Indigo's Rose: Chapter 6

Mahogany

Departing. My affairs have been put in order and none of the patients within my care are possessed of a malady that will cause their fail due to my two week sabbatical. Derog seemed quite enthusiastic when I proposed the journey to him.
In fact, much of his morose attitude of late seems replaced with the determined purposefulness I have written of before.
He is still gripped with what seems as paranoia, and the ringing of church bells in particular has an odd effect on him. Still, his appetite has greatly improved and he is filling out.  During one of his usual trips to the library I found I had need to reference a book that I had leant him from our own collection. Not having returned it to my study I quite innocently supposed it would be located in his bedroom.
While always neat for a child, for some months he has taken to an orderliness and cleanness of person that is remarkable. Nothing was out of place, no wrinkle upon the coverlets of his bed. The tome was neither on his stand or about his bed. Exasperated, I forwent the courtesy of privacy and opened the chest he kept all sorts of old odd ends within. There was no book, but a hand-carved wooden box I had not known he possessed lay at the bottom. It was bound with thin strips of iron and had a small lock on the front. On the top was carved a blossoming rose. I lifted it, curiosity getting the best of me, and was surprised by the great weight. It was evenly distributed and shifted within only slightly. It was perhaps a book, though my tome would have been slightly too large to fit within it. I placed it back, bemused. Perhaps it was a gift. That would explain much. If such was the case I would find out sooner or later.
In the meantime it is past due to begin packing as we leave the day after the next. Derog seemed slightly disappointed to find the estate of the Baron lay far to the north of Wales rather than the south,  but he is of the age where adventure has a potent allure.  
It is said the young Baron has an appreciation of the arts. I'll mention to Derog that perhaps he should bring along a selection of his works as a gift.

It was an unusually warm and humid summer in Britain. Now in the beginning of September, the weather was quite amenable. To put it more truthfully, they would have to step out of the carriage frequently to air their clothes and dry their sweat. Otherwise the interior of the transport would soon owe more to the aroma of a swine barn than a gentleman's hansome.

As they passed into the outskirts of London, Derog watched the lay of the lines bend away from London. There appeared to once have been a line that passed through it, but now looked broken, and the signs were barely noticeable.
It was the observation and anticipation of locating a line in the landscape  which kept Derog from succumbing to sleep. All in all the trip was as dull as the previous coach ride had been memorable. His ribs had long since healed from Dawe's fall upon him, though Derog still had a tendency to breath shallowly from remembered pain.
The English countryside soon gave way to that of Cymru, and Derog spoke wholly in his mother's tongue once the border was passed. This tendency to change with crossing over had always seemed to amuse his father. Welsh was actively discouraged amongst the gentry he knew, and often spoken of as a language of the peasantry. Personally, he found it pleasant to the ear, especially in song. Those that spoke ill of it would likely have changed their tune if ever they had heard his mam.
Still, English would likely be the sole language at this party.  In all honesty he was uncertain what made him so eager to come. Though it was Cymru, the baron's estates were farther from Nwmenaidd than London. Cymru was where his heart now dwelt, with his lady of the hidden lands. It added a spice and romance to scenery that might otherwise have become monotonous.

The roads were unusually populous as many others attending the party would meet up, exchanging gossip and sometimes even song if their station in life coincided. At one point a coach pulled up alongside his father's, and a muffled conversation was held. They both pulled to the side of the road and Dawe descended. He spoke with the drivers, who nodded and dismounted, picking up baskets and walking off the road.
Dawe then leaned into their coach. "There is a gentleman in need of care, Derog. It is of a personal nature and the patient requests a private audience. Go have a look about, but keep within earshot."

Derog sighed and walked down the road a ways, scanning the area. It was hilly terrain, and the stony path meandered through, up and down, like a drunkard's step. Mostly low-growing weeds and grasses, not much catching the eye besides the rugged skyline. He smiled as his eye caught the tell-tale signs however. A line ran right through the hills, intersecting the road at a sharp angle to head off between  distant mountain peaks.

Derog turned in his admiration to venture back to the carriages when he heard a voice raised in song. Like a hanged-man, Derog thought, because though the language was unfamiliar, the tune was certainly being murdered.
It took him several moments to spot the figure, for it moved with such a slow, rolling gait there was almost no eye-catching movement. It didn't seem to be laboring up the hill, so much as it was leisurely. The figure was taking a stroll, not a hike. There was something odd about it as well, though he couldn't make out the detail of the individual. It took him a moment to understand. The figure walked the line and did not seem to notice the road ahead. If it touched the trail it would only be because the two walks overlapped.
Was it only coincidence or was another able to see them? Perhaps, Derog thought with rapidly beating heart, it was a Teg? He rapidly cast off that idea. No Teg could possibly sound like the voice ahead. Few human voices could either come to that.
Derog sat on the side of the trail and waited. Soon, the figure appeared.

"Halloo the hill!" the man called out, as he lifted his cane in greeting.

Despite the slow going of the individual, Derog had expected someone who still owed a number of years to youth. In this instance the man would have had to use them to bribe the reaper. He was over seventy years of age, and that was being kind.
The man was short and heavyset, with the slight pot-belly of age. Despite this he radiated a vague aura of comfortableness. His ugly, careworn face had the same sort of appeal to the eyes as a pair of broken-in slippers would to a pair of tired feet. His exposed skin was dark from the sun's rays and a slight burn flushed his cheeks.  Fuzzy hair had been cropped short and was snow white. It possessed streaks of auburn, as did his mane of a beard. Sharp, thoughtful green eyes peered out from beneath bushy brows.
The rolling gate was caused by a clubbed curvature expressed in the make of his self-made leather boots. A condition which reminded Derog of the valet at home, though this ancient fellow's condition was far more advanced.
Normally, such an individual would have been hideous to Derog's callous eye, but this man seemed to have come around from beauty from the wrong way. Not a part of him was pleasant to look upon, so there was no particular feature that stood out as noisome. Somehow he reminded Derog of his Lady, except a polar opposite in every way possible.

"Ah, g'day, salutations and a pox upon the nary." the man replied with a broad smile.

He collapsed beside Derog and rolled to a sitting position. He held out a hand. "Call me Mahogany if it suits your fancy. If you're not fancy enough for it then use it all the same."

Derog's lower jaw just hung slightly as his mind tried to piece together what had just been said to him. Hesitantly, he returned the handshake with the ancient, whose palm was like rough, dried leather.

"And you're the troll of these mounts I'm supposing. Come to force a fare from me for passing yon road, or to gobble me up? Well, can tell you right now I'm low on both coin and chewability, so you'll make a loss on this fellow." Mahogany continued.

"Derog. Derog Feddyg." he finally managed.

"I say, a son of Wales through and through then. Pity, trolls make better conversation than a welshman. HA!" the man suddenly laughed, slapping his hands together. "What brings you all alone out here? Don't think I'm prying, haven't had a good jab since Wrexham."

"We'll be passing through there. My Tyta and I." Derog replied, finding little reservation with this strange old wanderer. There was no guise here, no mask. This man may have even been more open than his mam had been. Yet he still couldn't much read him. He was open, but that didn't mean Derog understood what was being shown him. Still, Mahogany felt warm-spirited, and was probably even more so than he seemed.  

"Is it far from here?" Derog added.

"By the old man walks, mayhap a couple days. Keep to this ole snake of a road and it'd take ye longer, but ye got a horse if my nose is any indicant, and she'll pull you through by the night. Lord of mercy, it also be detecting something fine as wine. Be that mutton?"

"Most likely." Derog replied, grinning despite himself.

"My great and worthy master of roadside boys, grant me a boon! Might you introduce me to the unfortunate lamb in yonder pot? If he does not soon reside in me gut he would have died in vain, for none would appreciate it to the extent of the belly of ole Mahogany."

"There should be some extra."

"Ask anything of me, except to dance, and I will do it for but a taste."

"Come over then."

"Ah, my boy, I will at that!"

Together the two walked over to the drivers who had a small peat fire going beneath a spit that skewered a leg of lamb.

The men looked up and greeted the old traveler with reservations, but soon the ancient wanderer had the lot of them rolling about in laughter from a tale. Derog was gratified that the other two obviously saw Mahogany. Derog would have felt ridiculous inviting an unseen apparition to dinner.
The man had a way about him that was comedic and almost foolish. Then you'd see the glint in his eye, with a smile building, and you knew he was no mere fool. The outlandish nature of his speech knocked you off kilter, and the sheer openness of his queries left you without defense. Derog realized after a time that the old fellow now knew each of them well by the gathering of facts from their own blathering. Mahogany was scrutinizing each of them, but why?

"You seem rather curious about us." Derog said, leaning back.

"Oh certainly. This old ear is always looking for a tale, and these weary eyes always a listening. Every folk has a story to tell, young 'n the old. Why, men are better than any book, and you don't got to learn the letters!"

"What's your story?" Derog's coachmen inquired, leaning up on an elbow.

"Oh, that'd be a long telling. I've stretched out across the years, with my feet planted in my mam's belly and my fingers reaching out for the Kingdom to come. Don't rightly have to reach too far. Why, that ole angel of death be reaching in for a handshake."

Derog glanced about Mahogany warily. The old man and the two coachmen burst out laughing.

"Think ye can see him already, eh?" Mahogany said with a wink.

Derog laughed back with them, but it was forced. He didn't know what he may see these days.

"How old are you?" he inquired to cover over his nervous chuckle. It'd be something a boy might ask, and he put an innocent inflection upon it.

Mahogany glanced at him from beneath his brow. Derog wondered if the ancient had seen through his query.

"I say, without a soul to contradict, that I'm not properly certain. The Almight hisself might've lost track. These here bandied legs walked many a trail, and up more hills than this head can account for. I count me walk down life by the miles, not the minutes."

"What have the miles shown you?"

"The world it be an ever-changing thing, and the peoples upon it grow with it like the trees. It shifts one way, they bend along. Here's a bit if wisdom from this old head, or like as naught be nonsense: Reach towards the sunlight and keeps long away from the dark. Too many bends in the shade and they grows to be pale and twisted. Heed me well. Find the good earth to sink your feet and seek the light that shines brightest. You'll blossom."

Mahogany then brushed off his hands on his trousers and reached out to Derog. "But some of us just keep moving along, spreadin' the seeds to see what grows. Give me a hand up, lad, so I can get onto that road to sew."

Mahogany only used Derog's grip for balance as he straightened up. He stumbled forward slightly on his twisted foot.

"Can't grow by the beams of moonlight and the will'o'the'wisp, lad. Men need the sun." he whispered ever so softly as he leaned on Derog to steady himself.

He then pushed himself upright, shook hands with the coachmen, and gripped his walking stick.

The men turned back to their meal, but Derog watch the retreating back, waiting to see if the ancient would stick to the road. What followed caused Derog to wobble and his brain refused to accept the sight.

Mahogany kept to the road, but then a faded shadow seemed to split apart from the man. One limped off to the right, another to the left. Those then split off, each split also branching off until Mahogany filled the area ahead, going in all directions. Some sat and rested, others began to sing, one even relieved itself. Most just continued on in silence. Then those figures faded away like mist, leaving only a single solid man upon the gravel. He stepped off the road.

A steadying hand gripped Derog.

"Derog, are you well?" his father's voice said.

Derog forced his eyes to focus and concentrated on his father's face. He took a steadying breath and nodded. "Just dizzy for a moment."

"Who was your guest?" Dawe inquired, looking down the road.

"Mahogany." Derog said distractedly. "He's walked many trails."