The Ruby Magician

The pitiful head of wheat disintegrated with a mere rub of Arabelle Thatcher’s fingers. The sun wasn’t that harsh this spring but the damned crops were still dried and dead. She looked out over the rest of the crops and saw similar shades of dark brown, and that was on the heads that were still attached. A fair number of the wheat crops had simply fallen off after dying weeks ago.

She bent down and pinched some of the soil, grimacing when the ground barely offered any at her request. It was hard and firm. A bad foundation for crops that needed some healthy, rich earth. When she put the soil in her mouth her grimace turned into audible cursing. There’d been plenty of rain for the fields but it didn’t matter if the soil was piss poor. It was bitter and wrong. Like too much salt in a stew.

Her pathetic, no good excuse of a father may have been born into a family of farmers, but every ounce of farming quality missed him by a mile. Arabelle had never seen crops so poorly maintained. She begged him over the years to rotate the different crops like their neighbor William, whose farm was lush with strong, tall yields.

It wasn’t a matter of the weather like her old man kept saying. No, it was the product of a shit farmer and a shittier father.

Wyn was right to leave when he did, even if his intentions were to help. Arabelle just wished she was able to go with him. He came and left in a matter of days, and set out for the magical city of Alestead just two days ago. She already missed him terribly.

The pantry cabinet creaked when Arabelle opened it, a sigh leaving her mouth when she stared inside. She knew there wasn’t much inside. The same contents taunted her like all the times before - stale bread, a few questionable potatoes, knotted carrots, and a little salt hidden in a potato sack. They could hardly afford anything to eat between the two of them, and whatever money she earned as a barmaid in the town mostly went into her private fund. Whatever coins her father made went into bottles of alcohol and gods know what else. She didn’t want to ask. He certainly wasn’t adding anything of value to their situation.

It was mid afternoon but she needed to get a stew going and ready to eat. It would be cold when her father came stumbling home but at least it was prepared, and in his usual state he couldn’t tell much difference anyway. She’d be long gone by then. The best hours at the Pig Sty were the dinner rush and then late in the night when the drunkards starting letting coins slip easier. Arabelle learned to avoid the latter and preferred to work the former so she could both keep her dignity and some semblance of sleep. Despite all of her efforts at keeping the crops going she was just one person, and often it felt like her father was actively trying to keep her from succeeding in turning the farm around.

Oh, well. It would be his problem before long.

The stew was nearly done when the front door slammed open. Thankfully, Arabelle wasn’t stirring the pot, or she might have spilled their whole dinner by her surprised reaction.

The man took three steps, looked at Arabelle, then cocked his head to the side. “What’re you doing that for?” His word slurred and body constantly moved ever so slightly, unable to stay still. A silent hiccup shook his torso.

So he was drunk already. Not a good sign.

“Dinner. You know, so you can eat?”

The man scowled. “I don’t like that tone. But I meant… why are you making it so godsdamned early?”

“It’s not that late. And my shift at the Pig Sty starts at sundown. I need to get there early, and you know the walk isn’t short.”

The man just grunted in response, then plopped down in a chair at the kitchen table. He cocked his head to the side, picked up a wooden bowl on the table, and spit into it. A dull clunking sound followed, and Arabelle stopped mid-stir.

“What was that?” She asked.

Her father swirled his tongue around in his mouth, then cursed. “That bastard today thought I was cheating. He popped me pretty good before I rushed out of there.”

Arabelle knew that he was cheating, but she wasn’t about to voice that. Not if she wanted to be the one spitting a tooth into the bowl next. His slaps never quite that got that far, but they’ve been getting worse over the weeks. It was only a matter of time.

She returned to the stew and added the carrots. It would need some time to simmer, and she was thankful for an excuse to not have to tend to him. Still, it was better to mitigate his situation and not escalate. That only caused more problems.

“Well, I’m glad you got out in time. I’m sorry that happened.”

Yea, sorry for me. I’m the one who suffers, she thought.

Her father grunted and skidded the chair on the floor, making an awful noise. Then he stepped over and patted her on the shoulder. She recoiled from his touch, her reflexes honed over time to prepare her for what came next. But nothing did. Only shuffled, drunken footsteps that carried him into his bedroom. He still had a bit of a limp from his broken ankle, but that was likely as healed as it would ever be.

Her shoulders relaxed and body loosened when he left room. The stew was bubbling but she didn’t care. The man deserved a burned, shitty meal meant for a burned out, shitty man.

But Arabelle didn’t deserve it. She may have been burned out, but she didn’t think she was a shitty person. Definitely not for putting up with him, and definitely not for still trying her best to make sure there was food on the table and the farm was tended. She wasn’t a farmer like her father, though, and had no idea what she was doing. He refused to help or even give her directions, spending most of his time drunk or out gambling. The few times he was in the fields he demanded to be alone as she was “just a damned good for nothing woman.” Thankfully those times were fewer as it meant fewer insults, but it also meant their farm suffered for it.

Suddenly the footsteps behind her stopped. “Arabelle, take some coins from the box. I’m tired of stew and want a proper breakfast in the morning.”

Arabelle jerked her head away from the pot. “What about the payment from William? Wasn’t he supposed to give us 100 crowns for the bundles of wheat?”

Her father swatted the air like he was trying to hit a fly. “That bastard never payed.”

“Never payed or you never gave him the wheat?”

Her father cocked his head to the side. “I had the wheat, you little shit, he just said no. So grab the damn coins from the box and pick up something good to eat for the morning.”

“Did he say no because the wheat was bad?” Arabelle refused to drop it. Consequences be damned. She was tired of his harassment, tired of his incompetence.

Her father paused. His face scrunched up in annoyance, which turned to pain from his jaw. “I don’t owe you any answer. He didn’t pay. End of discussion.”

So that was it, then. Talking about their farm was always a sore spot with him.

Arabelle was in a particular kind of mood, today. She didn’t like being told what to do by him, and didn’t see the conversation over. “So it was, then. I want out to the fields today, you know. The whole thing is shit. The wheat. The soil. It’s like you haven’t even tried out there.”

Her father rushed back into the kitchen, though he stumbled most of the way. Arabelle tightened her grip on the ladle, just in the case. Not that it would do much good. Still, it felt better to have than nothing.

He came right up to her and pointed at her with a shaky finger. “I’ve told you before, you aren’t a farmer. You don’t know how hard it is out there. We’ve had terrible luck the past few years and bad growth.”

“William’s been doing fine. How come his crops are growing so well but ours looks like death?”

Her father started to say something but stopped. He fumbled over his words.

Arabelle knew something was wrong. She decided to press him further. What else could happen? “It’s because of why Wyn left so quickly, wasn’t it? You two had a nice long discussion the instant he came back home. Then he left again in days. I put two and two together. It’s our debt, isn’t it?”

“You shouldn’t speak on things you don’t know.”

“Then you don’t ever need to talk about farming. But obviously it’s bad enough for Wyn to leave. Who did you screw over? Or what organization?”

Her father shooed her away, dismissing her like she was nothing. Like always. In his eyes, she really was nothing. He obviously missed that the feeling was mutual.

“Don’t walk away, now, old man. I want answers! I demand answers!”

He kept shuffling away, one bum ankle slowing him down.

The stew behind her was definitely burned, now.

“So it is someone, then. Silence speaks volumes, you know. Wyn is out there trying to help us and all you’re doing is drinking what’s left of your miserable life away! And gambling away what’s left of mine!”

The bedroom door behind her father slammed shut. Arabelle felt tears form in her eyes along with several emotions at once. Anger. Frustration. Despair. Fear. She turned back to the stew and cursed at her luck. Even though the bastard deserved every meal he ever ate to be miserable, she’d never hear the end of it. And that was after she’d likely feel his anger, first.

Her tears fell into the pot as she continued to stir it, wishing for all her worth that they’d poison the man and end both of their suffering.

*****

Arabelle tied her leather boots and straightened her blouse. Her clothes were on their last threads, but at least her boots were in great condition. One of the many gifts Wyn gave her. One of the few things in this prison of a home she cared about. The sun was just getting ready to touch the tops of the trees in the distant forest. She was late for her shift at the Pig Sty, but she’d make it up on the road. Jogging was a great freedom where she had hardly any.

Exiting her room quietly took patience and skill. The door squeaked terribly, but not when she held the top hinge and slowly opened it. Her deadbeat father was likely asleep and it would be terrible for her if she woke him up. After several agonizing seconds, she stepped into the hallway and listened.

Silence.

For a moment anger rose to the surface. Anger at that drunkenly sleeping man for putting her and her brother, the only other person she cared about, in an awful position. Anger at her luck for being a younger woman, unable to contribute outside of earning measly copper boots every night at a shitty tavern to help survive. Anger at the world for being such a cruel place. Anger at Wyn for leaving.

No. Wyn didn’t deserve anger. He was doing what he felt best to help, and he actually had the means to do it. Serving in the military was a great honor, and he abandoned that for their family. For her. She just desperately wanted to be with him, to grow up with a family member who actually cared about her. Who wanted her comforted, fed, healthy.

A sigh left her lips. That would come in time. For now, she had work to do.

Carefully stepping back into her room, she walked to the furthest corner and slid a finger under the wooden board. It was raised just slightly more than the others, impossible to notice unless stepped on or looked at from ground level. Which her father would never do as he didn’t care enough to ever come into her room. Lifting the board quietly took a few more seconds, but it was worth being ever later.

Under the board was a small hole. A hole carefully dug over months to make sure her father never found what she hid. In the hole was a potato sack that held her freedom. Well, at least the start of it. It wasn’t potatoes inside, either, but coins. Lots of coins. Enough coins that if her father did find it, she’d be beaten rather than just struck, and he’d take them and make their debt even worse. Though she had no true idea of just how bad it was.

Carefully opening the sack she counted her coins again. Slowly so they wouldn’t jingle together and a loud noise. It was likely too much caution since her father usually slept like a rock after drinking, but she wasn’t about to risk it. Not after saving so much.

18 copper boots. 27 silver cloaks. 14 gold crowns. She took out the boots and seven cloaks put them in her pocket, hoping she could earn enough tonight to exchange them for another crown. She decided weeks ago that converting them to crowns was the best move, as less coins meant less noise, less weight, and less chance of losing them or having them stolen. But it was also risky as spending them on smaller purchases was harder, but she decided that keeping 10 cloaks was the solution. Whatever boots she had on hand for when the time came was her pocket change, not to be included in her current savings goal.

In total, she needed more. Of course she needed more, everyone needed more. But she had a specific plan. First, she needed money to survive. Shelter. Food and water. Protection. Then, she needed money for travel. A voucher to hitch a ride on a caravan. Enough funds to last the entire journey. Finally, she needed emergency money just in case something went wrong. She literally couldn’t afford anything to go wrong. This was her only chance at escaping her hell. Her torment. It had to go well, and going well meant planning well.

The survival criteria would be straightforward. She didn’t need anything fancy for sustenance, just water, bread, jerky to last, and the occasional cheap meal to keep her going. One a day would be enough, two meals would be preferred, a total of about eight boots give or take. Inns were tricky to predict as she had never stayed in before, but the Pig Sty charged a cloak a night for guests not including food. Not terrible, but the place was a mess. They were a small town, though, and it was only one of two inns. She tripled that price to cover unexpected costs.

The travel was a bit harder. Timing the caravan right was crucial, as one only came through their small town of Rywood every other week in the summer and the voucher was a crown a day for travel. A steep sum, but necessary. It would take two weeks of traveling in a caravan to get to her destination, and that was smooth travel. No storms, no bandits, just continuous motion. She’d pass a few cities on the way, too, and from travelers let slip at the Pig Sty, caravans tended to stay in a city for an entire day to allow the exchange of traders both coming and going, but that depending on the caravan’s owner. The actual trip could be longer.

So, in total, she planned to cushion her funds to ensure she got to her destination with as little trouble as possible. By her estimations, she needed three cloaks a night to stay in the cities, or about one crown rounded up along with an extra night added to be safe. Eight boots a day for food and water, or one cloak rounded up. One crown a day for the caravan, so 12 crowns for two weeks. She figured rounding up to 15 would give her enough cushion as a “just in case.”

15 crowns for the caravan. Four crowns for the nights in cities. 15 cloaks for two and a half weeks of travel. 20 crowns and five cloaks total.

She felt her heart race as she carefully hid her stash away. There was almost enough saved. Almost enough to ensure her freedom. Only a couple more weeks working, maybe with a good night or two, and she’d be able to leave.

Aleastead. Home of the magical tower Alistair. Current home of Wyn. That was her destination. That was her goal. That was her new life away from this hell hole.

She marched on with the sunset to the Pig Sty with vigor, hope renewed. She would make it out of this place and no one would stop her. Not her father. Not the person or people who owned their debt. No one.