Part 2 (Final)

A flurry began, for between his two sisters both argued of which needed to chase him down, until their mother said, “Morgan, you are the eldest. It is only fair that you be the first to go at fifteen. Hurry now.”

Morgan pouted like a baby with a quivering lip. But obediently, she left the front door and didn’t return.

All of the family got to the window, but down the way found saw the Hermit meandering down the lane. Their mother fanned herself and scoffed, while their father made a blubbery noise and proclaimed, “well then, Celia. Dear, you go and claim the Hermit.”

Celia, bug-eyed and quivering, set out the door and went down the lane. They watched until she too got carried up in the bustle of the day. But the Hermit still walked, now not far from his home. Swiftfoot, who stared at both his parents said, “well, then I’ll be going.”

“Don’t bother,” his mother said and shook out her ringlets.

“Let it be,” said his father, and sighed out. “Who do you suppose will take them?”

“Maybe a sailor,” his mother drawled on. “A fisherman at worst for a husband.”

Swiftfoot at that moment no longer saw his parents, but a pair of schemers not fit for anything having to do with any child. The true beasts. He dashed to the door, and said, “wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” both said, though their words stewed with sarcastic tones.

That’s what Swiftfoot wanted, a little fire in his belly. Because the Hermit, for all the old that clouded his appearance, moved with a haste. Churning his legs to go, Swiftfoot went beyond their hilltop porch and into the lane. He dodged the children playing hoop, a pair of drunks toasted before noon, and a peddler who showed Morgan a pair of trousers she was forbidden to wear.

But he kept going, seeing that down the way the Hermit wasn’t a stone throw from his front door. He scooted around men hauling lumber and jumped over an idle raven. And nearly to the Hermit, he spotted Celia wide-eyed over a cake in the window. One she’d never been allowed to eat. And it was then he remembered that for all his wandering of the town, his sisters had never gone outside alone.

He narrowed in on the Hermit, who was at the first porch step. Swiftfoot weaved into a gathering crowd, getting elbows to his ribs, and a blow to his knee. At the last step with the Hermit’s hand on the doorknob, Swiftfoot lagged and jutted out. The boy toppled onto the porch steps, touching the hem of the Hermit’s cloak and gasped for air.

“You made it,” the Hermit said and turned around with a gleam in his eye. “Care to join me inside? I have an offer you may want to hear.”

Swiftfoot roused himself up and edged inside where in moments a cool rag was given to his head, cup of iced tea in his hand, and a proposal that gaped his mouth open like a gasping fish.

“Be your heir?” Swiftfoot said, and peered around within the cozy home with its lit fireplace, plush chairs, woven rug, and lit sconces. “But I’ve done nothing.”

“You’re eager to learn and quick to act for the right reasons. That’s more worthwhile to me than anything else. You’ve been watched for a very long time, Swiftfoot.”

A low caw resounded, and Swiftfoot took a tiny gasp at the handful of ravens perched here and there within the room he thought at first statues. He never prodded or squabbled, but listened to the Hermit, Mr. Hamfrill, as if his most fascinating book came alive to speak. Under Mr. Hamfrill’s watch, the boy would grow up and learn of things others dared not know or dream of thinking true.

By that evening, Swiftfoot agreed with one request: his sisters would come too. The sisters, with time and care beyond their virtues akin to traded cattle, grew out of the shadow of their parents into a pair of clever engineers, who had a fondness for baking cakes, refusing to ever wear dresses, and making toast.

As for what Swiftfoot made over cauldron and with satchels of herbs remained a mystery, but a slew of things were told: that on full moons he returned from the Neverwoods unscathed, how on season turnings, the ravens flew to him like bees to their Queen, and if you ever wanted the good luck of the downtrodden, to always be swift on your feet.