Here and Thereafter

By Nicholas "Tac" Whitcomb

What if a seasoned wizard invites you to apprentice under him? At a town fair, August must decide just that. The young dirt covered farmer accepts. Now he's being whisked off from his village to a place unfamiliar. Doubt plagues him as he learns the limits of his talents. Will he survive his lessons? August could be the next wise magus, or just another dead fool, or something even worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781733110150

Book preview

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Copyright © 2021 by Nicholas Tac Whitcomb

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America.

First Printing,

ISBN (Print): 978-1-7331101-4-3

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-7331101-5-0

Bookbaby Publishing

www.bookbaby.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to those who find themselves in places they didn’t expect themselves to be.

To Stephanie and Richard Whitcomb, my parents, for your unending support for your son. Thank you both for the feedback you provide to help improve my works. All art in this book was drawn by Richard.

To The Fox Who Told Me It Was Broken - I DONE GOOFED! You caught me red-handed. You also took that hand and pulled me back onto the right set of train tracks. For that, I’m eternally grateful.

Ryan Hampton for your thoughtful and comprehensive review. It really benefited my writing in this book and helped shape it into the work that it is.

Irbeus, Alejandro T. Castellanos, for your amazing cover art. I couldn’t ask for more. You can find his works at: https://www.artstation.com/irbeus

Kim Nguyen for the cover typography and assembling. Your masterful skills continue to amaze me.

Harrison Demchick for all of your hard work and contribution to this book. Your insights are always enlightening.

Bookbaby, thank you for your wonderful staff and services. Your team really helps us authors, and without you, our works would never reach the world so professionally.

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Chapter 1

Where the Plants Know Your Name

Chapter 2

A Needed Break

Chapter 3

Nothing a Little Magic Can’t Solve

Chapter 4

A Dinner Guest

Chapter 5

A Cart to Nowhere

Chapter 6

Brew Up Some Trouble

Chapter 7

Size Matters

Chapter 8

Chores

Chapter 9

Blur

Chapter 10

In the Light, There is Darkness

Chapter 11

Where the Downward Rolling Stops

Chapter 12

Treasures

Chapter 13

The Great Squeak

Chapter 14

Shift of the Seasons

Chapter 15

Absent Vows

Chapter 16

Slither

Chapter 17

What We’ve Got

Chapter 18

The Wheel Turns

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Chapter 1

Where the Plants Know Your Name

Lazy evening sunlight cut through the rows of rusty-leaved apricot trees. From there, it drifted over the potato furrows, which were mounded high. Finally, the light graced the golden wheat fields and the adjacent pumpkin patch and washed over a young man sitting on a bench by an old home. He smelled like the rest of the farm—tired and dirty.

The bench was crooked from age and leaned leftward as the dry winds blew back the man’s thick yellow hair. The man caught his straw hat when it tried to slide off the table. With an assured tug, he drew the beaten, wide-brimmed hat back onto his brow and brought a scratched wooden mug to his lips. The sweet but not overbearing scent of wheat malt drifted from his gulps. He tilted his head back, far back, to finish the last of it. From under his rough-spun tunic, his untanned neck showed, which contrasted the deep brown the sun had dyed his exposed skin.

With a clack, he brought the wood mug back down. Then he wiped thick, filthy sweat and dripping liquid from his chin. Looking back with a little smile, the farmer eyed a small thatched roof home to his right with its accompanying outhouse. The home’s outer stonework was worn and cracking, but the warm scent of roasted boar, pumpkin soup, and fried greens emanated from inside. With a heavy sigh, the young man got up.

His weary steps broke the late-day quiet and led him to a granite well near the center of all the expansive fields. The pulley squeaked as he yanked the rope. The dented and rusted metal bucket rose. With a frown, he shook it. There was barely any water inside. The man leaned over the void, smelling the soggy rock below. No reflection; it was near dry.

With bucket still in hand, he studied the crops. The apricots, potatoes, wheat, and most of the pumpkins were already watered. It seemed the last row of pumpkins would not yield much. The bucket was set on the ground, and he, with conviction, made for the last pumpkin row. He pulled his gloves off, revealing his untanned hands.

A smirk crept onto his face, and his brown eyes were focused when he knelt by the first gourd. He rubbed his grubby hands together in a pattern. They rolled over one another, and he then held them extended. After that, he brought them close to his chest, then laid them palm side down onto the earth. He went still in the hot breeze. Sweat dripped out from his sleeve collars. His eyes relaxed, watching the soil.

The dirt began to darken from wetness and to smell pleasantly of fresh rain. His fingers felt heavy with water and attracted the moisture deep in the soil; together, they pulled closer like magnets. The dirt grew darker still. Afterward, the farmer picked up his hands, nodded, and went to the next pumpkin. He repeated the process until he reached the last plant at the end of the row. Its mound had collapsed, possibly from careless steps, as there were smooth bottom shoe prints near it. He shook his head lightly.

Deeply inhaling, he placed his hands against the ground at the mound’s bottom. Holding his breath, he froze again. Then he released it with a long, steady exhalation. A stony tranquility came to his body as the soil crawled up from the edges, forming a perfect furrow once more. It circled around the plant’s stem and then settled deeply. From there, it darkened more with wetness.

It never gets any less amazing, a soft female voice said.

He almost lost his focus but finished the watering and looked over his shoulder to her while still crouched.

Is dinner ready?

Almost, she said, kneeling next to him and leaning against his wide shoulders.

He patted her thigh and stained her green dress with dirt. Thanks. I’m hungry.

She studied the deep rings under his eyes and then the fields. Augie, you really keep this place going, you know? Don’t tax yourself too much.

Removing his hat, he cradled his arm around her shoulder. I don’t keep it all going. Just the crops.

She shook her head, which spread her long brown hair. Come now.

August got up with her, and they walked, leaning against one another, to the small farmhouse. He reached out and opened the door, allowing her to enter the one-roomed house first.

Jena, you get Augie? a dense yet womanly voice greeted them.

Yes, he answered as they closed the door.

A round lady with a long threadbare dress, once tan but now stained dark, was busy at a stone fireplace. There was an oversized pot bubbling with thick orange froth, a pan sizzling stacked high with collard greens mixed with red peppers, and a side of boar grilling directly over the flames, still on the bone. Dripping fat popped.

My boy, said a middle-aged man who rested on a bowed crutch.

August turned to him and nodded. When he came close, the man’s white whiskers reflected in the booming firelight. He patted August on the shoulder.

How’d it go today? the man asked.

August nodded again. Not bad, Father. The well is almost dry this time of year, but not any trouble.

Thank you for helping keep this place going while I get some rest. Father tapped his wrapped foot with the crutch tip.

Hearing the worried tone in his voice, August paused and then said, I’m happy to help. You’ll be more than fit after winter, and we can work in spring together next year.

Father smiled broadly, and his face pepped up despite his distant blue eyes.

Ready! It’s ready! Mother said. She came rushing to the small center table with wooden plates and bowls in her hands.

She quickly set out the meal and then pushed knives and forks before them. They crowded around, drawing generous portions to their bowls in a ruckus, then ate quietly. Mouths were too full to speak for a time.

Thank you for supper. It was delicious, Jena said a few minutes later.

You’re very welcome. Mother took a sip of soup, which wrinkled her chin. Anything for you, dearie. She set her empty soup bowl down. So, have you two decided on a date yet?

August blushed and stuck his face deeper into his soup bowl.

Jena glanced at him, and a smile grew on her gentle face. Not yet, but soon?

He set his bowl down, still blushing. I suppose so.

Very good, Mother said, clasping her pumpkin-stained hands together eagerly.

A darkness had crept over the table. The sun was gone from out the window, and the fire was dying. August reached for a well-used dinner candle in the table’s middle. He rubbed his forefingers and thumb together gently. His nail tips glowed. He could feel the heat as if from a volcano, and he snapped his fingers. A spark came from the snap, and then a quick yellow flame danced over his index finger. It stayed just long enough to light the candle.

Father pointed his spoon at the lit candle. I still don’t know where you got that from. Not my side of the family.

Mother chuckled. Not mine either.

August shrugged.

Jena grabbed his hand as he shook the heat from it by lighting the wick. Does it matter?

He rested his head against hers. She gently closed her eyes.

Mother reached over as the meal neared its end. She grabbed it and set it on a stool near the fire. Can you save the remaining well water for washing, Augie?

I can, he replied. The rains should be here soon to fill it. Until then, I can water the crops myself.

Just don’t overdo it, Father said, You seem extra tired today.

I won’t.

Jena tapped August on his shoulder and rubbed his arm. I have to get going. It’s already past dark. She bobbed her head at her hosts. Thank you, both.

You’re always welcome, Mother said, getting up to clean the plates.

Father, who was now lighting his pipe at the fire, lifted it to her graciously.

Once more, August and Jena went outside. They walked past the well and out through the night orchard. It was a cool night with a breeze, one with the fineness of rest after a sweltering day. Yet it, too, was a sign of fall nearing. There was an oil lamp upon a post by a lichen-covered stone wall an acre ahead of them. It belonged to the farm next door.

When should we marry? Jena played with a low branch filled with orange leaves as she went by.

August looked at the dirt. Not sure.