Page 2 of Apple Boy

“Don’t back chat him or it’ll be the worst fer you,” he whispered the warning to my ear. Alarmed, I eased back from him and cautiously met his eye for a split second. In the look he gave me I saw that the warning was well-meant. Bewildered, I nodded in thanks and understanding. I had no idea why this stranger was looking out for me, but the fact he was warmed my heart. I choked back a tear. No one had looked out for me over these past weeks, and I had been so terribly lonely. I’d learned some hard life lessons on this leg of my journey, and I’d come to understand that here my title was irrelevant, and without money I was suddenly invisible; therefore small kindnesses meant more than I could say.

My adventure into the provinces had been made to appease my father for my supposed ‘lack of direction.’ I’d become bored with my easy life in Thorn, and not intending to marry; I’d told my father that in-light of my upcoming twentieth Bloomsday I wanted to tour the Empire. If I were to one-day become Duke of Thorn, I needed to know a little of the politics of each province and so, pleased with my initiative and happy to be rid of me for a while, he’d set me on my way. I’d toured the provinces of Terria, Corvay, and Reuss and then continued to the province of Osia, spending time in the capital city Altea, at the court of the Twin Kings, Kristoff, and Fabian Von Harte. With this journey to Erias, I was to have the full set of provinces under my belt. But fate was not on my side.

On benches affixed to either side of the farmers’ wagon sat fourteen men morosely staring at their bare, filthy feet, not a word of chatter between them. They each owned a small pack of belongings and a wrapped blanket that each had stowed beneath the bench. At this moment they were better-off than me, for I did not even have a blanket to my name. There was space for me and five more, totaling twenty men. The farmer chose from the remaining laborers with less consideration than I had been afforded.

“Right… I’ll take Allin, Jed, Arthur, Bartram, and Matty, that’ll do me fer the week,” he hollered decisively.

The week? I thought I’d promised myself for a hard day’s labor? But then again, I considered the harvesters who were sitting in the wagon, and yes, they appeared to have prepared for an overnight stay. Confused, I sat down as the other laborers were pulled up onto the wagon by their comrades, and then we shuffled along the benches until we were all seated. I noticed the shoulders of the remaining men in the market square sag a little in apparent relief as if some mighty weight had lifted from them. I didn’t understand it. I thought they’d wanted to work?

The farmers’ son clambered over into the front of the wagon. His father climbed on, the man’s bulk shaking the timbers of the rickety wagon as he settled on the bench beside him. The son handed his father the ribbons, which the farmer greedily snatched up, and then with a fearsome bellow of “Geddup” and a thunderous whip crack, the large mottled grey workhorse began its cumbersome trot down the main street and onto the dusty road to Blackdown Farm.

CHAPTER TWO

ARYN

We rocked with the gait of the wagon as it swayed along the well-worn treads of the country road to Blackdown. The full light of day was upon us now, and from the position of the sun, I’d wager it was near the seventh bell. Those traveling in the back of the wagon wore the hopeless, downtrodden expressions of men on their way to the gallows. Was the working man’s lot honestly this bad? I’d had little experience of dallying with commoners before my ill-luck, and I always thought yokels were jolly folk who tried to enjoy life no matter that they’d received a poorer start. However, the silence of these men was odd, and it chilled me. Where was the camaraderie? Did they not have a ribbing to give or one word of banter to share? Now that I’d experienced the deprivation, starvation, and filth of the gutter I felt foolish for my ignorance. The men on this wagon were no worse, nor better than me, but at least they knew what lay ahead. I had no idea what I’d gotten myself into.

I nudged the dark-skinned man who sat beside me. He turned and fixed me with an unreadable look. He was, at a guess, close to fifty summers. He smelled of stale tobacco and sweat, and his black and silver beard was so thick I could barely locate his mouth.

“Excuse me, good fellow. Umm. I have the feeling that I’ve not made the wisest of choices here.” I said with a sheepish grin.

The man chuckled low and deep in his throat. “Well, ye could say that, boy. I saw what he did. Have yer plums recovered from that vicious gropin’?” His voice had a raspy Pasturelands tone to it. I winced at the reference to the humiliating event that had occurred in full view of the commoners, and my hands automatically moved to cover my privates.

“I’m sure you’s already guessed, Col Sewell’s a gurrier, and most of us would be happier slittin’ his throat than givin’ him the time ‘o day,” the laborer admitted. “But he’s got the biggest orchard in the district. The apple harvest can be painful hard graft, but Sewell pay’s half-a-silver per bushel bin. If yer fast, that’s the best wage you’ll find for a hundred mile.”

So, this particular farmer had a reputation for being a brute. That was interesting and not at all surprising. I was learning a lot about how the world worked, and I supposed every man must do what he needs to, but this apple picker’s proclamation that they’d all rather see Col Sewell dead made me shudder.

“Why are there no women here?” I observed.

The man scrubbed a hand over his thick beard and then leaned in a little closer. “Sewell won’t take women. He says they’s better use birthin’ and cookin’. Havin’ ‘em around durin’ harvest’s a distraction. They hands ain’t big enough neither—”

I was puzzled by his answer and seeing my brows knit with confusion, the man continued.

“See, when you’s harvestin’ apples you gotta work fast, boy. We’re like a pack of locusts attackin’ that orchard. You never pick one, it’s two or three apples in each hand. Women have these dainty little hands, see, and although I’d say they’d be mighty helpful scurryin’ for windfalls or pulpin’ in the press barn, Sewell won’t have it.”

From the way the man spoke I supposed he’d worked for this Farmer Sewell before, so I asked him.

“This be my—” He scratched at his beard, the scritch, scritch, scritch sound making me wonder what else lived in there—a family of sparrows could nest in there comfortably by the looks of it!

He scrunched up his face, deep in thought. “Twentieth… yeah, tha’s right. I been doing the apple harvest at Blackdown since Adam was a fledgling.” He said decisively.

“Adam’s Col’s youngest boy.” The man added, pointing to the farmers’ son sitting at the front of the wagon. “He’s a good lad is Adam, but his pa’s a bully. He’s already driven one son away, and you mark my words, Col Sewell will keep going until he’s driven Rosalie, the girls an’ Adam off too.”

The laborer turned and looked shiftily at the back of the bulky farmer as he drove the wagon. He grimaced then leaned in closer to me again and in a rough whisper, said,

“I knew Col Sewell back when he was a nobody. Never liked him back in those days—wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire,” he grumbled malevolently. “Did ye know, he won Blackdown in a game of Liar’s Dice?”

“No!” I exclaimed in faux shock. I had seen that the dice game was as popular in the taverns in Mallowick town as it was in the gaming dens back in Thorn.

“S’no lie. He was a stableman. They was poor as guttersnipes one minute and rich overnight. The landowner who lost the game refused to budge from the house. Sewell was one of ours, and he’d fallen on good fortune. We thought he’d look out for us, so the town lads ganged up and, well, we evicted him,” he said with a wink.

“He was lucky to get out alive with his britches round his ankles.” The harvester added. I blanched thinking of what had been done to the fellow.

“You’d think Col woulda been grateful, but nope. He never thanked us and never lets any of us forget that he’s better than we are. Still wouldn’t piss on him—” The man snickered.

I was aghast at what I’d heard.

“Aryn’s me name—you’re Win, is’at right?”