A Different Homecoming

In the words of Monty Python, “Now for something completely different.”

Rafe stood on the bluff, hand resting on the well carved oak. How many years had it been? Twenty-five? Twenty-seven? She pulled out her knife and began cleaning out the grooves that made up her own mark on the tree.

“Waaaaaaa!” The screaming face bowled her over. She grabbed the drawn fist and flipped the lad neatly, pinning him down with a knee to his hip and an arm across his throat.

“What do you think you are doing?” Rafe demanded. She narrowed her eyes to focus on the too close face. She could see he was not quite a boy. He had enough heft to knock her down, after all. But he was dressed like a minstrel, for god’s-sake. And he had a flute still clutched in the hand that was trying to punch her in the head.

“What do you think you were doing, yourself? That is my Aunty’s mark. You got no business!”

Rafe squinted at her captive, drawing her head back to get a better view of his face. Twin creases shot up from the base of his nose between two bushy eyebrows. His mouth, however, would have been her own if Wardren’s axe had not realigned her face at the Battle of Mardge. Bloody, swampy place.

“Hey!” The lad’s voice recalled her to the present. “I asked you what you thought you were doing with my Aunty’s mark.”

“You’ve got balls, boy, that’s for sure. And your mother’s nose and your father’s eyebrows.” That clearly brought him up short. “Gods! Jenna was just courting the last time I was here. And look at you! All grown up.” Rafe released him and helped him to his feet. “What’s your name, boy?”

He stared at her and scowled, deepening his brow crease. It would have been more effective if the hair on either side hadn’t wriggled like woolly caterpillars. “You can’t be my Aunty. She’s a soldier and probably dead.”

“Jenna told you that, did she?”

“Everybody says so. Even the old warriors at the pub.”

“Take a look, lad. And use your brain. I didn’t choke you so hard that you should be addled.” Rafe knew what he was see. She had cleaned up at the inn at Wingate and had only been on the road a day since then. Her nearly white hair was tightly braided and held to the back of her neck in a gold clip. Her hazel and gold eyes, a nose that listed to the right before being pulled left where the nostril had been slit when an enemy had torn her nose ring out. A faint scar leading from her right hear turned her natural scowl into almost a half smile. The leather jerkin supported a knife belt and the strap of her scabbard; the hasp of her sword looming over her right shoulder. Scarred and tattooed arms crossed in front of her chest. She was wearing the riding pants favored by her troop, leather fastened at the waist, knee, and ankle, covering inner legs, seat, and groin, revealed shade colored cotton beneath. Heal-less boots laced below her knees.

“Jenna?” The boy’s eyebrow quirked up, just like his dad’s. “Oh, Ma! But you’re not, are you? Dead? You’re Aunty Rafe.”

“Yes, boy, I am. Although I admit it sounds odd.” Rafe turned back to the tree and started cleaning out her mark. “And your name?”

“They call you ‘Ironsong’.”

“Your name.”

“Wilf. After my grandfather. Did you know him?”
“Of course, I knew him. How could I be your aunt and not know my own father. Are you dim boy? I thought you looked brighter than that.”