A Fallow Field

[Mongrel]

Klenn pulled back slightly on the check line, bringing his mule to a stop. The farmer looked out over the field in need of tillage. It was still early in the season, the soil was a bit damper than what would be ideal, but after losing their son to pneumonia over the winter months, he worried about finishing the frequent plowing and harrowing the soil might need this summer.

Sweat trickled down the washboard folds of his kneaded brow. It traced the length of his pointy nose from bridge to tip; paused, dangled, and fell to the churned earth surrounding the aged plowshare at his feet. Hars, the mule, shifted uneasily against his collar, causing the blade to mimic the movements and the thick leather straps to creak against the weight.

Klenn’s eyes moved to the treeline, pausing there. After a moment, he sniffed and wiped his forearm across his lips to remove the sweat that built there. [I]“Ayellup,â€

[Mongrel]

It was three days before Cap Coulter wandered to the Mertson plot. He wanted to check on Klenn and Gertie, as it had been some time since anyone had seen them. What with the sicknesses that were going around Myrken Wood, a few days of absence could indicate the worst.

As soon as Cap cleared the treeline and the fields opened up before him, he saw Klenn out in the field. Cap sighed with relief--his friend was just fine. But, why in the world was Klenn riding Hars like that and what in the devil was he pointing at?

Across the field, some 300 meters away, Klenn Mertson sat tall on the back of Hars, his mule. The farmer’s arm was outstretched before him; his finger pointing ahead. They did not move. If not for the clothes and steed, they would have seemed to be the living statue of a great war general, guiding a great army toward victory.

Cap’s boots half sank into the soft soil as he took long strides through the field. He squinted in the direction that Klenn was pointing. Cap didn’t see a thing.

[i]â€