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joegodaHe awoke slowly and painfully, his head throbbing like a tattered leatherhead drum being beat by a very old man. He lay there, wherever there was, without opening his eyes, because he felt that opening his eyes would just make the world more likely to notice him and make him hurt even more.
"Oi.". The word was a spoken softly, almost gently. A man's voice, not a boy, not an old man, but just a man. Not terribly deep, but not high pitched either. A baritone. A voice that could probably sing in the church choir and not be kicked out for squeaking at the wrong places. Not exactly a solo type of singing voice, but a good tone, regardless.
"I said 'oi' to you, friend." The voice in his ears was joined by a soft poking in his ribs, just above the spot where the earth was trying to absorb him. Poke Poke. "I knows you ain't dead, friend." Poke Poke. "I can sees yer breathin'"
His eyes flickered open, briefly, just the once. He was right. The bright daylight that filtered down from the trees hit his brain fully with a smack sharper than any his mother had dealt him, and he quickly shut them down again and groaned.
"Good an' well", said the voice, which belonged to a man wearing a brown cloak of somesort. The man was balding and clean shaven, a big nosed, thinnish face with russet colored hair and with a patch over one eye. "Good an' well. It seems that you are alive, after all." A quiet rustling of leaves as the man was moving away, and then the rustling stopped.
"If you gets the mind to roll over and get up, I've got hot coffee and a bit of biscuit and bacon if you likes. It's not much, but I'll share it. And maybe you can tell me hows it was that you fell out of that there tree." A chuckle from the man. "or a better story might be hows you got UP in that tree in the first place."
Groaning again, he managed to pull himself over to lay on his side. It didn't seem that everything hurt, only the parts of his body that moved and the parts that didn't. There was the tip of one ear that seemed to be all right and his eyelashes reported back that they were just fine. His left hand felt quite a bit tingly, as if it had recently held something sharply electric, and his right hand was clenched around a roundish and hard thing.
He opened his right eye, because that was the one that wasn't in the dirt, and looked down at his fist. He unclenched his right hand, and the going was painful, as the fingers seemed to somehow locked into their fistly position. One finger at a time dislodged itself until the entire hand was wide open and he could see what was held so tightly within.
It was a stone. A smallish stone the size of the last joint his thumb, and it sat neatly in the palm of his hand. The stone was the color of bleached bone, and plain as washed linen. 'The stone is important,' his mind told him, but was mum about why. And that bothered him. It bothered him a lot.
"The bacon," said the cloaked man, who was now sitting on an old log about twenty yards away, "is getting a bit crisped. You might be wantin' to get more of move on, as it were. The day is growin' old and the king's men will be heading this direction. He don't take kindly to strangers in his wood."
"Wha?" The sound came from his own voice, his own throat, tossed out by his own lungs, as he shoved himself up to a sitting position. It was a good voice, he decided, rich and toneful. A voice that was made for speaking. His pains seemed to fade a bit and his head was clearing. 'Good', he thought, 'now maybe I can figure out where I am, this time.' He rubbed his face sharply with his left hand, feeling the stubble of beard that had grown and the sharp contours of his face.
"Ah!" said the cloaked man. "He speaks, if only a bit." He patted the log next to him. "Come sit here. The fire will warm those young bones of yours."
'So,' his inner voice said, 'I'm a young man, now. Let's see where it takes me from there.' Outwardly, he said, "I'll take you up on your offer, friend. A bit of bacon and biscuits sound very good to me. And especially the coffee. Especially the coffee."
'And who are we this time?' from the inner voice, a voice he identified as having the name Hugh. He pushed his bones, not aching at all, upright and walked over to the man. He saw that he was in a deep forest, or at least a heavily wooded place. He stuck out his hand.
"My name is Peter Felenious." And that was the first lie of the day. "I'm a... traveling performer of sorts." And that wasn't a lie at all. Much.
"Bert Bee," said the man in the cloak, who after staring at the offered hand took it warmly in his own. Bert's hand was large and thin boned, and though it looked as if a solid grip would break the delicate fingers, his grip was strong and firm. "Bee keeper to the king, such as it were. Grab you some brekky and greet the day, Peter Felenious." Bert took a deep drink of the blackish coffee in his large wooden mug. "Then you can tell me your tale."
-*-
Peter, sat back on the log, after snagging a fresh biscuit from the camp oven and a couple of strips of fat bacon and ate furiously, taking only enough time to drain first one mug of hot, rich coffee and then another. Hugh whispered, 'He seems nice enough, but let's not blurt out everything, all right? We certainly don't want a mess like last time."
"I don't even remember the last time," Peter said. "I barely remember who I am."
"I don't blames you, young man," Bert said. "It looks to me likes you took quite a fall. That tree must be thirty, forty feet up. It's a shock and awe to me you didn't get yourself kilt." Bert chuckled. "Rattled your brains, it did. And from the looks of the ground where you lay, you left quite an impression. Happened to my grandther, once. Fell off a ladder and couldn't remember his own name or his wife for a week." Bert winked, conspiratorially. "Course, that may have been his plan all along. It'll come back you, in time."
Bert stood up, stretching his long frame luxuriously, sloshed his coffee in his mug a few times to clean it out and then tossed it on the fire. "Come, young Peter. It's time we was a-movin' on. I may be the king's beekeeper, but that don't mean I'm the king's man and that don't mean diddly-do to the men that will be coming through here shortly. Rough ones they are, one and all, and they'd just as soon stick you and rob you as say a good day to you."
He packed up his little camp stove and oven, slipping them neatly into an over-sized pack, which he then slung over his shoulders. He did this with such speed and grace that Peter was amazed, even though it occurred to him that the man must have done this a thousand times and knew exactly what move to make where.
Burt turned and found Peter staring at him, slack-jawed and he grinned back. "It's not a big thing, young Peter. I invented these thingies and knows how they fits together, you see? I'd rather not be caught lingering around, on accounts of a stuck widget or a clumsy pack." He jerked his head in a direction. "Come! Then as your head clears, you can tell me your tale, or as much as you can remembers of it."
"Oi.". The word was a spoken softly, almost gently. A man's voice, not a boy, not an old man, but just a man. Not terribly deep, but not high pitched either. A baritone. A voice that could probably sing in the church choir and not be kicked out for squeaking at the wrong places. Not exactly a solo type of singing voice, but a good tone, regardless.
"I said 'oi' to you, friend." The voice in his ears was joined by a soft poking in his ribs, just above the spot where the earth was trying to absorb him. Poke Poke. "I knows you ain't dead, friend." Poke Poke. "I can sees yer breathin'"
His eyes flickered open, briefly, just the once. He was right. The bright daylight that filtered down from the trees hit his brain fully with a smack sharper than any his mother had dealt him, and he quickly shut them down again and groaned.
"Good an' well", said the voice, which belonged to a man wearing a brown cloak of somesort. The man was balding and clean shaven, a big nosed, thinnish face with russet colored hair and with a patch over one eye. "Good an' well. It seems that you are alive, after all." A quiet rustling of leaves as the man was moving away, and then the rustling stopped.
"If you gets the mind to roll over and get up, I've got hot coffee and a bit of biscuit and bacon if you likes. It's not much, but I'll share it. And maybe you can tell me hows it was that you fell out of that there tree." A chuckle from the man. "or a better story might be hows you got UP in that tree in the first place."
Groaning again, he managed to pull himself over to lay on his side. It didn't seem that everything hurt, only the parts of his body that moved and the parts that didn't. There was the tip of one ear that seemed to be all right and his eyelashes reported back that they were just fine. His left hand felt quite a bit tingly, as if it had recently held something sharply electric, and his right hand was clenched around a roundish and hard thing.
He opened his right eye, because that was the one that wasn't in the dirt, and looked down at his fist. He unclenched his right hand, and the going was painful, as the fingers seemed to somehow locked into their fistly position. One finger at a time dislodged itself until the entire hand was wide open and he could see what was held so tightly within.
It was a stone. A smallish stone the size of the last joint his thumb, and it sat neatly in the palm of his hand. The stone was the color of bleached bone, and plain as washed linen. 'The stone is important,' his mind told him, but was mum about why. And that bothered him. It bothered him a lot.
"The bacon," said the cloaked man, who was now sitting on an old log about twenty yards away, "is getting a bit crisped. You might be wantin' to get more of move on, as it were. The day is growin' old and the king's men will be heading this direction. He don't take kindly to strangers in his wood."
"Wha?" The sound came from his own voice, his own throat, tossed out by his own lungs, as he shoved himself up to a sitting position. It was a good voice, he decided, rich and toneful. A voice that was made for speaking. His pains seemed to fade a bit and his head was clearing. 'Good', he thought, 'now maybe I can figure out where I am, this time.' He rubbed his face sharply with his left hand, feeling the stubble of beard that had grown and the sharp contours of his face.
"Ah!" said the cloaked man. "He speaks, if only a bit." He patted the log next to him. "Come sit here. The fire will warm those young bones of yours."
'So,' his inner voice said, 'I'm a young man, now. Let's see where it takes me from there.' Outwardly, he said, "I'll take you up on your offer, friend. A bit of bacon and biscuits sound very good to me. And especially the coffee. Especially the coffee."
'And who are we this time?' from the inner voice, a voice he identified as having the name Hugh. He pushed his bones, not aching at all, upright and walked over to the man. He saw that he was in a deep forest, or at least a heavily wooded place. He stuck out his hand.
"My name is Peter Felenious." And that was the first lie of the day. "I'm a... traveling performer of sorts." And that wasn't a lie at all. Much.
"Bert Bee," said the man in the cloak, who after staring at the offered hand took it warmly in his own. Bert's hand was large and thin boned, and though it looked as if a solid grip would break the delicate fingers, his grip was strong and firm. "Bee keeper to the king, such as it were. Grab you some brekky and greet the day, Peter Felenious." Bert took a deep drink of the blackish coffee in his large wooden mug. "Then you can tell me your tale."
-*-
Peter, sat back on the log, after snagging a fresh biscuit from the camp oven and a couple of strips of fat bacon and ate furiously, taking only enough time to drain first one mug of hot, rich coffee and then another. Hugh whispered, 'He seems nice enough, but let's not blurt out everything, all right? We certainly don't want a mess like last time."
"I don't even remember the last time," Peter said. "I barely remember who I am."
"I don't blames you, young man," Bert said. "It looks to me likes you took quite a fall. That tree must be thirty, forty feet up. It's a shock and awe to me you didn't get yourself kilt." Bert chuckled. "Rattled your brains, it did. And from the looks of the ground where you lay, you left quite an impression. Happened to my grandther, once. Fell off a ladder and couldn't remember his own name or his wife for a week." Bert winked, conspiratorially. "Course, that may have been his plan all along. It'll come back you, in time."
Bert stood up, stretching his long frame luxuriously, sloshed his coffee in his mug a few times to clean it out and then tossed it on the fire. "Come, young Peter. It's time we was a-movin' on. I may be the king's beekeeper, but that don't mean I'm the king's man and that don't mean diddly-do to the men that will be coming through here shortly. Rough ones they are, one and all, and they'd just as soon stick you and rob you as say a good day to you."
He packed up his little camp stove and oven, slipping them neatly into an over-sized pack, which he then slung over his shoulders. He did this with such speed and grace that Peter was amazed, even though it occurred to him that the man must have done this a thousand times and knew exactly what move to make where.
Burt turned and found Peter staring at him, slack-jawed and he grinned back. "It's not a big thing, young Peter. I invented these thingies and knows how they fits together, you see? I'd rather not be caught lingering around, on accounts of a stuck widget or a clumsy pack." He jerked his head in a direction. "Come! Then as your head clears, you can tell me your tale, or as much as you can remembers of it."
