The Northlander. John E. Elias

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      The stranger strolled down the dirt road, followed by a horse slightly behind and to his left. Their steps lifted small clouds of dust that trailed behind them.

      The man was average height and slender; some would call him thin. His skin stretched tightly over his face, accenting his high cheekbones, sharp nose, and thin lips. His eyes, a unique dark gray color that was almost black, were the most prominent feature of his face. Though his eyes were focused lazily ahead, they gave the impression that they missed little.

      His hair was also dark gray, but that seemed to be its natural color, not from age. It was short and wiry, the cut rough as though he was unconcerned with appearance.

      He wore clothes of dark brown hide, and the material rippled and moved with his stride, like cloth instead of leather. His shirt appeared more like a short jacket covering the top of his trousers with a cowl hanging down the back.

      His brisk pace exposed the hilt of a short sword hanging at his waist and except for the two long swords that hung on his back his appearance, while unique, would not have drawn more than casual attention. The swords were much longer than most and incredibly thin. The hilts sat above his shoulders on each side of his muscled neck, and the blades hung almost to his ankles. Because of their length, it looked like they might tangle with his legs and trip him at any step, but they swung in rhythm with his stride, as though from long and careful practice. The swords were enclosed in sheaths made from the same material as his clothes.

      The horse was dun colored, his body compact with powerful legs, neck and back. A large roll of what looked like an animal hide was thrown across its back and fastened neatly under its belly. A bag was tied to either side of the horse, and attached to one of the bags was a bow as long as an average man was tall, and wraps containing many long lethal-looking arrows. Like the man, the horse appeared unconcerned with his surroundings. Both walked steadily, their pace purposeful, as though they had a specific destination in mind.

      Steep mountains lay in the distance in all four directions. Between the mountains, the land rolled with gentle hills, meadows, slow-moving streams, and a river. While most of the land was open, forests and groves of trees were scattered throughout. The countryside was peaceful; birds sang, small animals strayed in and around buildings, and people went about their tasks intent upon their work.

      Homesteads with cabins and barns dotted the landscape, and the farmland was divided into small fields by rock walls. It was spring planting time. Men, women, and children worked the fields. The men plowed furrows in the earth, using horses, oxen and, in some cases, donkeys. The plows ranged all the way from sturdy metal to wood. Women and children sowed the seed, while older children followed, employing a variety of implements-—from flat boards with handles to limbs with branches—to cover the seeds. If any of the farmers noticed the pair on the road, they did so covertly.

      The river ran lazily through the land bordering the road. It was relatively wide, shallow, and slow-moving, but at a few points it narrowed and speeded up, running noisily over rapids.

      Farm work was underway on both sides of the river. When the river was quiet, sounds carried clearly over the water, and the man could hear families talking as they went about their work.

      Across the river, a young boy working with an older man threw down his hoe angrily. His voice carried clearly across the water as though he were beside the road.

      “Why do we have to work so hard when they take everything?” he shouted. “We go to bed hungry at night while they feast on what we grow and on the animals we raise.”

      The older man spoke softly, but his voice still carried. “Be careful, my son. We do not know who is listening.”

      “I do not care, Father. We just buried Londa. If there had been enough to eat, she would still be alive. And mother just stays in the cabin and cries. I wish we could leave this place.”

      “Please, my son, your mother cannot travel. And where would we go? Our families have lived here as long as any of us can remember. I have no idea where to take us.”