Mayor.

“Yes, I will need to check on her. My apologies. One moment," Renard blabbers, then breaks away, mind aflame with only the thought of escape as he turns the street corner — and bolts.

Renard quickly tacks his horse and dashes to see Fidel.

It’s strange. This clarity in ditching the Mayor roils worries inside him like crashing waves, sensible worries, of the anomaly’s potential danger and the need to approach it with a strict eye — exactly as Fidel, prepared with weapons and poisons rather than board games and cakes, had insisted last night. Renard had forgotten all through that conversation with the Mayor that he had promised anything to Fidel! Or, no, somewhere he did remember, but so obviously incompatible was Fidel’s serious approach with the Mayor’s day hike that Renard had abandoned him before even trying to bring him up.

The realisation that he thinks in this manner is frightening. Choking back a pit of dread and guilt, Renard refocuses on his task and comes to Fidel’s street.

Renard dismounts and hitches his horse to the fence. Peering down the path to the shabby house, Fidel is outside. He sits in the shade against the side of the house, staring over the patch of mud that has replaced the garden.

“Hail, young Fidel. Come up off of the dirt there, we will talk," Renard calls.

Fidel crosses his arms on his knees, head tilting in confession that he did hear Renard, but gaze still locked on the mud.

“You and I will scale the forest," Renard calls again, to no response. Fidel is ignoring him.

Renard puckers his lips, irritated but moreso concerned. Fidel had been so excited to go on this adventure. Something has either happened, or, more horrifyingly, without knowing how or why, Renard has once again displeased someone so thoroughly they have come to hate him. Anger lighting his gut, Renard stomps past the threshold of the fence and onto the property’s grounds.

Fidel rises, fetches a hoe, and begins tilling the empty dirt.

“What is this joke, boy? Pushing the mud." Renard snaps his fingers. “I am here; look to me."

Fidel rolls his neck and plants his chin on the butt of the hoe. “I’m sorry, sir. It turns, my duties are here today."

“Your duties? What, this farce?" Renard spits as Fidel again raises his hoe to swing it back into the dirt. Its edge crunches the ground, deep and heavy. “You look as a slave, shoving the earth — ridiculous. Speak frankly if you are to speak, and straighten your back if you are to stand. You are troubled by me."

Fidel strokes the hoe twice more, each time slower. He glances aside, guilty, uncomfortable, and plainly a little intimidated. His silence now is less so defiant, than simply uncertain and scared.

“Well," Renard huffs. “Scribe for me a map, if you will still help. Then you may sit back in this dirt," the instant Renard says this, he snorts at the idea, “the first of many great experiences you will lose by stewing in your own thoughts."

“Sir, I…" Fidel tries, but the thought wanes, too complex to articulate.

“Will you accompany me into the forest or will you not?" asks Renard.

Fidel, still struggling to convey anything, falls silent again. By his uncomfortably averted gaze and half-hearted shrug, however, Renard surmises his answer leans more towards ‘no’ than ‘yes’.

“Come then. I’ll fetch some parchment." With that, Renard paces back to his horse and shuffles through his saddlebags for paper and quills, Fidel trailing miserably behind. Resigned pain spears through Renard’s chest as he searches. Part of him, it seems, had been greatly looking forward to going with Fidel. But in giving up the possibility of it happening, a cooler voice assures Renard that this may be for the best anyway. Now he won’t be putting the boy in any potential danger.

“Here." Renard presents the parchment, quills, ink, and nods for Fidel use the fence as a table to write. “The court did train you in letters?"

Fidel winces as if stabbed, then wispily answers, “yes." He takes the quill, and in mumbling to himself as he scribes, comes in to a rhythm: “You begin here at the head of Duruchs street… duck around the gate and up the trail until you reach the large, fallen tree… cut overtop of it and hook left to rejoin the trail…" In reciting these familiar pathways, he is walking through these very scenes in his mind, and more than that, imagining himself guiding Renard through them.

A tinge of regret comes into his voice, his quill slowing. It seems the boy may still want to change his mind about not going.

Renard plants his thumb on his lip. Actually, realistically, the boy wishes to go. Some devil in his mind, though, is hampering him. Renard has never been graceful about emotional matters, but does find himself moved enough to ask, What’s wrong?

But, just as he gasps to speak, colour and movement flash in the house’s front window. Renard cranes his neck – the motion is already gone. Given the deadness of the building, Renard had forgotten that others inhabit the property.

Fidel’s father, particularly, who may want explanation for a stranger chatting up his son — a cumbersome prospect, but nothing difficult. Renard shifts onto the path to receive him.

A great clatter of metal pots and smashing objects sounds out from the house. Someone could be buried under a mound of fallen items in there! Renard jogs to help; glass shatters, midway there, the front door slams open.

The figure that emerges glares once over the yard, bony fingers clutching the doorframe, and as if lashing a whip, screams, “FIIIIIDEEEEL!"

This man, skinny, hunched, and wicked-faced as a troll, reeks of alcohol. Simultaneously put-together and utterly dishevelled, he wears an outfit of expensive blue silk that has been horribly muddied with dirt and sweat, as much as the poorest pauper’s rags, but with too much pride to ever swap to something more clean. His face is poorly shaven, with whiskers sprouting all over his chin like weeds. In the room behind him is a hall, stuffed thick with antique junk and discarded liquor bottles. His eyes protrude madly round, but are pitted in deep bags.

“Stop bothering the guests!" he shouts at Fidel, precise as an arrow. Fidel sets his ink and quill aside and stands. The man’s glowering stops and he straightens himself to address Renard. “I’m sorry for him. He forgets how to—" the man coughs, fondles for an ale bottle, swigs it, and wipes his chin dry with his sleeve. “—conduct himself. Fidel!"

“The boy’s been a cherub, sir. Pray me, have we met?" asks Renard.

“Have we? Ohh, I’m sure so; someone dressed as fine as you, ah. Perhaps at one of those galas…" he slumps against the doorframe as if about to faint, his glazed stare rolling again to Fidel. He beckons the boy over. Snatches his satchel, and scrounges through it, messily shoving aside the canisters of chemicals.

“Well, if you’re curious to my business…" Renard offers, trying to fill the awkward silence.

But the dishevelled man ignores the prompt, scraping through the bottom of the bag like a pig snuffling at a trough. He then withdraws two copper coins, flat on his palm, and chuckles, rolling his eyes to Renard as if sharing a joke.

Extremely unnerved and unsure what to make of this, Renard can only grimace.

He throws the satchel at Fidel. “He’s being a little thief and put it all in his socks. What is that face for? Are you cringing at me?"

“It’s on the mantle, Father. You were sleeping," says Fidel.

“It’s on the mantle…" the man mumbles, and lumbers into the house. Another peal of smashing glass sounds ferociously, as Renard stands with Fidel in stunned silence.

“I do not know what to say of this," Renard admits.

“Mother and I look after him as well as we can," says Fidel, unbothered by the smashing.

“After that wrecked drunkard." Renard kneads his forehead and temple. Muttered spite quietly flows off Fidel’s tongue, ‘he takes all our paychecks…’, confirmation of Renard’s suspicions. A boy cannot ‘look after’ a man as broken as that: drunk by daybreak, shouting around guests, barely able to register Renard. The very thought of it feels obscene.

Lumbering steps stomp back through the house. The man returns to the doorframe and grins yellow-toothed up at Renard. “Twenty-five, twenty-six, it’s all there, ah."

“Wonderful, sir," says Renard.

“Yeah." Leaned heavy against the doorframe, he squints. “What were you here for? Oh, you should come in."

“He’s from Sebilles, Father," pipes Fidel.

“Sir Renard Cox," Renard presents his hand for a handshake.

“Oh! Then I know you," the man nods vigorously, then loosely shakes Renard's hand, barely remembering to. “Sir now, so you’re a Sir now? That’s great to hear. Renard Cox from Sebilles… ah, you’re here for the contracts. Moving up in the world then, oh yes. Sharp as those blades you carry you are, to come and do business with me. Like a lot from Sebilles, ha! They cannot see a good deal like we can, eh?"

“It takes a keen eye."

“Mhm." He swigs his ale and shuffles through a desk aside the door, withdrawing a piece of parchment. “That is 60,000 lucras, for the deed to the mines in Meurille. You’ll make that back in—"

“What mines in Meurille!"

“Compose yourself! Braying rude as an ass in my house," The man snaps. “You’ll make back that deposit within a year of operation. Now, it is true, the Crown stripped from me the resources to properly further this enterprise, but it is in that very abortion of my efforts I can assure you yet the presence of the lodes. It is a steep contract for some, but for one bold enough to take it, more than worthwhile. 60,000." He huffs, straightening his back and tilting up his sharp chin in an echo of the nobleman he once was. But behind that highbred haughtiness, lingering in his peeled eyes is a sense of extreme desperation and pressure.

As the sweat rolls down the man’s brow, a faint recognition solidifies. Squinting, Renard voices incredulously, “Lord Asphodelis?"

The man straightens his shoulders, rubs his chin, then rolls his eyes and swigs his drink. “They say only Asphodel now," he confirms, “maybe you can do me back the last syllable," and waggles the parchment noisily at Renard.

Though stunned to learn where this old, barely-even-acquaintance ended up, even Renard can tell the questions on his tongue are foolish ones to speak. The matter is also passed enough that it is less so guilt than relief, for having correctly not involved himself in this mess, that crosses Renard’s chest when he remembers Asphodelis’ bullying. Stinking of liquor, in a house too expensive, unkempt and unwashed in luxurious silks — this is a man whose failure was so great, it broke him, and even if Renard did accuse him of drinking away his son and wife’s prospects, of miserly clinging to rotting heirlooms, of forcing by his poverty of spirit his family to live on an embarrassing homestead surrounded by irascible temper and shattered glass, there would be no point.

How did this happen? How did you, a Lord, let this happen? These questions too, while serious ones for Renard, have no point being spoken right now.

His drunken mind wandering elsewhere in the silence, the former lord Asphodel lays the parchment aside. It is not a deed for any mines, much less any mines in Meurille, a flat plainsland where valuable metals are unlikely to form. It is an invoice for a modest purchase of salpeter and lye, a leftover from Fidel’s work.

Former-lord Asphodel stares at that paper, dreamy and lost. He grasps the door as if to leave, when his gaze trails again onto Fidel.

“Your mother’s still working today. Go on and help her," he mumbles, lingering to know Fidel heard him, and closes the door.

The silence that stretches outside on that doorstep is truly oppressive. Even trying to laugh off the pressure by mocking the former Lord Asphodel feels dangerous.

Fidel, too, is speechless, staring motionless down at the ground. While the specific emotions this encounter invoked are complex beyond Renard’s fathoming, that this boy feels defeated, and may be near crying, is obvious. What to say here? Well, as Renard has found, oftentimes action makes a better solution than words, and whatever Fidel thinks he will do, he is better off not doing alone.

Feeling this subtle attention on him, Fidel glances up and meets Renard’s gaze. He nods, wiping his eye, and in this silent but immediate agreement, the two walk together, up the path to Renard’s horse.