Book 2: Chapter 10: The Road South (5)

Book 2: Chapter 10: The Road South (5)

Sen and Bigan spent one final night camping. Yet, the young man had become all but mute in the wake of the confrontation with the bandits. Sen supposed that the facts of the situation had shattered some fond illusions. Bigan clearly believed that being a cultivator was some grand adventure like something from a story. Sen supposed that the young man had even had some fanciful notion of what it would be like to heroically drive off some bandits. The reality, unless Sen missed his guess, was both less and substantially more than the boy had ever considered. It was less in terms of exciting duels with grand pronouncements and decidedly more in terms of naked fear, screaming, and people fleeing for their lives. Yet, Sen couldn’t say that he was sorry that the boy had witnessed it. Exposure to that unvarnished truth, painful though it might be for Bigan, could well help him fix his mind on tending to those matters that most needed his attention. It seemed that even fear could wholly steal the young man’s voice, though.

“You didn’t kill them,” said Bigan.

“Did you want me to?” Sen asked.

“I don’t know. I think I wanted you to. They’re thieves and murderers.”

“So, you hate them?”

“Yes.”

“Because they take by force. Because they kill.”

“Yes!”

“So, if I come along with my greater strength and take their lives by force, how I am different? Is it somehow cleaner because you hate them?”

“They’re criminals. It’s different.”

Much as he hated to admit it, a part of Sen agreed with Bigan. He’d even been tempted, for a moment or two, to simply end them all. The heavens knew that no one would miss them. They probably even deserved it. Yet, it was one thing to think that they deserved it. It was another thing entirely to wash his hands in their blood. More to the point, at least for Sen, was that they simply weren’t a threat to him. Individually or as a group, he doubted they could have even cut him, let alone killed him. It would have amounted to mindless butchery on his part, and that was a path he wanted no part of. If they had attacked him, or Bigan, Sen might have treated the matter differently. They had run away. That had been enough for Sen.

While Sen had been lost in his own thoughts, Bigan had apparently found his uncle. The boy let out a cry that was half relief, half surprise, and pulled the wagon to a stop. He jumped down and ran at the small collection of other wagons.

“Uncle,” Bigan shouted.

The tall, gaunt man that Sen remembered arguing with the boy turned and simply stared at his nephew. The shock radiating from the man was almost palpable. The older man simply stared at the boy for a time while a torrent of words exploded from Bigan’s mouth. The boy’s uncle snapped his gaze over to where Sen sat at something the boy said. The man looked very nervous as he studied Sen, who did nothing to relieve the man of that concern. He just stared back, his expression empty. After the river of words slowed down, Sen saw Bigan’s expression change into something more serious. For around ten minutes, there was a low, intense conversation between the young man and his uncle. Then, the older man turned Bigan over to what appeared to be other family members who looked both happy and exasperated at the young man’s reappearance. The uncle made his way over to the wagon. Sen hopped down to the ground and waited. When the older man arrived, he seemed at a loss and fell back on formality, giving Sen a deep bow.

“Honored cultivator. You have returned my nephew to me through storm and trial it seems. I must thank you.”

Sen offered the man a much shallower bow and said, “The boy owes me a debt. One I’m sure that he doesn’t fully grasp, yet. I will return to collect on that debt. I would be very disappointed to discover on that day that someone had, for example, left him somewhere to die far from any aid. Do you understand?”

Every drop of blood drained from the older man’s face at those words. “I understand, honored cultivator.”

“Good,” said Sen, rubbing a spot between his eyes. “He doesn’t realize what you did. I have not told him. While it was done for the boy’s benefit, you will also benefit from that omission on my part. I will expect you to remember this courtesy, should our paths cross again.”

The older man offered another deep bow. “I will remember, honored cultivator.”

“Very well. I made a crude repair to the wheel, but it should be fixed by someone more knowledgeable.”

“I will see it done,” said Bigan’s uncle.

At that, Sen simply walked away. He’d done what he could for Bigan’s survival. As frustrating as Sen found the young man, the boy was basically decent. Perhaps his experience on the road would change him, perhaps not. That was ultimately in Bigan’s hands. Sen hoped it would. In the meantime, he’d given the boy a patina of protection. The possibility of a wandering cultivator’s future wrath was a potent shield of protection, but also a fragile one. If it came to pass, the destruction it heralded could be vast. Yet, that threat was balanced against the low probability that the cultivator really would return one day. Yes, it was a terribly fragile shield, but it was the one that Sen had to offer. With that matter finally settled as much as it could be settled, Sen turned his attention to finding out what lay to the west of the village.