Jiminy Barkshield

Born in the far-off pastures north of Ma'at, the young Jiminy lived with his grandfather in their riverside wattle-and-daub cottage. Days were filled with tending to their vineyard, beekeeping, and herding their small, proud stock of goats around the riverlands. His grandfather, formerly a renowned apothecary, ensured that Friday evenings were filled with fine food, excellent company, and plenty of learning; even hours after dark, their cottage could always be heard teeming with discussions of nature, philosophy, religion and the sciences, illuminated by the glow of bright rushlights. Entire loaves of rich, braided bread vanished one after the other, shared by treasured friends and dipped in pottery cups of deep red wine. While life was not always easy, Jim knew he lived with a wealth that few others would be lucky enough to know--there was a richness to his life, where the only dark corners were mysteries to be explored and caches of knowledge to be revealed.  

Rising at the dawn of each new day, the two would break their fast with bowls of warm oat porridge dotted with walnuts and sweet raisins. After working outdoors in the cool hours of the morning, they would then return to their hearth for a warm dinner of flat bread cooked on pebbles, fresh goat's milk cheese, and spiced stews of foraged greens, red beans and dried limes. Keeping cool under the shade of their roof during the hours of high sun, Jiminy and his grandfather would work on household tasks and upkeep, ranging from repairing worn carpets to re-parging the walls of their home in lime plaster. Late afternoon saw Jiminy bid his grandfather goodbye as he set off to bring their herd of goats back home for the night, out of the reach of mountain lions and other beasts.

It was at this hour where our story begins, with an exhausted Jiminy returning home from the fields. Choosing to relax by the river to cool off from the beating summer heat, he ducked into the cottage to exchange his shepherder's cane for his grandfather's fishing basket. With fishing rod in one hand and a flask of switchel in the other, he wandered over to the pebble banks of the nearby stream. Sitting down on a comfortable beached log, he cast out his lure into the shimmering, sun-soaked waters. Hours passed without a bite while the impatient sun journeyed across the sky from afternoon to evening. The breeze was cool, and the day was beautiful, so Jim tipped his straw hat over his eyes and relaxed in his perch. A sharp tug to his rod nearly knocked his hat off, shaking him to attention. There, hooked in the clear blue shallows, was the most brilliant fish he had ever seen. Its body was resplendent with scales of fine lapis lazuli, streaked turquoise and rippling flakes of gold, with beady eyes of cut gem which seemed to sparkle with every hue--the creature was unlike any he could have imagined. Bracing his shoulders against the unusually strong catch, he slowly and painstakingly reeled it in until it emerged from the water, thrashing about as it hung from its silken wire. But just as soon as it had been caught, the wire snapped, sending the creature plunging back into the river, dousing Jiminy with a splash of icy spray.

He looked around, astonished, swearing he could have heard the familiar sound of a blade cutting through fishing wire. Turning around to face the riverbank, he tried to get up and off of his log, only for a sharp gust of wind to send his hat flying towards the stream. Suddenly, the sounds of light giggling filled the air, followed closely by shushing from deeper voices.

Immediately, waves of exhaustion began cascading over him. Not the feeling of tired muscles after a long day of manual labour, but an unnatural fatigue, as if with each second his body became more and more weighed down, pulled firmly towards the earth. First his arms and legs seemed to fill with lead, to the point where it felt useless to try and hold them up. Sinking down into a supine position, fatigue spread to every corner of his being as insuppressible waves of relaxation calmed everything from his fingertips to his toes, eventually reaching his face. A small jolt ran through the log on which he lay, and the sound of wood rubbing on gravel filled his ears, piercing the calm consistency of running water; despite his unease, he felt his expression fall as his face went numb, eyelids slowly sliding closed, as he plunged into a deep, dream-filled slumber. 

***

Lightning flashed through the sky and ear-piercing explosions shook the air as he clung to the rails of the crow's nest. At the highest point of their galleon, the both sounds of warfare below and furious storm above assaulted his senses relentlessly. He wanted to leave this hellish place, to return back home--wherever home was, he could not remember. Soaking wet, frigid and unable to move, he looked down at the streaming yellow-and-black banners of their flagship. Fellow crewmembers were scrambling about on the deck, either manning the tarnished brass cannons or forming water bucket lines to bail out the ship as an enemy brigantine charged straight for them. Ramming into the hull, Jiminy grabbed for the railing of his crows nest, only for it to disappear, sending him hurtling towards the deck below. Unable to open his mouth to yell, he closed his eyes and prayed.

Shafts of light beamed down from the sky as the storm clouds parted. A hand reached down and caught Jiminy, and the world filled with a bright glow.

***

Carefully perching himself on a tree branch next to the humming beehive, he held out a bundle of burning pine needles below the entrance. Fragrant smoke filled his senses, and the hum of bees quieted until he was surrounded by calm. It was a familiar sensation, but he could not quite place where he had done this before. Reaching for the basket at his hip, he glanced down at the group of friends picnicking below. Their deep green bottles of wine glimmered in the afternoon sun, while a banner of wine red and pale green flapped lazily in the breeze. Fragrant smoke drifted around his field of view, thicker and less gentle than before. Turning back to where the hive lay, he now only saw a thick, grey wall of smoke, pluming from various points on the tree. Cracks sounded along the branch, louder and more frequent with each second. But rather than holding onto hope in his situation, Jiminy stood up, and took a leap of faith.

Shafts of light pierced through the smoke. A hand reached out and caught Jiminy, and the world filled with a bright glow.

***

Rain pelted down onto his steel pot helmet as he clutched his pike and tower shield in formation. The ground had gone to mud hours ago, and the grassy field it once was had faded to distant memory. It was cold, and the sun was no intention of revealing itself now. He looked to his left and to his right, examining the faces of those that stood beside him down the line. Patches of mud, cuts and bruises painted their faces like illuminated manustripts, each blemish with its own tale to tell. Despite the rain and the cold, despite the mud and the pain, grins adorned the faces of all. Up ahead, a line began its advance, easily twice at great in numbers. Looking back at his own line, Jiminy realised not a single one had peeled away--each one knew that even if it was to be their last fight, they would be a sharp a thorn as possible in the enemy's side. A split second later, both lines were upon eachother; the grinding mêlée pulled soldiers from both sides into its maelstrom, and Jiminy was thrust into the fight.

No shafts of light appeared now. As he fell to the ground, muddied and bruised, the image of a frail, bearded man and an ox filled his mind's eye. Tilting his head upwards, the old man opened his jaw and spoke five words.

THOU SHALT HOLD THE LINE.

***

For four months, Jiminy laid fast asleep on his log, drifting downriver through the territory of Ma'at. As a favour to his grandfather, with whom they were previously acquainted in his journeys across Mundus, the dryads of these shimmering waters guided Jiminy, keeping him safe from the less savoury creatures and treacherous currents. Drifting through vicious battlefields, relentless forest fires, and otherwise-lethal rapids, the water dryads accompanied Jiminy to the shores of Bastet. As if by its own will, the log beached itself on the rocky banks within the city, forcing its passenger awake.

Opening his eyes for the first time in what felt like years, painfully bright light flooded his vision as the hot midday sun hung overhead. He rushed to raise his arm to block the light, but found himself unimaginable weak. Thankfully, two shadows extended over him, a much-needed respite from the sun's glare. These shadows belonged to two men, each wearing a surcoat, the likes of which Jiminy had not seen before; a black fist clutching a crown adorned a green field with a white bend. Feeling his strength quickly fading, he opened his mouth and said the only words that would come to him: "Thou shalt hold... the line."