章節 175: CLXXV. | 'When the world began to shift...'
...171 years ago...
It was in the village of Trintol where they first met. A little place, by any account, not even large enough to make it onto a map. But it did have the sweeping vistas of the Melmoorian countryside going for it. The rolling green hills in all directions and the view of the aptly named Storm Mountains in the east--together, they offered a view that was quite uncommon.
Shepherding was the trade that kept Trintol afloat, and that was the first job that the six-year-old Parson Miles ever held. He wasn't very good at it. Stefol, the family dog, did a lot of the work for him. His father might have been able to teach him, if he hadn't been drafted into the war.
But Parson was not alone in that regard. It was much the same for all the other children in the village, even Damian, the lord's son.
They met when he saw Damian throwing rocks at Stefol. And Stefol, though he was old and rather small for a Melmoorian Shepherd, did not appreciate that gesture very much. So the dog chased the boy down and bit him on the ass.
Needless to say, that wasn't a very favorable first impression.
Being the lord's son, and a vengeful little shit, Damian tried to get Stefol put down. It was outrageous that a peasant's animal should bite the son of a lord, he said.
But Trintol wasn't much for that sort of thing. Everyone knew that the Lord Lofar, though he was currently absent due to the war, would not have approved of such retribution being taken, especially when the animal in question was an important part of the livelihood for the family it belonged to. Not to mention, everyone in town knew and liked Stefol more than Damian.
After that, Parson made a habit of avoiding Damian whenever he saw him. He was a timid boy, Parson, and Damian was older by almost a year.
Then Parson met another boy who lived in the village, one whom he had seen around a few times but never learned the name of until their mothers forced them to play together.
The boy's mother said his name was Jonah, and he even answered to it when she called for him. Yet, when Parson was alone with him, the boy suddenly started acting otherwise.
"Don't call me that!" he said, hanging from a tree branch like a monkey.
Parson was confused. "Don't call you what?"
"Jonah! My name's not Jonah!"
"Then why did your mother--?"
"Shut up! She's stupid! She doesn't know anything!"
Parson didn't believe him, but he decided to play along. "Alright, so what's your 'real' name, then?"
Jonah hopped down from the tree and landed with showy toughness. "My real name is Parson."
Parson's face scrunched up. "What?! No, it isn't!"
"Yeah, it is!"
"Nuh-uh! You're a liar!"
"No, I'm not! My name's Parson! You have to call me that from now on!"
"No, I don't! Liar!"
"Yeah, you do! That's how names work, idiot!"
That was it. "Oh yeah?! Maybe I'll tell your mom that you said she was stupid!"
"What?!" That seemed to rattle him. "You better not!"
"Or what, huh?!"
"Or--! Or I'll tell everyone your stupid dog bit me, too! Then you'll be sorry!"
So Parson punched him.
Then Jonah punched him back.
It was the first fight Parson ever got into. It really hurt.
When both boys returned with black eyes and ripped clothes, their mothers were indignant. Parson got ten whips with father's old belt. His mother didn't seem to have any trouble carrying out the sentence in the man's absence, nor did she care to listen to his claims that Jonah had it coming.
When he saw Jonah the next day, though, the boy seemed different.
"I'm sorry for what I said before." Jonah's eyes were at his feet.
Parson checked to make sure the coast was clear, wondering if his mother was putting him up to this.
Oh. Yep. There she was in the window, watching them.
Better put on a good show for her, then. "Don't worry about it," said Parson, and he stuck his hand out to shake on it. "I'm sorry, too."
Jonah took the handshake with a big smile.
Huh.
It was only supposed to be for pretend, but as they continued to spend more time together, it became clear that Jonah didn't realize that. The little jerk actually took the words to heart.
Well, that was fine, Parson supposed. He still didn't like Jonah very much, but it was better than another spanking.
And they became friends. More or less.
"My name really isn't Jonah, though."
Parson rolled his eyes. "So what is it, then?"
"It's Peter. You have to call me Peter from now on."
"Ugh. Fine. You're Peter now."
"Yes! Thanks, Parson!"
"Sure."
As the days went by, they spent more and more time together, mainly because 'Peter' followed Parson around at every opportunity.
What an obnoxious brat. Parson wondered if this was what it was like to have a little brother. Peter claimed to be older than him, but when Parson asked the boy's mother directly, surprise, surprise, that turned out to be a lie. Parson had a full year on him.
Parson's next encounter with Damian was at the summer festival. All the boys in the town had gathered to play a game of tag. Some of the girls tried to join in, but the boys chased them off. Parson wouldn't have minded their company, especially not that of Alisa Brandt, but oh well. He hoped he would find an opening later so that he could kick dirt on that stupid pink dress she was wearing. Where did she even get a dress like that, anyway? She couldn't have made it herself. It was way too nice.
Damian tagged Parson while he was distracted.
Agh. Stupid Alisa and her stupid dress. What was she laughing about, huh? It really bothered him.
He had to tag Damian back. For some reason, no one else would do. It had to be Damian. So Parson chased him down and ignored everyone else.
The other boys took notice fairly quickly, but Parson didn't care. Maybe it was because he wasn't feeling quite so timid, anymore. He'd been in a fight. He had this weird little minion following him around. Parson's confidence had grown. And he absolutely didn't want to lose to Damian, lord's son or not.
Eventually, Parson managed to tackle him. It was rougher than they were supposed to play, but that was how these games went. The boys all knew that. And so did the girls, probably, watching them the way they did.
But Damian didn't seem to take it that way. He socked Parson in the jaw, and then they were rolling in the dirt, kicking and screaming, punching and clawing.
The other boys had to pull them off of one another before the adults showed up.
And that was the strangest moment of all. Everyone understood without any words being spoken that, regardless of what they had just been doing, the grownups couldn't find out. Parson just didn't want to get punished. Were the other boys the same way?
It seemed to be working. They could pretend. He didn't even mind acting like Damian was his best friend.
But just as the adults were turning to leave, one of the girls ratted them out.
"They were fighting!" she said. "We saw them! Didn't we, girls?!"
The other girls all agreed with her--even Alisa, who scrunched her face up and stuck her tongue out at Parson in particular.
Traitorous wenches.
This was why girls couldn't be trusted.
The boys were all punished. Parson's mother whipped his ass so hard that it hurt to sit for the next few days.
However, the next time Parson, Damian, and Peter met, there was much less animosity. While Parson still couldn't exactly say that he liked Damian, there was a degree of camaraderie between them. They had a common enemy in the girls now. And arguably the adults as well.
And so it was that they became a trio, of sorts, and spent their days scheming away, trying to come up with various ways of terrorizing the girls. One time, they gathered as many frogs as they could find and released them like a plague upon the girls' most frequent haunts. No one ever knew who was responsible. Another time, they gathered up crickets. And still another time, they gathered up fleas.
They regretted that one, though, and resolved to start coming up with plans that didn't involve animals.
They relied on Peter for a while, helping him to hone his craft as a liar. First, they tried to trick the girls into thinking that Peter was a prince. It didn't work so well. Then they tried to convince the girls that the well on the south end of the village was haunted.
"By what?" one of the girls asked.
"By the ghost of Mad Man Morris!" said Peter.
"And who is that?"
"He was a lunatic and a murderer! He killed his whole family and laughed while he did it! They say he fell down the well and died, but you can still hear his moans at night!"
The girls didn't believe them, of course. But they convinced them to visit the well at night in order to prove their courage, at which point, Parson had already climbed into the well and was waiting for them. After a few timely moans of "agony," the girls quickly decided to leave.
And the next day, they began to hear rumors of the ghost in the well.
It was all they could do to contain their pride and laughter.
That meager taste of success was all the motivation they needed to push themselves toward ever greater heights. Story after story, prank after prank, the trio began to grow rather infamous as troublemakers.
But by far, their most triumphant venture was when they covered Damian in sheep's blood and told everyone--with the greatest of sincerity and commitment to their roles--that he'd been be mauled by a pack of wild coyotes.
They had the whole village in an uproar.
Of course, when everyone realized the truth, the Trio caught hell to a greater degree than they ever had before, but it was worth it, Parson felt. He'd never laughed so hard in his life or had so much fun.
In time, some of the other boys wanted to join their little gang, but it was far too late for new members. The Trio were in agreement that they should keep things exactly the way they were.
The other boys didn't take the rejection well, perhaps because the Trio lobbed curses and mud at them, and for a while thereafter, the Trio went to war with all the other boys in Trintol.
Of course, it was only a pretend war. A game. Not like the real war that was raging in the south and the northeast.
"Think we'll ever see them again?" said Steven one day, while they were lounging around a hole that they had recently dug out for themselves as a hiding spot. He had stopped wanting to be called Peter a month ago, nor did he want to go back to Jonah. And rather than quarrel with him over something that they didn't really care about, Parson and Damian merely went with it. Besides, it made for an extra means of confusing people in the village, which was always a plus. "Our fathers, I mean. Think they'll ever come back?"
"Of course they will," said Damian. "Why wouldn't they?"
Steven scoffed. "Idiot. Don't you know what war is? It's where people die. Lots of people."
"I know that. But they're not gonna die."
"How do you know?"
"He doesn't," said Parson. "He's just being optimalistic."
"Do you even know what that word means?" said Damian.
"Do you?" said Parson.
Damian folded his arms. "You shouldn't use words you don't know the meaning of. It makes you look stupid."
"Shut up. You don't know anything."
"My mother says the war is going great for our side," said Damian. "There's nothing to worry about."
"Hmph," Parson huffed. "As if she would tell you the truth."
"You callin' my mother a liar?!"
"No, I'm callin' YOU a baby!"
And they fought again, but it didn't have the same kind of genuine anger behind it that it used to. They were both content to let it end in a draw. Steven tried to get them to shake hands. They both just slapped him instead for trying to order them around.
Not long after that, tragedy arrived and hit them like a ton of bricks.
Stefol passed away. The Miles family dog had simply grown too old.
The Trio didn't know how to react. This was their first experience with such things.
But they were sad. That much, they knew. Even Damian, who'd been bitten not that long ago. They'd all gotten to know Stefol much better in the recent months, Parson included. The old dog had seemed fuller with life during that time than Parson ever recalled before.
Then, at his mother's recommendation, Parson decided to make a memorial for Stefol. The other two members of the Trio joined him.
Alas, it was a task which would never see completion.
"Hey, what's that?" said Steven, pointing toward the horizon.
Parson saw what he meant. Smoke in the distance.
"A fire?" said Damian. He sat atop a tall boulder that they'd been trying unsuccessfully to roll up a hill for the past day or so. They hadn't been exactly certain what they were going to do with it if they ever managed to actually get it up there, but it had seemed like it would make a good fixture for Stefol's memorial.
Soon, they caught sight of a rider as well--a lone man on horseback crossing over the hills and coming toward Trintol. He was slumped forward in the saddle, not riding properly at all.
When they saw the rider fall from his horse and not get back up, the Trio ran to meet him.
Damian went straight up to the downed man as the horse ran off on its own. He prodded the guy with a stick he often carried around, then put his hand under the man's nose. "He's still breathing, I think."
"Why's he dressed like that?" said Steven.
"It's a uniform, stupid," said Parson. "Soldiers wear 'em."
"I'm not stupid! I just ain't never seen one before!"
"Neither have I, but it's obvious. You should pay more attention when the grownups talk. They say all sorts of things when they think we can't hear 'em."
"I do pay attention! I just ain't never--"
"Those are Melmoorian colors," said Damian. "That means he's one of ours."
Parson ran around to the man's other side. "We should drag him back to the village, then."
"What if they just think we're playing another prank?" said Steven.
"How could this be a prank?" said Parson. "We can't fake a dead body."
"He's not dead," reiterated Damian.
"Just shut up and help me."
"He looks heavy," said Steven.
"So what?" said Damian. "You a weakling?"
"No! I'm super strong!"
"Coulda fooled me with those twig arms of yours," said Parson.
"Shut up! I'm stronger than both of you!"
Damian and Parson both laughed. "Go ahead and prove it, then," said Damian. "Grab his feet, Torocles."
"What? I told you, I'm Steven!"
"Idiot," said Parson. "Torocles was the strongest man who ever lived. Ain't your mother ever read you that story?"
"What? Yeah, of course she has! Shut up!"
And it took a while, but with group effort, they managed to drag the man all the way back to Trintol.
The adults were all aghast at the sight of the stranger. They quickly shooed the boys away from him and then carried him off to Damian's house, the largest in the village.
The Trio tried to follow and sneak a look in, but even Damian couldn't find anything else out. The adults were too wary of them. And when night started to fall, Parson had to go home disappointed.
"Boy," his mother said, taking that punishing tone that he'd heard so many times before. She raised her hand, and he braced himself, but she didn't smack him. Instead, she patted him on the head and ran her fingers through his hair. "You did a good thing today. I'm proud of you."
What a weird feeling, that was.
He went to bed happy.
He awoke to his mother shaking him. "Parson! Get up, Parson!"
It was still the middle of the night. "Ma? What's going--?"
She all but threw him out of his bed. "Get up! We have to go!"
He didn't dare protest. He followed her blindly and confusedly. What were all these noises from outside? Shouting and rushed footsteps? Horses, too?
And a scream. A terrible scream. Enough to make his blood run cold. He would've frozen in place at the mere sound of it if his mother hadn't been dragging him by the arm.
They abandoned their home and ran. As his mother pulled him into the dark and open wilderness, Parson looked back at the dwindling Trintol behind.
It was burning.
He could hear more screams like the one earlier, equally as horrible or more.
And he saw horsemen. Not just in the village but around it, too. One of them was riding toward them.
"Mother!" he tried to whisper. But there was too much chaos. Too much noise. She didn't seem to hear him. Or she was simply too focused on running.
He didn't need to be dragged, anymore. His legs were carrying him in stride with her now. He was almost dragging her, even.
But when he looked back, the horseman was still coming. It was dark, but his mother definitely noticed the rider now. She grabbed Parson and dove into a line of underbrush and rocks.
Without any shoes on, Parson's feet were getting cut up and bleeding, but he hardly even noticed. He could still hear the horse trotting, closer than ever now. His mother stopped and held him in place with her, huddled low behind a large stone. He could barely make out the contours of her face despite being close enough to feel her breath, to hear her heart beat, even.
His own heart was pounding harder than it ever had, too. He wanted to go back to running, but she was holding him too tightly in her arms and kissing his forehead.
The horse's clopping steps stopped, suddenly.
And they waited.
"Out with you, woman!" came a man's shout. "I know you are here! I saw you flying the town!"
Parson could feel her trembling.
"Make this easier for yourself and come out! I will not hurt you!
His mother forced him to look up at her.
"Stay," she said beneath her breath. "Stay, boy."
He felt entirely unable to control himself, but he managed to nod, somehow.
Then she stood up.
He tried to hold onto her, to keep her where she was, but she was stronger than him.
And she left him there.
He didn't move. She had told him to stay. That was all he could think about. He had to listen to her.
He tried to listen for what was happening, but he could only vaguely make out a voice every now and then. A horse neighing. A bush rustling. A bird cawing. The wind howling.
He waited. He waited a very long time. He grew cold, but for the longest time, it didn't bother him. He was too occupied with listening, with waiting. When was she going to come back? What was taking so long? What was happening?
He wanted to know. And he also didn't. Just thinking about the answers to those questions made him feel far colder than he already was.
At length, however, dawn broke, and he began to feel the wilderness around him. The cold, the wind, the dirt, and the hunger.
He couldn't stay here forever, he was beginning to think. He would have to move, eventually.
But not yet. He could wait for her. Just a little longer.
Then he finally heard something different. The horse. Rustling movement. Trotting off.
The rider was leaving, Parson realized.
He waited. He listened. He hoped. If the horseman was gone, perhaps his mother would return to him now.
And he kept waiting.
Had the horseman carried her off with him? Was she never going to return?
Eventually, Parson could abide the wait no longer. He had to know. He stood on unsteady legs and stepped out from his hiding place. He searched the area for the rider's camp from the previous night.
When he found it, he also found his mother.
She was on the ground, covered in blood. Her clothes were torn, and her throat had been cut.
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