Farm BoyA.P. Howell
1000 words Annette straightened her jacket as the door opened. It was the nervous habit of a younger woman, a relic from a time of professional anxiety and inexpertly tailored clothing. She gathered her satchel and entered the overlord’s office, exchanging nods with an exiting minister. Years ago, the room had struck her as ostentatious. It was filled with black marble, ebony wood, polished silver, and the twinkling of onyx and ruby. Weapons of sentimental or ceremonial value adorned the walls. The vaulted ceiling provided space for tall, narrow windows of stained glass. “My lord.” The man behind the enormous desk beamed. “Annette, it’s always nice to see you.” He rose briefly and stretched, with a middle-aged wince Annette recognized from the inside. “I saw your budget requests last week. Have you got a supplement?” “No, my lord.” She applied the slightest emphasis to the final word. A lord was someone who granted boons. “I wish to discuss a policy waiver.” He raised a scar-bisected eyebrow. “Marielle and Donatien Bischoff.” Annette reached into her satchel and pulled out the social worker’s report. “Infertility triply confirmed by rune and physician and barrenness. This is the third time they’ve applied to become adoptive parents.” “They were denied previously?” “By my hand alone,” Annette nodded. “All the social workers praised them for their kindness, their deep desire for a child, and their ability to provide a loving and nurturing environment.” The overlord paged through the reports. “They are farmers.” “Indeed. It is the sole reason for the denials.” “Farming is a very precarious lifestyle.” “Less so than it used to be,” Annette said. “With your tax forgiveness, support of public works and agricultural research, and insurance against blight—” His hand sliced the air like a knife, an impatient gesture commonly seen in meetings. “But they are farmers. They work the fields themselves—” “They do own the land,” Annette pointed out. “And they employ a number of farm hands. Might this not allow them to be considered a small business for purposes of adoption?” He sighed heavily. That sigh meant “no”—an unhappy “no,” but a “no” nonetheless. Still, he had not yet said the word. “There is a boy. His parents died recently, of the fever.” The overlord grimaced. Despite the resources he devoted to the public health crisis, people were still dying. “The boy has no other family. Though he is well cared for at the orphanage—” “As he should be.” Five years ago, the head of an orphanage had been discovered abusing the children. The overlord had cleared his schedule for days so he might deal with the matter personally. “But you know the research as well as I. Under your guidance, the orphanage and foster care network is excellent, but it is no substitute for the stability of a permanent home and adoption into a family.” “I know.” He stood again and began to pace. Before her eyes, his posture changed to that of a man standing firm beneath the weight of armor. “Find him some merchants…someone to teach him a trade…” “Your social servants stand ready to do so,” Annette said. “The boy will be fine. But the Bischoffs—” “I feel for them, but I will not grant a waiver.” “He could have the life you might have had,” Annette said, “had your parents not died.” “Murdered,” the overlord corrected softly. “They were murdered by lawless tyrants and opportunists.” He turned his back upon her, hands tightly clasped, facing the window that depicted the climactic battle in his war of ascension. A figure in black armor astride a black horse, great sword upraised, the sun blazing behind him as he crested the hill. The window depicted a noble inevitability, not a mercenary who seized an opportunity. Annette wondered what those days must have been like: a dirty, desperate race for the high ground and the privilege of being the slaughterer rather than the slaughtered. “Did I ever tell you of the old crow woman?” “My lord?” “She was a camp follower—ours or theirs, it scarcely matters. I came across her on the field, afterward. I thought she was preparing the dead for burial—or perhaps stealing from them, though at that point they were well picked over. “But no, she was reading the omens. The crows, the furrowed turf, the entrails of beasts and men…” He paused for a long moment. “And as I stood before her, triumphant,” and here his tone twisted, for no victory came without cost, “she spoke a prophesy. She spoke beneath the rain, marked by blood and earth, accompanied by the shrieks of crows, and so she spoke true. “‘A farm boy shall remake the land, cast aside the crowned, and raise up the oppressed.’” Annette considered economic policy. Trade agreements and food importation. All the boys who had found lucrative employment away from the fields and the relative security of those who remained behind to work the land. She finally asked, “Is that why you do not wear the crown you won?” “That, and its utter impracticality,” he said with a touch of his usual humor. “Not enough there to protect your skull or even shield you from the rain.” Without invitation, Annette gathered her papers. She could not bear to ask if she owed her status to a years-old encounter on a battlefield, if that was the sole reason for his generosity and tireless devotion to uplifting his subjects. Wise men listened to prophesies, but one hoped that great men might be capable of empathy without self-interest. “Offer them a foster child,” the overlord said. “A girl. Offer them a series of girls to foster—a life of parenting. If they are kind, they may do much good, and perhaps this will assuage their sadness. Bend the law that far, but no farther.” “My lord.” “A farm is a good place to be a child,” the overlord said, still staring at the window, though he could not see through it to the land he had made. |
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A.P. Howell
A. P. Howell lives with her husband, their two kids, and a pair of rescue pups. Her short fiction has recently appeared in ParSec, Hearth Stories, and The Cosmic Background. She can be found online at aphowell.com.
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