Jon

Jon was locked in the shed again. It was not so bad after all: he liked his father's shed more than his whip and although it was not any cooler in here than outside, and the deadly heat was gushing inwards through every crack between the timbers of the crumbling shed, at least there was some respite from the sun (shining down on their bleak farm the last few moons nearly constantly, burning to the scobs every last plant that had managed to grow on the poor soil). The boy was not fond of such warmth. For his many siblings it seemed as natural as for the desert itself, yet Jon scarcely bore it and felt like a fish without water.

Worse was the lack of water. Jon had been stuck here since evenfall, and now, judging by the stifling heat, owing to which sweat was already gathering on his forehead and he was beginning to see not clearly, and the might of the brightness of the sunlight, also trying to creep in through the gaps, it seemed that it was reaching noon of the morrow.

Having licked his dry, chapped lips once more, the boy sank unhappily to the ground and, leaning his back against the shed's wall, began to draw mindlessly in the sand with his finger.

Suddenly, he got horrified and sprang to his feet. He ran at once to the bolted door, wanting to bang on it with all his might, hoping that his father was somewhere nearby and would be begged to let him out, yet in the end he merely froze, unable to utter a word, with his eyes fixed on one spot. It was where a black scorpion had crawled out of the sand and now began to stroll lazily across the ground, shovelling away the grains with its pincers, its raised high, rounded tail, ending in a deadly sting, swaying unevenly to the rhythm of its gait.

The creature had already begun to move towards the terrified boy, shuffling its tiny legs and creaking quietly, whenas unexpectedly something utterly wondrous happened. Jon rubbed his eyes with clenched fists, wondering if it was the heat playing a trick on him, but no... The scorpion was no longer there, but a young man stood before him, his face pale and more beautiful than any Jon had ever seen. This was a way only a king could look, Jon was sure. The man's eyes were dark as was his long hair, glowing black as a moonless night, matching his equally black silk robe.

He smiled slightly, very gracefully and as though a little amused.

"Hello, Jon," he said, his voice deep, smooth and melodious. "Well met."

Afterwards, he conjured up out of nought an earthen goblet filled to the brim with water and handed it to the boy. Jon took it cautiously, yet drank not. The stranger chuckled.

"Very suspicious for someone close to death of thirst, are you not, little prince? Drink, it is not poisoned."

Therefore, Jon took a sip. The water was so cold and so good.

"Who are you?" he asked then, looking aloft into the stranger's eyes, suddenly much more fascinated than frightened, as though the disappearance of the scorpion had allowed him to breathe a sigh of relief and taken away all his fear. "Why are you naming me a prince?"

Ere he answered, the stranger began to walk around the shed, just as carelessly as the scorpion had done before, making a face and as if for show wondering what he should say back. His gait was so light that the shoes he had on the feet seemed scarcely touching the sand.

"And who would you rather be? And who am I? That is the question. A wizard?" he spoke as lightly as he moved, and played with the words, that seemed to dance or broider patterns on a shawl, like Jon's mother did at times. His mother's hands were work-worn, yet still so deft. "A trickster? A lord of scorpions and serpents? Choose what you will!"

At the same moment he said this, he raised his hand and extended one of his long fingers. All his moves were swift and agile like water running in a river, like the movements of the sword-dancing warriors, whom Jon had seen once at the market and could not take his eyes off them. Now he could not take his eyes off the wizard either, and they widened as a serpent eftsoons crawled from the end of the finger, and began to wriggle awhile in the air ere leaping nimbly towards the boy and wrapping itself around his forearm like the bracelet of nightfires set by red priests, its scales glistening golden.

Jon tensed and froze, staring at the serpent with stunned eyes.

"Ah, fear him not, Jon!" the wizard said with amusement. "He wishes you no harm. I have alway seen it as a great unjustice how the Men at times misjudge snakes. Are they not the most graceful of creatures, smooth and composed, nimble and clever? Little jewels of creation. Even dragons may hardly match them."

"Dragons are gone. So I heard at the market," Jon said, still glancing uncertainly towards the snake.

"A sane child you are for a crofter's pup." The wizard smiled, and the boy knew not whether he was mocking or being sincere. "Yet is it truly so, are you sure? For I would swear I am seeing one before my eyes now."

Jon furrowed his brows, not grasping what the wizard was speaking about. Just in case, he looked around: even if he was still disbelieving this whole meeting, it would not have surprised him had the wizard conjured a dragon here as well. Yet he saw nought. Even the serpent had already vanished. Mayhap it had already burrowed into the sand and slipped far outside the shed through the underground passage it had hollowed out, or mayhap it had transformed itself back into the wizard's finger.

The wizard laughed. "Wistfulness wraps around your face like a spider thread. So boyish and so solemn. You are very much like your father."

"I'm not like my father!" Jon growled, then involuntarily touched the bruise on his forehead. Mother's ones were harder as she sometimes tried to defend him, Jon thought sadly and tears nearly came to his eyes from the sudden fright for her. She had never showed him much love, yet she was good, and she had some strange sense of justice in herself that made her stand bravely against father.

"Ah, I mean not this sanguinary fool." The wizard winced. Even his wince was graceful, though, Jon noticed. "It is your true father I am speaking of."

Jon's grey eyes widened once more. "My... true father?"

The wizard smiled mysteriously, looking around with distaste. "I doubt you might have told me that you have ever felt you belonged hither, Jon, to these musty timbers and leagues of monotonous sands."

It seemed to Jon that the wizard could read his mind. Yes, he had never felt he belonged here, not getting along with his siblings, who thought he stayed silent too oft and looked down on them with superiority, unfit for work and gifted nought save more whippings and cussings from his father for it, daydreaming of swords and the adventures of knights of songs.

"Who is my true father?" he asked the wizard frantically, yet he only chuckled again.

"Not so fast. I am overly talkative and have told you much anyways. Yet: who knows? If you befriend me, if you prove that you are truly worthy of my favourableness, then: who knows? Perchance I shall visit you again, perchance tell you more, or perchance, one day, I shall guide you to your father's castle."

"Castle?" Jon echoed quietly, amazed and confused. "Is my father a highborn lord?"

He was given no answer, though. Merely a soft whisper escaped the wizard's lips: "Await me, Jon! Await me!", and afterwards his ethereal figure blurred before the boy's eyes like a cloud of mist till at last... he realised that he was lying on the ground, and a huge hand was shaking him like a sack of flour.

"Began talkin' to yerself, little freak?" Jon heard a snarling laugh above himself, and as he opened his eyes, he saw a face, red from the heat, reeking of sweat and onions.

"Here!" His father rose and threw him a costrel. "Drink and get out, I need yer."

Jon sighed and reached for the costrel.

Could he be grateful to the heat for aught, it was for sweet fever dreams.