Fiction Friday:
The Book of Micah, Ep. VII

The harvest festival continued in the square as revelers drank and danced and thanked the gods for their bounty, but Micah had had enough. Unused to strong drink, his head seemed to buzz behind his eyes and the sounds of the celebration were too loud in his ears. He walked the path into the forest. Coming to a grassy clearing, he saw he was not alone. On the ground lay a young man, chest bare, knees splayed, arms stretched out above his head. Micah stopped short, unable to look away. The sun was drawing nearer the horizon, casting gold on everything, and everyone, it touched. The buzzing in his head disappeared, only to be replaced by crackling fire, like bolts of lightning shooting through his limbs. Sensuous beauty seemed to glow from the stranger, brightening the space and charging the air.

In a moment, the man pushed himself up on his elbows and looked toward Micah, as if he’d known someone watched him.

“Hello?”

Micah stepped out from the shadow of trees, as though the young man’s greeting were a summons. He walked forward until he stood only an arm’s length away. “Hello.” Micah’s voice sounded distant to his own ears.

The man sat up and offered a wave toward the grass, inviting Micah to sit, as he introduced himself, “I am Balaban, son of Tarhus, apprentice to Dorin the Silversmith.”

Micah dropped down, feeling as though his legs could no longer support him. He cleared his throat.

“Micah, son of Hulder,” he managed to speak without his voice revealing the trembling he felt in his body. “I am apprenticed to Master Goodrich the Woodworker.”

That evening, as the sun sank to the horizon, Micah and Balaban did nothing more than speak. They shared no polite handclasp, no friendly punch nor teasing shove. Yet as Micah lay back in his bed listening to the remnant of festivalgoers who had still more to celebrate, his skin felt branded simply from time spent in Balaban’s presence.

“We saw one another on market days,” Micah recounted to his wife, “though we rarely had moments together amid the bustle of customers. My eyes would travel of their own accord to the silversmith’s stall, hoping to catch a passing glance and share a smile. Certainly, Balaban thought nothing more of me than a boon companion. Yet, once or twice, as I looked toward him, I thought, perhaps, his eyes were trained my way.”

The first snowfall was late in coming that last year of his apprenticeship. By the first day of winter, it had not yet snowed and the ground was still soft. Crowds flooded into the village, celebrating the solstice. Micah and Balaban chased one another from the village green toward the wood. Among the trees, Micah grasped Balaban’s hand. At the clearing, they stepped out into the glow of the rising moon. Both men grinned, eyes shining with joy simply to be in the company of one another. Micah had imagined the moment so many times. He let go of Balaban’s hand. and raised his arms up to hold Balaban’s firm, broad shoulders.

“I had thought to kiss him,” Micah explained. “I’d lie in my bed each night planning every detail, but when the moment came, I was afraid. He couldn’t want my kiss, I was sure. Instead I hooked a foot around his knee and knocked him to the ground. He caught hold of my tunic as he fell, pulling me down as well. I landed beside him and he punched me in the ribs.” Vestia shook her head, smiling with her husband as he laughed at the memory.

After a moment, Micah’s smile left his face and he took a bite of stew. Vestia watched in silence as he chewed slowly, swallowed, then took a long drink of ale. He sighed before continuing his story.

“Months passed before Balaban and I shared a kiss. He’d sent me a note to meet him in the clearing at sunset. By then, I knew about his betrothal. I’d also come to believe he had no wish to exchange vows with a bride.”

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