The Jongurian Mission (5 page)

“
No, it’s not that Uncle Halam,” Bryn replied, “it’s just that I thought getting away from home and traveling the world would be more exciting, more adventurous, you know, like in the stories.”

“
Ha, my boy,” Halam laughed, “it’s never like the stories in my experience. The thing to remember is that the travel part is never more than a means of getting from one point to another; there’s never any fun in it. Just be thankful we’ve got a horse under us, and aren’t walking this road like many we’ve seen this day.”

“
Oh, yes sir, I’m thankful for that,” Bryn answered as he looked down at his shoes. The well-worn pair he’d had for more than two years weren’t up to the task of walking from Plowdon to Culdovia, that’s for sure.

To think, he was actually traveling the King’s Road, on his way to Baden, the capital city of Adjuria; him, Bryn
Fellows, who’d never been more than three miles from Eston before. What would the boys back home say?

Usually at this time of day Bryn would be in those fields working the land, threshing the grain, plowing, bundling, and constantly moving under that hot sun.
He was still moving under that hot sun, but in a new direction and toward a much larger task.

Halam had woken Bryn early that morning, well before the sun was up.

“You’ll be accompanying
me to Baden after all, lad,” his uncle had told him. “Now pack what clothes you have and meet me outside.”

With sleep still in his eyes, Bryn had collected what possessions he had, which
wasn’t much. An extra pair of breeches and a spare shirt were the only other clothes he owned beside the pair he was wearing. He’d taken a water skin from the stove and filled it with water from the well, and also grabbed some bread and cheese, plus two small apples. Looking around for anything else to take, Bryn had been struck by how little there was in the house between him and his uncle Trun. As he headed for the door, he grabbed a copy of a well-worn book on the history of eastern Adjuria, and stuffed it into his shabby travel pack. He took one last look at the sparse lodgings which he’d called home for his whole life and then headed out the door.

Halam
had been tightening the saddle straps on his horse Juniper while making last minute checks of his travel pouches. Trun had been up and limping over from the barn with a fresh flask of milk in his hand. He’d stopped next to Halam, handing him the flask, and the two spoke a few words to each other before Trun began limping toward the house.

“Well, it’s
about time you was up, lad,” Trun had said, “sun’s near ready to stick her head over that horizon and bless us with what looks to be a beautiful day for traveling.”

“Yes, sir,” Bryn
had replied, “but I thought you were against me going to Baden with Uncle Halam. Last night you–”

“Don’t you be worrying
about what was said last night, now,” Trun had cut in, “me and your uncle talked late last night while you was asleep, and we decided that it would be in your best interests to take this trip to the capital.”

“But what about the farm?
Who will help you with the planting? And I’ve got a couple days to go still on clearing that field of stones before I can begin plowing it.”

“Don’t you
worry about any of that, now, you hear Bryn? I’ll make do just fine without you. I expect when you return in the fall there’ll be scant work to keep you busy,” Trun had said with a smile on his weathered face.

“Uncle Trun, I don’t know, I mean–”

“Don’t know what, boy,” Halam had cut in, walking up and putting his hands on Bryn’s shoulders. You heard your uncle, lad. He wants you to go to Baden. Do you have a problem with that now?”

Bryn
had stared dumbfounded back and forth between his two uncles, at a loss for what to say in the face of this sudden change of heart from his uncle. Just last night he’d been set on keeping him on the farm, now he wanted nothing more than to get rid of him.

“Well, I…” Bryn
had began. “I mean…”

He
’d stopped, his mouth hanging open, unable to fathom what to say.

“Ha, lad,” Halam
had laughed, come on over here and let me give you a hand up on Juniper here. Halam had strode over to his horse and, grabbing hold of the saddle, effortlessly pulling himself up and onto the horse’s back. He’d stuck his arm out, wiggling his fingers and motioning to Bryn. Bryn had taken Halam’s hand, and with a pull of his uncle’s arm made felt weightless as he was lifted from the ground and onto the horse, just in front of his uncle in the saddle.

“Well, lad, I hope you
’re ready and got all your things,” Halam had said. “Although I sure didn’t see much that looked like yours in the house last night.”

Halam
had pulled on the reins and Juniper turned in a circle, giving Bryn a better view of his uncle Trun still standing on the ground in front of the house.

“You be careful out there, Bryn,” Trun
had told his nephew. “It’s a mean place, the world you’re about to enter, so you keep your eyes open and don’t do anything foolish. Listen to what you uncle tells you, and you’ll be fine.”

“Yes, sir, I will sir,” Bryn
had replied. He felt his eyes mist up as he looked down on his uncle, the only family he’d really had all these years. “I’ll see you in time for the harvest this fall, Uncle Trun.”

“Aye
, lad, aye,” Trun had said, shifting on his feet.

A few moments
had passed before Halam tightened up the reins and turned Juniper toward the road.

“Well, Trun, ta
ke care of yourself, now,” he’d said.

“Aye, I will, and you take care of the boy, make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.”

“Will do, will do.”

“Aye
!” Halam had yelled, kicking his boots into Juniper’s sides. The horse had taken a few quick steps before bolting away from the house, turning onto the road, and galloping off toward the distant horizon, the rising sun at their backs.

* * * * *

“I figure we’ll make Eston shortly after noon today. Sound about right to you, Bryn?” Halam asked.

“Aye, that sounds about right.
Haven’t been there since we got done with the harvest last fall, but I don’t expect it’s changed much in that time.”

“No, and from what I saw when I passed through on the way to the farm yesterday, I don’t think she’s changed much in the past hundred years.”

Halam and Bryn both smiled at that remark. Eston had grown over several generations from a few small farms clustered around the same adjoining fields into a small farming community. Households from leagues around came to sell their grain at the provincial trade office there and to sell and trade preserved fruits and vegetables at the local market. Farmers loaded up on supplies for the winter, and swapped gossip at the local tavern. During the winter months when there wasn’t as much work to do on the farms, the families would send their children to the local schoolhouse, which was simply a spare storage room of the trading store, left empty in the winter until new shipments of farming tools and implements arrived with the spring. When the tools arrived, the students would depart, heading back to the fields with any number of books they could, or were forced, to take with them.

Eston, like much of Tillatia and other provinces in Adjuria, had been hit hard at the conclusion of the Civil War
nearly ten years earlier. What everyone had looked forward to, peace after the long war with Jonguria, had turned out not be so good. Unexpectedly, prices for nearly all goods dropped, which seemed good to most people at first, but when they realized that this also meant that they’d make less money for the goods they produced and sold, whether it was guild-produced items such as candles or shoes, or agricultural items like grain and meat, they realized it was more of a curse than a blessing.

Eston was particularly hard-hit in those first years following the war, as many of the farms in the area could no longer support themselves,
and the families were forced to uproot and move to the larger cities such as Plowdon to make whatever kind of living they could. The lucky ones were able to hang-on by joining together with other families to produce cooperatives which were able to sell their grain and produce at cheaper prices while still making a slight profit. Bryn and Trun had only been able to hold on by selling much of their excess land to these joint-family farms, creating a plentiful savings which lasted them for many years. Mainly, however, they’d cut their consumption down to the bare minimum needed to survive. There were no frills on the Fiske farm: what was needed was made from what was available to them, and if it wasn’t they simply went without. Any excess they produced was sold in town, and somehow they made do.

It was past mid-day when Halam and Bryn rode into
Eston on Juniper. There wasn’t much activity; most people out in the fields around the town were preparing for the spring planting while others inside worked on what handicrafts they could to make a little extra, or simply see their families through another year. The town rose up on either side of the Eston Road and several small two-story buildings dotted the thoroughfare. The storefronts were located on the first-floor and dealt in farming items mostly, but with a few more specialized stores selling clothing, candles, cooking items, and hardware. On the second-floor could be found the residences of the families who ran the stores.

Further down the road was the tavern, which also served as a meeting hall, provincial government office, and rumor-mill.
Next to it was the trade office, where the farmers came to sell their grain each autumn harvest and get price projections on next year’s crop. The general store came next, which also contained the schoolhouse as well as a few rooms on the second floor that were rented out to travelers who needed a place to sleep, the closest thing to an inn in Eston. All that was left were a few older houses, and then the road continued on into the fields, leading northwest toward the Tillata River and the road to Plowdon. There seemed to be more abandoned buildings than were occupied, the number increasing each time Bryn came to town.

Halam steered Juniper over to a water trough near the tavern and they both
got off to stretch their legs and have some of the apples, bread, and cheese that they’d taken from the farm that morning. While they stood eating the tavern-keeper noticed them and came outside onto the small wooden porch. He squinted as he approached the two, then stopped as a look of recognition appeared on his face.

“Why, is that you Bryn?”
the man asked.

“Aye, Mr. Farn, that it is.
Good-day to you too,” Bryn replied.

The man was short and squat with a round belly that protruded out from under his dirty white apron.
He wore a full mustache which covered his mouth and his dirty black hair was cropped short in front but ran longer down his back. He moved over to the two men, taking Bryn’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

“Well, it
’s good to see you lad,” he said, his mustache rising under a hidden smile while his eyes lit up. “What brings you to Eston this time of year? Don’t usually see you and Trun until the harvest comes in fall?”

“Well, my uncle Halam and I are on our way to Plowdon, actually,” Bryn said.

“Plowdon, is that so?” he asked, looking at Halam for the first time, trying to place him. “Why then, you must be Halam Fiske, Trun’s younger brother, the trade official in Plowdon.”

“Aye, that I am, good to meet you…”

“Conn Farn’s me name, he said with a smile. He leaned up against one of the posts that held up the wooden porch roof. “So Plowdon, eh? What business have you and Trun there,” he asked Bryn.

Bryn looked over at his uncle, and not seeing any sign that he should keep quiet,
began to explain. “Well, Uncle Trun and I don’t have business to do in Plowdon, truth be told, sir. My uncle Halam and I are actually heading all the way down to the capital in Culdovia.”

“You don’t say
?” Conn said, standing up straighter, surprise in his voice. “Baden, eh? Well, that is a ways from here, that’s for sure. What business than have you got in Baden?”

“There
’s talk of opening up trade with Jonguria again,” Halam said. “Nobles from the various provinces are gathering at the royal court to discuss the issue, and I’ve been chosen as a representative for Tillatia.”

“Well, that
is
news,” Conn said, leaning up against the pole once again. “We could sure use the trade. Folks around here’ll be happy to hear that.” He stared at the road for a few moments. “What chance do you think there is that the court will agree to the venture?”

“I’m thinking
we don’t have much choice,” Halam replied, taking his pipe from his coat and filling the bowl. “Ever since the Civil War ended prices for all everything have been too low. We need the Jongurian markets for our goods, especially for our Tillatian grain.”

“Aye, that couldn’t be closer to the truth,” Conn agreed.
“But will the Jongurians look favorably upon trade with us again. It’s been near thirty years since we’ve traded with them, before the war. That’s a long time to go without our goods, and I’m sure they’ve grown used to living without them.”