Ordinary

I.

Autumn came suddenly, and with music — birdsong in the morning, wood chimes in the evening, and the carrying bellow of an open fire deep into the night. Everywhere was melody, and everyone was dancing. Nature sang, even as it withered and drowsed and the frost crept closer day by day, and for a time the whole world was aglow in the gold and chestnut hue of happy memories. These were the days of plenty in the land of Hyrule, when wagons on the road teemed with vegetables and trout were fat and idle in the river, and in the evening, when the great orange harvest moon cast its light over the farthest corners of the world, small legends came quietly to life and disappeared again into the darkness.

There were pumpkins everywhere in the village of Ordon — underfoot, typically — dropped or misplaced or else still growing by the way, big as boulders. Marksmen loved them. It was not uncommon to see them mounted on sticks or dangling from high branches, riddled with arrows or burst in half by a slingshot, to the point that the clearing at the mouth of the village had become a sort of shooting gallery where young people gathered to brag and laugh and dare all the day long. Loam, though a dab hand with a bow when he needed to be, considered this a terrible waste of good food. A student of the forest, he knew from the signs that the coming winter would be as difficult as the harvest season had been easy. With carelessness, the consequences.

Loam was remarkable, in that people made remarks about him often. He was young and strong and capable, but thoughtful and quiet also, which was unusual in those parts. Some villagers thought him timid or closed-off, but that wasn't really true. Others more generously agreed he simply lacked the preening cocksureness of the other young men of Ordon, which was absolutely true. The likes of Bartl and Ado swaggered and catcalled their way through a day's work at the ranch with their friends and drank and smoked like brigands in the night, while Loam gardened or went fishing or hawking on his own in the daytime, and spent his evenings tending to his mother or reading books by candlelight.

He had fair, clean skin, and was taller than most, with a thatch of auburn hair that framed his serious face attractively, but served a lesser purpose in the way it concealed his seashell-shaped ears — his father had been Hylian, they told him, and while that was nothing to be ashamed of, it was nothing to crow about either. His most distinguishing feature, however, were the wire-frame glasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. Loam was the only young person in the village who needed them, and the obvious fact that they made him look respectable and wise was not enough to deter the bullies growing up.

Not that they bothered him much. Nothing bothered Loam, not really — wasted pumpkins aside.

One morning, when the season had peaked and even the noonday sun cast long shadows over the land, he stepped into a canoe moored to the pier behind the grocer's mart and set about threading sinkers and lures to fishing poles for Colin, the village protector. Colin had laid down a series of tasks for each of the young men as a means of raising them up to the level of what he called 'heroes' — skilled workers, defenders, craftsmen, and eventually husbands, ('the noblest duty of all,' to hear him tell it). Ordon was their inheritance, and he would train them to steward it well. Loam needed no instruction when it came to fishing, but he set about his work without complaint, like always, lost in thought even as his deft hands performed the task immaculately.

'Loam?' came a tremulous voice from above him.

He looked up and shielded his eyes against the sun's first rays. It was Colin's grandson, Wren, standing at the pier's end and clutching one of its wooden posts tightly in one hand. Wren was terrified of water (and fire, and dogs, and knives, and the dark), and didn't trust himself to stand too close to it.

'Hi, Wren,' said Loam, smiling warmly at him. 'You're up early today.'

'I knew you'd be out here,' he explained. 'Wanted to see if you needed any he-help.'

The truth was etched all over his small, doughy face: he wanted no such thing. His father must have put him up to it, a lesson in manliness before its time. Loam's expression stayed the same, easy and kind and brimming with encouragement.

'Help me fish?' he said lightly. 'I'd like that very much. Here —' (he passed a rod over the water and into Wren's reluctant free hand) '— hold onto this and climb in. You can sit between my knees.'

It was a credit to the boy that he was able to move at all. He looked pale and wan, and clung to Loam like a barnacle as soon as he was within arm's reach. Loam took him gently and placed him firmly at the bow of the tiny boat, careful to rock it as little as possible.

'You okay?' he whispered to the shaking figure in his lap.

A muffled sniff and a nod of Wren's small blonde head was his answer.

'All right, then. Let's push off.'

He pressed the blade of his oar to the pier and they set out across the pond in silence, cutting a channel through the low, silvery morning mist. The rock walls that framed the village came together at a bottleneck at the far end of the water, and Loam steered them through it expertly, whistling the first few notes of a lullaby all the while. The narrow canyon reopened into a wide circle, the farthermost part of the pond, where a pillar of mossy stone stood like a natural shrine in the very middle. Here, where it was deepest, the canoe drifted to a standstill, though Wren, who had shut his eyes tightly from the moment he sat down, was not aware of this.

'Would you like to cast?' Loam asked him.

'I can't,' mumbled the boy.

'Sure you can. I see you fishing for greengills in Faron Spring all the time.'

'This is deeper than Faron Spring.'

'Well then, you'll have to cast wider. Take the rod, now.'

He placed it into Wren's hands and closed his own hands over them. The trembling had become almost violent, but Loam made no comment.

'The lure is coated with bee larva, see?' he whispered, jiggling it meaningfully. 'That's the secret. Fish go mad for it, just you watch. Now. When you cast, swish it out to the starboard side and then pitch it over your shoulder, hard as you can. Got all that?'

'Um, I think,' said Wren. He had opened his eyes just a fraction.

'Okay. One — two — three!'

In one fluid motion, Loam directed the boy's hands in precisely the way he had described, and the lure sailed twenty feet away from them, the line whizzing eagerly in its wake before it hit the water with a distant and satisfying plop.

'Nice one!' he chuckled.

A small squawk of delight escaped Wren's lips, very much in spite of himself. He quickly came to his senses, and shrank back into Loam's loose embrace. They sat there in silence for several minutes, waiting for a bite, watching the golden band of morning sun inch down the rock face toward the water's surface.

'How are things at home?' asked Loam.

''Kay,' the boy shrugged. 'Bartl came over for supper last night. I think he likes Raya.'

'What makes you say that?'

''Cuz he tried to kiss her when everyone went to bed.' He gave Loam an abashed look over his shoulder. 'Um, I was watching from the window upstairs.'

Loam just winked at him. 'And how did she feel about that?' he wondered delicately.

'Not so good, I don't think,' said Wren. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 'She, um. She said he had onion breath, and that his beard made him look like a, like a goat. Um.'

He studied Loam's face for a moment, to discern whether this was something they could share a laugh over. It was. Their quiet giggling was a small sound in the hushed and chilly morning, but it seemed to hasten the sun's passage somehow, warming them.

'Poor Bartl,' Loam sighed good-naturedly.

Wren looked puzzled and annoyed all of a sudden. 'Why are you so nice to him? He's so mean to you.'

'Do you think he'd be nicer if I were mean as well?'

'I — guess not.' His expression softened, and he reflected for a moment, saying nothing else on the matter. 'You've got sword training with Grandpa this afternoon,' he added at length.

'Yes, I do.'

'You'll definitely win the Ordon Sword this month. You're way better than those other guys.'

'Well, thank you, Wren. It's all just a matter of practice.'

'What will you do with it?' the boy wondered.

'With the sword? I don't know. I'll probably practice with it out in the woods like I do with my regular sword, until it's time to give it — whoa!'

The line became suddenly taut and the rod arched over in their shared grasp. Wren let out a cry, not knowing what to do, remembering in a rush where he was and what they were there for.

'Take the reel,' Loam instructed him. 'Wind hard, now, good and hard.'

He kept the canoe steady, grinning happily as the boy wrestled with their catch, closing the gap between themselves and the thrashing, splashing thing ahead of them.

'Almost there!'

Wren puffed out his cheeks comically, intent on his mission. The fact that water was sloshing and leaping on either side of him seemed to be of no importance at all anymore. All that mattered was this test of strength, boy against fish, the constant cranking of the reel in his little fist no matter how fierce the resistance, until at last it hung there, right in front of his eyes: an actual Ordon catfish, brown and slimy and writhing.

'You've done it!' cheered Loam. 'Wren, you've done it! Must be eight pounds at least, look at it!'

He reached over gingerly to unhook its mouth, letting it drop into the cloth bag he had brought along. A ringing silence filled their ears as the ripples dwindled back down to stillness, in which Wren slowly turned around to look Loam full in the face. His own face was transfigured; he looked euphoric, aglow in the bright sunshine, his watery blue eyes crowded in behind grinning red cheeks.

'I did it,' he said softly.

Loam tousled the boy's hair, gazing fondly down at him over his glasses. 'You did. You were amazing,' he said sincerely. 'I mean it. Your Dad'll be so proud. I sure am.'

It happened in an instant, then. Without saying a word, Wren scrambled to his feet and threw his arms around Loam's neck, taking him completely by surprise.

'Wren — what're you — watch out!'

But it was too late. The boat bucked twice in either direction before capsizing completely, and everything after that was ice cold and suffocating.