The son of None
3. Starting for an adventure
Garrow was digging into the dark soil using his fingers, frozen clods of mud painfully sticking under his nails. The small knife he held was a poor help to his effort, so he went on digging with his fingers, so as not to injure the purplish-white bulbs. Then, he was carefully pulling the long green stalks from their leaves, to drop each one of them into the basket that stood beside him. Since the break of the new day, Garrow has been busy with the gathering of turnips with Roran's help, while Eragon carried the full baskets of the harvest and emptied them in the warehouse. The temperature had dropped sharply and the weather would not be on their help for much longer.
Garrow worked without speaking. For years now – since the days Marian died – his conversations were less than a few, and lately they were limited to those absolutely necessary for the farm working; so were his associations. No man in Carvahall would blame him for looking after his house, his farm and his children. After all, he would never find out about the gossip behind his back since the people he met could be counted on the fingers of his one hand. Scarce were his visits too. During the past years, Garrow allowed himself to grow thinner. His stick-thin body was clothed in poor and worn clothes; his hair had turned gray and his intense, hungry-looking eyes observed the world silently from his gaunt face.
Since Marian's death, Garrow had taken care of the two boys all by himself. Without wasting time on obvious displays of love, had stood for them a typical father, as any father in their village would be. People of Carvahall never bestowed too much affection towards their children. However, they prepared them properly to face the difficult conditions of living in the north, as well as the hard work needed for their land to produce. Although the parents of Carvahall never wasted time into pampering their children, yet they all loved them dearly, and they would gladly give their lives to protect them. Garrow might never show it, but he was proud for the man Roran had become. He was proud for Eragon too. He believed deep down, that he had done his duty as a father bringing up these two sons in the best possible way, both of whom he considered as his own.
Garrow went on uprooting the turnips, watching Roran's broad shoulders – Roran, who worked stooped, occupied to a similar chore. His son had grown into manhood. His body already changed from a boy in his teens to that of a man. Roran was a man now and every time Garrow was thinking about it, he nodded to himself with contentment. His son had officially passed into manhood during the previous year, and he was now seventeen years of age. Time has come for an engagement to be arranged for him, then a marriage.
Garrow cleaned the frozen mud off the flesh of another root dropping the turnip into the basket. Time has come for a young woman to join their family and house. A woman's hand was all their home has been missing, for so many years. A woman, to take care of their household; so that when the men would return from the fields, there would be a warm plate of food on their table. A woman, to welcome the tired workers with a sweet smile. A young woman, to bring new blood into their family; a new generation of children under their roof; new hands to work their land. Roran was a man now, and Garrow, even though he would never admit it, he would rejoice about the fact from the depths of his heart.
Although such kind of conversation has always been avoided in Carvahall, Garrow knew that Roran's heart had spoken. All they would wait now was for the bride's family to accept Roran, so that joy would come again to their house. As for the younger one, for Eragon, who was almost fifteen? Garrow believed that he would stay on the farm too, helping with the land works and taking part in their lives. The year that his sister Selena had abandoned her baby into their hands to be gone forever, seemed so far away that Garrow barely remembered.
By nightfall Garrow locked the wooden door of the warehouse and, before he crossed the thirty yards that separated the stable from the house, he checked for the horses and the cow. They usually fed a pig too, however, during the previous difficult season, they wouldn't have managed. Returning home was always a relief to Garrow's tiredness. The passing day had not been wasted in vain. It had not passed empty, but fool of heavy farm work, with plans for everything that had to be done in the next day. Before winter's cold would fall from the high mountains ridge to their valley, and the frost confines the farmers to the heat of their hearth, they had to be ready.
Garrow stopped on the threshold for a few moments, looking around at his land. The harvest moon appeared between two mountain peaks of the Spine shedding its pearly light over the valley. Calm was the hour, but the cold was piercing. It was not the kind of cold that reduces on the sunny heights, but the liquid cold that could not penetrate even the first morning sunrays. The wind had dropped, and the stillness of the hour brought to his ears the distant sound of the river, that flowed towards the northern sea. The hour was peaceful and Garrow rubbed his hands in contentment.
‟Uncle!"
The boy's voice made him turn abruptly. Without having heard of him, Eragon had exited the door of the house. He was standing behind him, under the covered porch beside the winter Woodstock. Garrow looked at him carefully. Dark eyebrows arched over dark brown eyes – his sister's eyes – stared back at him.
‟If you don't need me tomorrow and during the following days, I plan to go for hunting in the Spine" the boy said. ‟I want to test my new bow and arrows, and I will definitely be back before the first snowfall."
Garrow's thin features tensed. ‟Who is going to harvest the barley?" He knew Roran and himself were not enough hands. If Eragon was not around, they would be late and the cold would probably catch them up. On the other hand, Eragon was a skilled hunter. The meat he would surely bring was a necessary food for them for the upcoming winter. In a few weeks the first snow would be around and the forests of the Spine would become impassable. Perhaps that was Eragon's last chance to hunt.
‟You may go" he reluctantly gave his permission. ‟However, as soon as you will be back, you will help Roran gather the rest of the barley." Entering the kitchen Garrow warmed up his hands by the lit fireplace. He saw Roran having been seated at the table Eragon had previously prepared. The young man had already placed the cauldron with the breakfast leftovers onto the hearth to warm their soup. ‟If we manage to gather the pumpkin before frost that would be fine" Garrow said, as he began to pour the soup into their bowls.
‟Tomorrow before dawn I'll be gone" said Eragon stuffing some bread and a few provisions for the road into his bag.
‟On your way back to Carvahall, do not forget to meet the person I told you about" Roran whispered to his cousin. ‟Tell her that she is the most beautiful girl I've ever met. Tell her that… she is the only one I think about, all the time."
Eragon shot a guilty glance towards Garrow, but his uncle was busy serving the dinner. He didn't seem to have noticed their whispers. ‟Don't worry. I'll tell her everything" he answered Roran in a serious tone.
They ate in silence, and when they had finished Garrow stood. ‟I'm going to sleep. Goodnight" he said dryly.
Both young men bade him goodnight and after they had washed all the food utensils and placed them on the kitchen shelf, they moved to their champers. The day which had just ended, has been long and tiring. The next one would start early. Eragon slept almost immediately. Even though the stuff he would take with him was already ready since earlier, he had to wake up before dawn.
In the next morning, before the first golden sunrays fire onto the Palancar valley, Eragon was on his way to the Spine, and to the adventure that would change his life forever.
