The sense of friendship and family dissolved into a new understanding of reality. Some would think of him in the morning, and fewer the next. Oh, his mother would miss him, and Jammer would curse him forever for leaving the herding to him, but as Shell remembered others who had left their village, he’d reacted much the same. His sheep had needed tending, his shoe mending, his thoughts too crowded with other concerns to think of the ones who moved on.
He turned back to the old man still chewing on apple slices, the apple held in one hand and the knife in his other. “Too much preplanning is bad, huh?”
“Tomorrow’s departure would suit you best, Shell. Go home tonight. Pack your things and make your goodbyes short and sweet.” Alba finished his ale and set the mug on a small table too hard. The table almost tipped, but he had made the point.
Shell nodded and stuck out his hand to shake the gnarled and grizzled hand of the old man. “Maybe you’re right, Alba. You might not see me in the morning.”
Turning away, he noticed a few of the group still watched him, but no others raced to his side to wish him well or tried to talk him out of going. As he moved past them, a few gave limp but encouraging smiles or a pat on the shoulder. Shell nodded to them and strolled away to enter his hut, his mind focused on what to pack for his trip.
CHAPTER TWO
The following morning, well before the sun rose, Shell woke and eased off his sleeping pad. He had barely slept all night because of the fire of excitement burning hot in his veins, let alone the call of dragons whispering to him. Each waking hour filled his mind with more concerns, ideas, and plans. Things he should have said and plans that he should have made. But in the end, he couldn’t think of anything else to say or do.
“You were going to stay long enough to say goodbye to me, weren’t you?” The soft voice came from within the dimness of the far side of the hut. It came from his mother. She sat in her favorite chair, a blanket over her shoulders as if she had known he would attempt to sneak out.
“Of course, I was,” he lied, speaking softly to avoid waking Jammer. She had probably had as little sleep as him, maybe less. A son leaving home for the first time affects a mother more than the son, he realized.
She said, “Jammer will miss you too, you know. He’s already complaining about watching the flock, and he has yet to do it on his own.”
“He’ll learn. The animals can become his friends. Maybe the responsibility will help him grow up.”
“Oh, I doubt that. I love Jammer, but I know him well. I’ve already spoken to Cramer. His oldest boy is just two years younger than Jammer and already more suited for herding. He may soon take over Jammer’s duties for a share of the flock.”
A flash of jealous anger filled Shell. “Then what will Jammer do?”
His mother was already on her feet quietly gathering vegetables, fruit, and meat to pack in a cloth sack for his journey. “Oh, I suspect he’ll be off and following you into the wilds in a year, or two. Look for him while you’re out there. He’ll be chasing adventure right on your heels.”
“I plan to home when this is finished. I’ll talk some sense to Jammer then.”
“You say that now, but I suspect that will never happen. Not because you don’t want to return, but because there’s a great world out there just waiting for you to explore it. You need this. I should have pushed you out the door years ago, but I grew complacent.”
“Mom, I’m not a conqueror or a hero. I’m just going to see what I’m missing and try to do my part in the coming war.”
She didn’t answer, but gave him a close hug that told more than words. Before he had time to reconsider, she handed him the small cloth sack and urged him to slip quietly out the door without waking Jammer. A quick kiss on his forehead and she pulled the door closed behind him, leaving him standing in the chill of the predawn morning.
As he’d learned in the last ten years, life is often about choices. Usually two of them. His choices today were two. Stay or leave. Other people would be waking soon, and each would demand his time and delay his departure longer as they talked and said their good-byes.
A yellow dog he called Max approached sleepily and spread out near his feet. Max had helped him guard the sheep until growing too old. After giving the old dog a few strokes, Shell slipped on his homemade backpack, tossed the bag of food over his shoulder and lifted his staff from beside the door. He turned his back to all he knew to face his future.
He strode confidently up the first rise Old Man Alba had spoken of, but near the top, his pace slowed. What is over that hill? Still moving slowly, he felt the first rays of the sun warm his back. At the top, he considered taking one last look behind as he came to a full halt. Then, he drew in a full breath to steel himself and crossed over the first hill, looking for snakes, highwaymen, and beautiful women, all without looking over his shoulder once.
He carried a backpack filled mostly with clothing. Strings kept a warm blanket rolled tightly and tied in a roll above the pack. The bag of food was in his right hand, the staff in his left. He paused and removed the backpack. The food went inside, so both of his hands were free to work with the staff.
The sun flooded the day as he walked with exaggerated swings of his arms, the staff spinning, thumping the ground, timing his pace, and defending him from any imaginary enemies. Bear Mountain lay due west, so he’d warm his back with the sun in the morning and face it in the afternoon. Going down the hillside, he lengthened his stride, and his pace picked up. The staff became a walking stick, each strike on the ground a measurement of time and distance.
As he walked, his hands and arms moved to the freedom of practicing with the staff, repeating the moves other warriors of the Dragon Clan had taught him over the years. Usually, one or two new moves provided by each. But Shell remembered them all and had performed the same actions so many times he needn’t think about them. They were as natural as breathing. His staff came parallel to the ground as he held it before him to stop an imaginary sword from descending. Then it moved to either side to stop the next blow. A strong swordsman would tire long before he managed to cut Shell.
But Shell would do more than defend himself and that was the beauty of a staff in trained hands. As the thrust of a blade was thwarted with one end of the staff, the other end was clear for attacking. Made from a stout branch of a hickory tree, his staff was strong, heavy, and his thumb and forefinger couldn’t encircle it. An enemy struck by his staff would suffer. With the force of his arms, back, and shoulders provided, a single blow would drop a man.
It didn’t matter where it struck. Shin, knee, thigh, hip, chest, elbow, or head would put an enemy on the ground. A solid strike with the staff ended a fight. But Shell had not practiced making a single blow with his exercises. No, he’d learned to attack in patterns of six, eight, or even ten strikes, each powerful and so fast the eye could not follow the slashing ends of the staff.
By midmorning, he sat at the top of another hill covered in waving summer grasses. Shell looked about and decided he was now farther from his home than he’d ever been in his life, even farther than Springtown, a half day's walk from home in another direction. A deer eased out of the brush to his right, not thirty paces away. He wouldn’t have killed the deer if he could, but its presence told of the single weakness of his staff. Distance. For it to be effective, an enemy had to be close.
The deer, as close as it was, chewed brown grass without fear. Standing only thirty paces away, it was perfectly safe. Without hurrying, the deer trotted off a few steps, then as if to insult him, casually leaped into the air and disappeared as only a white rump and tail told where it went.