For Boredom's Sake: Eric's Tale - Chapter VII: And a Parting

For Boredom's Sake: Eric's Tale

Chapter VII: And a Parting
By Eric Greer


"So, how much further does this forest go on?" asked Eric, munching on a small piece of bread. Mortimer had roused him from his sleep sometime in the late morning. Sunlight was pouring in through the window. Outside the sky was clear, without a cloud in sight.
"Not too much further," said the old man, picking up his bowl of slop from the table. "I'd say a day's walk, due east of here. You should set eyes on the port of Tal from the treeline, though it's easily another half a day of walking further." He lifted the bowl and gestured toward the door, spilling slop on the floor.
"Is Tal a major port? Will I be able to charter passage north?" asked Eric, relieved that the settlement he had chosen was indeed a port.
"Possibly," replied the old man, raising his spirits. "But, winter has come, and trade will slow." His spirits sank. "The seas in these parts get a violent streak in them during the winter months, and passage becomes treacherous. First snow fall usually tells the captains that it's about time to high tail it back north."
"Then I had better be on my way," said Eric, starting to stand up.
Mortimer suddenly grabbed Eric's arm with both hands. "Yes, I believe you'd better had. But...."
Eric could sense a some sort of delay coming up.
"But... what?" he asked.
Mortimer then let go of his arm and raised his bowl of slop to his lips and began to make a disgusting sipping noise.
"Well?"
The old man let out a sigh as he set the bowl down again, then wiped his face with his sleeve.
"Well?" Eric repeated.
"What?" The look on Mortimer's face was quite quizzical.
"I said I should be on my way, but you stopped me." This old man was most definitely addled.
"Oh, yes, of course. What was it again? Let me think for a moment," he said, putting his right hand on his chin and closing his eyes.
This is ridiculous, thought Eric. I'm wasting precious time while this old man... is he sleeping?!
Indeed, a soft snoring had started issuing from Mortimer, his head lulled to one side.
Standing up, Eric slammed his fist onto the table.
"Oh! What? What's all this ruckus?" asked Mortimer.
"I'm wasting time. If I don't hurry I'm going to be stuck on this backwater rock until spring!"
"Ah, yes! That's it! Time! Something I don't have much of, I'm afraid," said the old man, matter of factly.
"What the hell are talking about? I don't have time for this." Eric grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder.
"I'm going to die tonight, sonny." Mortimer said this as if he were telling him about the weather.
Oh, god, he though, don't tell me he wants me to stay with him while he dies.
"If you wouldn't mind, I'd like some company while I pass."
Damn. It. All.
"I'll make it worth your while!"
"How?" he asked flatly, sitting down again. He accepted that the world around him was most likely going to be hellbent on delaying him; this old man was probably just the first in a long line of pains in his ass.
"Will you stay? I promise, I'll die quickly!"
"Fine," he replied, his voice full of gloom.
"Oh, good, good!" He stood up and began to circle around the room, his arms held out as if holding someones hands, dancing.
This guy is absolutely, positively insane.
Suddenly, Mortimer slumped to the ground.
For a moment, Eric thought the old man had died.
"Just practicing!" he gleefully exclaimed.
Absolutely. Positively. Insane.
Slamming his head against the table, Eric began to curse himself.

"I used to be quite the adventurer!" said the old man. He was now lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. "Yep! I sailed the oceans, looking for adventure! Why, I remember when my mate Peg Leg Pete and I pulled into port one night after a long stretch at sea. We must have bedded every lady on that coast that weekend. I says to him, I says, "Pete! There isn't a lass on this island under seventy!" But we didn't care; we had been at sea for so long, a pulse probably wasn't even required! Pulse optional! Haha!"
Across the room Eric was still slamming his head against the table. Mortimer had been regaling his life to him for hours, from his time island hopping to every woman he had bedded.
Why won't he just die? he thought.
As if in answer, Mortimer suddenly stopped.
"Oh. Oh. I think.... Yes, I think...."
Finally.
"Eric, please come over to my bedside. Please," he said.
Obliging, Eric crossed the room.
As he drew near, Mortimer reached one arm under his bed. After a few moments of searching, he pulled out a bundle of cloth.
"I give you my most prized possession, Eric," he said, pushing the bundle into Eric's arms. "It is my sword. I carried it with me in my youth, and it has seen many years of hard and noble service. It's-"
"A piece of crap," said Eric, bluntly. He had taken the sword from the bundle of cloth. The scabbard was worn and nearly falling apart, and the blade was a copper color, pitted with rust and nicked and notched. "Wait... is there potato on this thing? Were you dicing potatoes with this?"
"- name is Bob," Mortimer continued, ignoring Eric's comments. "I have foreseen that you will have great need of Bob in the future. You have a dire road ahead of you, my friend."
"This is potato. God, what a piece of crap."
"One more thing, my friend, before I pass."
"Huh? Oh, what is it, oh Mortimer, dear friend and giver of crappy gifts?" Eric was still examining the blade. He could swear there was something else on the blade. It looked like carrot.
"Please, take Mortimer with you," he said, looking at the sleeping dog. "Mortimer! I'm dying, Mortimer! Don't you want to be with me in my final moments? Here boy!"
The dog didn't seem to react.
"Damned... dog...."
And so, Mortimer passed on. Mortimer the man, not Mortimer the dog; Eric was fairly certain the dog was still doing fine.
"Good god," said Eric. As happens in real life, but is rarely depicted in literature or film, Mortimer's sphincter had loosened. "Good god!" Eric quickly grabbed his bag, and, covering his nose and mouth with his arm, ran to the door.

"Mortimer! Mortimer! Here boy!" He had been calling at the open door of the house for several minutes now, but the dog just didn't want to leave his bed of hay.
"Fine!" he said, turning away. "I don't like dogs anyways."
He then took the sword ("Bob") from it's scabbard.
This thing is embarrassing, he thought. But, Mortimer was right: he was going to need a weapon on his journey. But, still....
Reluctantly he attached it to his belt. Amazingly, it didn't fall apart.
He picked up his bag, and, with one last look at Mortimer's small home, he slung it over his shoulder and turned away, making his way east through the forest, on his way to the port of Tal.

After awhile, he began to wonder if the old man had wanted to be buried.
Oh well, he thought as he continued on his journey.


Copyright 2011 by Eric Greer. All rights reserved.