The Early Years: Wil Leaves the Family Home
He had had a happy childhood, full of all the things that make for good, simple country living. Wil was the youngest of three; his oldest brother was named Tom and the middle brother was named Lyl. His father, Silas Magee, had built a fine family farm in the borderlands near the crook separating southern Norric from the Black Hills, in a small community run by Godgaffer Arn Dillard. His mother, Milell, had come from “Away,” some distant hob homestead far to the east in the Black Hills, but the Dillard Family had welcomed her readily as one of their own. Silas, a respected man and a family friend of the Dillard Family from five generations back, had brought her home after one of his long, far-off adventures, and the two had built their little farmhouse on good land.
The Magee family was well-liked in their community. Silas would hold a barn dance every fall, and hobs from three ’steads over would come for the food and the dancing and the music. Every year, Silas would take the stage and play his fiddle with the band. Everyone agreed that he was the best fiddle player any of them had ever heard, and he knew just about every song anyone could ask for.
Milell Magee (formerly Milell Connol) was a brilliant cook. She could whip up most any dish imaginable, everything from spicy eastern Arweian cuisine to southwest Weyrean pastas and sauces to plain old broiled chicken and taters. The family always ate well; Silas grew all manner of vegetables on the family farm, and he raised chicken, sheep, goats, ducks, pigs and even dwarf cattle.
Tom, Lyl and Wil were, of course, expected to help with the raising of the animals and the tending of the crops. Tom and Lyl ended up doing most of the work, while Wil followed his erratic fancies elsewhere. As the youngest, he was given a lot of leeway. The older boys sometimes resented this, but Silas would always take them aside and remind them quietly that Wil was sort of… special. He didn’t have the presence of mind that it took to take care of animals, and he simply could not be forced to spend hours pulling weeds or picking beans. He would get a start on the task and almost immediately lose patience and wander off to chase butterflies or catch frogs down at the pond.
In point of fact, Silas Magee thought his youngest son to be rather slow in the head. Tom and Lyl had taken to farming like proper hob lads, almost before they had learned to walk. They even enjoyed their chores.
Wil, on the other hand, was a fidgety, restless daydreamer. It was nearly impossible to get the boy to sit still for any length of time, except when Silas was telling one of his stories from the “Great Book.” During storytime, Wil would sit very quietly and attentively, his little green eyes very wide and shining, absorbing every detail. As soon as storytime was over, Wil would scamper off to chase butterflies or catch frogs down at the pond. Or he would scamper off to his toys and re-enact the stories he had just heard in great detail. Or he would scamper off to the woods nearby and play at being the hero of a story, either the one he had just heard or one that he had particularly enjoyed from days ago. Or he would simply scamper.
Silas did not immediately recognize young Wil’s intelligence for what it was. He saw that the boy had clever moments, but he assumed that Wil was perhaps something of a savant; the boy had an uncanny knack for recalling, word for word, Silas’ stories, even tales he had told months ago. He was also quick to learn music, and could play the fiddle, banjo and harmonica by the time he was ten years old; he played well enough to join his father and the band on stage at the annual barn dances, and most everyone was quite impressed with his skill and his precocious showmanship.
By the time Wil was twelve, his father had begun to recognize the strange, undisciplined intelligence that bloomed in his youngest son’s mind. It had taken a lot of patience, but he had finally taught the boy to read, and by the age of twelve, Wil could read any book in the house and recite it back to his mildly stunned father, almost word for word.
For all his brilliance, however, Wil was always very easily distracted. It never took much to draw his attention away from any given task; a fluttering butterfly, a shiny knickknack sitting nearby, motes of dust floating around in a shaft of sunlight streaming through a window… the slightest thing would send Wil scampering away from any task he found boring.
Eventually, Silas came to recognize that some of Wil’s rebelliousness and distractability came from his overpowering sense of curiosity. Wil was often poking into things and exploring here and there, and the best way to convince him that he ought to do something was to tell him that he really shouldn’t — his desire to figure out why such a thing should be restricted over-rode any kind of caution or even common sense.
As Wil got older, Silas had assumed that his restless, curious nature would settle down into something more hob-like, but, of course, this was not the case. Wil’s quests for knowledge took him farther and farther from home; the little homestead was simply not big enough to satisfy his enthusiasm for exploration and learning. As far as he dared wander, however, he almost never missed a meal. It was almost certain that he would be home by suppertime, no matter how far out he had ventured that day.
Eventually, Wil’s adventurous nature began to get him into trouble. The Magee farm was not terribly far from the human town of Fort Unthro, and Wil had found his way there a number of times. Having been raised in a hob community, with hob values and a hob’s understanding of property and commerce, teenage Wil caught trouble several times for shoplifting and other petty acts of theft. For the most part, the humans understood what had happened and the treated Wil with leniency and patience, but eventually his welcome in Fort Unthro wore quite thin. Shortly after he turned sixteen, he was caught taking candy from a merchant stall and escorted home by armed city watchmen.
It was then that Silas had begun to realize just what kind of person his youngest son was growing into, and he began to worry. Two days after Wil had been brought home by the armed humans, Silas took his son aside and had a serious, sit-down talk with him in the empty kitchen.
It was larger than a typical hob kitchen, big enough for a human to walk around comfortably without knocking his head on the rafters. The walls were covered with shelves and cupboards and mantles and sills, all loaded with knickknacks and spice bottles and clever little tools and spices and dried foods. The table was wide and round, with five little chairs evenly spaced around it. It was early afternoon, and warm, bright light filtered through the west windows at a steep angle, painting little square pools of brightness on the dark wood floor.
Silas sat in his chair, the slightly larger one at the head of the table, with a serious expression on his face. He had a square-shaped face with a dimpled chin, and well-defined, handsome features. He had clever green eyes, framed by faint lines that crinkled merrily when he grinned. Of all the sons, Wil looked the most like his father; the other two boys took more after their mother, with narrower faces and hazel eyes. Silas and Wil even had the exact same curly chestnut hair.
Wil sat miserably in his smaller chair. He knew he was in trouble from the other day, but he was still not entirely sure what, exactly, he had done wrong. Judging from his pa’s expression, it had been something big. Possibly big enough that it would merit a switching.
“Wil,” said Silas, choosing his words carefully. “Me an’ you gotta have a talk about what happened the other day there. I want you to pay attention an’ listen real close, now, because this is serious business. You understand?”
“Yes, pa,” Wil muttered, unable to look up at his father. He thought he saw a mouse running under one of the cupboards out of the corner of his eye, and he struggled to ignore it and pay attention. The tiny flash of movement nagged at his mind, and he had to fight hard to ram the thought away and focus on the conversation.
“When you go to a human town like you did, and you take stuff from boxes in human houses or from the little stands they got out in the street, you have to pay for that stuff. If you don’t give them money for it, it’s called stealin’. It ain’t like here, son. Humans don’t know you, don’t know your family, don’t know your homestead. They won’t just come over later and take some taters and call it done. They gotta have coins, or they call it stealin’. And when you get caught stealin’ stuff, those men with the swords take you to jail. Do you know what jail is?”
“Not really,” said Wil, trying hard not to look at the cupboard in the corner. He was sure that mouse was there. He could almost feel it there. The tension made him fidgety, and he had to swing his feet underneath the chair to vent off some of the nervous energy.
“Jail is a bad place, where bad people go,” Silas explained. “They got locks on all the doors, the kind that’re real hard to open unless you got the proper key. Jails are cold an’ damp an’ dirty, an’ you only get fed once or twice a day there, an’ that’s mostly just porridge or nasty soup without a sammich or anything. You have to live in there with real bad people, the kind that hurt an’ kill others. An’ they make you stay in there until they figured you learned your lesson.”
“Why, pa?” asked Wil. This jail stuff sounded terrible, but it was also terribly intriguing, like one of Silas’ stories. It was much easier to pay attention to the lecture now that something interesting was being discussed.
Silas shrugged. “I dunno, Wil,” he said. “That’s just how humans do things. They don’t do things the way we do ‘em. They don’t have Gaffers or Godgaffers to make things right. They have… well… kings an’ mayors an’ tax collectors an’ watchmen. It’s all pretty complicated, really, but the thing to remember is, when you’re caught doin’ somethin’ bad, you get put in jail. And humans figure stealin’ is pretty bad.”
Wil thought about this for a moment. The way his pa said things, it sounded like it was only bad when you got caught. After a bit of thinking, he nodded and said, “Okay, pa.”
“I think I know what you’re goin’ through, Wil,” Silas said, his expression softening a bit. “The world is an awful big place with so much to see an’ do, an’ I reckon you want to see as much of it as you can as soon as possible. You ain’t like Tom an’ Lyl; they’re happy with farmin’ and simple things, and they’re good boys for it. That don’t make you bad, Wil. No, sir. You just ain’t cut from the same cloth as Tom an’ Lyl. You’re cut from the same cloth as me.”
Wil quirked an eyebrow, unbelieving.
“You, pa?” he asked skeptically. “You never leave the farm.”
Silas smiled broadly and leaned back in his chair.
“Not no more, that’s true,” he said. “I got all my wanderin’ and explorin’ done well before you was born. But I tell ya, Wil… I done plenty of it.”
“Sure, pa,” Wil said, grinning and shaking his head.
“Tell ya what,” Silas said. “You go on into the study there an’ get my big story book. You know the one. Go fetch that an’ bring it here.”
Wil brightened up. Even at sixteen, he still loved storytime. His pa always read such colorful, adventure-filled stories, and he told them with such vivid expression and lurid detail that Wil sometimes felt like he was right there in the middle. He hopped down from his chair and scampered into the den, straight over to the big bookshelf on the back wall.
He scanned the spines of the books arranged there, finding the thickest one right in the middle on the top shelf. He had to climb up to get it, dragging a stool over and hopping up to reach the high shelf. The book was big and heavy, with a sturdy, plain leather cover and thick yellowing pages. He had never taken this book down before — it was an object of nearly religious reverence, and he had never dared to open its sacred pages. He carried it out to the kitchen now, holding it in both hands like a holy thing, and carefully handed it to his father.
Silas grinned down at him now, and pushed the book away.
“You go ahead an’ open that, Wil,” he said. “Have a look through it.”
Wil reached out with a hand that almost trembled with glorious anticipation, folding back the cover. The first few pages were blank, so he flipped through a bit to find one of the stories that he had so loved.
To Wil’s confusion, every single page in the book was blank.
“Where are all the stories?” he asked, flipping rapidly through the pages.
“Up here, Wil,” said Silas, tapping his forehead with one finger. “Most of them stories were memories of things I done in the past. The book was nothin’ more than a prop, really. Your mother didn’t want me fillin’ you boys’ heads with crazy ideas from my own adventures, so I pulled down a blank book, changed some names, added an allegorical dragon here and there and told ‘em anyhow. Yes sir, your borin’ old man has seen some things.”
Wil was still very confused. Surely his pa was testing him somehow. He had never known his father to outright lie, so maybe Wil was supposed to find the nuggets of truth, like some kind of scavenger hunt. Maybe the stories were invisible, hidden from sight by some kind of magic. While his father continued speaking, Wil tried to puzzle these things out, and he more or less entirely missed the whole point of the conversation.
“All I mean by this, Wil, is that I understand what’s goin’ on with you,” Silas said. He saw Wil’s brow furrowed with concentration and assumed that it was because Wil was trying hard to absorb the conversation. “I know all about that little voice in the back of your mind that tells you to go out an’ look for new things, the big piece of your heart that needs the excitement. But you got to be smarter than what you’ve been. You gotta learn the rights an’ wrongs of the outside world if you want to go off an’ be a part of it. If you keep on like you been, you’re gonna wind up in serious trouble, an’ Allewall forbid you don’t bring it down on the family with ya. You understand what I’m sayin’, Wil?”
The sound of his name caused Wil to snap back to the conversation, albeit far too late to have really caught the gist of the lecture.
“Yes, pa,” Wil said solemnly, delivering one of his many generic rote responses to chastisement. “I’ll try to do better.” To his credit, he was already a fine actor at such a young age, and Silas believed (or chose to believe, or at the very least wanted to believe) that Wil had learned his lesson.
“Alright, then,” Silas said, grinning and ruffling the boy’s hair. “Now I got some chores for ya, an’ you’re gonna do ‘em with no complaints an’ no funny business. And you ain’t gonna talk Lyl into doin’ ‘em for ya.”
Wil sighed dramatically and tried his best to look utterly deflated.
“Okay, pa,” he said.
Later on, as he pulled weeds in the big vegetable garden, he had time to reflect on his father’s lecture, or at least on the parts of it that he remembered. He had picked up three rather important pieces of information, things that would have a profound impact on his life from that point on.
Firstly, he had come to realize that his pa was something like his hero. If his stories were true, then he had indeed lived an incredibly active and adventure-filled life. If the stories were false and the thing about the book had been untrue, then Silas Magee was a pretty terrific liar, and that, also, was something to be respected and admired.
Secondly, he had come to believe that stealing was only bad when the thief got caught. As far as Wil had understood, that had been Silas’ point.
Thirdly, he had discovered that all anyone really needed was a good story and a reliable prop. With those two things in hand, a person could make magic.
As a result of that day, Wil Magee spent the next two years of his life teaching himself how to become a proper thief and storyteller. At first, he practiced on his own family, swiping little things and hiding them in secret places. He would always return these little things later on, or “find” them when the original owner needed the item and began searching the house. He independently discovered the art of palming almost by accident, and he practiced and practiced until the movements became second nature.
Eventually, he took his little one-man-show on the road, paying frequent visits to the local public house and parlaying his quick fingers into free dinners and pocket money. At the pub, he learned a few simple card and coin tricks from some of the more well-traveled hobs that frequented the place, and over time he even invented a few of his own. Wil’s tricks were often quite showy and theatrical, though the principles behind them were the same as everybody else’s, with simple false-shuffle techniques and easy sleight-of-hand. It was just as he had mistakenly learned from his father: with a reliable prop (usually playing cards and coins) and a good story (the theatrics behind the show) to make it all seem believable, Wil was able to parlay his skills into a steady gig. He lined his pockets with busking money and usually earned a free meal.
He became good enough that the owners of the public house asked him to perform there twice a week. When this offer came up, Wil decided to expand his repertoire. First, he added music to the act, playing lively fiddle and harmonica tunes and dancing jigs along with the songs. When that proved successful, he also added storytelling, reciting some of the adventure stories he had read in his father’s books.
There was a rather darker side to his teenage endeavors, however. During his off-days, he would sneak off to Fort Unthro and practice “not getting caught.”
In many ways, it was an ideal place to perfect his larcenous arts; the market was always busy, and there was a constant flow of strangers from western Weyre and other places in the east. Fort Unthro was one of only a handful of borderland towns that saw any kind of traffic from Norric in the north, and the local lawmen enforced peace between the stern Norrician soldiers and the local orcs. With all these people milling around and conducting their business, it was quite easy for Wil to escape anyone’s notice. He was small, even for a hob, and could easily dart around the legs of the big humans and burly orcs should the need arise. His fingers were quick and agile, and there were so many potential easy targets that the only problem Wil faced most days was where to begin.
Nicking sweets from the outdoor candy stall became too easy after a while, and Wil graduated to filching coins from people’s pockets. He devised a number of methods for this, and eventually that, too, became too easy. From coins, he moved on to rings and bracelets and other jewelry, and then to larger objects like sheathed weapons or hats or packs or purses.
With the exception of the sweets and other bits of food, Wil never actually kept anything that he stole. Usually, he would steal things and return them to their rightful owners after an hour or so; returning the items was often at least as difficult as swiping them had been, and it seemed to Wil to be better practice for honing his skills. Sometimes, he would not be able to find the person from whom he had stolen, and he would simply drop the items on the road on his way out of town. It was never his intention to use these skills to gain material wealth; indeed, such an idea had failed to even occur to him at that age. For teenage Wil, the only goal was to get good at his craft and have loads of fun doing it. Stealing was a thrill, plain and simple, and Wil could honestly not see the harm in it. While his father may not have approved of his methods, he would have surely understood the mindset behind it all.
After a while, he grew bored with picking pockets altogether. It was simply too easy, and he no longer felt challenged. As such, he decided it was time to move on to bigger, more difficult heists, the kind of challenge presented by proper burglary and large-scale shoplifting.
These endeavors typically involved a lot of very careful, precise planning. Wil would spend days mapping his targets out, covering every possible escape route and each potential point of discovery. He would track every city watchman, every shopkeeper, every tavern bouncer, and anyone else that might present trouble if they found him out, and he kept very precise schedules for these people.
The first heist — stealing a velvet cloak from a high-end clothing store — took two weeks of planning, and went off without a hitch. Returning the cloak the next day turned out to be much more difficult; he was spotted carrying the thing into the shop, and the proprietor had, for some reason, assumed that Wil had bought it the day before and was bringing it back to exchange for a smaller item. This was one contingency for which Wil had formulated no plan, and he had ended up leaving the store with a very expensive, hob-sized velvet cloak, which he snuck back into the shop two days later.
Over the course of three months, Wil staged a great number of daring and elaborate heists, each one trickier and more dangerous than the last. There was no shop, no house, no government building, no structure of any kind that could keep him out during those months. Even the fort itself was not safe from young Wil Magee. In fact, his very last heist, the most dangerous of the lot and the one that eventually led to his exile from the family home, was a plan to rob the Fort Unthor treasury.
His plan was brilliantly formulated and flawlessly executed; it had taken three full weeks of careful planning, painstaking observation and meticulous calculation. He had had to fashion a set of very specialized tools for the job — lock picks, a harness and pulley system, snippers and cutters and files and hooks, and a number of other small things — and he had drawn a detailed, quite precise map. When he left Fort Unthor that evening, he had half of the gold in the treasury in a pack on his back and a very sound plan for returning it the next day.
That night, Wil slept in his comfortable little bed in the family farmhouse for the last time. He drifted off with a wide, pleased smile on his face.
The next day, things went very badly. The first half of the day went swimmingly; Wil managed to sneak the money right back into the treasury, despite the dramatically increased number of guardsmen protecting the vault, and he had had a fine lunch in the rowdiest public house in town, basking in the afterglow of his incredible success.
The trouble started after lunch, and it started with a chicken.
There was a vendor stall at the edge of town, a human fellow with a great many caged fowl from his poultry farm in the west. This part of the market was quite busy and loud; many livestock vendors were set up here, and the animals seemed to sense their peril. There were a great many humans here, all wearing the plain, sturdy clothing of local farmers, and also hobs and orcs. The orcs were busy buying and butchering their meat, the humans were crying out their sales pitches, and the hobs seemed to be simply standing around watching everything. Wil saw no one he recognized among them, so he paid them no mind.
The thing that caught his eye was the chicken cages. He had never stolen a live animal before, and the challenge it presented lit his brain up like a candlelight vigil. It looked like it would be a quick and easy job: pop the cage open, nick the bird, duck away with the animal tucked under the jacket. And this is exactly what he did.
He made it to the edge of town, the chicken quiet under his bulky jacket and not struggling, when he was stopped by a voice at his back.
“Oi, there, young fella,” the voice said amiably. Wil stopped dead in his tracks, knowing that he had been caught out. He turned with a wide, charming grin on his face and prepared a story, but the words died in his mouth.
It was not a town guard who had caught him out. It was a proper mob, and every man among them was a hob.
The man in front, a broadly-built fellow with a serious face and expensive, dark clothing, stood with his fists planted on his hips. He looked ready to throw a punch, and Wil was pretty sure that he wasn’t in any mood for jokes or wild stories.
Slowly, Wil pulled the chicken out from under his jacket. The bird snapped alert when it emerged from the warm darkness, and immediately began to struggle and protest. Wil tried to hand it over to the serious-faced man, but that fellow simply shook his head and stood firm. Wil dropped the chicken to the ground and it bolted off, squawking and clucking madly.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” the serious man said, shaking his head.
“This can’t be him, Dan,” said one of the hobs in the back. “He’s just a kid.”
“It’s him,” the serious man said. “I’m havin’ a hard time believin’ it myself, but it’s him.”
“I was gonna put it back,” Wil said, his voice little more than a terrified squeak. “Honest I was!”
“After what I seen today, I believe ya, kid,” the serious man said. “Unfortunately, it don’t make a difference. Do you know who I am?”
“No, sir,” said Wil, shaking his head and fighting the urge to flee. There had to be twenty hobs standing around him now, and they all looked angry.
“I’m Dan Cuddy, boy,” the man said. “These fellows here call me Godgaffer.”
Wil felt a terrible sinking sensation in his guts. This was trouble for sure.
“What’s your name?” Dan Cuddy asked.
“W-Wil Magee, sir,” Wil stammered, struggling to hold back the tears that threatened to leak out of his eyes.
“Magee,” Cuddy repeated. “From Dillard’s neck of the woods?”
“Yes, sir,” Wil said. “Godgaffer Arn Dillard.”
Cuddy nodded curtly.
“You’re gonna take me to your home, boy,” he said. “The rest of you, get back to town. Don’t tell no one about this.”
The men nodded and said “Aye, Godgaffer,” and headed back into town, leaving Wil and Dan Cuddy standing in the middle of the road, just outside the town gates.
“Start walkin’,” the Godgaffer said. Wil forced his trembling knees to bend and his watery legs to move, and led the man back to the family farm. Neither of them spoke a word the whole way, and Wil tried his best not to cry. To his credit, he mostly succeeded. Only a few hot, shameful tears escaped.
Silas was out in the big vegetable garden when they crested the last hill and watched them approach, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun with a hand on his forehead. Cuddy marched Wil straight over to his father and greeted Silas with a firm handshake.
“Dan,” said Wil’s father, looking down at his son with a worried expression.
“Silas,” said Cuddy. “Good to see you again. I wish it was under better circumstances. Me an’ you need to talk.”
“My boy in trouble, then?” asked Silas.
“Aye,” Cuddy said, frowning down at Wil. Wil could not meet either man’s eyes, and he looked down at his feet trying not to cry out in miserable fear. “Let’s talk inside.”
“Wil, you wait in your room,” Silas said, dropping his weeding fork and leading Dan Cuddy to the little farmhouse. Wil followed behind at a distance, shuffling his feet, and went dutifully into his room, closing the door behind him and waiting for the sky to fall on his head.
It was a long, endless wait. Neither man raised his voice, and Wil didn’t care to listen at the door. He paced around his little room, debating whether or not he should pack a bag and just leave before his father was finished talking to their “guest.” He ultimately decided against it; he would face his punishment like a man, and be done with it.
An eternity later, Silas opened Wil’s bedroom door and stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. The older man had a strange expression on his face, somewhere between sad, angry and terribly amused. To Wil’s dismay, though, it was mostly sad.
“Wil,” Silas began, but he had no idea where to go from there.
“I was gonna put the chicken back, pa,” Wil said quickly. “You gotta believe me.”
“Look, lad, let’s not worry about the chicken for now,” Silas said. “Well… let’s worry about it a bit, I suppose. I got about a hunnerd questions to ask you before we get to the part about the chicken. But let’s start with the treasury.”
“Oh,” said Wil, sitting down on his bed. It was actually more of a collapse, because his knees gave out in shock.
“How… Wil… why… boy, what in the name of Jullavall is goin’ through that head of yours? You robbed the treasury? And then… then you… you put it all BACK?”
“I didn’t want to keep it, pa,” Wil protested. “I just wanted to nick it. Then I wanted to put it back. Putting it back is much harder!”
Silas stood goggling at his youngest son for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief. He opened his mouth several times to ask another question, but nothing seemed right.
“It was a test, pa,” Wil explained. “Sort of. Just a practice. I just wanted to get in, take some gold, get out, come back the next day and return it without getting’ caught. And I did! Well, mostly. I guess you wouldn’t know about it if no one saw me do it.”
“Allewall preserve us all,” Silas breathed. He slumped down on the bed next to Wil and shook his head again. “Wil… I don’t even know what to say to none of that. Just… just give me a minute here to get my thoughts straight, lad.”
“Okay, pa,” Wil said. This wasn’t so bad, he figured. At least his pa wasn’t calling for a switch again.
Silas was quiet and pensive for a long moment, and when he did finally speak, he spoke quietly and with great care.
“I’ll tell you how this happened, Wil,” he said. “How it come to be that I’m sittin’ here with you tryin’ to decide whether to be angry or sad or damned proud.
“First off, you woulda got away with it if you hadda just took the money an’ run. Nobody had any idea what had happened there. They reckoned it was a team of thieves that broke into the treasury, an’ they expected that the money was long gone. But you tucked it away in a hollow stump, and it got found last night.
“Lord Meinstre, the guy that runs Fort Unthro, he got in touch with Dan Cuddy when his men found out that the treasury had been robbed. Wanted to use hobs to catch the crooks, on account of hobs have more leeway in certain matters than human officials. Dan Cuddy’s boys kept a close eye on that stump, and when you got there this morning an’ carted it straight back to the city, they was gonna turn you over to the law. But they didn’t, because they saw you hauling it back to that tunnel you used to get it out. They knew that you was puttin’ it back, so they went back to Dan Cuddy an’ asked him what they oughtta do. Cuddy went to Lord Meinstre, an’ they found out that all the money, every single coin, had been put back in the treasury. Lord Meinstre told Cuddy to find the fellow that had done it an’ bring him in for some human justice.
“Now… Dan Cuddy is a good fella, Wil. He meant to deal with you in the hob way, he wasn’t never gonna turn you over to Lord Meinstre. In fact, he was gonna let you go altogether, figurin’ it was just a prank or somethin’. But then you stole that chicken, Wil. An’ you weren’t careful about it. People seen you do it, an’ not just hobs.”
Silas placed his hand on Wil’s shoulder and looked at the boy rather sadly.
“This is real bad, Wil. Real bad. You’re in very real, very serious trouble; Cuddy has to take you to justice. It ain’t somethin’ he wants to do, an’ he wanted to give you a chance here. That’s why he brought you home like he did.”
Wil frowned up at his father, growing worried now. Perhaps this wasn’t going nearly as well as he had thought. Silas’ face was long and miserable, and he had difficulty meeting his son’s eyes.
“You have to leave, son,” Silas said quietly. “Pack up an’ go.”
“You’re kicking me out?” Wil asked, stunned. “But I’m only eighteen!”
This was indeed a remarkably young age for a hob to leave home; eighteen was more of a human standard, the time when a human boy became a man and struck out on his own. Hobs, however, were slightly longer-lived than humans, and tended to mature at a slightly slower rate. An eighteen-year-old hob was still a child, and would be considered a child until his thirtieth birthday. Most hobs didn’t marry until well into their fifties. A hob at the tender age of eighteen was roughly equivalent to a ten- or twelve-year-old human boy in terms of maturity.
Wil, however, had already proven himself to be rather precocious; the way that Dan Cuddy had explained things, the boy had managed to arrange and execute a job — robbing the treasury — that would normally have taken a four-man team with a lot of nerve. And the fact that he had done it twice in just two days told Silas that his youngest son was a rather exceptional case.
“Aye, Wil,” Silas said. “That’s how it has to be. I won’t send my boy to a human prison, no matter what fool thing he done. Better to send you out on your own, where you can learn the hard lessons just the way you need to. You’re a clever boy, Wil — much more clever than I ever was. I know you can handle yourself out there in the cold, hard world, and I know you’ll learn the lessons you need to in order to become a man. All the stuff I could never teach you; some things just can’t be taught, but they gotta get learned anyhow.”
Once again, Wil was on the verge of tears. He felt like his whole world was sliding out from underneath his feet.
“I just want ya to know, Wil,” Silas went on, both his hands on his son’s shoulders. “I ain’t mad at ya for what you done. Just the opposite; I’m right proud. I oughtta not be, but I am. It breaks my heart to send ya out like this, but it’s how it’s gotta be. And ya gotta leave tonight.”
“Tonight?” Wil wailed miserably.
“Aye,” Silas said. “Before your mother gets back from her visit with the Settons. She’s gonna be awful sore when she finds out, an’ seein’ her will only make it harder for you. You can leave a note if you like, but you gotta hurry. I’ll help you pack.”
Stunned and shocked beyond the ability to speak, Wil wandered around his little bedroom getting his belongings together. He absently rummaged through his dresser and armoire and hauled out some of his clothes, not really seeing what he was picking out. He hauled a buckled case out from under the little quilt-covered wood-frame bed and began stuffing clothes into it while Silas scavenged around on the shelves and in the closet for some of the other assorted things his son would need on the road.
After a short while, they had assembled what would be the totality of Wil’s personal effects for the next several months: one big buckled case full of mismatched (and sometimes inappropriate) clothes; one backpack full of food, blankets, toiletries, camping tools and some of Wil’s “specialty” items (improvised, home-made lock picks, sharp-edged coins, assorted dice, several decks of playing cards, bits of string, a small bottle of sticky resin, and a number of other small things); and one small case containing an old hand-me-down fiddle, a bow, a block of rosin, and a harmonica. The trunk full of costumes and stage props would have to stay behind, as would the huge assortment of hidden, potentially-incriminating things that had been secreted away in various places around the room.
At the end of it, Wil stood in the front doorway, his shoulders slumped and his face a mask of misery. Silas stood behind him looking nearly identical, though slightly stouter and taller than his son.
“Can I ever come back, pa?” Wil asked sadly, looking out at the world beyond the cozy little dooryard and feeling incredibly lost.
“Of course, Wil,” said Silas quickly. He rethought the statement, and muttered an addendum. “Some day. Not for a long while, I reckon.”
Wil nodded sadly. The round-topped, saggy-looking farmer’s hat he wore on his head flopped a bit in response to the movement. He fought back the tears again, and spared one last look over his shoulder at his father.
“Bye, pa,” he said. “I’m sorry, I guess.”
“Don’t be sorry, son,” Silas said, gently patting the boy on the cheek. “Just be careful.”
“I will,” said Wil, turning away and starting slowly down the little laneway, dragging his luggage rather dejectedly. After a few paces, he stopped and called over his shoulder. “Tell ma I love her. An’ don’t let Tom or Lyl touch my stuff.”
That said, he soldiered on, facing his destiny with slumped shoulders.
Posted by sirgunky 
Posted by sirgunky 