The tree never withered. Not even come winter, which it was now, the tree remained when all other crops would bow. Maybe within, there’s a dormant spirit that keeps it from dying. There would be no other reason to explain its inspired vitality.
Soral Sinecas leaned on its purple-shaded trunk as the tax collector considered the payment. He weighed it, as if that would make any difference. He’d already weighed it once before and counted its contents twice after.
“No.” The collector handed the pouch back.
Soral Sinecas owned the farm, and lived in it, and tended it. “That is all I have.” And that was all he had to give, that much he knew.
But the twirling on Lewin’s lip told the farmer more than he would be pleased to know. “This paltry sum?” Lewin the tax collector came twice every year. Every midsummer and midwinter, he would ride up on the dirt path to the farm on his rouncey, braggadociously leaving hoofmarks on the trail. Scorch or snow, whether crops wilted or grew, the tax man made his due.
It used to be a different man each year, though. It was five years ago, when Soral inherited the farm after his grandfather’s death. The first tax man was named Jericho; they called him the melancholic man because he would run his hands through the grapevines and walk the length of the farm in a sluggish pace. The second tax man was Gin, who they called the marcher, because his knees would rise a little high whenever he took a step. The third tax man was Harold, who they called the teapot, because he had a funny looking pout. The fourth tax man was Lewin, who they called the worst.
Lewin now stood there, beside the hoofmark-littered dirt path, clearly awaiting a heavier pouch. “Well?”
“That paltry sum is an honest sum. I have showed you my books.”
“An honest sum from dishonest books, yes.” Soral was convinced that Lewin oiled his thick and twisting gray mustache every morning for it seemed to never lack shine. It was the fourth of Lewin’s visits, and the third time he’s deemed to raise his collection. “You don’t want me to call on the king’s men, do you?”
And so Soral Sinecas produced a heavier bag. It was more than what he had left to give. It would mean less food, and less seeds, and less crops through the winter. It would mean less water, frozen fruits, and dead animals. It would mean little to Lewin. He left stroking his mustache.
The people living in the farmstead understood. There weren’t a lot of them there, most of whom had their own houses that they themselves built. Soral lived with his wife Crystal, who, coincidentally, had through time developed an affinity for crystals. She meditated on them, and, sometimes, she claimed that she could hear whispers through the rocks. They have a small dog named Sun who guarded the crops against insect invaders and, at times, animals much larger than him. He no longer has a tail because of that, but the couple loved him the same way.
Francis was the doctor that treated Sun’s tail and stitched him so the wounds would close. He lived in his clinic, and, from time to time, would travel to other towns and cities to treat people there. He was the poorest doctor Soral had ever known, but Francis never seemed to be concerned.
There was also Nobi the carpenter, and her husband Tritus, the hunter. Tritus would sell what he would capture to chef Tavo, and he’d do his magic. There were Tavo’s kids, Simon and Sean and Sling. There was Carol who made the best tea north of the Tridall river. There were Carol’s small children, Kane and Jane. There was the fisherman Liam, who would spend his late afternoons training his son Samson to do the same. There were Jodi and Clark, who lived in the same house but never spoke to each other. And there was Leah, the travelling singer who was never home.
She was very different from Soral, who always seemed to be home. Leah came back the same week as Lewin did, only a few days earlier. She brought with her a few sacks of overused clothes, a few other bags that Soral didn’t bother peeking into, an odd shard of broken glass, and a boy. She told him that the boy had expressed an interest in working at the farm, and Soral had his doubts on whether or not that was true, but he took him in anyway. Contrary to Leah, the boy brought close to nothing apart from a lone satchel that he didn’t look too eager showing the contents of. The boy kept his satchel close to his chest.
There was an extra room in the barn, where the farmhand of Soral’s grandfather used to sleep. It was no decent place for any person to sleep, but with the coin lacking and Lewin collecting more and more, it was all he could offer the boy. The boy did not complain, but Soral still didn’t find it a proper staying place.
That night, Soral developed a cough. Not anything serious, no, just a passing one. Francis told him to eat more mangoes to get his resistance up. The young farmhand came later that night with a mango in hand. He has keen ears or light feet or both. And the boy had sharp eyes or a good sense of smell or both, for the mango he brought was ripe and juicy. The cough didn’t last long after that.
When Lewin came that summer, he once again asked for more. More than the last time. “It’s the king’s decree,” he said.
“No, it’s not.” The young farmhand had been listening again. Now it was him who was leaning against the unbowing tree, which, by this time, had developed leaves the size of cows.
Lewin looked at the boy, as if he was measuring him and not the pouch he was handed. “And you are?”
Soral intervened. “He is none of your concern, but it does raise my suspicions that our taxes increase on your consecutive arrivals. Surely it musn’t be so?”
“It is the king’s decree. Are calling me a liar?
”
“Yes.” It was the boy who spoke, not Soral. “I can see your lies reflecting on the enamel of your crooked teeth.”
“Boy!” Soral strained his voice. He’d forgotten the last time he had need to shout. It no longer came natural to him. It never really quite did.
The tax man clicked his tongue. “No—no. I’ve heard enough from this farm of yours.” He rode off with a pouch that was a little lighter for his liking, but it must have been better than to leave with no pouch at all.
Soral found the young farmhand by the well. “You needn’t speak for me.”
“I know.” He filled a bucket with water, though Soral was unsure for what, since he had not told the boy to water anything. “But 50% is too much. It is vile, cruel, and gluttonous. And to use the name of the king. The king is imperfect, but he is not greedy. 50% is too much. 15% is too much. The kingdom agreed on 12%, and even that the king has his reservations.”
“And how do you know such things, boy?”
The young farmhand looked off to some far distance. “You never call me by my name.”
“It is not your true name.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I asked first.” Leah told Soral that the boy went by the name Nox, but he knew the boy was not Nox. Or perhaps he was, but not truly so. The boy hides, as he does, and listens. He was quick, and clever, and smart, but he was not Nox. He was someone else Soral did not know.
The boy never answered the question. He took his bucket elsewhere to where Soral could no longer see. Maybe to that far distance he was looking at. Days faded away, and summer passed and drifted to make room for fall. The boy was diligent in watering the fields and feeding the livestock and cattle. He learned fast and learned well. Soral never had a day of complaint.
Before summer ended, Nobi made a small shack for the young farmhand to stay in, as of Soral’s request. Soral gave the boy a day to rest to settle in on the shack. The boy gladly accepted the offer.
When fall came, the rain did too. Once, a storm had brewed and swept over the farmstead, destroying fences, killing the crops unkindly, and uprooting trees (except for the proud tree, which remained). Soral, wary that he might develop another cough, stayed in with Crystal that day. Inside, they enjoyed the warmness of the fireplace and the taste of Carol’s tea. Yet whenever lightning struck, as it often did that night, Soral would see the silhouette of the young farmhand’s shack, lonely within the fields. He wondered if the boy slept well. Sun certainly didn’t.
It was hard to find the right words to describe the farm. It was more than a farmstead, but less than a town, perhaps “community” would be the most fitting one. The young farmhand had, through the months, become friends with the people in the community. He would join Samson and Liam in fishing whenever the weather was right. Tavo taught him how to properly fry the fish he caught, so it would be golden but unburnt, a very hard thing to do. Leah was his favorite, though she was rarely ever there. She knew him the best though, Soral figured. The farmer wondered if she knew his true name.
Sometime a quarter of the way through fall, the young farmhand enlisted the help of the kids, Simon, Sean, Sling, Kane, and Jane (to her parents’ reluctance), to dig a small channel that would send a stream closer to the farm fields. It would help the wheat grow—and more pressingly help Soral and the young farmhand water the crops.
The kids were overjoyed for it was something to do, and there was not a lot of that to go by. They were done before winter came. “You made a small river,” Soral noted.
The young farmhand smirked (not a full smile just a passing one), a rare sight, like he remembered something fond and joyful, then walked away quietly with a bucket full of water.
The night before the snow came, Nobi and Tritus joined Soral and Crystal for dinner. They had beef stew and garlic potatoes. Liam caught an extra Cod that morning, so they had that too.
They talked about life, and whether or not they were happy, which was always a hard question to answer. Happiness always seemed so ethereal, yet it was also immortal, and it was difficult to console those two facets of it together. He tried to remember the last time he was happy, truly happy. He struggled to capture a moment. Perhaps it was before his grandfather died. They talked about Tritus’ scar that ran the length of his forearm, and how he’d gotten it from a spotted panther north of the farm.
“I killed it, so there’s no need to worry,” he reassured.
They talked about the crops come spring, and Lewin the tax collector, a topic Soral dreaded.
“That boy Nox asked an odd favor from me today,” Nobi mentioned.
“And what would that be?” Soral took a bite of garlic potatoes. He grew the garlic and the potatoes himself and considered it well-grown.
“A wooden stamp.” Her mouth was still half-stuffed. “Can you give it to him? Here.” She handed Soral the wooden stamp from across the table. It weighed heavier than he expected a wooden stamp to weigh. Later that same night, he would come by the young farmhand’s shack and give him his stamp. He found the boy lying down on his bed and staring blankly at the ceiling.
“You didn’t join us for dinner today.”
The boy sat up. “I wasn’t feeling hungry.”
“You’re free to get food. There’s still some left.” The boy would like the beef stew.
He didn’t answer. Soral left the boy to his thoughts, which he had no doubt were plenty. Maybe Carol’s tea can help him.
When Lewin came again, three men in plate and mail arrived with him, littering the snowed-up dirt trail with even more hoofmarks than before. The new stream had frozen over, so the men left their horses before it. Soral met them by the undying tree.
Lewin’s mustache was not oiled today. “I have come to collect.”
“As you have for years.”
Lewin raised a brow. “I have also come to reprimand.”
“And this, for what?”
“Failure to pay a proper amount of taxes.” He handed Soral with a piece of brown paper that stated his tax payments for the past four years. All the numbers of which are forged. “As you can see, you’ve failed to pay honestly on clear record. There is no excuse. We will take what you owe.”
“I owe you nothing,” Soral strained. “And you will take nothing.” The argument had brought people outside their homes. Their eyes set on the farmer and the tax man, yet Soral did not glimpse the young farmhand, who must have still been asleep.
Lewin smiled. “You are in no position…” He slid his hand to the hilt of the sword that dangled neatly by his sword belt. “To resist.”
Tritus advanced, and, knowing him, he had a bolo somewhere on his person. Nobi stopped him; they’ve discussed this. Tritus complied. Soral placed a hand on the strong tree and found stronger footing. If one were to not listen intently, it would have been hard to hear the opening of the young farmhand’s shack door. He walked loosely but with purpose, and in his hand was a piece of folded paper sealed with wax. He was three arm’s distances away from Lewin before any of the king’s men noticed. They drew their swords and pointed their edges to the boy’s neck.
The boy extended his arm with the folded paper, and Lewin, though reluctant to, took it. When he did, his eyes widened. “This seal…this is the king’s —”
“The prince’s.”
The tax man glanced back at his men, then inspected the boy, then looked back to his men as if he was searching for a source of comfort. The men stood frozen, slowly retracting their blades. Lewin fell to his knees. “My prince! I apologize! I did not mean to —”
“Rise,” commanded the prince. “I do not appreciate your servitude, nor do I accept it. You will not terrorize this community again, nor any other, else you wish to be shipped to the other side of the Deep Sea to never again return.”
“But my prince!” pleaded Lewin. “I never meant to—I…I…”
“Mount your horses and leave.”
The tax man and his men left stumblingly. One of them slipped on the surface of the frozen stream. Soral hoped it was Lewin. After they left, the people went back into their houses. Soral met the prince by the well, who was carrying bucket filled with water.
“What do you water? It’s winter.”
He looked at Soral, pressed his lips, then walked on forward. Soral followed, and they ended up under the enduring tree’s blue leaves. The prince tipped the bucket on its roots. “It was asking for water,” he said.
Soral blinked. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“It whispers to me. Talks to me, sometimes. I think there’s something in there,” he said. “Don’t you?”
Soral considered it. “Oddly enough, I do. It’s never whispered to me, but it has to Crystal, I think. She’s always been the one who was more in tune with…”
The prince coursed his hand on the near-frozen trunk of the tree. “Magic?”
“A perilous word.”
“I wonder why.”
That night, Leah returned, so Soral gathered everyone in his house for a grand dinner. Chef Tavo served the food, and they had fried eels, buttered shrimps, cheese-stuffed pork cuts, peppered broccolis, and preserved berries. Jodi and Kent had spare bottles of ale, so they gave everyone two apiece. For some reason, Leah ended up having three. There was an arm-wrestling contest among the boys, and Tritus won (as expected), but Samson beat his father for the first time and that was the bigger highlight. Before Soral slept, Crystal kissed him goodnight and he felt warm despite the snowfall. He tried to remember the last time he was this happy. Perhaps it had been before his grandfather died.
The following morning, Soral found the prince on his horse by the old tree. It was only shortly past dawn. “Where are you off to?”
“Away. I must, I think. Lewin knows, and now people would know, I’d wager. It would only be time before they come here for me.”
Soral leaned on the tree and felt the morning haze wash away from him. “You want to leave?”
“No, not really.”
“Then stay, Equinox.”
The prince smiled (a full smile, a true smile, Soral thought). He dropped from his horse and hugged the farmer. When the hug was done, the prince climbed his horse again. “You have given me much, so much, Soral. I will never forget you. Here.” He handed Soral three sealed letters. “One is for the men who will come here. They will come to look for me. Give them that, the one with the gold wax.
“One is for you, the one with blue, when this tree finally bears fruit. Read it with your wife.”
“And one is for Leah. Give it to her before she leaves again if that’s not much of a trouble?”
Soral nodded, and the prince rode off and away.
The farmer looked back at his tree and wondered what words it’s told the prince but neglected to tell him. He sat on the snow and closed his eyes and remained there. He remained, and, in the bleakness of the silver sky against the weak morning sun, he felt warm.
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