1

The Stable Boy of Estroch

Mrs. Calloway smiled at him as he came in from the back door, picking out hay from his clothes and hair. He smiled at her, and despite the layer of dirt that adorned his face, his gentle green eyes shone with unfailing good humor.

"I hear you've a charge for the night, Patrick," Mrs. Calloway said as she set aside a freshly-cleaned dish to dry.

"I have," Patrick replied, eyes alight, "and a fine one, at that. Never seen a horse like him."

Mrs. Calloway eyed him, "I saw that woodsman's horse when he came through, well enough. It was a thick, shaggy thing, little more than a pony. You call that 'fine'?"

Patrick nodded without hesitation. "Yes, Mistress. He's a fine leg and hoof, and a mighty wit. It's almost as if he can understand me, sometimes."

"You've been talking to him already?"

"Well of course, Mistress," Patrick said innocently, "I talk to all my charges."

Calloway just shook her head, a small smile spreading over her dimpled cheeks. "I suppose its only fitting; you're nearly horse-kind yourself, aren't you? I've told you before, there's always a spare room open to you."

"The stables are fine and warm, Mistress – and it helps me look better after the horses."

The innkeeper shook her head. "Sleeping in the stables, talking to the charges, ranting and raving about everything horse-related. Why, I wouldn't be a mite surprised if you sprouted a pair of equine ears yourself, Patrick." The young teen laughed at this, and Calloway set aside her cleaning.

"I suppose you'll be wanting this," she fished something out of her apron and handed it to the boy, who cupped his hands to catch his wages of silver coins. He counted them quickly and smiled up at Calloway. "Thank you, Mistress," He said, and made for the door.

"You come back quickly, Patrick – night's upon us, and I don't want you in the streets after dark."

He peeked his head back in the door for a second to say, "Yes, Mistress!" and then he was gone again.

Calloway watched him go with a sad little frown on her brow. She knew he was off to care for his mother, and she knew it was his duty. But it made her both sad and angry; sad because Patrick deserved a better life than spending every penny on his mother, angry because his mother wasn't a real mother at all. Calloway herself was the only motherly figure that Patrick had ever known.

Calloway sighed and returned to her work. "Oh, Patrick," she whispered, "Lord knows she doesn't deserve you as a son."

" 'Ere ye are, lad," the butcher half-smiled at Patrick and passed him the paper-wrapped cut of pork.

"Thank you, Lionel." Patrick deposited the parcel carefully in his satchel, handed the butcher two coins, and jogged out the door. He walked quickly about his errands – dusk was growing thick, and it would soon be dark and shops would close. He ran to the baker with haste and stayed just long enough to buy two small loaves of sour dough. After that, it was off to the candle-maker's shop for a dozen new wicks and a bar of soap.

Just as the sun made its last goodbyes to Estroch, Patrick ran up the way to the easternmost part of town, hugging his bulging satchel close. Here, there were few inhabitants, much less houses, but atop a tiny hill set right on the border of Estroch's walls stood a ramshackle wooden hut, one side propped up by a pillar of precariously-laid brick and stone. Anyone passing by might have guessed that the old structure had been abandoned long ago for its age and instability, let alone its unfortunate placement away from the center of town. But little details spoke of occupants that lived there still; a steady puff of smoke from the crooked chimney, a line of clothes out to dry, and little paddock outside where two chickens and an ancient-looking pony stood. Patrick trod the winding path to the door as he did every day, and pushed open the door with his shoulder.

"Mother?" He called over the noisy hinges of the door, "I've brought you some dinner." He set down his bag and began pulling out his purchases. The candles came first, and he quickly set to lighting one to replace the useless stub of wax that sat half-melted on the table. As soon as he had enough light to work by, he brought out the bread and pork and made a small cold-cut sandwich with them. He picked up the candle in its clay holder and roamed to the only other room in the small house. "Mother?" He called again, raising the candle to peer into the room.

A woman, haggard and dirty despite being relatively young, looked up at him through a tangle of yellow locks. "Patrick," she hummed mellowly, "you've come back," she seemed less pleased at his presence than she did at the food he'd brought with him.

"Of course I have, I always do," Patrick came over and set the candle on a small side table. There, he spotted a tall green bottle and sighed heavily. "Mother, have you been at the drink again?" He asked balefully. She only shrugged noncommittally.

"Oh, you know me, Patrick, I really couldn't never help meself…"

And Patrick's face saddened at that, because it was true. "You know you shouldn't, mother, it'll be the death of you one day." He repeated the words he'd said to her over a thousand times and handed her the sandwich, which she bit into gratefully. In truth, he was happy enough to find her sober – that in itself was a gift these days.

"You're a good boy, Patty." She told him through a mouth of bread.

He hated that name, but he'd never found the heart to tell her. "Thank you, mother," He said softly, though he really meant nothing by it beyond politeness.

After she was through, he did what he could to straighten up her room, cringing and biting his tongue at every empty bottle he found among the rubbish. He swept the floors, opened the windows to the fresh night air and made sure that his mother had clean clothes. He washed her off and set aside a portion of food for her breakfast the next morning. He watched her fall asleep, and then he left.

He went by the small paddock outside to feed the emaciated chickens that lived there. Then, he smiled for the first time that evening as the old pony crossed over to him.

"Hello, Molly," He ruffled her dirty white mane fondly, and her ears perked at his voice. Blind and a trifle deaf, Molly was an ancient old carter pony that had outlived her purpose in the town years ago. Patrick had insisted on caring for her when her previous owner was forced to turn her out to pasture. She was a bony, dysfunctional old mare, but she was the brightest spot in Patrick's life, for unlike all the other things in his life that went solely towards his mother, Molly was truly his. "How've you been, old girl?"

Molly made a wheezing sort of whinny and pressed her soft muzzle against his chest. He smiled and petted under her chin. "Aye, I like the sound too." He looked out over the ocean-side view to which his equine friend had been whinnying about, and listened to the rhythmic crashing of the waves. "Perhaps I'll bring you down there tomorrow. But it's the stables tonight – you need your exercise, and it's still a bit to nippy for you to stay outside." As he said all this, Patrick was fastening the cloth-rope halter around Molly's white head so that he could lead her gently down the path to Estroch. Though Molly was not prone to run away from her young master, she was blind and had to be led by a short rope. Not that she minded much, for she would have stuck close to Patrick anyhow.

Once they reached the Sign of the Siren, it was well past dark. The moon was high overhead and bathed the town in a soft glow through a haze of overcast clouds. Patrick led his pony around the back to the stables, the only stables in all of Estroch, where he bedded her down for the night. His new charge -Tug, he'd heard the young traveler call him - looked up interestedly at the new arrival. Molly's ears pricked as she caught the smell of another horse, and Patrick let her stop by Tug's stall so the two could exchange horsey introductions.

"A bright new charge, eh?" Patrick asked Molly, nodding at Tug, "Haven't seen another horse in weeks, much less one so fine as him, hmm?"

Tug snorted appreciatively at the compliment, and Molly continued to whuff and whinny at her new friend as Patrick laid out a bed of straw for her. After he was confident that his old pony would be comfortable for the night, Patrick went over to Tug's stall and checked his water supply.

"I suppose you've seen more travels then most," he heaved up a bucket of fresh water and dumped it into the trough. "Your master seems one to enjoy the road, at least." He turned and patted Tug's snout – respectfully, of course, as Tug wasn't his horse. "I wish I could go with you, at least for a while. I've always wondered what other places there are out there. Oh, the stories you could tell me, if only you could talk." When Tug snorted into his palm, Patrick smiled. "Then, of course you can talk. Just not to me. But you understand me, don't you?" Tug rolled an intelligent eye on the boy in silent affirmation and Patrick nodded. "Aye, better than some horses. Well, a good night to you, Tug."

Patrick patted Tug and said goodnight to Molly, then climbed up into the hay loft. He grabbed two blankets from where they lay folded, spread one over a pile of soft straw and the other over himself as he lay down. He relaxed there for some time, watching the twinkling stars through the spaced boards of the stable walls, just as he did every night.

Sometimes, he wondered what else was out there, beyond the rotting walls of Estroch. Were there castles? Great plains and forests? Fortresses and bustling cities? Patrick had heard that there were, but he'd never seen them for himself. Every time a traveler came through Estroch, a strange ache awakened in Patrick's chest, striking a chord somewhere between longing and sadness. He'd didn't often consider what would become of his life in the years to come, but in those moments when he saw outsiders or cared for their mounts at the stables, he caught a glimpse into a world that was alien to him and all of Estroch. It was a world of activity, of cheerfulness, of prosperity and excitement, and Patrick wanted to see it desperately.

Patrick did not truly hate Estroch, with its small population and nonexistent trade, but he had nothing in this small, forgotten town. There was Molly, but Patrick knew he would likely loose her in a few years time. Mrs. Calloway was a true friend to him, but even if he stayed in Estroch, he would leave her care eventually. And then there was his mother. His mother was the only thing that kept Patrick from running away from Estroch altogether. She was his only true duty, and no one would care for her if not for Patrick.

The boy sighed at the thought. He'd never truly felt anything fond towards his mother, aside from the familiarity of years and a deep pity for her deplorable condition. Beneath her grimy, drunken exterior and years of neglect, his mother had once been the daughter of a respectable merchant. Innocent and beautiful, she was wooed at a young age by a tall, handsome Hibernian sailor, with whom she eloped without ever being properly married and joined on the high seas. They sailed about the world without any cares for some time, before they discovered that she was carrying their child. That was when everything had changed. Just before Patrick was born, a storm had driven his father's ship aground on a point not far from Estroch. Stranded in Araluen with an unsailable ship and a pregnant wife, Patrick's father had settled, quite reluctantly, at the edge of Estroch, right by the sea.

In the years of his childhood, Patrick had learned very quickly that he was unwanted. He was nothing more to his parents than an unplanned, unexpected surprise, put upon two previously happy people. His mother had always felt some love for him, he knew, out of pure maternal attachment, but he remembered many times when his father would look at him with distain, as one would regard a particularly repulsive pest. In those looks, Patrick knew that he was the reason that they were stuck here. He was the reason that his father was unhappy. He, the child that had grounded this untamable seaman, was the reason for the family's consuming poverty. And that was the beginning of Patrick Murphy's life in Estroch.

In the years following, his father had managed to buy himself a small cog and gather a crew enough to start a trading business, ferrying cargo from across the Constant Sea and occasionally from his homeland of Hibernia. Things were on the up, and for a time, Patrick's family was doing well. But then, in a quick and unexpected turn of events, the local authorities discovered that Captain Murphy was smuggling goods in from all over the world, and smuggling out the hard-earned wares of Araluen merchants. With haste, Murphy packed up all his valuables, boarded his ship, ironically named the Freeman, and sailed away. Before he left, he swore to his wife and son that one day, he would return for them.

He never did.

After than, life slowly descended into what Patrick now regarded as normal. His mother delved into heavy drinking and lost her meager job because of it. Unable to care for her son, she holed herself up in their old home and left Patrick to fend for himself. For a time, he lived on the streets, picking up odd jobs and wages here and there to care for himself and his helpless mother.

When he was about eight years old, Patrick had found himself in the stables behind the Sign of the Siren during a wild thunderstorm. That was when he'd met his first real horse. A massive draft animal, Patrick had hidden beneath the huge beast's legs for comfort and shelter from the leaky stable ceiling. The gentle animal had complied to the boy's needs, and kept him safe and warm throughout the stormy night. It was after that that Patrick picked up his affinity for horses. A generally quiet lad, he hung around the stables and simply watched them. Their whinnies, snuffles, cantering and oat-munching. Everything the horses did, Patrick watched. The elderly stablemaster took notice, and took on Patrick as a stable hand. The innkeeper with whom the stablemaster was good friends, Mrs. Calloway, provided Patrick with food and lodging while he worked, and made sure he had enough money to care for his mother. Years later, with many lessons learned and skills acquired, Patrick was still the lone stable boy of Estroch. His old master had died when he was twelve, but he continued to run the stables by himself. So, in a way, he was the stable master of Estroch, but then, it wasn't much a stable to be master of.

Although Patrick remembered a time when the streets bustled with horses, mounts and drafts alike, there were very few horses in Estroch these days. He took on a charge or two every week or so, but the horse business of Estroch was far from big. Nevertheless, Patrick took great pride and joy in his work, and loved every minute he could spend with the horses. They were his escape from his confined life, the one thing he understood. They were, in a word, the only thing in all of Estroch that mattered to him.

So perhaps that was why he so longed to get away from Estroch on a mount such as Tug. Not on Tug himself, of course, for he belonged to another, and Patrick could never steal another man's horse, but all the same, Patrick dreamed of a day when he could secure a fine mount and ride, run far far away from Estroch and never look back, to seek some life beyond the seaside backwater that had been the only world he'd ever known. As he had the thought, the image of Patrick's mother rose unbidden in his mind, and he realized that so long as she needed to be cared for – and she always would – he would never leave this place.

Molly sneezed, and the sound brought Patrick back to the present. The stars twinkled from beyond the stable walls, so beautiful, and yet so far away. Patrick sighed, rolled over and fell asleep.

A/N: So, an intensely boring first chapter, but I felt it was necessary to introduce Patrick's backstory. Hopefully you didn't find it entirely dull. Reviews and constructive criticism are love!