The Abbot of Langhorntown was exhausted. After the destruction of his town by a crotchety dragon, he had helped the people rebuild. But then the town was raided by a band of raving Picts. Once again, the Abbot had helped his people rebuild their lives.
But when a group of axe-wielding Celtic nomads decided that Langhorntown was the place to raid, the Abbot had had enough. His nerves were frayed. His patience was stretched to the breaking point (he had never had a great allotment even before he became Abbot). The Abbot was convinced that Langhorntown was cursed. And in order to deal with it properly, he needed to take a moment to restore his faith in mankind.
Or, as he told the brothers of the church, he needed to go on a pilgrimage.
Really, he was just escaping in order to keep his sanity intact, but they didn’t need to know that.
Once his dear friend Friar Ned finished packing him a sack of food, and Friar John had handed him a walking stick and prayed blessings over him, the Abbot set out on the road that led to who-knew-where. (He didn’t leave the Abby much. Nor did he ever venture outside the walls of Langhorntown.)
Overhead, the sun was just beginning to rise, sending a flush of rose and violet into the deep twilight of the sky. Thrushes, sparrows, and doves all sang their morning duets from the thatched roofs and the branches of beech and elder trees. A cool breeze played through the bobbing daffodils and tulips that sprouted in the tiny yards of the homes that lined the road. The Abbot breathed it all in and sighed. Today was a wonderful day.
When he reached the edge of the town, the Abbot paused and looked back. The townspeople were just beginning to rise. Some saw him and called out, their smiles wide and their steps light. Despite the fact that Langhorntown was the target for all things raid, the people remained cheerful and lighthearted. Something the Abbot admired very much. Still, after waving back, he turned his face to the rising sun and set his feet on the open road.
Planting his stick in the dust, the Abbot walked.
And walked.
And walked.
After much walking, the Abbot grew bored. He stopped, wiped the sweat from his brow and blew out a sigh.
“The sun is entirely too hot today.”
“I can’t help but agree with you,” a high-pitched, tinny voice replied.
The Abbot jumped and looked about. “What?” he cried. “Who said that?”
His pack shifted and a heavy weight suddenly lifted from his back. A boy made of wood dropped next to his side. The boy wobbled to his feet on limber joints, looked up at the Abbot and smiled.
“Hello, Abbot!”
The Abbot groaned. “Oh, no, not you.”
The last time the Abbot had met the wooden boy was the last time his town had been up in smoke. The townspeople had eaten all that was left of the stone soup they had made, and the Abbot had been famished. That was when he met the wooden boy, and he’d asked if the boy had any food. The wooden boy had asked him if he had any shoe polish. The Abbot had replied, “What would an abbot be doing with shoe polish?” The wooden boy had answered, “What would a wooden boy be doing with food?” then promptly decided to follow the Abbot around for the next three days. The Abbot hadn’t had a moment’s peace.
It was a most distressing meeting. Especially since The Abbot had no idea wooden boys even existed. He had hoped to never see that wooden boy again.
The sisters of Uplangtown Abby, Langhorntown’s neighbor, however, encouraged the wooden boy’s stay in Langhorntown. Occasionally, the sisters would pass through the Abbot’s village, and they would always bring with them a jar of shoe polish for the wooden boy.
Unfortunately, this only encouraged the wooden boy and he thought it his duty to take up residence in the Abby, leaving the Abbot not a moment’s peace.
Folding his little wooden arms, the wooden boy stuck out his wooden tongue at the Abbot. “Nice to meet you again as well, Abbot.”
The Abbot huffed. “I haven’t the time for your tomfoolery. Go and bother Friar Ned.” Pushing past, the Abbot walked faster, determined to reach the nearest town by nightfall.
The wooden boy skipped along beside him. “I already did that. Friar Ned told me to come with you.”
“That scoundrel,” the Abbot muttered. “Well, go back and tell him you’re not allowed to come on pilgrimages with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re—” the Abbot was about to say annoying but figured that wasn’t very Christian of him. Instead he said, “Too young.”
Laughing, the wooden boy twirled in a circle. “Too young? I’m older than you, Abbot!”
This the Abbot doubted very much, as he was the oldest member of Langhorntown, and he had the beard to prove it. It was a long, silky white beard that almost reached the ground, and he was very proud of it. This very same beard he tugged on now, thinking.
“Well, you’re still a boy. And until you become a wooden man, you must stay at the Abby.”
The wooden boy was now practically shaking as he laughed, his arms wrapped around his ragged tunic. “Wooden boys don’t grow like real boys do!” His laughter quieted and he squinted up at the Abbot. “Is that why you said I have to wait? Do you think I’m daft, Abbot?”
Sighing, the Abbot pushed past the wooden boy and marched determinedly down the path. He had really hoped beyond hope his last words would help. Instead, he had offended the wooden boy and was most likely going to pay for it by getting an earful of chatter for the rest of the trip—including in his sleep. Because little wooden boys never sleep.
The wooden boy did not disappoint. He launched into a tirade on stingy abbots and the unfairness of the world. The Abbot was tempted to say, “I know all about the unfairness of the world. My village was destroyed three times!” but instead let the boy rant. If he spoke now, his words would fall on deaf ears.
The path led the Abbot into a copse of trees and the wooden boy quieted. He stared up at the trees, wide-eyed, his tiny wooden mouth hanging open. The Abbot sighed. Finally, some peace. He picked up his pace so that he walked in front of the wooden boy and, after a while, began to hum to himself one of his favorite hymns.
After quite a while of walking, the Abbot paused and looked back. The wooden boy wasn’t there. He paused. Looked around.
“Wooden boy?” he called.
Only the sound of rustling wings and the distant cry of a catbird answered him. He took a handful of steps back the way he’d come, scanning the underbrush. The bright green ferns waved at him, but there was no sign of the wooden boy. The catbird’s cry came again. It seemed distinctly familiar. The Abbot stiffened.
That was not a catbird.
“Wooden boy!” the Abbot cried. “Where are you?”
“Help!” came the reply. “They’ve taken me!”
The boy’s voice was coming from the northeast of the path. The Abbot hiked up his robes and raced forward toward the voice.
It was slow going. Vines and bushes snagged at the Abbot’s feet and robes, and low-hanging branches thwacked against his skull if he didn’t duck. So, he shuffled along at an awkward jog that was more like a waddle, hunched over and uncomfortable.
Up ahead, a path materialized from the underbrush that led in the direction of the wooden boy’s shout. The Abbot jumped onto the path and shot forward, no longer encumbered by the underbrush. He tucked his chin in, watching for roots, while following the boy’s voice.
“Help! Help! I’ve been kidnapped, I have!”
The Abbot couldn’t help but wonder who would want to kidnap the wooden boy. After all, he was not the most pleasant company. That and he constantly complained about the lack of shoe polish in the Abby, the only substance that the wooden boy ever consumed. Then again, the boy was made out of wood. And he was the only one in existence as far as the Abbot knew. And, despite the fact that the wooden boy would try the patience of Job, and very well almost made the Abbot quit his holy calling, he was still the Abby’s wooden boy, and Friar Ned would be very upset if something happened to him.
Up ahead, the marauders came into view. One of them carried the wooden boy as if he were a baby. The wooden boy flailed his arms and legs and shouted with all his might. As the Abbot grew closer, he realized who exactly the marauders were.
“Sister Mildred?” the Abbot called.
Now, it seemed, the sisters had turned into kidnappers. Or, woodnappers, perhaps.
The sisters froze in their flight and turned. Sister Mildred blushed under her head covering and smiled. “Hello, Abbot.”
The Abbot leaned on his stick and gasped for breath. “What are you doing with my wooden boy?”
Sister Mildred blinked. “Your wooden boy? I thought you said that you were tired of him.” She smiled dotingly at the wooden boy, who stuck out his tongue at her. “My sisters and I were just going to take him to Uplangtown where he could play with the other children.”
“But Sister, you do know that you can’t keep boys in your Abby.” The Abbot raised one bushy brow.
Nodding, Sister Mildred looked forlorn. “We know, Abbot. But we just wanted to give him a loving home. There are several women in Uplangtown who don’t have sons of their own and—”
The Abbot held up a hand. “I am sorry, but the wooden boy won’t ever grow to be a wooden man. So, no woman would want him as a son if he can’t inherit the property. Besides, I doubt the Abbess would want you kidnapping little wooden boys.”
With a sigh, Sister Mildred nodded. “You’re right. How foolish of us.” She placed the wooden boy on his feet, and he ran to the Abbot, clinging to his legs.
All the sisters of Uplangtown looked at the wooden boy with sadness. The Abbot placed a hand on the wooden boy’s head. “This boy belongs to Langhorntown Abby, and there he will stay until he wishes to leave. Which might be a long time from now.”
The wooden boy looked up at the Abbot with wide, surprised eyes. The Abbot smiled back, an odd fondness in his heart for the wooden boy. Despite his being extremely irritating, the Abbot figured that God had placed him on this earth to strengthen his patience and resolve in case of another attack.
“But don’t worry, sisters. Next time you pass through Langhorntown, you may bring with you as much shoe polish as you wish for him.”
The sisters all expressed their thanks, then continued down the path to Uplangtown. The Abbot watched them go, before turning in the opposite direction. The wooden boy followed.
“Did you really mean that?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“Mean what, my boy?”
“That I can stay at the Abby for as long as I want.”
The Abbot smiled down at the wooden boy. “Of course, I did.”
The wooden boy let out a whoop and raced ahead, running and jumping in his excitement. The Abbot watched, a small smile on his lips. It was a wonderful thing, seeing the boy’s happiness. The Abbot knew that he was going to regret his decision in about ten minutes, but for now, he let the boy’s happiness fuel his own, and he continued on his path to who knows where.