The Bark of the Bog Owl (4 page)

When Aidan entered the manor house, the door to the great hall was open, and he could hear his brothers speaking in low tones within. He stood outside the door to listen.

The first voice Aidan could make out was that of Brennus. “You’re being ridiculous. None of us is the Wilderking.”

“Yes, but what if one of us were …” It was Percy.

“He’s going to come from the wild places,” said Jasper. “From the swamps and the marshes and the forests. That’s why he’s called the Wilderking.”

Maynard interrupted. “Look around, brother. You live on a great estate. You have a dozen house servants. You’re no Wilderking.”

“I didn’t say
I
was the Wilderking, Maynard. I just said what if one of us was. Besides, doesn’t the prophecy say the Wilderking guards his lambs with a staff? We’ve all done that.”

“So has every ten-year-old in Corenwald,” shot back Maynard. “The prophecy also says the Wilderking will slay a panther with a stone. When did any of us do that?” Out in the hallway, Aidan gasped.

Jasper, a great student of the Wilderking prophecy, spoke in the authoritative tone he reserved for his little lectures. “You’re being too literal anyway, Percy. Most scholars say those lines are figurative.” One of the brothers groaned. This was a common reaction when Jasper started talking. Jasper seemed not to notice. “When it says,
He will guard his dear lambs with the staff of his
hand,
that means he takes care of his subjects the way a shepherd takes care of his lambs. And when it says,
With
a stone he shall quell the panther fell,
that means he defeats the kingdom’s enemies with a small fighting force. There’s no real panther or real stone.”

Brennus interrupted him. “Why are we even having this conversation? Can’t you see that the old man is—”

His father’s warning voice broke in. “Brennus!”

“Father, I mean no disrespect. You love him because you’ve known him for fifty years, and you’re right to do so. But even you must know that he’s not sane. Let us honor the memory of the great prophet, but we can’t let the ravings of a madman throw our household into turmoil.”

A heavy silence followed. Aidan crept into the great hall as silently as possible, not wishing to draw attention to himself. His four brothers were huddled in the middle of the room with their backs to him. They were whispering now. His father was gazing out the window that overlooked the grape arbor. No one had noticed Aidan come in.

At the far end of the hall, by the great stone fireplace, an old man sat asleep in a chair, his arms folded, his head nodding forward against his chest. And what a head it
was! White hair sprayed out in every direction; his face was buried in an enormous beard that reached down to his folded arms and sprouted out just as far to the left and right. On the floor beside him slept two goats. This must be the lunatic Brennus had spoken of.

Aidan didn’t quite know what to do. He had been summoned here, yet he felt as if he were interrupting. Suddenly, the white head lurched up. The old man’s big green eyes searched around the room, as if he had heard a voice and was trying to figure out where it came from. When they passed over Aidan, his eyes locked in. They seemed to see more in Aidan than any eyes had ever seen before.

The old man spoke. “Hail to the Wilderking!”

Silence. Then a little snort of laughter. Aidan heard someone say, “This is just too much.” He thought the voice was Maynard’s, but it was hard to say. The words sounded as if they were coming to him from underwater.

Only the old man’s voice sounded clear. “Hail to the Wilderking, Corenwald’s deliverer.” Aidan could hear his brothers laughing. He thought they must have been laughing at him, but he didn’t care. He was transfixed by the eyes of the old stranger. They shone with tears of gladness. Still the brothers laughed.

“Enough!” Father’s sharp voice broke Aidan’s trance. The brothers fell silent. Errol put his hand on the old man’s elbow. “Come, old friend, let’s sit down again.”

The stranger let Errol lead him to his chair. He sat down. But his eyes never left Aidan’s face.

“Aidan,” said his father. “This is Bayard the Truthspeaker. You have heard me speak of him often.”

“Yes, Father.” Somehow Aidan already knew who the man was. He had never seen him before; indeed, no one had seen him since he left Darrow’s court and took to the forest twenty years earlier. Most people assumed he was dead. And yet, when their eyes met, Aidan knew who this old man was, just as surely as the old man knew him.

Only now did Errol notice his son’s disheveled state— the scratched and muddy face, the black eye, the ripped tunic.

“What happened to you, Aidan?”

Aidan looked down at himself, not sure where to begin or how much to tell.

“Whose blood is that on your tunic?”

Aidan remembered lifting the panther’s body off Dobro. “That must be the panther’s blood.”

“Panther’s blood? What panther?”

“I killed a panther, Father. With my sling. It was stalking the sheep. I slew a panther with a stone.”

The room fell silent. Everyone was thinking the same thing:

“But Aidan,” continued his father. “Why are you so battered and muddy? A panther slashes and bites. Does it also bruise?”

“No, Father,” Aidan chuckled. “But Dobro does.”

“Dobro?”

“Dobro Turtlebane. We had a wrestling match in the bottom pasture. He’s one of the feechiefolk.”

At this his brothers began to laugh. Now they got it; Aidan was making a joke. Wilderkings, wandering prophets, feechiefolk—it was all make-believe.

“Ha, ha! The feechiefolk! Ha, ha, ha!”

“You had me going, Aidan. I almost believed the part about the panther!”

Errol was laughing, too, as much from relief as from amusement. Then it occurred to him that if Aidan were joking, the joke was at Bayard’s expense. “Be ashamed, Aidan!” he thundered. “All of you, be ashamed! It is ungenerous, it is unmanly, to tease a person who is not …” He had started to say “not sane” but couldn’t bring himself to describe his old friend that way. “Who is not well.”

Aidan was hurt that his father would accuse him of such disrespect toward Corenwald’s Truthspeaker. “But, Father, I wasn’t teasing. About the panther or the feechie boy.” Errol looked askance at his youngest son. These were wild tales indeed. And yet he had never known the boy to lie.

Bayard cleared his throat. Now that he had found what he came seeking, he was starting to carry himself more like a normal man—as if the very sight of Aidan had released him from a trance. “Oh, I don’t think Aidan was teasing, old friend. I have met Dobro Turtlebane. A most unruly boy, as I remember, though not much more so than the average feechie.”

Aidan’s brothers could contain themselves no longer. They laughed uncontrollably and teased their little brother with the outsized imagination.

“Aidan Errolson, feechie fighter!”

“He wasn’t fighting feechies; he was training them for his Wilderking army.”

“From the looks of him, they should be training him!”

“Out!” Errol’s voice rose above their mockery. “Leave this room!”

The brothers jostled out of the great hall, still laughing at their brother and the lunatic stranger.

When they were gone, Bayard spoke. “Errol, I should like to speak to your son. Alone. Could you leave us too?”

Errol was torn. He did not wish to disrespect the great prophet of Corenwald by refusing such a small request. But on the other hand, he had begun to believe that Bayard was out of his mind. Who knew what seeds he might plant in the boy’s fertile imagination?

Errol pondered long, then answered, “Bayard, I honor and revere you as one of Corenwald’s great men. You helped lay the foundation on which this nation stands.” Bayard nodded appreciatively.

After a hesitation, Errol continued, “But would you now convince my son that he—and not the king you crowned yourself—is Corenwald’s true king? Such thoughts are treason.” It clearly pained him to speak this way to the Truthspeaker. “I cannot nurture treason in my house.”

Now Bayard’s eyes burned. His lips tightened. “If you revere me as you say you do,” said the old prophet, “you will not suggest that I am a traitor to my king—or that I would turn your son to treachery. If I am truly a prophet of the One God, then your son is truly the
Wilderking, and you dare not hinder his progress toward that calling. But if, as you believe, I am only an old madman, I ask that you indulge me for the sake of the man I used to be.”

Bayard’s expression softened. “In either case, old friend, I will not make a traitor of your son. This I solemnly promise.”

Errol saw the logic in the Truthspeaker’s argument. This wasn’t the reasoning of a lunatic. He was sorry he had offended the old prophet. Rising to leave, he put his hand on his son’s head and looked into his eyes. “My son,” he said, “listen well to what this man tells you.”

When they were alone, Bayard turned to Aidan. “I have come to find the Wilderking of Corenwald, foretold in the ancient prophecies.” He paused. “Aidan, the Wilderking is you.”

Aidan stood blinking, unable to make sense of everything that had happened to him on this day. “But I’m only twelve years old.”

Bayard laughed. “You didn’t suppose the Wilderking would be born an adult, did you? Every great man starts out as a boy. Every great woman starts out as a girl.”

“I suppose so. But I don’t feel like the Wilderking.”

“How is a Wilderking
supposed
to feel?” asked the prophet.

“I don’t know. I don’t suppose anybody knows. There’s never been a Wilderking before.”

“Precisely. None but you can say how a Wilderking feels. You are the only one.” He poked a finger into Aidan’s chest for emphasis. “And you don’t have to feel anything in particular.”

Bayard leaned toward Aidan. “Let me tell you a secret, Aidan.” He looked over his shoulder as if making sure no one was listening, then whispered, “I don’t usually feel like a prophet.”

Aidan studied Bayard’s face, trying to decide if the old man were joking. He seemed to be serious, but Aidan couldn’t help laughing at such an absurd notion. “The great Truthspeaker not a real prophet? Now you’re teasing me.”

“No, no, no. I didn’t say I wasn’t a real prophet. I said I don’t
feel
like a prophet. But my feelings have nothing to do with it. I am Corenwald’s Truthspeaker because the One God shows me the truth, and I speak it.”

Aidan considered what Bayard had said. “I understand. But the Wilderking will be a man of great courage. I’ve never shown much courage, even for a twelve-yearold.”

“Today you killed a panther with a sling. Was that not an act of courage?”

“Courage? I was frightened out of my wits. You should have seen Dobro! He charged the panther like he knew no fear.”

Bayard chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure of that. Most feechiefolk are fearless, especially when they are Dobro’s age. But where there is no fear, there can be no courage.”

Aidan was confused. “What do you mean?”

“Courage is the will to lay aside fear because your desire to do right outweighs your desire to avoid getting hurt. You said you were frightened of the panther.”

“Terrified.”

“Then why didn’t you run away?”

Frightened though he had been, Aidan never even considered that possibility. “I couldn’t leave Dobro to be eaten by a panther. I couldn’t leave my sheep either.”

Bayard smiled. “You felt fear. But you didn’t act out of fear; you acted out of courage. Dobro was fearless. You were courageous, which is a much better thing to be.”

“I was also lucky. I could try a thousand times and not hit such a perfect shot at a charging panther.”

“You could try ten thousand times and not enjoy such success. But you wrong the Providence that preserves you when you credit luck for your deliverance.

“You are a skilled slinger, but neither skill nor luck explains what happened today. You succeeded for one simple reason: Long before you, or even I, were born, it was foretold that the Wilderking would slay a panther with a stone. Your act of courage fulfilled a prophecy.”

For the first time Aidan began seriously to consider the possibility that Bayard was telling the truth. “What if you are correct?” he asked. “What if I am destined to be the Wilderking? How should I live?”

“The same way you should live if you weren’t the Wilderking. Live the life that unfolds before you. Love goodness more than you fear evil.”

Good advice, thought Aidan, but he was looking for something more specific. He was a loyal subject of King Darrow. Surely he wasn’t destined to lead a rebellion against his king. He didn’t quite know how to ask the question. “If I
am
the Wilderking, how do I
become
the Wilderking?”

No longer playing the role of wise teacher and adviser, Bayard had resumed the mysterious speech of a prophet.
“A traitor is no fit king. Live the life that unfolds before you. Love goodness more than you fear evil.”

“Yes, of course.” Aidan had more questions, but the old man was waking his goats; Aidan could see that he was preparing to leave. “Bayard, there are so many things I don’t understand. The Wilderking is a wild man. He comes from the swamps and forests, not fields and pastures.”

“Live the life that unfolds before you.”

“Am I supposed to leave home and go live in the tanglewood?”

“Live the life that unfolds before you. You need not force yourself on the ancient prophecies.”

The sleepy goats were getting to their feet. Bayard led them toward the entrance hall. “Tell your father that I cannot stay for supper. I have many things to tend to.”

Aidan followed him out the front door. The old man inhaled a deep breath of spring air. “Now is the springtime. Look well to your sowing. The harvest will come in its time.”

He strode down the steps, trailing his goats behind him. As Aidan watched the white ball of hair and beard bob down the cart path toward the River Road, he knew that his future was bound up with Bayard the Truthspeaker. But he still didn’t know whether the old man was a prophet or a lunatic.