Bare Jonas
Part One
by The Preve
Inspired, in part, by "Mr. Tumnus", by Crisreyart
In a northern country, once upon a time, on a farm across a river, lived a young lad named Jonas.
He was a comely young lad, just turned eighteen summers, yet not considered full grown in the eyes of his parents, nor the village elders.
Such assessments were attributed to his fine features and short stature. Some thought him of possible elfin blood (a rumor which included his mother, who was short and fine featured as well, and from whom he obviously inherited his looks).
Others pointed to his gentle and straightforward nature, many thought him simple for it. A few of the village gossips thought him a moonchild, or fae born.
It is not to say Jonas' slight body made him weak. His parents worked him hard as any farmer's lad. His mother made sure to teach him his letters.
The lasses of the village thought him comely enough but were more interested in the larger, more strapping young bravos from the town and neighboring farms.
In the main, most in the village thought little of him one way or the other.
Sometimes he'd attract derision for some foolishness, such as showing up with red skin from an accidental stumble into a bladderwort pool (he didn't say he was trying to find a shortcut through the marsh, to avoid paying the bridge troll's fee). The village generally ignored him otherwise.
On a midsummer morn, just a day after his eighteenth birthday, his mother roused him.
"Up! Up lazybones! You have errands in the village needing done a'fore eve."
"Yes, Ma," Jonas grumbled.
Jonas' Pa was already in the field, tending to the barley. The shoots were tall and green. It looked to be a good crop this year.
Ma and Pa let him sleep in for his eighteenth the day before, but his mother let him do so for today, as an extra gift.
Jonas rose, washed, and donned his clothes, including the new shirt his Ma made for his birthday. It was a good shirt, of yellow, red, and brown; a man's shirt, in the colors of autumn.
He came down to breakfast. His Ma rarely smiled, but he could see in her eyes happiness at his shirt's fitting.
Porridge, eggs, and ham broke his fast, and he prepared to set off.
"Now remember to avoid the marshes this time. Your man hair hasn't grown back from that foolishness."
"Yes, Ma," replied Jonas with a slight blush.
"Avoid the troll bridge. You might have to take the long way."
"I'll use the old bridge, this time," he said. The old bridge was somewhat rickety, but still safe for lone travelers. Village talk, recent, said the Duke was sending one of his knights to deal with the troll.
"Probably more 'cause the troll wasn't paying his taxes, and unlicensed, than bullying the farmers," Jonas thought.
"And careful, this is midsummer. Mischief will be about this time of year."
"Yes, Ma." It wasn't just pranksters and bravos attracted to the upcoming midsummer festival to worry about. "Others" got a bit frisky as well.
"You have the shopping list?"
"Yes, Ma."
"A roll of cheese, a jar of honey, and a spade for your Pa."
"Yes, Ma."
"Now go, and be sure to get back a'fore supper."
"Yes, Ma."
She gave him a loaf of bread, and a sausage, for lunch, and a peck on the cheek.
Jonas set off in his autumn shirt, waving to his Pa in the field. Pa waved back and set to work on the barley.
I'm going to have to find a wife for him soon, and maybe that plot of land near the river to farm.
Jonas walked along the road, whistling a merry tune. The day was early; the dawn's cool giving way to a summer morn's warmth. Beautiful and quiet, with none but soft breezes, singing birds, and buzzing bees to make a sound.
"The day's going to be good," thought young Jonas.
He came to a low rise and, as he crested it, discerned some mutterings in the air. Over the top, and there on the downward slope, he espied a hunched figure on the roadside.
It might have been a local, one of the farmers, or a vagabond, perhaps a highwayman. Jonas slowed his steps, watching cautiously.
If a local, greet him. If a vagabond, pass him. If a highwayman, run.
As he approached, he saw the figure was, in fact, a Wander Woman, an elderly one, probably arrived for the midsummer festival.
She was crouched over, muttering Wander curses. Jonas was cautious; stories of Wander Folk's deep magic and penchant for curses abounded, but he noted a sack nearby, ripped open, and some objects scattered about.
Jonas hesitated,
Should I help?
The Wander Folk were known to be tricksters, and ploys such as feigning distress were among the stories told about them, but the Good Book said always lend aid to the stranger, no matter how strange, and Jonas' parents taught him well.
"Hail Old Mother," he greeted, "Do you need help?"
The old woman looked up, a sour, annoyed look on her olive-colored face. "Aye, and none such a young callow as you would notice an old woman's distress. The rudeness of young toffs harassing an elder and scattering her 'shrooms. Nae the respect."
Jonas, in spite the woman's thick accent, got an idea what happened.
Probably Karl Tieger and his gang. Bully boys all.
They were some of the bravos the lasses mooned over. The boys deferred to the local elders and highborn, but were prankish and rude to those weaker: like smaller, slight built young lads, and elderly Wander Women.
I don't know what the lasses see in them.
"I can help old mother, if you'll let me," Jonas offered.
"Aye, young lad. Thank ye, and gather me up my 'shrooms. Mind the red and brown."
Jonas helped the Wander gather the mushrooms, noting the redcaps and browncoats, known to induce visions, and deadly as well.
"Um, Old Mother, these mushrooms, I don't think these should go in soup."
Did she pick these by mistake?
"Aye, and don't I know my 'shrooms young lad? 'Tis rude to question your elders' knowledge. These 'shrooms make good medicine, and helps one speak to the Saints."
"Yes ma'am," Jonas finished gathering the mushrooms.
"Into my apron with these young lad, and you can help me to my wagon b'sides."
Jonas would rather continue to the village, but the old woman needed more help, obviously. Plus Karl and the others might be laying about, still, not that Jonas knew what he could do if he met them, given past experience.
As it stood, the woman's wagon was not too far out of his way; just off the roadside.
A classic Wander Folk vardo; Jonas heard they served as home to them as well. A gray and black roan stood to the side, quietly munching the grass. A stew pot sat, waiting over heated coals, in the clearing.
"Well and good, your mother raised a polite young lad who respects his elders," the Wander Woman said, setting her mushrooms near the pot. "Such kindness calls for a vaticination."
"Well . . . uh . . ." Jonas started, remembering stories of Wanders' foreseeings. He jumped when the old woman unexpectedly grabbed his hands.
Her grasp was akin to iron manacles, and she stared into his eyes, her steel grays riveting like a wolf's.
"Your journey to town will be the first step of many. Unshod, skyclad you will be. Much of you will be required. Self, innocence, body will be given, and taken, but you will receive so much more."
The old woman's voice faded as she spoke. A final whisper, "Such a comely young lad," brushed against him like a soft breeze.
Jonas blinked, confused for the moment. He stood by the roadside. It was still morning.
There was an old woman . . .?
No, there wasn't.
There was no sign of the old woman, Wander wagon, horse, or stew pot. However, a ring of mushrooms grew where he swore the wagon had been.
"Did I dream her?" he asked. He set back on the road, making sure to put distance between himself and the mushroom ring.
He'd heard the tales of fairy rings. Most scoffed, but some of the elders warned the youngers to stay away. "The fae are always tricky," said they.
"Maybe I did," Jonas thought, or she made him eat a mushroom somehow, and he forgot. Wander Folk were known to be tricky as well.
The route to the old bridge went through a small copse of oak. Jonas had taken it before. Nothing happened in the previous few times. Few took this route, as the other bridge was more convenient.
Except now. Karl and his fellows were there.
They'd been hunting. Their game, mostly coneys and pheasants, were hung on the oaks' lower branches.
Jonas walked on, hoping the braggadocios would ignore him; no such luck.
"Well, well, Jonas Barre," he heard a familiar voice snicker.
"Karl," he answered, not looking back, and quickened his steps.
A few whispers and snickers hissed behind him. Jonas was used to that, but then, the sound of running footsteps followed, to his dismay.
