Feodor Felonis and The Thief

 Feodor Felonis walked in link-step with the slow moving donkey cart. His legs were surprisingly strong for an eighty-year-old man. He moved with the fluidity of someone much younger.

 Piled high on the cart were the fruits of his labor, a fortnight's weaving of carpets, brightly colored and richly endowed with myriad designs. Each had a loose gold thread fringe around it. They were of a uniform size and shape.

 Felonis was a withered old fellow. At first look, he would have appeared to be an easy mark for highwaymen. Indeed, the slow gait of the donkey and the haphazard piling of the carpets onto the cart made him an ideal target, save for the apparent loneliness of the road.

 Not too far ahead of the donkey cart, the trail narrowed, and passed under the spread of a huge tree. Just now, hidden among the leaves, a thief awaited, muscles tensed to spring, as might a mountain cat anticipating the arrival of a deer. Slowly, the cart came under the limb upon which he posed.

  The thief dropped out of the tree, landing in a roll that brought him quickly to his feet in a liquid movement. He brandished a knife, large and formidable. It glinted brightly, as might steel. It was a better weapon than one might expect a common highwayman would wield.

 He dropped downward into the rug weaver's field of vision in a flurry of dust and noise and sweat stench, shouting, "Come not a step further, old man! Do so, and you will not live to see another day."

  He was well muscled for a lad of such tender years, too compact to be a farm boy, misplacing the gift of youth on the thieving trades, and too muscular to be a city lad plying robbery out in the country. And he had the blue eyes of a northerner, an uncommon attribute in this part of the world.

  When he received no reply, the thief shouted, “I mean what I say! I will have that wagon and all it carries. Give it up and I will spare your life.”

  Before the thief’s very eyes, as if by magic, a staff suddenly appeared in the old man's hand. Actually, it had been spirited from a storage place on the side of the wagon nearest to where the old man had halted obediently.

  Advancing by a single step, the old man, in a blur of motion, rotated the staff thrice. He cracked a blow squarely to the top center of the thief's forehead, before he could dodge or move, smartly raising a large knot, while at the same time, dropping him in his tracks. The knife rolled away from the boy's open hand. His prone body relaxed in peaceful coma.

  "Shouldn't startle an old man," Felonis muttered, shaking his head. "Now, I'll have to do something with him."

  He retrieved the knife and stashed it aboard the wagon behind a hidden spring-trapped door. From off a hook on the side of the cart, he fetched a bucket of water.  It gets dusty and sunny in the last miles of the road to the city. He always carried water.

  Sighing, he splashed about half the bucket’s contents on the prostrate boy. The thief awakened, sputtering, swearing.

  "Come along with me." Felonis said. "I have food. You look hungry." He handed the confused lad a chunk of black bread and a cup of water from the now replaced water bucket. He did not mention robbery attempt. It was as though it had not happened.

  The boy took the bread and water and attacked it ravenously.

  Felonis clucked the donkey into motion and the wagon started to roll, leaving the thief sitting in the middle of the trail, astonished and quite stationary, gnawing on that bread.

  "Do come along." Felonis tossed the words over his shoulder half looking back. "I am very late. You and I have much to discuss."

  It may have been curiosity, or perhaps that he’d seen the loaf from which his chunk of bread had been torn. The thief gathered his wits about him, and stood up. He was a bit woozy at first. After all, taken a hard knock. It was to be expected.

  He took a hesitant first step, then another. Finding himself not permanently damaged, he soon was walking toward the city at the same speed as the donkey cart and its owner.

  There was silence between them, at least such silence as might a rattling wagon, a reluctant donkey and a summer’s day on the mountain allow.

  The thief, not nearly so formidable in appearance now, walked five paces behind the donkey cart. His face was a study in thought, punctuated by an angry bruise on his upper forehead. Brooding, he followed along in continued silence for a time and distance. Finally, he could contain himself no longer.

  “How did you do it?” He called out in a loud enough voice to be heard above the rattling of the wheels in the ruts.

  “How did I do what?” Felonis replied, slowing down perceptibly, enough so that the lad could catch up.

  “How did you disarm me so quickly?” The boy iterated. “I never saw you move, though my poor head knows quite well that some event took place.” He rubbed the sore spot ruefully.

  “Sometimes,” Felonis said, “when the aching in my limbs is less aggravating, I am able to take advantage of the fighting skills I learned as a youth.” His tone changed slightly. “Other times I do not do so well.”

  “My bad luck you were having a good day.” The lad commented.

  Felonis stopped short, which, in turn caused the donkey to also stop. He turned, faced the boy, and studied him for a moment.

  “Your good luck,” He said, his eyes giving off a knowing twinkle, “that I’ve been having a bad day.”

  Felonis brought his hand up to the side of his head and tapped with three fingers. “Here,” he continued, “is an impact point for a death blow. The overhand strike is a prefatory move. The final blow is a round strike to the temple.” He tapped again for emphasis. “It cracks the skull like a tortoise egg.”

  The boy nodded understanding and lapsed into thought. They resumed walking.

  “What is your name, lad,” The old man said at length.

  “Wahid.” Came the reply.

  “Wahid . . .” Felonis pressed him for a last name. The boy flushed red in the face.

  “Just Wahid!” He said angrily.

  “Well, Wahid . . . ” began the old man, but the boy interrupted.

  “Wahid means ‘The One’ in the language of my ancestors.” The boy flared. “I am named for my grandfather. It is a proud name and I need no other! I am not someone to be trifled with, fancy tricks or no. I am Wahid!”

  “Of course you are,” Felonis continued. “Tell me, Wahid, why have you resorted to thievery as a profession? It is a short-lived line of work at best. Is it because you are lazy and do not wish to work, or because you are hungry and have not been afforded an earning opportunity?”

  The boy‘s voice was level with rising anger. “I was hungry. You looked like an easy target.”

  He kicked a clod in the road, sending it into the bush with considerable velocity. “Truth be known,” He continued. His eyes narrowed just a little. His mouth curved with just a hint of mischief. “You were not an acceptable target. You were simply the only human I’ve seen on this miserable road in two days. Any honorable thief would have let you pass in favor of a better target, old and infirm as you are.”

  Now it was Felonis’ turn to flare. “Old, is it? Infirm, am I?” He stopped in his tracks and seemed to grow larger as he came fully upright. “Who is the one with the knot on his head, boy?”

  There was a moment of pregnant electricity between them. Wahid ruefully rubbed his forehead, cracked the rest of his smile and slipped easily into a chuckle, joined by the old man. The tension broke.

  I’m not quite ready for the grave yet.” Felonis said. “Get on.” He chided the donkey into motion.

  They walked for a while with no more words between them, then Wahid said, “Why do you ask?”

  “Why do I ask what?”

  “Why do you ask after me, who would have robbed you and left you beside the road for the carrion birds?”

  “That’s a harsh image, coming from one so young.” Felonis said, dryly. “It was a thought I had, nothing more.”

  “What kind of thought?” The boy pressed.

  “You are a very young lad in need of mastering a new trade.” Felonis offered. “ By my observation, you are a terrible thief, doubtless, unable to eke out much sustenance employing the thieving arts.”

  Wahid started to protest, but the old man waved him silent.

  “While I am an old man very much in need of an apprentice, someone to whom I may pass on the arts of weaving,” He cleared his throat before continuing. “And other skills.”

  The creaking of the cart wheels contrasted the next long pause. Lost in thought, the boy considered the offer. Finally, he spoke up.

  “Master,” Wahid said. “Would you like some water?”

  Felonis smiled inwardly at the acquiescent gesture. Coming from one so proud, it marked a very good beginning.

  “Yes,” He responded, I believe that I would. There is an extra cup hanging next to the bucket. It is hot and my throat is dry.” He gave the boy an approving grin. “You and I have much to discuss.”

  Wahid scooted around the wagon, cat quick, as Felonis repeated, more for himself than the boy, “Much to discuss indeed.”

  So it came to pass that Feodor Felonis, Master Weaver, among other professions, fulfilled his need to acquire an apprentice, which was a thing that had been weighing on him for some time, seeming to be more urgent at those times when loading and unloading of the wagon was required.

  Together they walked down the mountain pathway toward the Trade City of Belestria, whiling away the hours of the journey discussing things that were measures of gravity to them both.