Exile’s Return. Raymond E. Feist

said, ‘I don’t understand. Speak slower.’

      It was clear Jorgen didn’t understand him either, so Kaspar mimicked the boy talking rapidly, then spoke slower.

      The boy’s face brightened in understanding and he said, ‘We will cut down a tree over there.’

      Kaspar nodded and said, ‘Later.’

      He was still weakened by his ordeal of the last few days, but he managed to carry enough wood into the hut to keep the fire going for almost a week.

      When he put the last arm-load into the bin next to the hearth, Jojanna said, ‘Why are you here?’

      ‘Because I need water and food to live.’

      ‘No, not here on the farm,’ she said slowly. ‘I mean here …’ she waved a circle around her, as if indicating a larger region. ‘You are –’ a few words he didn’t understand ‘– from far away, yes?’

      ‘A foreigner,’ he nodded. ‘Yes, from very far away.’ He sat down on the stool. ‘It is hard to tell without …’ He paused. ‘I don’t have the words –’ he said at last ‘– yet; when I do, I will tell you.’

      ‘Truth?’

      He studied her face for a moment, then said, ‘I will tell you the truth.’

      She said nothing as she looked him in the eyes. Then with a single nod, she returned to her work in the kitchen.

      He stood up. ‘I will go and help the boy.’

      Kaspar went outside and saw Jorgen heading into the meadow. He stopped briefly, realizing he had no idea what needed to be done. He had owned tenant-farms in Olasko, but the closest he had ever been to one was riding past on horseback. He had a vague idea of what they produced, but little concept of how they did it. He chuckled to himself as he set out after the boy. He couldn’t start learning quickly enough, he decided.

      Felling a tree was far more difficult than Kaspar had anticipated, given that he had only seen it done once before, when he was a boy. It had almost landed on top of him to the evil delight of Jorgen, once the initial fear of injury had passed.

      He had stripped off all the branches and then cut the bole into manageable sections, which he had lashed up with large leather straps that should have been fastened to a horse’s harness. He had discovered that the family’s only horse had vanished along with Jorgen’s father, so now Kaspar played the part of the horse, dragging the timber to the house across the damp meadow. He strained and heaved forward and the recalcitrant log followed him in jumps and starts.

      Pausing to catch his breath, he said to Jorgen, ‘It seemed like a good idea back there.’

      The boy laughed. ‘I told you we should have cut it up and carried the wood back to the house.’

      Kaspar shook his head in disbelief. Being told off by a child; it was a concept so alien to him he found it amusing and irritating at the same time. He was used to people deferring to him automatically, to saying nothing critical in his presence. He leaned into the harness again and said, ‘If Tal Hawkins and his bunch could see me now, they’d be on the floor laughing.’

      He glanced at Jorgen who was obviously amused, and found the boy’s mirth infectious. Kaspar began to chuckle as well. ‘Very well, you were right. Go back and fetch the axe and we’ll chop this thing up right here.’

      Jorgen scampered off. Kaspar didn’t relish the idea of a dozen or more trips across the meadow, but without a horse his idea was just plain folly. He stretched as he turned to watch the boy run to where they had left the axe and the water bucket.

      Kaspar had been at the farm for eight days now. What had started off as a fearful experience for the boy and his mother had begun to settle into a relatively calm situation. He still slept by the door, but he no longer gathered up potential weapons. He had chosen that spot to give Jojanna as much privacy as was possible in a one-room hut, and also for security reasons. Anyone attempting to come through the door would have to physically move Kaspar first.

      Kaspar was still vague about the geography surrounding the farm, but he had no doubt that they were constantly plagued by dangers. Bandits and marauding bands of mercenaries were not uncommon in the area, but the farm was far enough removed from the old high road – the one Kaspar had stumbled along – that few travellers ever chanced across it.

      Kaspar stretched again and relished the strength in his muscles. He knew he had lost weight during the three days without food and water, and now the constant exercise of farm-work was further reducing his bulk. A broad-shouldered man, the former Duke of Olasko had always carried his weight effortlessly, and he had indulged in food and wine of the highest quality. Now Kaspar had to wear the missing Bandamin’s clothing because his own trousers were starting to fit too loosely around the waist. He had let his neatly-trimmed beard grow, lacking a razor, mirror, or scissors. Every morning, before washing his face in the water-bucket, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and barely recognized himself – sunburned, his dark beard now filling in, and his face thinner. He had been here less than two weeks – what would he look like after a month? Kaspar didn’t want to think about it; he intended to learn as much as he could from these people and then leave, for his future was not farming, no matter what else fate might hold in store for him. Still, he wondered how Jojanna would fare once he left them.

      Jorgen had tried to help Kaspar, but as he was only eight years old, he was often drawn away by boyish interests. His regular chores involved milking the cow who had lost her calf, feeding the chickens, inspecting fences, and other small tasks a small boy was competent enough to perform.

      Jojanna had taken up as much of her husband’s work as she was capable of, but a lot of it was just not possible. While she was as hard a worker as Kaspar had ever met, even she couldn’t manage to be in two places at the same time. Still, he marvelled at how industrious she was; rising before dawn and retiring hours after the sun set, to ensure that the farm would be maintained just as her husband had left it.

      Kaspar had hundreds of tenant-farmers on his estates, and had never once given thought to their toils, always taking their efforts for granted. Now he appreciated their lives to a significant degree. Jojanna and Jorgen lived very well in comparison to most Olaskon farmers, for they owned their land, a small herd and produced saleable crops; but when Kaspar compared their situation to his old way of life, he realized they lived in near-poverty. How much poorer were the farmers of his own nation?

      His nation, he thought bitterly. His birthright had been taken from him and he would have it back or die in the attempt.

      Jorgen returned with the axe and Kaspar set to chopping the tree into smaller sections.

      After a while the boy said, ‘Why don’t you split it?’

      ‘What?’

      Jorgen grinned. ‘I’ll show you.’ He ran back to the shed and returned with a wedge of metal. He stuck the narrow end of the wedge into a notch and held it. ‘Hit it with the back of the axe,’ he told Kaspar.

      Kaspar glanced at the axe and saw that the heel was heavy and flat, almost a hammer. He reversed his hold on the handle and swung down, driving the wedge into the wood. Jorgen pulled his hand away with a laugh and shook his hand. ‘It always makes my fingers sting!’

      Kaspar gave the wedge three powerful blows and then, with a satisfying cracking sound, the bole split down the middle. Muttering, he observed, ‘You learn something new every day, if you just stop to pay attention.’

      The boy looked at him with a confused expression and said, ‘What?’

      Kaspar realized he had spoken his native Olaskon, so he repeated it, as best he could, in the local language and the boy nodded.

      Next, Kaspar set to breaking up the rest of the bole and then chopping the remaining split rails into firewood. He found the repetitive effort strangely relaxing.

      Lately, he had been troubled by dreams, odd vignettes and strange feelings. Small glimpses of things barely remembered, but disturbing.