Unintended Cultivator

Sen and Bigan spent one final night camping. Yet, the young man had become all but mute in the wake of the confrontation with the bandits. Sen supposed that the facts of the situation had shattered some fond illusions. Bigan clearly believed that being a cultivator was some grand adventure like something from a story. Sen supposed that the young man had even had some fanciful notion of what it would be like to heroically drive off some bandits. The reality, unless Sen missed his guess, was both less and substantially more than the boy had ever considered. It was less in terms of exciting duels with grand pronouncements and decidedly more in terms of naked fear, screaming, and people fleeing for their lives. Yet, Sen couldn’t say that he was sorry that the boy had witnessed it. Exposure to that unvarnished truth, painful though it might be for Bigan, could well help him fix his mind on tending to those matters that most needed his attention. It seemed that even fear could wholly steal the young man’s voice, though.

“You didn’t kill them,” said Bigan.

“Did you want me to?” Sen asked.

“I don’t know. I think I wanted you to. They’re thieves and murderers.”

“So, you hate them?”

“Yes.”

“Because they take by force. Because they kill.”

“Yes!”

“So, if I come along with my greater strength and take their lives by force, how I am different? Is it somehow cleaner because you hate them?”

Much as he hated to admit it, a part of Sen agreed with Bigan. He’d even been tempted, for a moment or two, to simply end them all. The heavens knew that no one would miss them. They probably even deserved it. Yet, it was one thing to think that they deserved it. It was another thing entirely to wash his hands in their blood. More to the point, at least for Sen, was that they simply weren’t a threat to him. Individually or as a group, he doubted they could have even cut him, let alone killed him. It would have amounted to mindless butchery on his part, and that was a path he wanted no part of. If they had attacked him, or Bigan, Sen might have treated the matter differently. They had run away. That had been enough for Sen.

“Perhaps,” admitted Sen. “But their blood isn’t on my hands this way. You also haven’t considered what might have happened if it had turned into a fight. It wouldn’t have been them against me. It would have been them against us. I was almost certainly going to survive. I couldn’t guarantee that you would have. All it would have taken is one person and a lucky blow, and I’m delivering your corpse to your uncle.”

Bigan rocked back at that blunt assessment. He clearly hadn’t thought about the idea that the bandits would consider him a fair target. He went a little pale at the idea. The young man sat there for several minutes thinking things over before he abruptly turned away and stretched out on his blankets. Sen knew the boy was pretending to sleep, but it spared him any more awkward conversation. He wasn’t Bigan’s father or older brother. It wasn’t his responsibility to drag the boy into adulthood. Closing his eyes, Sen let himself drop into active cultivation. While the idea that the Stormy Ocean sect might be hunting him still nagged at the edges of his mind, there had been no signs of pursuit that Sen could discern. The farther he traveled, the less likely it was that any pursuit would yield results. He always put up the obscuring formation at night, though, just to be on the safe side. For most of the afternoon, though, something else had been nagging at Sen. It was subtle at first. So subtle, in fact, that he’d thought he was imagining it. But as dusk approached, Sen became sure. He felt a gentle tugging. It was nothing like that insistent tugging he’d felt to go to the ocean, but it was there all the same. It was coming from ahead of them on the road somewhere. All he needed to do was find the source.

***

“There’s a village coming up,” said Bigan the next morning as they pulled the wagon back onto the road.

“How far?” Sen asked.

Bigan shrugged. “About half a day.”

“Good,” said Sen.

“I should be able to find word about my uncle there. They might even still be there. We’ve been making very good time,” Bigan noted, giving Sen a suspicious look.

Sen sat there in beatific silence. Bigan snorted, but let it go. They rode in silence for the better part of the morning until hints of civilization started to spring up. They were sparse hints, at first. Sen spotted a broken-down fence that had been overtaken by the forest. Then, there was a fallow field. Finally, the forest started giving way to small farms. They looked like desperate affairs to Sen, with small houses or huts that looked like the first bad storm would blow them over. The farmers themselves cast wary, hollow-eyed looks at the passing wagon. Sen did his best not to let his gaze linger. He didn’t mean to stop at those farms, so there was no reason to alarm the inhabitants.

The closer they got to the village proper, though, the tidier and better kept the farms became. Sen didn’t know if it was a case of the farms sitting on better land, or if the farmers there were better at their trade. He supposed it was probably some combination of the two. Sen had helped with the gardens up on the mountain. So, he had a passing understanding of soil quality, composting, and even crop rotation. He would never mistake himself for a farmer, though. He was no more equipped to judge the true inner workings of a farm than he was equipped to judge the inner workings of a forge. At best, he could make passing observations. Still, his passing observation was that the farms closer to the village were doing better than the ones on the outskirts. He supposed the inner farms faced fewer problems with things like spirit beast attacks. Most spirit beasts weren’t as intelligent as Falling Leaf, but they were more than smart enough to stick to the fringes of civilization unless pressed by some terrible need or outside force.

Once they reached the village proper, Sen let Bigan take the lead. The boy had pressing needs of his own, while Sen was distracted by that subtle tugging. As they approached the village, the direction had shifted from more or less ahead to somewhere a bit off to the west. Sen noted that there was a small road, more of a wagon path really, that headed out of the village in that direction. He made a mental note to inquire about what was out that direction. He was curious, but cautious as well. He thought that those tugs were a message of some kind that an opportunity existed somewhere. Yet, Sen wasn’t eager to discover in the moment that the opportunity would take the form of intense personal peril. He wouldn’t necessarily turn away from the opportunity if it involved danger. Sen just wanted to know about it ahead of time.

While Sen had been lost in his own thoughts, Bigan had apparently found his uncle. The boy let out a cry that was half relief, half surprise, and pulled the wagon to a stop. He jumped down and ran at the small collection of other wagons.

“Uncle,” Bigan shouted.

The tall, gaunt man that Sen remembered arguing with the boy turned and simply stared at his nephew. The shock radiating from the man was almost palpable. The older man simply stared at the boy for a time while a torrent of words exploded from Bigan’s mouth. The boy’s uncle snapped his gaze over to where Sen sat at something the boy said. The man looked very nervous as he studied Sen, who did nothing to relieve the man of that concern. He just stared back, his expression empty. After the river of words slowed down, Sen saw Bigan’s expression change into something more serious. For around ten minutes, there was a low, intense conversation between the young man and his uncle. Then, the older man turned Bigan over to what appeared to be other family members who looked both happy and exasperated at the young man’s reappearance. The uncle made his way over to the wagon. Sen hopped down to the ground and waited. When the older man arrived, he seemed at a loss and fell back on formality, giving Sen a deep bow.

“Honored cultivator. You have returned my nephew to me through storm and trial it seems. I must thank you.”

Sen offered the man a much shallower bow and said, “The boy owes me a debt. One I’m sure that he doesn’t fully grasp, yet. I will return to collect on that debt. I would be very disappointed to discover on that day that someone had, for example, left him somewhere to die far from any aid. Do you understand?”

Every drop of blood drained from the older man’s face at those words. “I understand, honored cultivator.”

“Good,” said Sen, rubbing a spot between his eyes. “He doesn’t realize what you did. I have not told him. While it was done for the boy’s benefit, you will also benefit from that omission on my part. I will expect you to remember this courtesy, should our paths cross again.”

The older man offered another deep bow. “I will remember, honored cultivator.”

“Very well. I made a crude repair to the wheel, but it should be fixed by someone more knowledgeable.”

“I will see it done,” said Bigan’s uncle.

At that, Sen simply walked away. He’d done what he could for Bigan’s survival. As frustrating as Sen found the young man, the boy was basically decent. Perhaps his experience on the road would change him, perhaps not. That was ultimately in Bigan’s hands. Sen hoped it would. In the meantime, he’d given the boy a patina of protection. The possibility of a wandering cultivator’s future wrath was a potent shield of protection, but also a fragile one. If it came to pass, the destruction it heralded could be vast. Yet, that threat was balanced against the low probability that the cultivator really would return one day. Yes, it was a terribly fragile shield, but it was the one that Sen had to offer. With that matter finally settled as much as it could be settled, Sen turned his attention to finding out what lay to the west of the village.

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