The Farmer and the Fald - Foreword
Greenjack Jorkin's preambling thoughts and musings on his first written work.
In the latest edition of my fantasy novel ‘The Farmer and the Fald’ I made the decision to remove Greenjack’s foreword from the beginning.
I am still very fond of the opening, however due to a few critiques and my own nagging doubts, I do think that the story flows a little better without it. Bundon starts the tale and I believe one should see his world primarily as he sees it.
Greenjack’s scope is much broader than Bundon’s and I felt it overshadowed our poor farmer. So i shall upload it here, for any who might interested.
Enjoy!
JR Leach
I first heard the tale of The Farmer and the Fald in an alehouse in Kriscany, our most beloved and beautiful capitol of Kraigwyn, on the southern isle of our Eastern Kingdom where, on Harper’s Street, wandering elves had made their humble mark upon the white city.
The singer in question had told the tale a hundred times by his own reckoning. It had the ring of an ancient story, altered through many a retelling. You can imagine my surprise when the singer informed me that it was not so ancient as that—happening in fact, in my own lifetime. And not that long ago.
He had first heard the tale from a band of goblins, those nomadic elves from the Farhogian Plains, the flat, steppe on the eastern side of the continent. The singer gave much useful information and told me that this band of elves gave him an account of such adventures, with the claim being that they had seen them firsthand.
As someone who grew up on the Isle of Rhothodân, you can understand my delight upon hearing such a local tale. With all these place names and landmarks, I knew so well. The Dalkamont, King’s Anchor, the Bay of Black Flags, the Temple of the Green Dragon. These were names I grew up on, now given new life and fresh magic. A magic I had never known was there while I habited the isle in my youth. I wasted no time as this fresh endeavour blossomed in my mind.
Histories and lore have been written for the eyes of the wise and the wealthy only—all in old Brentiri runes or the Sathillian script of the Thrice Drowned Empire. But none in our humble Trade Speak. The language the merchant-folk had created through the natural courses of common use and time.
And so I resolved to write a tale that all could read, with another promise to ensure that many more Brothers from the Temple would make it their mission to teach the reading and writing of words to as many souls as wished to learn. For, in the time of writing this, even in the courts of King’s (as well as the courts of highborn lords and prideful jarls of both the southern and northern islands), just shy of half have mastered the art of the written word, by my reckoning. And that needs to change. For in written words are the key to understanding, and with understanding... it is my humble belief, and I dare say the belief of our Noble Dragon, that war and conquest shall hold little to no relevance.
But first, I think, a little about me.
My name is Brother Jorkin. Known to many as Greenjack for the Brotherly robes of green linen I wear, coupled with the princely sigil of my noble family, a black raven on blue. These robes set me apart from my other Brothers-in-Prayer, as they wear black robes with red sashes, and carry tall staves of solid blackwood. While I, decorated as I am in accordance with my heritage and some few... ‘good deeds’ (shall we say?) was adorned in green. For I number one of that elite order of knights non-combative: The Order of the Quill. Brothers of the Temple who are set apart; the most promising to rise to Krillian. So I was not anointed, not yet, but still in my apprenticeship, with the vague promise of a title, a ‘sir’ before my name if I wished it.
Which I did not. The title of ‘brother’ suits me well enough.
I returned from King Doryn’s Third Crusade, along with his crown, his ravens and his fair body. Now still. Now broken.
The crusades, both the second and third, and the foul mockery of governance upon our return, took twelve years of my life all told, from the age of four-and-ten to the age of six-and-twenty. And now I sit in the years of my thirties; and I look back most fondly, not at those times of conquest and death, (which others name as valour and glory)... but at those quiet times; those lazy days in the Temple at Rhothodân, playing tricks on my cousins, brother and Brothers-in-Prayer. Of those warm summers by the banks of the Dalka. Favouring the skimming of stones and courting of maids over wearisome study and long, monotonous oration. For the old Krillian valued little else more than tired, weary wisdom. Passive in its execution, but prickly as brambles if interrupted out of turn. Or worse yet; ignored entirely. (As I favoured in my youth).
But I had royal blood, diluted and part forgotten by most, but there in my veins it lay. Carving out a fair future for me. For things were made easy for me, and they could have remained such if I had chosen it. But that ceaseless call to adventure compelled me to answer the summons of my cousin, the Good King Doryn, and bid all those warm summers and quiet meditations farewell.
But it is only when these everyday comforts and joys are gone that one truly starts to see their merit. For when I returned from the abhorrent sandy shores of Arencia, that inhospitable and unconquerable southern continent, I found none of the comforts had stayed in my absence. Either that, or perhaps I had grown blind to it through weary riding and numbing battle and could no longer see what was clearly there for some.
For the banks of the Dalka felt grey even by the light of the sun. The stones would not skim so beautifully as before. And all the fair maids in the realm could not bolster any amorous intention in me. For their faces reminded me of the many that lay dead upon the sandy roadsides down south; many was the number that we had a hand in killing. Innumerable, I’d say. Though only through fear of the number, I think.
But after the Good King had died, and his son, the Young King Eiric, had been crowned, I thought my future to lie in the capitol, guiding, counselling and penning the Young King’s letters. But no. Destiny, it seemed, had other plans for me.
I was dismissed from courtly duty. Through an altercation with our late King’s son, King Eiric. The reasons were countless, and the effort to remove me, I’d say with total certainty, was not solely down to our Young King... the little cousin I had been so close with in my youth. However, that story may bleed into this one... the two are separate. And I shall speak more on it in time.
On the matter of my dismissal, I was free to continue my studies, with a generous annuity of one-thousand golden monarchs from the crown to see me sheltered, fed and served suitably for a man of my standing.
So you see... my removal was not so hefty a punishment. But the Young King had made it plain that he wanted nothing more to do with me, nor my counsel, not then. Not yet. But his grace did not know what a boon this would be for me, and, one hopes, the rest of the known world; in time.
For I vowed on the shores of Brentir when I first returned; on the thirteenth day of Apys, (the Month of Honey in the common Trade Speak), that I would partake in no further acts of death and war. Nor would I put my hands to the signing of any papers, nor lay my voice to any order or command that would result in such. This solemn promise alienated me from my dear family, my cousins and brother, who were walking roads far different to mine own. On courses I could neither understand, nor condone.
Understand that for a Brentiri, especially one of royal blood, to waft away conflict as though it were a petty nuisance was not done. And I received no blessings on my journey, not even from those I held most dear to me.
I held the blood of kings in my heart; warriors, liberators and crusaders all. Who did not gain their crowns by fair heart and wise words. Only by the strength of their sword arms.
However, I have found there to be great strength in the former. Even though the latter makes for better songs. But I have a fair few songs of my own. Tales; grand and old... and powerful, I’d say.
And so it was on the ninth day in the Month of Brambles that I, with a meagre retinue of scribes, servants and a few companions I had gathered on my adventures, travelled back to my old home of Rhothodân. In my company was the elven singer who had first told me of the Farmer and his Fald, who named himself as ‘Cân-o-Carreg’. He, on our travels, coined the phrase I often use in my writings: ‘The world hates me for naught but the point of my ears.’
A wise soul and a fair companion, he became my scholar in all things elven within the story. Providing me with such wonderful words as: ‘Hiraethi’, ‘Kin’Slaen’ and, of course, ‘Tyr’Dalka’.
For did you know that the elves also practised the Green Dragon’s Prayer? Kri, our most Noble Dragon, was but one lesser god amongst their pantheon. They scattered ashes across their babes’ heads, as we do now. We call it an ‘ashening’; the ritual we Brother’s oversee when a newborn’s fire is first kindled. Elves named it ‘Heninyath’, or ‘a birth from the ashes’. This means that our ancient customs are more ancient than even the wisest of our brother’s ever knew. And it leads to the ofttimes controversial question of... ‘how much else do we not know?’ as well as ‘How much else have we forgotten?’ These are unpopular questions at the Temple and are even held as contemptible by many of the Order of Natural Philosophers in the high courts of both Brentir, Kraigwyn and beyond. These philosophers, who seem to value certainty above truth, would have us think that nothing is ‘unknown’ and that we have merely not yet asked the right questions. An odd belief, to be sure, when held hand in hand with their secondary belief that the asking of such questions is akin to heresy. But I digress. This is not an essay on the paradox of the modern intellectual but an exercise in how the pursuit of knowledge can, in fact, be of great service.
It was little over two days later, on the eleventh day of Brambles, that we arrived at Rhothodân’s self-styled capitol. King’s Anchor. Though, to be sure. it was a sorry size for a city. And a sorrier state. The buildings half crumbling, the roads two-thirds mud to one-third cobbles, and the people... I try and save judgement for those who come seeking it, but by my fire. There are some sorry people in the world. And most of them seem to dwell in King’s Anchor.
The lord cutthroat of the isle, the Lord Killian Tarbrand; now old, sea burnt, and as unkindly as ever, gave his blessings for our project with an indifferent waft of his gnarled hand. I dare say he did not understand it, but at least he did not refuse it, as I had half-expected he might. He bore no memory of the events, save for some glimmer of recognition when the name ‘Lady DeGrissier’ was mentioned. But no more than a glimmer. And some half-remembered rumour that she had returned to Autreville on the continent after some letters of altercation shared with her noble father; some half-forgotten duke of some whole-forgotten duchy.
We made the quick decision not to lodge in the capitol, favouring instead a ride onwards to a small village by the name of Bywater Hen, a humble fisherman’s rest nestled on the banks of the Dalka, just before she splits off into her many hatchling streams. The village doubled as a waypoint for travellers on their way to the Temple, or further, and had in its humble streets a stable, an inn and an alehouse; all run out of the same ancient, half-reconstructed building. It seemed to stoop over itself like a crooked old man, its third-floor windows inspecting the ground before it. The Hen and Hook was its name, with its weather-beaten sign hanging over its old oaken doors, showing us the reason for it.
We found that only a few had heard the tale we were hunting after as we drank strong ale and chatted with the locals. But none shared any useful insights. The common instruction was to head to Dalkaford if we wished to learn more.
“They have many queer folks and fanciful tales down the ford’s way,” I recall a fisherman saying as he cracked his clay pipe over the old, smoke-stained hearth.
And so it was on the thirteenth day in the Month of Brambles after our horses were watered, our wineskins refilled, and our provisions bolstered by fresh river fish that we journeyed north-westwards, further afield to the town-stead of Dalkaford.
We did not reach the town until after dark, where we made fresh lodgings in the ‘Good King’s Cups’, named for our late crusader king. It was clear from the outset that elves were not well trusted on the isle. Cân-o-Carreg received many unwelcome glances. Despite that, the singer gave a song or two that evening, and some coins were granted him by the locals, though warily and with little warmth.
It was not until the morning that I saw the town in all its splendour. For it was in Dalkaford that I discovered the true shining capitol the isle deserved. Where the streets were cobbled, and the buildings well-raised with wattle and daub and good solid timber. A watchtower stood in its centre, of quarried stone and slate— four, maybe five stories high, while the streets were busy with trade and chatter around this central citadel. Dalkaford was half the size of King’s Anchor, perhaps, but with twice the beauty, and thrice the gentility.
In our search for answers, there were some who knew the names of Bundon and his daughter. But they were old and half-remembered. Many fellow farmers regaled the name of ‘Bundon’, claiming that he was the picture of honesty and humble generosity.
“Old Master Bundon,” one large-bellied old baker gave, with long grey muttonchops growing determinedly down both cheeks. “A fine fellow. With a tragic old story. Haven’t seen him these last seven years. But then many moved away after news of our Good King’s death.”
Another gave (a fellow Brother from the Temple by the name of Kindur):
“A fickle chap was Farmer Bundon; trouble seemed to follow him likes flies follow horses. And his daughter was no better. That beast of hers was no suitable pet for a farm girl. Our Young King’s Decree was much needed if you ask me. I haven’t seen them since that law was forged.”
The law he spoke of was, of course, the law of ‘In Fortys’Bestias’, or ‘The Ban of Magical Beasts‘, in common parlance. Which saw that none but the King could hold, breed or rear elder species or any ancient beasts that the crown deemed ‘magical’. Wyverns, manticores and griffons were all on the decree. As were falds.
This was the first mention of the fald that I had heard from any save the elven singer himself. And it spurred us ever forwards to discover more.
In truth, I had not even stopped to think how this decree might have effected the common folk, for it was mighty rare that any even dared to wrangle such dangerous creatures, save for highborn lords with their fanciful menageries.
We stopped by the smith’s shop to replace our horses’ shoes, as the cobbled streets had battered them mercilessly. Some brutish female blacksmith answered our call, as did her brother, a dyer, who lived above the smithy. She shod our horses well enough and even gave us a brief, albeit refreshing, affirmation to our task.
But they seemed to regard our honest questions as threats and unwelcome prying, and the blacksmith resolved to not spill the secrets she had made oathless promise to keep. A scribe wrote down the brief conversation, and it went so:
The blacksmith, a woman with a man’s bearing, thicker wrists and broader shoulders than half the men in our company, told us that she knew the farmer in question. And that they knew the tale. But she was adamant that this was solely her business, and the business of the farmer, and his fald. And their late mother, who they both, judging by their downcast expressions, sorely missed.
The leader of our company, our own Brother Greenjack assured the blacksmith and her brother that we meant no harm with our questions and promised that it was a purely academic endeavour, of some own personal interest, nothing more.
The blacksmith seemed to mistrust this phrasing. Stating that she’d ‘been fooled before by fair words and false promises.’ At that point, to punctuate her words, she threw her hammer down upon the anvil, shaping a horseshoe, red and glowing from the forge. She then, by my own study, eyed the golden dragon that was embroidered onto our Brother Greenjack’s robes, and this instilled firmer defiance in her.
She spoke no more until her brother asked what payment they might expect for the story. He was a small man, of unfortunate feature, and half his sister’s size. With his arms stained blue to the elbow.
Once informed by our treasurer that we had some small amount of silver to grant those who helped in our effort, the brutish blacksmith slammed her hammer back down onto the anvil, silencing her brother before he had a chance to reply.
The sister then said something most odd. She stated that “even gold can tarnish, I’ve found”, which we all regarded as a most peculiar thing to say, as it is safe knowledge that gold is completely inert. Both that and we were offering silver. Not gold.
She reiterated that it was not our business to be asking such questions, but gave us a sliver of information, claiming the story was a true one. Perhaps not as true as our resident elf had described it, but true enough. And after that was said, she left little room for negotiation. Refusing even the small amount of silver offered her. However, her brother took it happily, though he had certainly been the less helpful of the two.
Scribes account, on the fourteenth day in the Month of Brambles, year 987 by Sathillian Reckoning.
And that was that. Though the dyer, once a safe distance from his sister’s wrath, did give us some small advice:
“Go follow the northern road from Dalkaford, deep into the Ploughman’s Vale. There to look for a farmhouse raised in the valley of two hills.”
We gave the fellow another silver, which he grabbed before scurrying away without farewell.
And so we had our next destination.
We lingered in Dalkaford for a further few days. In part because none in my retinue wished to leave so soon. The autumn days were warm and splendid that year, and there was no finer place, in my mind, to enjoy the falling leaves of the riverbank’s golden willows and rich, auburn light of the setting sun. It was in those pleasant days that I first penned a rough map of Rhothodân, with naught but spare parchment paper and sticks of charcoal. Making plain to all that Dalkaford stood as proudly (if not prouder) amid the hills and mountains as King’s Anchor.
But soon, though solemnly, we left the town-stead. And we arrived in the Ploughman’s Vale on the nineteenth day of Brambles and visited many farmhouses (and many wary farmers) before we found, what we assumed to be the farmstead the dyer had described to us.
But when we arrived, our hearts were sunk, for there was nobody there. A big green door lay off its hinges, now half rotten. The farmhouse sat covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs, with a well-used hearth in its centre... now cold. Though not as long abandoned as we dreaded. The elven singer, with his kind’s aptitude for nature and tracking, informed me that this place was only recently abandoned- as little as a year or less.
As we explored the hills, we found some old graves; two sat in a long overgrown field. Humble wooden planks atop cairns of moss-covered stones. One, the more weathered of the two, read; Meat, while the other, fresher than the first, read: Veg. But further afield, atop the farmland’s highest hill lay two other cairns, piled either side of a large oak tree, where wild cattle still grazed. One seemed old and overgrown, and the writing on the grave had worn to nothing. But a fresher grave lay too, with a beautiful old calendar acting as its headstone. An old cartwheel, with the months of the years painted around its outside, with the days, one to thirty, etched onto the interior. A straw cap lay atop the cairn. And so did an inscription, in trade speak, so all could understand it.
“Here lies Bundon, my papa, whose proud fire dwindled to nought but humble ash in his winter years. He who had touched destiny, diced with dragons and tilled earth with honest effort, till the end of his days. A farmer. A father. And a hero none shall sing for. Save us. And ye few who read this.”
So overcome was I by such a message that I found myself weeping. That a girl, a farm girl, no less. Common born and near-forgotten. That she could write this was more inspiration than I could ever have wished for. But stranger still. When I leant over the gravestone to lay a copper piece and the dragon’s prayer atop the cairn, I was struck suddenly by a thought, or perhaps a memory. It was as though some great recollection had planted itself within those deep grains of old weathered wood, which awoke in me when first I touched the calendar.
Now perhaps, as a Brother of the Temple, I had simply inhaled too many of those sickly, sweet smokes we favour. For they do make one see things if one smokes enough of them. Or perhaps through long years of prayer and blessing, the Dragon himself had bestowed to me a small boon. I could not say for certain.
But I knew things. And saw things. As though glimpsing through another’s eyes, just glimpses, nothing more. But I feel it now, as I felt it then. That there was a touch of... destiny to all of this. And in my heart, I knew the story already. Every part of it, every player within it, every tragedy, every bit of luck and every joy.
I began work at once, taking lodging back in Dalkaford in humble rooms above the Good King’s Cup. A long year of studious work followed, obsessing endlessly over each account and infinitesimal detail. Through my small effort of seeking such a story out, I felt compelled and duty-bound to see it told well. It was as though, in my mind, the story had already been written, and all I need do (through a tireless process of elimination) was decipher it from the mists of memory and time. In this process, I encountered many other players and tellers within the tale, but I shall leave these delayed accounts for a spell lest I spoil some of the twists and turns that gave peril to our humble farmer.
My own sacred flame is intermingled with every word of this fair story, in the vague hope that it might spark the fiery imaginations of others. So I present to you, the reader, the tale of The Farmer and the Fald.
Greenjack Jorkin
Dated: The first day in the Month of Brambles - Year 990 by Sathillian Reckoning.
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