On the Road to Allenvale

On a warm summer’s day in my thirtieth year, I drove my cart along the road to Allenvale. I was headed there to sell fine wines and spirits. When I was but a few miles into my journey, I met a man on the road to Allenvale—the strangest man I ever did see.

He wore a long, tattered cloak, full of holes covered by patches. No shoes were upon his feet; he stood on the side of the road with a wooden staff in his hand. His hair was wild and long; tangled and snarled with twigs and leaves seemingly woven in. His beard was scraggly and gray. His skin was weatherworn and wrinkled with age. He looked to be a madman as he stood there as if waiting for a ride. Yet, no roadster, wagoner, or coachman had stopped for him.

Normally, I’d give such a person a wide berth—seeing as such folk aren’t known to be good traveling companions. Yet, for some reason unbeknownst to me, I found myself pulling back on the reins and slowing both horse and cart to a stop. The stranger looked at me with such hope in his expression that I knew I couldn’t simply drive on now.

It was the man’s eyes, I realized later on. His eyes were a piercing, vivid blue, and they were sane—not the eyes of a madman. His eyes bespoke intelligence and keen understanding, even if the man himself did not speak. Moreover, his eyes seemed familiar to me, though I didn’t know why.

I was curious. I wondered why a man with such intelligence would look so disheveled—why someone with such keen understanding in his gaze would be standing on the side of the road. Could he find no work for his hands? Was he simply down on his luck, or was there more to his story?

“Pardon me,” the old man said hoarsely. “Are you by chance headed toward Allenvale?”

I nodded briefly. “I’m on my way to Allenvale,” I told him. “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

The stranger nodded back and then hesitated. “I’ve no money,” he warned me, “so I can’t pay you for your trouble.”

I shook my head. “It’s no trouble at all, friend. I’m already headed that way. Besides, you can tell me your story. That’ll be payment enough for me.”

The old man hesitated again, thinking about it. Then, he inclined his head. “Very well.” He climbed up to sit next to me. He was surprisingly agile for his age.

I clicked my tongue and snapped the reins gently to let my horse know we could be on our way again. My cart rattled down the road to Allenvale, clattering on the stone-laid path. We traveled in silence for a while, the stranger and I. Neither of us spoke.

Then, the old man broke the silence. “You asked for my story,” he began slowly, as if unsure where to start. I waited patiently, having enough good sense not to interrupt him while he was gathering his thoughts.

“Truth is, there isn’t much to tell,” he said finally, with a hint of apology in his tone. “At least, not much that you’d believe—even if I told you.”

I laughed pleasantly, drawing a surprised look from the old man. “Why don’t you tell it anyway,” I suggested, “and I’ll believe what I believe. At least you’ll know it to be true. And who knows? You might even convince me.”

The old man paused and thought about my answer. Then, he smiled faintly. “Very well. I’ll tell it. I’d ask that you refrain from questions or interruptions until the very end. I must warn you—it will sound to be a fairy tale in places, and certainly not grounded in reality.”

I chuckled again. “All stories are grounded in reality, friend, even fairy tales. Tell your tale, and I’ll keep my thoughts about it—and my silence—until it’s all said and done.”

My response drew another surprised, thoughtful look from the old stranger. Then, he drew in a breath and began.

“What feels like a lifetime ago—and perhaps it was—I was a young boy who dreamed of becoming a knight, fighting monsters, and slaying dragons. I grew up in a far-off land, hearing fairy tales, you see, and I thought there was no better vocation in the world than to become a knight.”

A faint, sad smile passed over his face as he reminisced. “I thought my days would be spent in glorious combat with my foes, while grateful townspeople looked on in admiration. I thought I would find fame and fortune and glory because of my skills with arms and armor. I thought that was what it meant to be a knight.”

“How wrong I was,” the old man whispered. “I found other things instead. Things the storybooks don’t tell you. Things like misery, poverty, and obscurity—those were what I found instead.”

The old man was silent for a time. Then, he continued. “I grew up and set my heart on becoming a knight. It was hard work, training to be a knight. I spent hours in the practice arenas, shedding blood, sweat, and even tears. But it was all worth it to me.

“I dedicated my life to the sword and what it stood for. The drive to become a knight consumed me. My parents and siblings couldn’t have been prouder the day I knelt before our king and swore my oaths to him. I received my title and my coat of arms. From that day on, I served my king with honor and dignity.”

I didn’t speak up and interrupt, but I must have had a surprised look on my face because the old man smiled. He nodded knowingly.

“I don’t look much like a knight, now do I?” he asked me wryly but did not expect an answer. “There’s more to my story, young man. There’s a reason I’m here in your lands instead of in my own. There’s a reason I was standing on the side of the road to Allenvale.”

He shifted on the wood bench next to me and then began again.

“The years passed. I married a beautiful woman I loved, and we had a son. However, I spent most of my days away from them, serving the king. Those were long days and nights that went by without seeing my wife or son. It was hard, but I thought my family understood. They knew how important my calling was.

“I rose through the ranks of the king’s knights and found myself—against all odds—included among his closest ranks of guards and advisors. I was finally made the head of his guard—the King’s Swords—sworn to protect and serve him above all else in life. For a moment, I had everything I thought I ever wanted—fame, fortune, and glory.

“I thought my wife and son would be so proud of me—after all that I had accomplished—as my family had been when I first became a knight. But when I returned home with the news, after being away for so long, I found it empty and abandoned. My family had gone. Where, I did not know. All they left me was a letter on the kitchen table, written in my wife’s hand. It told me that they were done being less important to me than being a knight.”

The old man bowed his head sorrowfully. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Pain was carved into his features.

“I was angry, at first. I thought they didn’t understand what I was doing for them. But I was the one who didn’t understand what I had done to them. In chasing after what I thought I really wanted, that was when I lost what really should have mattered most to me—my family. I thought being a knight was the highest, noblest vocation for me. It wasn’t. That was being a husband to my wife—a father to my son.”

The old man whispered tightly, “I was such a fool. It took me losing them to realize that—and by then, it was far too late. They were gone.”

I heard the tremor in the old man’s voice; I felt the ache and pain. It was my own. His story stirred something in me, deep and distant. Still, I kept silent, because I knew. His tale was not yet done.

“I resigned from my commission as the head of the King’s Swords that very night,” the old man continued.

“I set out after my family, searching for them. I started out with one of the finest horses in the kingdom—my prized war horse, a gift from the king. The shield with my coat of arms imprinted on it was in hand, my armor shone on my back. My sword was sheathed at my side—the sword that proved me a knight of the realm.

“I used the many resources at my disposal as I sought them out. I paid good coin for rumors of travelers matching my family’s descriptions and pursued various leads. I traveled to far-off lands in search of them, but it was like chasing after the wind. My wife and son were clever; they did not want to be found.”

The old man shook his head grimly. “As the days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years, I never found them. But I couldn’t just give up. I sold everything I owned to continue the search. My fine war horse, the shield with my coat of arms, the shining armor on my back—all of it.”

He paused. “I held onto my sword, though, for as long as I could. It was my last connection to my former life as a knight, you see, and I didn’t want to part with it.” The old man laughed hollowly. “How foolish was that? I knew it was being a knight which pulled me from my family, and yet I still clung to that sword.”

He shook his head again. “I finally parted with it, several years ago. I sold it for a fraction of its worth—traded it for a loaf of bread, in fact—all so I didn’t starve to death on a cold, wintry night. The last tie to my former life was finally gone. On that night, there I sat, miserable, impoverished, and unknown to the world around me. No one in that land knew who I was and likely wouldn’t care even if they did know—because I was that man no longer.

“Ever since then, over the years I’ve traveled across the world, wandering from nation to nation, moving from town to town, hoping to find my family again. Allenvale was next on my list, you see.”

The old man let out a sad, little laugh and finished quietly, “You asked for my story. There it is.”

I kept my silence for a while longer as we sat there in my cart, traveling on the road to Allenvale. Emotions warred within me. Finally, I spoke up. There was a question I needed answered.

“Your family—if you find them, what will you say to them?”

The old man didn’t hesitate. It was a question that had clearly been on his thoughts more than once over the years.

“When I find them, I’ll tell them how sorry I am—for the man I was, all those years ago. For not seeing them as most important in my life, as they should have been. I’d ask for forgiveness and a second chance to be a part of their lives once more—even though I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s what I’ll say to them,” he finished quietly.

I nodded thoughtfully but did not react outwardly any further. That was answer enough for me. The outskirts of Allenvale were upon us—our journey together was nearly at its end. I felt the old man’s gaze on me.

“You believe my story, then?” he asked softly.

People filled the city streets, and vendors called from their carts. Several raised their hands in greeting as they saw me, and I returned those waves. I have a friendly face; besides, the people here know me and I know them. It’s been some time since I’ve been back in Allenvale, but I still call it home.

“I’m a simple trader, friend,” I told him finally. “I sell wine and spirits in exchange for other goods. It’s not a glamorous trade, but it provides me with enough to survive. Sometimes I’ll get money, other times information or trinkets or food or stories.”

I directed the cart through the marketplace. After a moment’s pause, I made a decision and drove past my usual stall.

I continued, “You’re not the first person to tell their story in exchange for a ride, you know. I’ve heard lots of stories over the years, friend. Some of them happy; some sad. I’ve heard stories of sorrow and regret; stories of one’s life and the choices that led them to where they are today. Some are wild and fantastical, like fairy tales. As strange as fairy tales can be, I’ve found that sometimes, the reality is far stranger. As strange as such stories may be, they’re no less true.”

I pulled my cart to a stop in front of a small, familiar house full of memories and love on the side of the city streets of Allenvale. I knew it well. The old man frowned at me, not understanding why I had brought him here, of all places. I put my feet up on the running board in front of me and smiled faintly.

“Years ago, I heard a story similar to yours. The woman who told it to me has been waiting for a long time now. All these years she’s waited and hoped. She hoped her husband would one day come home to her and her son. She lives here, in this house, actually.”

I pointed to the left, drawing the old man’s attention to it.

“I think you two should finally have that conversation you’ve been wanting to have, friend. As for her son, well, you’ve already spoken to him.”

Confusion in the old man’s gaze turned to a shocked realization. His mouth opened in a wordless gasp, and tears sprang to his eyes. “How? How do you know this?” he finally asked.

I smiled faintly at him. He still didn’t understand. I placed my hand on his frail shoulder and looked into his piercing, vivid blue eyes. Eyes that had been familiar to me, because they were similar to my own. I did not need to speak. The old man’s eyes widened as the realization came to him. And he finally understood. He clung to me and wept in my arms, that man I met on the road to Allenvale—the strangest man I ever did see, my father, finally home.

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