The Raiselig Dossier: The Farmer Part 2
Hollis set his youngest down and handed his spade to his eldest. “I will be back before dark,” he said. “Keep working the rows until they are clean, and then help your sister feed the cows.”
His eldest nodded, taking the spade with reverence and not a little fear. His children had learned from a young age not to touch their father’s tools. To be given the responsibility, even though it was not the first time, held weight.
Hollis turned, and began the long trek to the town square. Their farm had been built further away than most; not long enough to need a horse for the journey, but long enough that it would take the whole day before he returned to his family.
He had much to do in town. He would visit the blacksmith to pick up the tools he had asked for. He would visit Lady Rensin to get the new tunic and trousers he had purchased two weeks ago. He would pick up any local news from anyone he met on the streets. And, of course, he would meet with the Scrivener.
All of his plans flew from his mind, however, when he saw a figure approaching him on the road, carrying a large box on their back. At first he refused to believe what his eyes were seeing, but before long he could deny it no longer. The Scrivener was walking towards him, their cabinet on their back.
Only twice before had they spoken outside of the square, with the Scrivener standing not on their dais but on the dust of the earth. Once at his father’s funeral, once at his wedding to Allya. Now, meeting like two strangers on the road, he didn’t know what to say.
No, he did know what to say. He had spent years meeting people on the road, and in the streets. It was a well practiced ritual like any other. “Hail, Scrivener,” he said as they neared. The figure paused to look up from the road, watching Hollis as he approached.
“Yes?” the Scrivener said when they were next to each other. “What do you want?”
“Is there a wedding?” Hollis asked after a moment of confusion. “I hope not a funeral. What takes you from your place in the square?”
“A wedding,” the Scrivener nodded. “Some ten leagues to the south. A king and a war-maiden of two warring countries. After which, there is the High Holy Day of Red-Sky, and the ceremonies involved. Then comes the Grand Anointing of a new All-Mother for the people of Zeek, and many more rituals and ceremonies after that.”
Hollis understood little, having never left his town nor even hearing of the land of Zeek, or the holiday of Red-Sky. “When will you return?”
The Scrivener blinked, their burning blue eyes flaring bright. “I shall not return. My commission has been fulfilled.”
“It is time…for you to leave?” Hollis couldn’t believe it. It was absurd. “But you’ve always been here.”
The Scrivener shook their head. “As long as you have lived, perhaps. In fact, I have resided here for only three generations. Your grandmother would have remembered the day I arrived and the dais was constructed.”
“You cannot leave,” Hollis said, feeling a crushing weight sink in his chest.
“I must leave,” the Scrivener adjusted the cabinet on their back. “There are many places and many people outside the borders of your town, and only so many Scriveners to go around.”
“There are more of you?”
“Many, but perhaps not enough.”
Hollis searched in his mind for something to say, something to keep the Scrivener from leaving, but there was nothing. Everything he thought to say sounded weak and flimsy in the face of the Scrivener’s stoic face.
“What about the harvest?” he asked at last. “The planting will be finished soon, and we will need to hold the harvest festival.”
“You have lived through many harvest festivals,” the Scrivener cocked their head. “Do you not remember how they went?”
Each a vivid picture in his head, Hollis would never forget.
But now all he could remember were the differences. He remembered the year of the fire-dancers, a traveling troupe who cavorted for their meal. He remembered the year when disease took half their gourd-crop, and the traditional harvest-man had no head. He remembered how the harvests of his youth were filled with maple-rock, cream-rolls, and games of chasing; then harvests full of dancing and singing, drinking thick ale and kissing anyone who got within his grasp; while now the harvests were all about warm drinks of spiced wine and long laughter at bawdy jokes and a place to sit and rest.
The Scrivener had watched over every one. But hadn’t the harvests changed every year? Or had it only been him?
Hollis wanted to plead and complain, to beg the Scrivener to stay, but somehow he still couldn’t believe that the dark-clothed clerk was leaving. It was like saying the sun would never return. It simply wasn’t true.
At last, his mouth opened and he said, as clear as he could through a throat tight with fear, “thank you for everything.”
“There are many tokens of thanks that are acceptable for showing gratitude towards a Scrivener,” the cabinet shifted again, “including a single shaft of goldenwheat, or a flower of two separate colors.”
“I do not have those,” Hollis said.
“Neither are you expected to. It is incumbent on the entire town to provide such gratitude upon a Scrivener’s discharge.”
Hollis could feel his heart sinking deeper. “I’m sorry, we didn’t know.”
The Scrivener sighed, a quick exhalation as they looked down the road. “I am aware of this. Had I required gratitude, I would have insured you did know.”
“Will you take my words all the same? You have done much for this town, and no mere tokens would be enough to express our thanks.”
“In fact,” the Scrivener turned to face Hollis once more, “by virtue of having been chosen for the purpose, mere tokens specifically would be enough. Too, I do not believe that you speak for the town alone.” There was a pause, and the Scrivener waved his hand. “Nevertheless, I hear what you say. Know I do my work not for gratitude, but for the sake of a job well done.”
“Well,” Hollis gave a weak smile, “there I understand you, Scrivener. I hope you feel well about the job you have done?”
“More or less,” the Scrivener said, after a long pause. “I am certain I fulfilled my contractual obligations, but there were several moments when I feel a certain…artistry was lacking.”
“I’m certain none of us noticed.”
“You wouldn’t. I doubt anyone would, save another Scrivener.” The Scrivener blinked and looked down the road once more. “Well, certain Scriviners, at least. I wonder if I am getting old.”
Hollis laughed in spite of himself. “I don’t think you’ve aged a day, Scrivener, since I first saw you as a child. I thought you a man, once, more fool me.”
“Yes. More fool you.”
Hollis’s laughter quickly subsided, and the two figures stared at each other for a moment longer, the cool breeze winding its way between them.
“Well,” Hollis said at last, “I’ll not keep you, then. Long life, Scrivener.” The proper response, had Hollis spoken to any other villager, would have been ‘great fortune.’ The Scrivener, however, had their own forms of address, and so said nothing as they turned and continued their way down the road.
Hollis watched the figure dwindle into the distance. Their pace never slackened, their head never turned back. The cabinet rested lightly on their shoulders as they walked, and before long it was all Hollis could see anymore. A tall oblisk of yellowwood, rocking gently back and forth like it was waving goodbye.
Hollis watched until even the cabinet had vanished down the lane, then turned and continued to make his way to town.
The square was empty. The dais was still there, the passersby sparing it furtive and nervous glances, like storm clouds on the horizon. Everyone knew something important had changed, and yet no one was willing to talk about it. If they mentioned the empty dais, that would make it real.
Hollis didn’t talk about it either, as he continued about his chores. He got his tools, his clothing, and drank a glass of ale at the tavern while he listened to his fellow townsfolk not talking about the empty dais. He stayed a while longer, drinking another glass, and then another.
When the dusk finally painted the horizon, in hushed whispers, they finally talked. Some of them, in their childish feelings of abandonment, wondered if they had done something wrong. Why had their Scrivener forsaken them, and would they be able to survive the coming winters without their help?
Hollis listened, and realized how few of the townsfolk had ever spoke with the Scrivener, how few had even known what they were.
They didn’t share stories like they did at funerals and wakes. They didn’t laugh or tell jokes like they did at weddings or births. They barely talked at all, compared to how much they drank and whispered about things to come.
The Scrivener had predicted the weather. They had told the town when to plant and how. They had guided rituals and festivals that the whole town had taken part in. Now, they were on their own.
He didn’t know why, but when the grizzled old man next to him said as much, he drew back his hand and slapped the man clean across the face. Not hard, but enough to draw the attention of the whole tavern.
“No,” he said. “We have each other.”
As the men and women of the tavern stared at him, he picked up his new tools from the blacksmith and walked out into the night air. Selecting a large hammer from the pile, he raised it high above his head, and began to dismantle the dais.
How many years had it been? Hollis had stopped counting.
They came to him, now. Young children with farms of their own, asking what to plant, and when, and where, and how. He always answered them, when he didn’t have his own rows to tend to. Some of what he said he remembered from the Scrivener. Some of it was memories of his own crops. Sometimes he didn’t remember which was which.
His children had younger children of their own, now, the eldest of which was considering marriage. How old did that make him? Too old.
But he could still lift his shovel, even if he couldn’t last the whole day like he used to. If Allya hadn’t lost her arm so many years ago, she would likely still last longer than he could. As it was, she spent her time with the younger animals, feeding and nursing them as best she could with their youngest daughter. The farm would likely become hers soon enough.
His heart ached more often these days. Ached in pain and love. They called him ‘Wise Hollis’ in town, but he still didn’t understand why, not exactly. He hadn’t done any more than remember what his father, his mother, and the Scrivener had told him.
He knew when to rotate the crops, what the weather would do in the coming season, how best to care for the tender shoots as they popped their heads out of the dark earth. He knew little about sick animals, and left such matters to Allya, but for the rest of the town, he knew more about farming than anyone.
He wasn’t wiser than any of his friends, he had just been lucky enough to survive them.
He didn’t think about the Scrivener much any more. They had been there for so long, and now things had changed. There was no Scrivener in town. They were on their own. It had bothered him for several years after the Scrivener had left; what would have happened if the Scrivener had never come to town? What if they had never left?
But soon he realized that those answers would never come. He forgot about them soon after, and spent his days focusing on what he could do. He grew food for his family and the town. He helped raise animals and shared what he remembered to anyone who asked.
Then came the day when his back broke.
He lifted the hay as he always had, hoisting it through the air on the tines of his pitchfork, when a stabbing pain shot through his spine. He twisted as he fell, feeling the hey scatter all about his head and back. He cried out, and his youngest son was at his side in moments, pulling him off the ground to new heights of agony.
He lay in his bed for hours, waiting for his granddaughter to ride into town and fetch the doctor. The pain ebbed, the suffering eased, but the shame did not fade.
He played the moment over and over again in his mind. He had lifted as he always had, turned as he always had, his body had simply bit back.
He was old. Older than his father had been when he died. How long did he have left in the world? Would he continue to fade, or would he flare like a blown candle?
The doctor arrived and provided a poultice that eased the throbbing and would keep his back strong. They kept the doctor for dinner, and sent him on his way that evening. Hollis already felt better and could rise from his seat without wincing. Yes, his body had betrayed him, but it was not the end for him yet.
That night, he opened his eyes to the sound of a knock on his door. Bones creaking, he left Allya sleeping to cross to the front door, and opened it.
The Scrivener stood there, cabinet on their back.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Hollis said.
“Me either,” the Scrivener sighed.
Hollis stared at the tall figure. They hadn’t aged a day.
“I suppose I know why you’re here,” Hollis said.
The Scrivener didn’t answer.
“Should I tell my son?”
“If you wish. I will see him when it is time, either way.”
“I thought someone had to pay. I learned a few things about Scriveners, now. Bowl of rice and a glass of wine. That’s what I’ve heard.”
“Any grain and liquid will serve, depending on whom you wish to hire,” the Scrivener said. “Wine is commonly accepted. Some accept…more unpleasant fare. I prefer water myself.”
“Who paid for you?” Hollis asked. “I haven’t laid out any offerings.”
The Scrivener looked over their shoulder at the field. Harvest-time was approaching. “Perhaps not,” they admitted.
Hollis looked down at his hands. They had been his own hands, once. Then, one day he looked down and saw his father’s hands. Now, they were his hands once more, withered and gnarled over the years. They had done a great many things in his life, and none of them felt particularly momentous. He had helped birth calves who lived for years only to be slaughtered for beef. He had built barns that had fallen down in great storms. He had struck people across the face, he had gripped their hands and pulled them out of the mud. A thousand little things, all so inconsequential. He hadn’t done anything more or less than any other. Why was the Scrivener at his door? Why hadn’t they been at the doors of the others who had died or were dying?
Perhaps they had?
“When?” Hollis asked.
The Scrivener pulled a piece of paper from their pocket, and glanced at it. “I am not privy to that information, I’m afraid.”
Hollis barked a laugh. “Then it could be years, yet?”
The Scrivener nodded. “It could.”
“Then what in hell are you doing here now?”
The Scrivener opened their mouth, and then stopped. “I just wanted you to know.”
Hollis watched as the Scrivener turned about and walked back down the way towards the road. He watched as the figure turned left out of the gate, and made their way out of town.
Had Hollis known more about Scriveners, and this Scrivener in particular, he might have realized how dangerous it had been for the Scrivener to knock on his door. He might have spared the time to wonder what the Scrivener had seen during the three generations as their almanac that led them to first preside over his father’s funeral, and now promise to preside over his own.
He might have felt a chill in his bones, had he known what such behavior portended.
But Hollis was old and wise, and so he spared little thought on the ways of Scriveners. Instead, he crawled back into bed and held Allya close, to wait for the short death of sleep and then the coming dawn when he would live once again.