Wildling's Woe
A weekly serial following a wild man's search for his family. Some housekeeping appended.
Finlay was sitting on the fence at the edge of his family's farm, enjoying the pleasant late summer morning, when something strange caught his eye. What at first looked like a young boy of age near his own creeping out of the tree line. This wild boy held himself low to the ground like Buttons when they were herding the sheep. He was "dressed" after a fashion in furs and decidedly old, threadbare scraps of clothing. He wore no shoes nor boots of any sort. Pausing erratically, the wild boy sniffed the air as he went. Just as Finlay thought to call out to the boy, he paused again.
Their eyes locked.
Despite the distance, Finlay thought he saw something like recognition pass over the wild boy's green eyes before he bolted back into the trees.
"Finlay! Where are you, son?" His father's voice came floating over the not-quite-harvestable grain of their fields, the tips gold but not yet bending as they should.
"Over here, Father! At the fence, by the big oak!" Finlay called back, unwilling to leave where he'd seen the wild boy. He heard the gentle slosh of water before he heard his father's feet in the dirt paths between the orderly rows of barley.
"Here, water for the noon. To think, soon you'll be big enough to fetch it yourself." His father teased as he set the knee-high bucket down, three-quarters full by its sound.
"You think so?" Finlay slid from the fence, picked up the bucket handle and heaved. Its bottom barely left the soft dirt as it slid closer to him.
"I know so. You just moved it, though you'll need a bit more height before your strength will be useful." He ruffled Finlay's hair as his other hand pulled the lid from the bucket, exposing the squat wooden cups floating inside. "What was it that held your eye so?" His father asked as he took a draught of the cool water.
Finlay puffed his cheeks as he considered the wild boy. "I don't know, Father. I think it was a boy, but he crawled like Buttons, or baby Henry." Finlay's father was stooped over the bucket, cup stuck halfway to his mouth.
"You're telling me the truth, boy?" His father's voice was strained, his eyes boring into Finlay's.
"Yes, Father." Finlay felt less sure of his eyes by the heartbeat as his father held his gaze. He jumped as a single wailing cry broke the staring match between father and son. It was a high, keening melody in the style of a wolf's howl, yet distinctly not a true howl.
"Father?"
"Home. Now."
Finlay knew better than to challenge that tone, his feet moving before he'd even decided to agree to the command. And yet, something pulled inside him. Something in that call. He stopped and cut across a few of the lines of growing grains, careful not to hurt the stalks as he did. Father would already be angry if he found him. Best not to give him more reasons.
As he approached the edge of the field again, he saw his father had already crossed over the fence and was standing partway between it and the trees.
"Come out!" His father roared. "I know you're no wolf."
A lengthy moment passed before the wild boy appeared from out of the forest in utter silence, crawling slowly out from a break in the foliage. The wild boy shifted into a deep squat, seemingly unwilling to move closer to Finlay's father.
"Finally. A face to the hands that have hunted my sheep. Not a boy's face though, is it though, wildling? Do you speak, have a name?" Finlay's father crossed his arms, forcing himself to look as big as he could.
The wildling worked its jaw around for a moment before a hoarse, awkward voice stumbled free from its mouth. "Meeltone? Me-My-Mill?" His face brightened as he found the right sounds. "Mill tonne. Milton." He shook his head emphatically with the last one, clearly pleased with himself.
"Milton. Never heard of any communes nearby. So why are you here, dressed like that? Why the howling? and why should I not put a poacher in the dirt?" Father spit on the ground before him, dropping his arms and loosening his shoulders. Finlay had seen it before when his father wrestled in the winters. He worried for the wildling but dared not move from his place.
The wildling, Milton, stayed on his haunches, unmoved by the threat. Again, he worked his jaw momentarily before speaking, "Help. Family taken. Need friend."
Father's shoulders fell, and Finlay's young heart strained as the words reached them both. The wildling had lost his family. Cruel to any of the races, but the wildlings most of all. Even little Finlay had heard of how they lived. Six generations of family under one roof was standard. Any more than 8 garnered a particular respect among their kind. And they weren't fond of asking taller folk for help. This was serious.
Hey all,
It’s the first story back, and admittedly, it does not have a whole lot to it (~830 words). Still, I intend to have this as a series on Wednesdays for the foreseeable future to replace the previous weekly IronAge Media prompts, which are in an unclear state at the time of writing.
I also intend to have something new each Saturday, much as before. However, at this time, I’m uncertain how I’ll approach the accompanying images I’ve usually given previous stories, as I’m not particularly inclined to visual arts and don’t know how well I’d be able to create/source appropriate and quality images for them twice every week.
Regardless, I’m glad to be back, and I hope to see you all here regularly once again.
‘Till next, farewell
This has the makings of a grand tale. I hope you continue to add chapters to it. I will admit to being entranced from the first word.