Orphan Farm Boy of Destiny - episode one

A story in the Ravenglass Universe

Mark exposed the turnip’s crown from the dirt and glanced up at his father. “How’s this looking?”

His father smiled and folded his arms. “What do you think?”

Mark brushed more soil away and studied the turnip closer. “I think it’s ready.”

“I think you’re right, son.”

Mark picked up his shovel and loosened the soil around the turnip.

His father watched over him, his weathered skin and calloused hands a stark contrast to the warmth in his eyes. “Be careful not to damage the roots. Remember what I showed you.”

“I know.” Mark grasped the turnip at the base of the leaves and carefully levered it from the ground. He shook off the excess dirt and smiled up at his father. “I did it.”

His father nodded. “What do we do next?”

“The leaves?”

“That’s right.” He handed Mark his knife. “Cut them how I showed you and add them to the compost.”

With tentative movement, Mark cut the leaves away from the turnip and placed them on the compost pile.”

“Very good.”

A sense of pride washed over Mark as he cast his gaze up at the cloudless sky, the sun’s rays warming his back.

The pair continued their harvest and Mark helped his father transfer the turnips into two carts—one for their lord, and one for market. “Careful, Mark. You don’t want to drop them. We need to make sure they’re stacked neatly so they don’t roll around.”

“I know.” Mark placed another three turnips onto the growing pile. “Do you think we’ll sell all these?”

His father shrugged. “We’ve had a good harvest this time. With the Four’s blessing, we’ll have an easier winter, I’m sure.”

By the time they’d finished filling the carts, Mark’s back and legs ached and his stomach rumbled.

He padded into the farmhouse to join his father, the earthy aroma of stewing turnip filling the air. On one wall hung a row of copper pots and pans, glinting in the dying sunlight filtering in through a small window. Opposite the window stood a large hearth.

Mark sat at the worn pine table and watched his father chopping onions. “Can I help?”

“Of course, son.”

Mark joined his father at the worktop, stripped and chopped carrots, and added them to the pot.

“I’ve been thinking. When planting season comes, It’s time you learned how to use the plough.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “But I’m only ten.”

“My father taught me when I was your age.” He placed the lid on the cooking pot and wiped his hands down his apron. “One day this farm will be yours.”

“But I don’t want to be a farmer. I want to be a knight. I want to be like the heroes in the stories and defeat the Northern Reachmen and slay evil wyverns and be brave and strong and serve the Ostreich Empire.”

His father chuckled. “We serve the Empire by toiling the land and sharing our harvest.”

“It’s not really sharing when the lord makes us.”

“Lord Westerburg owns this land and it is by his grace that we are allowed to farm here.”

“I know. It just doesn’t seem fair. Why should we slave in the dirt while he sits in his manor?”

“Son.”

The firmness of his father’s voice silenced Mark. He looked down at his hands. “If I was a knight, I wouldn’t have to.”

“Knights exist to protect us, not for us to join. By the grace of the Four, we all have our place in the world.”

“But why can’t I be a hero, like in the stories?”

His father placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and seemed to force a smile. “Believe me, son. There’s more than enough adventure right here on the farm.”

Mark sniffed. “Yeah, right. What, like fighting off a weevil, or having a turnip land on your toes?”

His father’s smile reached his eyes. “I’ve fought off my fair share of wyverns from taking our food.” He glanced towards the window, his voice dropping low. “I even once fought off a trio of bandits.”

“Bandits? When?”

“Oh, when you were very young. They came here trying to steal the harvest, but I sent them packing with a dagger and pitchfork.”

Mark looked his father up and down. “Is that true?”

“Honest word. May the Four strike me down if I’m lying.”

Mark waited for the expected lightning, or fireball, or whatever it was the Four sent to punish those who swore a lie.

“Working the farm may not seem as exciting as the stories, but it’s just as important…if not more so.” He raised his chin. “Imagine what would happen if there were no farmers. There would be no food. People would starve. We work hard to provide for our community, and that’s something to be proud of, son. Never forget that.”

Mark met his father’s eyes and his cheeks prickled with shame. “I understand.”

His father ruffled his hair. “Good lad.”

“Do you think I could be a knight though…I mean, if I had to?”

“It’s neither here nor there, son. Best not filling your mind with stories and nonsense. We’ve got a long day ahead of us on the morrow.”

Early the next morning, Mark and his father set out for market, their handcart piled high with turnips, the cart’s wheels clattering along the rutted track.

When they arrived, Mark found the market already buzzing with colours and movement. Men and women hawked their wares from stalls as the scents of garlic and firespice whafted over the square.

Mark stood back and watched as father sold the turnips, negotiating prices and exchanging their produce for coin.

As the shadows began to stretch in late afternoon, a man approached their stall, his grey eyes flickering over their produce before settling on Mark.

The man stood a head taller than Mark’s father and wore a long black cloak. He wore his black hair in a braid, his beard trimmed. He inclined his head as if studying Mark.

“Can I help you?”

 The man turned his attention to Mark’s father. “I was wondering if you would deliver as far as the Blue Spire Mountains?”

“We don’t go that far north, I’m afraid.”

The man nodded and his gaze drifted back to Mark, his eyes lingering on the birthmark of a sword on his arm. “What’s that on your son’s arm?”

Mark folded his arms, drawing himsefl away from the man.

 It’s just a birthmark.” Mark’s father gestured to the setting sun. “Now, if you don’t mind. We need to start packing up.”

“Of course, forgive my intrusion.” He eyed Mark one last time before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

Mark helped load the few remaining turnips back onto the cart. “That man was strange.”

“Yes.” His father scanned the crowd. “Stay close to me on the road.”

As they walked along the dirt track home, Mark looked up at his father. “Where are the Blue Spire Mountains? Are they really far away?”

“They’re a few days north of here on foot. You can sometimes see them from the top field on a clear day.”

Mark nodded. “I think I’ve seen them.”

“I’m sure you will have done.” He raised a finger. “But don’t you be getting any ideas about going there, son.”

“We could visit, though, couldn’t we? One day, I mean.”

His father shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“But I really want to go.”

“They’re dangerous.”

“Have you been there?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know they’re dangerous?”

His father glared at him. “I have responsibilities—to you, to the farm. I can’t just leave.”

“I know.” Mark kicked a stone. “Don’t you ever want to see the world though?”

“We have all we need right here.”

“I know, it’s just—”

“It’s nothing, son.”

Mark dipped his head. “Sorry.”

“Good boy.” His father gave a warm smile. “We have more than plenty to do here.” He tapped his right eyebrow. “And that’s where our focus should be.”

“I know.”

As they continued trudging along the track, Mark turned to his father. “Why was that weird man asking about my birthmark?”

His father sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s because of some stupid old legend.”

“What legend?” A crease set on Mark’s brow. “What’s it about?”

His father hesitated for a moment and steered the cart around another puddle, “It’s an ancient prophecy about a boy with a sword-shaped birthmark.”

Mark gasped. “Really?”

“It’s a story, son. Nothing more.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about a boy who’s supposed to save the world. But it’s just made-up nonsense. There’s no truth to it.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “Maybe it’s about me.”

His father chuckled. “It’s just a coincidence. That man at the market is a fool to believe in such things.”

“Did Mother ever visit the Blue Spire Mountains?”

His father’s face fell. “No.” He took in a breath. “Your mother never got to see the mountains.”

“Do you think she believed in the legends?”

His dad let out a sad laugh and shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure she probably did. She always had a fondness for stories like that. But that’s all they are. They’re stories.”

A lump formed in Mark’s throat and he stopped. “I miss her.”

His father slowed to a halt beside him and squeezed his shoulder. “I miss her too, son. I miss her very much.”

They stood in silence for a long moment. Wind shook the trees around them.

“Do you think Mother would have been proud of me if I became a knight?”

His father gave a slow nod, “Son, your mother would have been proud of you no matter what. She loved you more than you could ever imagine.”

Mark blinked and he cleared his throat. “Why did she have to leave us?”

His father held his eyes shut for several seconds before looking up between the trees. “It was her time.”

“But, why?”

“The blight was too much for her.”

Mark nodded silently, trying to hold back his tears.

“Hey.” Mark’s father placed an arm around him, pulling him in close. “She’s still with us, you know. She’s watching over us from up there.” He pointed to the sky. “And she’ll always be proud of you.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so, son.” He jerked a thumb along the road. “Come on. Let’s get back before sunset. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

After dinner, Mark helped his father clear away the plates.

His father smiled at him. “We have another busy day tomorrow. We need to finish up the turnip harvest before the frost sets in, and we need to deliver Lord Westerburg’s share.”

Mark nodded. “I was thinking maybe we could get some cows and sheep and some chickens. And we could start growing beets and carrots too. We could even get a dog and some horses.”

His father laughed. “It’s better to be good at one thing than spreading yourself too thinly. We’re good at growing turnips, and that’s what we’ll continue to do.”

“I know. I just—”

“Think of how we can grow them better, how we can get bigger yields. That’s the real challenge.”

Mark tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. “I understand.”

His father leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “Goodnight, son. Sleep well. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Mark crawled into bed and imagined what it must be like to climb the Blue Spire Mountains. As much as he hated the idea of letting his father down, he didn’t want to spend his entire life growing turnips.

But his father was right. They had a good life on the farm, and there was no need to chase after anything else. But he couldn’t help feeling there was more to life than turnips.