Whatever independent experiments Rohlan may or may not have done over the next few years to re-create the mystery of the Tart Incident have been lost to the mists of time. Suffice to say, he was never successful, although to his credit he never again stole from his mother.
***
It was his mother he was thinking of one fine autumn morning when the peddler passed through. Rohlan loved the peddler (whose name was Jarrod), and not just because he always had wonderful toys with him. No, Rohlan loved Jarrod for himself; bright-eyed, quick-witted, and highly observant, always with a tale to tell a young lad. Jarrod had weathered skin the color of walnut-stain, and although Rohlan’s mother thought he had sad eyes, his smile was wide and infectious. He did not have a fixed schedule, but would appear at random and stay for as short as a day or as long as a fortnight; he was always welcomed at the farmhouse. He had even, over the years, taught Rohlan to recognize his letters, although reading did not come easily to the boy.
Jarrod was whistling a disjointed tune as he appeared over a rise in the road, and when Rohlan realized who it was he ran to meet him. They walked along companionably as Rohlan related his current woe: he was beginning to suspect that his parents were not, in fact, his parents.
Now, this is a common thought amongst thirteen-year-old children everywhere, in all times- but for Rohlan it was based on more than just wishful thinking. He was starting to come into his adult height, and it was becoming painfully evident that he would soon tower above both parents (who were, it must be admitted, on the short side). His skin never held a beautiful golden tan like theirs did- it remained stubbornly pale- almost translucent- no matter how long he labored in the fields. Finally, it had recently occurred to him that both of his parents had sleepy looking eyes the color of birch beer: but his eyes slanted up, and were the disconcertingly bright green of new grass. When he had asked his mother which side of the family he’d received his awkward features from, she’d looked upset and changed the subject. All in all, signs indicated Something Suspicious.
Jarrod listened patiently to all of this, and in the end asked Rohlan if he was sure he wanted to know the truth- after all, the explanation might be something painful, like a long-dead relation or a violent rape. Rohlan was taken aback: such thoughts had never occurred to him. It gave him something to mull over, and he decided to keep quiet for the time being. Jarrod only smiled his mysterious smile.
It is quite possible that Rohlan might have decided that he really didn’t need to know the truth- that his parents were his parents regardless of blood ties- had it not been for something that occurred two evenings later.
Jarrod and Rohlan, for the amusement of his parents, were acting out an elaborate sword fight from one of their favorite stories. Jarrod, although wizened in appearance, was surprisingly spry, and was giving the boy a bit of a run-around, in spite of the fact that, as the villain, he really ought to have been losing. At one point, after poking Rohlan in the posterior with his stick-sword, Jarrod mocked the other’s choice in weapons, calling it the crookedest twig he’d even seen. Rohlan (in proper Virtuous Hero form) replied with vehemence that it was not a twig; it was the finest sword ever to emerge from the dwarfish smithies of old.
No one quite saw how it happened, but when Rohlan swung his stick down to crash against Jarrod’s it did not crash: it sliced straight through, and only a timely stumble on the part of Jarrod saved his arm from a similar fate. The laughter abruptly stopped, and Rohlan dropped his sword (for that is what he now held) in horror.
Jarrod, from his position in the dirt, looked over to Rohlan’s father and remarked that perhaps the time had come to tell the truth, after all.
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