The Rumour of the Huntsman and the Thief

[version 1.0]

"Be careful what you choose to steal from my home" the gravelled voice came from the cabin's only door, which the Thief had left open, thinking its occupant had left for the season.

The occupant, a Huntsman of some long years, had returned early, having forgotten his favourite socks after travelling two full days into the Hedgewild. Valuing those socks greatly, he had come back all the way back, just for them. He stood now in the open doorframe of his small cabin, crossbow casually pointed at the space on the floor between he and the Thief, who had just managed to pick the lock on one of three trunks arranged against the wall below the cabin's small, East-facing window.

The Huntsman was a large fellow, with a great and greying beard down to his considerable stomach, and past it, to where his wide belt was, which was adorned with several knives of varying sizes, for varying purposes. His pack was placed just outside the door- his cloak already hung on the hook just inside. His wide-brimmed hat spanned nearly the width of the doorjamb. For effect, the sun by then was behind the Huntsman, making him something of a severe silhouette, blocking any escape.

The Thief, by comparison, was a frail young man, scruffy from a hard life lived on the margins of cities and towns. His clothes were mostly threadbare, though he had managed to acquire a leather vest with some links of metal sewn in, from somewhere - enough to deflect the blow from a dull knife, maybe. His boots were mismatched. He had a cudgel, though it was leaning next to the Huntsman, by the door.

The Thief, who had been caught kneeling by the chest, shot a glance at the cudgel, reflexively.

"Not much use to you all the way over here, is it?" The Huntsman observed, inclining his head slightly to the club. With a deft move of his left foot, he flicked the cudgel from where it was leaning and into his hand, shifting the crossbow into his other, keeping it ready, but still politely down. "This club is cracked down the middle of the shaft", he added, "what sort of Thief are you? Fresh out of Thief College?"

There was no such thing as Thief College. Not as far as the Thief had been able to locate, anyhow. He had asked around at first, until it became apparent that this wasn't a bright move. "I'm not a Thief."

"Oh, really? And what is it that you're doing in my cabin, then?"

The Thief wasn't sure why he had bristled at being called a Thief. Nobody had ever called him that before, out loud, until just now. Up until that moment, he had wanted to be a Thief. Hadn't he? That had been his life's ambition - at least, for the past four or five years. Hadn't it?

"Take your time" the Huntsman offered, as he stepped into the cabin and pulled a chair over from the cabin's small table. "Mind if I sit? I've been walking for two-thirds of the day. Not as spry as I once w-"

The Thief lept to his feet and toward the door but the Huntsman was on him in a moment, and the scruffy young man was slammed to the floor and tied before his head had stopped spinning.

"Do you like soup?" The Huntsman pushed a bowl of broth across the table. The Thief was sitting on a barrel, one hand tied to the table's leg by thick, course rope. The Huntsman had sat himself on the cabin's chair, opposite. "All I have is soup. I hope you like soup. It's cold, of course. Sorry."

The Thief had long ago forgotten what it was like to care about the taste of food. Did he like soup? He had no idea. He was always hungry. He supposed he liked soup. It was an odd question to him now. The Huntsman had poured himself a bowl as well, from a flask he had had in his pack.

The Huntsman had taken the cabin's only spoon for himself. He took a big spoonful of soup for himself, to demonstrate that it was not poisoned. "It's safe. Traveller's Stew. Ever had that? It's the spices that keep it from going bad. Can last a month in the right flask." He took another big spoonful, and motioned to the bowl in front of the Thief. "It's fine. I've got plenty. It's not a trick. I don't do that sort of thing."

The soup looked greyish green, with what looked like parsnips, carrots, and leaves thrown in. He could smell the spices the Huntsman had mentioned. An aroma that made his stomach growl. He was famished. He reached for the bowl with his free hand, but then winced, dropping his arm heavily on the table.

"I think I cracked one of your ribs when I tackled you. I heard the pop. Sorry again. You've got no muscle on you at all. Not a very good Thief, I'd say."

"I know you cracked my rib. I was there. And stop calling me that. I'm not a Thief" the young man slowly dragged the bowl toward him - the pain in his side was making his head swim. He wasn't sure how he was going to lift the bowl. He might have to eat the soup like a dog. A dog tied to a barrel. With a cracked rib. What a miserable day of days.

"Oh, well, ok. You were robbing me though, or did I get that wrong?" The Huntsman put the spoon aside and began drinking the soup from the bowl. The broth ran all down his great beard. It was like dining with a bear - a bear wearing a big hat.

"I..." the Thief didn't know what the point was of lying. "I was trying to find something I could sell."

"Something of mine. That didn't belong to you, you mean."

The young man gave the Huntsman a angry glare, dipped his head gingerly down, and began slurping up the Traveller's Stew, trying to ignore the pain in his rib. His pride had taken a few blows this season.

"You're having a low day, aren't you, son?" The Huntsman put his bowl down and wiped his nose. "I can't help you be a better Thief, except by catching you being bad at it, but-"

"I'm not a Thief"

"- but I can teach you how to track game, so you don't have to starve while you're figuring yourself out. I'm about to head into the Hedgewild. I could use a porter to carry my extras. The job's yours, but I leave in the morning, so you have to decide quick."

The young man wasn't sure he heard right. "What - wait. What are you telling me?"

The Huntsman pushed his bowl across to the Thief, along with the spoon, and got to his feet "I'm tired. I've walked a long way, and I think I pulled something in our tussle, so I need to lie down now. If you try to escape, I'll hear you, tackle you again, probably injure one or both of us, and then I'll bring you in to the town guard. They'll put you in a stockade, or else ship you off to Owl. Maybe one, then the other. They'll most likely be lenient on you. Probably."

The Thief went a little bit pale. "I'm - I'm not a woodsman. I've never been into the Hedgewild. It's dangerous there."

"I have been there and back many times. You'll learn how to navigate. I'll even find you a better club."

"You broke my ribs. I'm injured."

"I broke one rib - two at most. You'll live. We'll walk slow. There's a fungus that grows near a river two days from here, it speeds natural healing. Within the week you'll be feeling almost as good as new." The Huntsman had closed and bolted the cabin's door, taken off his boots, sat himself on the cabin's only cot, and put on his favourite socks. "Good thing you hadn't touched my socks - I probably just would have shot you on the spot." He rolled onto the cot, and put his back to the Thief.

"I'm not a Thief", the Thief mumbled.

"Not anymore, that's true. You failed pretty hard at that. I don't think you're very good at it. Tomorrow, you'll either be apprenticing as a Prisoner, or else a Huntsman. I suppose we'll see, won't we? Now let me sleep. And don't think I won't hear you if you try and escape, either, because I will, if you do."

In fact, the Huntsman almost always slept like a log, so he most likely wouldn't hear the Thief escape... but he was also pretty good at bluffing, by then.

The young man (whose name was Nole Nethers, if you should like to know) took the spoon and ate both bowls of stew one-handed - and in silence, brooding. The Huntsman (whose name was Harnish O'Maguffin, if you can imagine), was snoring loudly within minutes.

The lamplight began to fade, and Nole, being tied to the table and in no shape to lift it, decided to just put his head down next to the empty bowls and try to get some rest. He could fall sleep just about anywhere, in fact, in almost any conditon. He had had a lot of practice by then.

Earlier that morning, Nole had thought that he was a Thief. He really had. By the time the next morning came, he would have to decide who he now wished to be - and for that matter, why. Now that he was no longer quite so hungry, for the first time in longer than he remembered, it felt like he had a real choice in the matter.

B.B. Butterwell's Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal