I’ll rephrase that, he didn’t just throw up. He projectile vomited. I’d almost swear he was aiming for me deliberately (which perhaps was justified). A warm deluge struck me full in the chest, and I fought my own recently abused stomach for control of its contents as well. I had always had a strong stomach though, and it didn’t fail me then.
“Dammit!” I cried out. The smell was terrible, and I knew I couldn’t fly the rest of the way to Agraden without cleaning myself off. “Now, I’m going to have to land!” I declared.
“Thank the gods!” said Roland, which irritated me even more.
“Go back to sleep,” I told him, and then I made certain of it. I knew if I landed, I’d never get him back aboard, so I figured I’d pre-empt his refusal.
Letting the magical craft continue its descent, we landed gently in a small field near a farmer’s croft. Roland was dozing comfortably, and thanks to his strong stomach muscles, most of the contents of his belly had landed on me. The rest wound up on the ground when I dismissed the enchantment that created the fields between the stones of my airship. I lowered Roland gently to a nice grassy spot, while the stones moved slowly back together; reforming the small stone disc they had originally been a part of. Once it was complete, I slipped it back into my pouch.
Using magic I cleaned my clothing as well as I could, but somehow the smell lingered. I needed water. I probably could have brought some up from beneath the ground, or created a small downpour, but sometimes simple was the best solution. I left Roland snoozing and walked to the farmer’s house.
As I approached I saw an old man in the yard, carrying a heavy bucket toward a pen. At a guess he was taking slop to the pigs. He stopped when he saw me walking up and waved at me. “Hallo, young man!” he said cheerfully, as if I were an old acquaintance rather than a complete stranger.
I smiled back, “Hello, old man!”
“Oh! You’re not Sammy,” he said abruptly.
“I’m afraid not,” I admitted, “I’m just a traveler looking for a bit of water.”
“There’s a pump over there. You’re welcome to help yourself,” he replied genially, before lifting his bucket again. The weight of it was a problem, and I could see he had struggled to get it this far.
“Let me get that,” I offered, and after a moment’s resistance he let me have it.
“I guess it’s alright to let you young ones help out now and then,” he said, as I carried it over to the pen and emptied the contents into a slop trough for the pigs.
I came back and put the empty bucket near his front door. “It’s the least I could do since you’re sharing your water with me.”
“That’s nothing I wouldn’t do for anybody, and you smell like you could use some,” he answered, wrinkling his nose.
I took a moment to look him over. His hair was mostly gone, leaving his pate bare, and what was left sprouted in gray tufts around the sides of his head. His eyes were a soft brown, but they wandered as he spoke, as though he were having trouble deciding where they should rest. I had no idea of his age, but he appeared to be quite old, possibly into his eighties, which was a very respectable age for someone living such a hard life.
I washed my face and considered removing my shirt so that it could be rinsed, but the prospect of wearing wet clothes wasn’t particularly appealing. Perhaps I could dry it afterward using magic.
While I considered my options the old man came closer, “You smell like dog vomit,” he said helpfully. “Let me get you another shirt.”
His offer was generous. Clothing wasn’t cheap, especially for a poor farmer. His age made me suspect his wife was probably already gone, and my senses had already confirmed that we were the only people within a mile or two of his home, aside from Roland. “You don’t have to do that,” I replied hastily.
“Nonsense, you don’t want to keep wearing those things. Do you need some pants as well? I think you might be close to my son’s size,” he said.
The mention of children made me feel a bit better. “Is he the one you mistook me for?” I asked.
“Yeh, it is. He comes to visit me now and again, just to check on his old dad. He and his wife live about ten miles off… down that way,” he said, pointing in a generally westerly direction.
We talked for a few minutes and I eventually accepted his offer, on the condition that he keep my own shirt and trousers in return for his extras. They were of a much higher quality material than his own, so I hoped he would benefit from the trade. The clothes he gave me were rough but clean and they fit well enough, although the pants were a bit short for my long legs.
During the course of our conversation, I determined that his eyesight was severely limited, though his ears and nose were sharp enough. He hadn’t noticed the crest sewn into my shirt or the quality of my other belongings. That alone would have tipped off most people regarding my social stature, but I appreciated being treated as a normal person for a change. I couldn’t help but wonder if my own father might have been similar in demeanor if he had reached such an age.
After I had changed, I spent a few minutes talking to the old man while I tried to think of some way of repaying his kindness. I could have left a few pieces of gold but he’d probably have had some difficulty spending them without being robbed.
“You’re not from around here are you?” he asked, breaking my train of thought.
“No sir, I live in Washbrook, in the county of Cameron. It’s way to the north of here, near the border with Gododdin,” I answered honestly.
The old man’s eyebrows went up, “You really are a far ways from home. Did you travel by that new road the Count is building?”
“The World Road?” I said, surprised.
He nodded, “I think that’s what they’re calling it. It’s supposed to open up the whole world. That wizard, the Count di’Cameron, is building it. Leastwise that’s what my Sammy told me last year.”
“It isn’t open yet,” I told him, “but I have heard that it should be soon. What do you think of it?” I was curious now. It was rare that I got the opinions of someone who didn’t have good cause to want to please me. As we talked, I quietly focused my attention on his eyes, seeking the cause for his poor vision.
“Thought it was mad at first and my son did as well, but then he don’t like the Count much neither,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a god fearin’ man, was devoted to Celior before the church started having such troubles. He blames the Count; says the wizard killed his god, and that it’ll bring doom on all our heads,” explained the farmer.
I nodded, “I’ve heard that. What do you think?”
“Heh! I love me son, but he never was too bright. No way could any man kill a god. I’ve been around long enough to know how stories is… they get bigger with each tellin’. Whatever’s wrong with the church is probably its own fault or mebbe’ the fault of our heretic king.”
That got my attention, “Heretic king? Are people saying that?”
The old man laughed, “People say all sorts o’ stupid things. They say his son was favored by the Lady o’ the Evenin’ Star and that he turned his back on her. I dunno if that’s true, but his father, our king, did toss the churches out o’ Albamarl,” said the old man, before adding, “That’s enough to make him a heretic, if’n you care what the churches think anyhow.”
“You don’t sound as if you think much of the churches,” I observed.
The farmer spit on the ground, “They never put no food on my table, and they wouldn’t come when Mary was sick. That’s my wife mind you… lost her almost twenty years ago now. She was always a pious woman, but they din’t show their heads around here when she was ill. That wizard my son’s always goin’ on about, least he did something useful.”