The Wheelwright's Apprentice (2 page)

2

Three hours, and six miles later, he was tired and hungry. He had been to Joman’s Crossing only once before with the wheelwright to whom he had been apprenticed. Travelling in a cart had seemed uncomfortable and bumpy at the time, but it was infinitely better than slogging it along the rough track on shank’s pony. He knew that there were a couple of farmsteads on the way, but no more, as this close to the border people stayed together for protection. It hadn’t done his village much good, and he hoped that the farms might be able to spare him something, as long as they still existed. The first one should, if his memory served, be very near, and a short time later he saw a thin swirl of smoke in the distance.

Was it from a fire in a fireplace, or was it from a burning building? He stepped away from the track, and carefully made his way closer. Cresting a small rise he could see the farmhouse still standing, and for the first time in a long while he felt his spirits lifting. As he drew closer to the house, he saw the farmer and his two sons come out carrying scythes and cudgels. When he was near enough for them to make out his features, they relaxed and hailed him.

“Are you Kan Wheelwright’s apprentice?”

He nodded assent, and replied, “I am glad you are alive, because no one else from my village is!”

After having told the story of his day, and what he could remember of the night to the farmer, his goodwife and children, he could see only grim expressions. Apparently a riderless horse had passed by earlier, but they had been unable to catch it. They had been worried, and now their worst fears were realized. With a loaf of bread and a nub of cheese for which he had insisted on paying, he hurried on so that he could make Joman’s Crossing before dark.

He tried to make the best time that he could, and although he saw one other farmstead along the way, he chose to pass it by. He really did want to get to Joman’s Crossing before dark, not just to pass on his news to a responsible person, but because, whatever the cost, he wanted a safe, snug night in a bed to help him recover from the shocks that he had not yet properly faced.

It was still twilight as he limped into the market place in Joman’s Crossing. Priorities crossed his mind. Should he look for a room or for the Constable? He knew if it was the room first, he would collapse until midday tomorrow, so reluctantly he trudged to the Constable’s house. The Constable was a young man with a young wife and baby. He was also very kind and professional. He started to listen carefully and then stopped him, saying, “You need to eat, and then we’ll start again and take notes. You have had a great shock and need to relax.”

The Constable’s wife placed a platter in front of him, and he was unable to talk until he had finished it. Afterwards it turned out that he had a very meticuloupanIs memory. The Constable was writing every little detail, from the design of the helms to the breed of their horses, the styles of sword and bow, and things that seemed inconsequential to him like the fletching on the arrows. Between swallows of water, as his mouth was dry, he managed to impart everything he had seen. By the time he had finished, his head was on the kitchen table, and he was snoring.

He woke up the next morning on a pallet in the kitchen when the goodwife came in to start cooking breakfast for her family.

“Good morning,” he greeted her, “I guess I just collapsed on you.”

“I am not surprised that you did with the day you had,” she replied, “Did you sleep well?”

“I must have done, as my last memory is sitting at your table with your husband busily writing. Please can you point me towards the jakes?”

He walked to the outhouse, and while there recalled that for him, an outhouse was where it had all started for him. He then drew some water from the well, and washed his hands and face before taking a long cool draught from a second full bucket. He then poured the remainder into the bucket left there for carrying water inside, and brought it in with him.

Once inside, he saw the Constable was up, and greeted him with a cheery, “Good Morning.” He then asked the question he had been avoiding, “What are you going to do now?” Reality descended with a crash that was somewhat softened by the admonition, “Have some breakfast first before you answer!”

Sitting back a few minutes later under the watchful eye of the Constable, and feeling a lot better, he at last managed a smile. He told the Constable, “My mother told me that when I was old enough she would send me to my father. She didn’t know his name, but said that every year during fifth month he would be at a place between Horseford and Midpass, and that I couldn’t miss it!” The Constable let out a huge belly laugh.

“The Count always spends fifth month at his border castle that commands the road into Midpass. He takes his retinue with him, that’s fifty or more men, so you might have trouble working out which one of them you resemble!”

He looked at the Constable. “Now that my mother is dead I really have no choice but to follow her words. I have to be old enough. If I find my father then I will have a place, otherwise...” He looked down and grabbed his head with his hands,”I don’t know what I will do.”

The Constable sat in front of him and said, “Bring your head up and look me in the eye.” When he did, the Constable continued, “Let’s start with your name. I was so busy yesterday that I forgot to ask, and you never volunteered it, so what is it?”

He sighed and looked the Constable in the eye again, and said, “I have been known as Wilson, but my mother always said that my father could choose to change it when he first met me.”

The Constable turned and looked at his wife, who was washing. They caught each other’s eyes, and nodded at each other. The Constable looked back to Wilson and said, “I have to report this to the Capital, but as this happened in the County, I must also report it to the Count. Since you say that you are going to where he is, I am going to ask you to carry a letter to him. I can’t do both.”

Two hours later, having had the directions carefully explained to him, and with the letter and provisions for three days in his pack, he happily set out. As he walked away, the Constable re thConstabmarked to his goodwife, “Looks like another of the Count’s by-blows. There used to be a lot more of them, or so I was told. I hope he finds his place.”

The road out of Joman’s Crossing was a lot busier than the track from his village. In fact he was passed by several carts, and one of them offered him a lift. He paid for the lift by telling the carter all about the massacre at his village. The name came to his mind now that it was virtually no longer there, and now that he was at a distance from it. It had been called “Dane’s Hamlet”. He wondered if there had been a man called Dane who had once made his homestead there. He wondered if anyone would live there in the future.

The carter, whose name was Erman, became talkative after Wilson had finished his tale, and ruminated, “Haven’t heard of any raiders for five years or more, if not longer. Usually they come over Midpass. Now, since the Count guards it in raiding season, they must have tried for something easier. I don’t know what they get out of it. The Count always retaliates, and they get hurt worse than us. I had an uncle in the Count’s guard, and that’s what he told me, leastwise.”

The cart trundled on, and around midday when Wilson was chewing on a heel of bread that he had found, the cart suddenly lurched and stopped. The carter swore, and got down to have a look. Wilson got down and followed him.

Erman, hands on his hips, looked at Wilson and asked, “D’you know anything about fixing wheels? ‘Cos if ye don’t, ye’ll be walking!”

Wilson did not want to walk, and replied, “I’ll take a look. I was apprenticed to a wheelwright, but I can’t fix everything.”

Wilson got down under the cart to have a good look. Right away he saw the problem, the rim was broken, and there was no way it could be repaired. He looked hard at the rim and thought,
“I really do not want to walk thirty miles when I could be riding in this cart.
” He let out a deep breath and, looking at the rim, thought,
“Please let it be fixed.”
He felt just the way he did when he was running, terrified, through what was left of Dane’s Hamlet, and when he looked again, the cart had lurched slightly, and the rim was as new.

Wilson sat stunned beneath the cart, and then Erman called out, “What’s it look like?”

“Give me a minute or two,” he called back. He sat numbly under the cart. After a minute, he started tapping and tapping and then called out, “Looks okay.” He stumbled out from under the cart, and brushed himself off.

“Let’s try it now,” he called out. They set off again while a very surprised Wilson sat beside the carter, completely bemused.

That evening they stopped at an inn. Wilson was told, “You can sleep in the cart if you like, it’s probably cleaner than any bed they have here!”

Erman thought,
“A bit of extra security for my load!”

That night Wilson curled up in the back of the cart as soon as he had eaten, and fell fast asleep. Much later, he was woken by the sound of two men speaking in quiet but rough voices. “It’s so easy to steal a cart; we just attach a horse and go!”

“Yes,” his companion replied, “The best thing to stop it being stolen is for them is to take a wheel off.”

Wilson stayed still in the back as he listened to a pair of horses being put in the traces, and thoso ces, anught to himself,
“If the wheel was broken, they would have the same problem.”
He lay there in the back, terrified of being found by the robbers. He thought, “I wish the wheel was broken again.” He suddenly felt the cart lurch and went cold. What had happened? Was it his doing? What would the robbers do?

One of them stopped and said to the other, “I thought I heard a crack. I’m going to take a look.” A moment later, there was a whispered tirade, and then Wilson heard, “They went one better than taking the wheel off, they left a broken one on, nobody’s fools after all.” He then heard the horses being unhitched and led away. It was a long time after all the noises had ceased that before he was able to get back to sleep. In the morning when he was woken, he first got back under the cart to take a look. The wheel was broken in exactly the same place as it had been before. Squatting down beside it he thought,
“If it was me before, then I should be able to do it again.”
He tried to remember how he felt when he thought he would have to walk for leagues and leagues, and wished for the wheel to be whole. Abruptly with a lurch, there it was, perfect again in front of him. Hunger clamped itself around his stomach, and he went looking for breakfast.

3

Wilson was extremely quiet for the whole of the next day. He was wrestling with the fact that he seemed to have caused the cart to mend, break and mend again. It was a lot for his young mind to handle, and it wasn’t really something he felt he could talk to the carter about. He felt alone and confused. He had no explanation, and was very happy when the carter stopped for the night at the next inn.The carter again offered him the cart to sleep in, and he now knew why the carter had extended this courtesy. He accepted, as he didn’t want to tell the carter what had happened. This night thankfully was uneventful, but he had to part company with the carter after an hour or so the following morning, as that was when their paths separated. Holding his thin pack, Wilson waved goodbye to the carter and started on his lonely trek towards Horseford.

It was a long hard lonely walk. He saw no one except a farmer with a wagonload of turnips going the other way.
“That’s what life is all about, turnips,”
he thought. Then his thoughts changed focus and he remembered the cart.
“If I can fix carts, can I do anything else?”
That was the unbidden idea that filled his mind. He trudged metronomically down the road, lost in his thoughts
. “Perhaps I can try something, but what?”
He walked along through an essentially flat and featureless landscape wondering,
“What?”
Later on that day, as he got close to Horseford, he saw more signs of farming, and people began to be in evidence on the road.

Horseford was a much larger place than Wilson could have imagined. There were houses with four floors, and the market square was so big he was amazed. He had of course traveled very little, so he wandered about the town in a daze until he noticed a sign saying ‘Constable’. Wilson knocked on the door, and a man much older than the Constable of Joman’s Crossing came to the door. He looked very fearsome, with a full black beard and a cudgel that was long and thin hanging from his waist. Wilson took an involuntary step backwards and asked, “A...are you the Constable?”

The man gave a gruff laugh, and replied, “Well I am a Constable, but here in Ho a rseford we have a Sergeant, so I guess you want to see the Sergeant. Come on in and sit down.” Wilson was shown into a hall with a bench on each side. He sat down to wait.

Some few minutes later, another man came along, and said, “Follow me.” Wilson was led into another room where a man, not in uniform, was seated.

“I understand you want to see me?” the man asked.

“Yes. I have been tasked by the Constable of Joman’s Crossing to deliver a letter to the Count. I was hoping to get directions from you.”

“Fine, I am the Sergeant here, give me the letter.”

Wilson fished out the letter from where he had been keeping it, and told the Sergeant, “Delivering it is my job!”

The Sergeant smiled back, and said, “That’s as may be, but it is also my job to look at any letters in case they get lost.” The Sergeant opened the letter and started to read. He took his time, and after a few grunts he looked up.

“You were the only survivor of a raid on Dane’s Hamlet?” Wilson nodded. “You must have been very lucky.”

Wilson looked down, and said, “I guess so. I was terrified.” The Sergeant grunted again. “This is important news. You can come with me tomorrow to make sure it gets delivered. Meanwhile you look like you could use dinner, bath and a bed. One of the Constables will arrange it.” Wilson was dismissed.

Very early the next morning, he was awoken by the gruff Constable who was shaking him quite hard. “You don’t have to do it that hard,” Wilson moaned.

“Yes I did, you didn’t want to wake up! Breakfast will be in ten minutes, be ready.”

He dragged his face to a basin and washed himself fully awake in ice cold water. Outside it was still pitch black. He eked out a crooked smile and thought, “At least I am alive, things will improve eventually.” That was a thought that didn’t past last the revelation that he was to ride a horse, something he had never done before. The cold breakfast that followed, although filling, did nothing to lift his already depressed spirits.

Two hours later, Wilson found out that things tend to get a lot worse before they get better. He was in agony. His thighs were on fire, and his backside was totally numb. Pride, and the fact that he had acquired a certain dislike for walking long distances, were the only things that kept him on the horse. After enduring another half hour of agony, Wilson was mightily relieved when the Sergeant called a halt by a small stream.

“Ten minute rest stop,” the Sergeant called out. “Let the horses drink and rest.”

It was not easy for him to dismount. In the end, the Sergeant helped him off, as the pain was so bad. Once he could stand, Wilson dutifully led his horse to the stream, and waited while it drank its fill. He then tethered his horse by the Sergeant’s, and collapsed on the ground.

“D’you think you’ll be able to get up from there?” The Sergeant quipped dryly. Wilson didn’t reply. He was happy just to be temporarily pain free. He wasn’t worried that it wouldn’t last. The respite was enough.

Getting back onto the horse was as bad as he could have anticipated. The Sergeant had to virtually lift him up. His muscles screamed with protest, but he soon found himself alive and astride. He couldn’t speak as they rode on. It was only moments of agony before he was f anore he ervently wishing that the pain would stop. Suddenly it did. It was as if it was a new day. Suddenly he could see the scenery, he could hear the birds singing, and he could find a rhythm in the horse’s movement that was soothing.

“What did I do this time?” he asked himself. “I wished the pain away, and it went. Thank you this ability of mine!” His horse had simply been following the Sergeant’s, but now that he was feeling a bit better he urged it forward to be alongside.

The Sergeant grunted, and said, “About bloody time, I expect you’re feeling a whole lot better.”

Wilson smiled and replied, “Yes, thank you. I seem to have the hang of it at last.”

The Sergeant muttered under his breath, “I’ll bet you have!” Then more loudly, “Do you think you could go a bit faster now?”

Wilson said he could, so they started a routine of canter, walk, and trot that ate up the miles a lot faster than just a walk. At midday, the Sergeant called another halt by a river crossing. Wilson dismounted easily this time, and was in a good mood.

“Come and sit over here, and have lunch.” The Sergeant offered, once the horses had been looked after. It was obviously a popular stopping place as there were a few rough and ready stools and a table. Eating their rations was done in relative comfort.

The Sergeant looked at Wilson, and said, “You’ve just had a very interesting couple of days, haven’t you.”

Wilson looked at the Sergeant in shock. “I wouldn’t call seeing almost everyone I knew in the world, including my mother, killed, as ‘Interesting’.” Wilson said indignantly.

The Sergeant laughed. “I meant, since that happened. You have to be wondering what has happened to you. Well, aren’t you?”

Wilson looked down. “I suppose so.”

“Do you know what the Constables do?” the Sergeant asked.

Wilson shrugged. “Keep the peace I suppose, help the country run smoothly.”

“We do all that of course, but we also have another task for which we are very well trained.”

“And that is...?”

“Looking out for people like you.”

Wilson stood up, “People like me?”

“Yep, people just like you. People who have the Will.”

“What’s that?” Wilson asked, at last realizing that he is getting some useful information about how the world worked, and how he in particular was going to manage.

“That, sonny boy, is how you stopped the pain in your legs and bum. I deliberately gave you the most uncomfortable saddle I could find, as I wanted you to be in agony before our first stop. I needed you to cure yourself real early, as we had a long way to go, and we couldn’t trot or canter until you had.”

Wilson turned white. “How did you know I could? I didn’t even know I could.”

“Look boy. You were the only survivor of a massacre of over six hundred men, women and children. How did you do that? By being lucky? No, by having the Will. What did you wish for? Invisibility? That they stayed away from your hiding place? That they simply went somewhere else? They all would have done the job! You just had to be terrified enough thatrea enough your ability to use the Will would kick in.” He tapped the pocket containing the letter. “All in this letter you know! Now another aspect of our job is that whenever we come across anyone who has use of the Will, we have to take them to the Count. Can’t have boys like you running around untrained doing all sorts of stupid and foolish things, can we?”

Wilson stuttered, “I s-s-suppose not.”

“That’s right kid, you need training to use what you have without killing yourself, or more importantly, other people! Fortunately that’s someone else’s problem. Mine is to get you to the Count. You do realize that the package you were carrying was never the letter, but you yourself!” The Sergeant laughed.

Hours later, a huge, almost featureless fort came into view. It seemed very forbidding and spare. From a distance, and Wilson believed that they were still over two miles away, the only sign of life was a flag of indeterminate pattern flying from a lone flagstaff above what he later found out was the front gate.