The Old Man and His Cabin

I felt like the stairs were going to crumble beneath my feet. As I reached the porch, I looked up at the home in front of me. I was expecting a cabin, due to how deep into the Stone Forest I was, but I wasn’t expecting him to live in a cabin so… derelict. The logs on the outside were laced with moss, most of them rotting. The roof looked like a rainstorm away from collapsing in on itself, and one of the windows in the front was shattered.

He can’t be here, I thought. I should’ve known from the way Spintree was so secretive with his sources, but this lead felt different. I reached the wooden door and knocked, careful of splinters from the decaying door.

“Mr. Farmoor?” I called. Nothing but the sound of the wind through the trees answered. I knocked again. “Hello?” My doubts slowly being confirmed, I started back down the stairs to peer at the back of the cabin. The door swung open behind me.

I turned around and saw a bearded man staring at me with his arms crossed. He wore a flowing brown cloak and his infamous dagger on his belt. It was him. I wasn’t a religious fanatic like some people back home, but I was still just as shocked.

The man who saved the world was standing on the porch in front of me.

He had a sullen look on his face, but one without a hint of surprise. He knew I was coming. Or, he at least knew someone was coming. I had prepared for this.

“Hello, Mr. Farmoor. My name is Maria Cue. I’m an author. I was wondering if I might come in and talk to you?” He stared. Then, leaving the door open, he turned and ventured back into the cabin. I followed after him and closed the door. Despite his intimidating demeanor, Nikolas Farmoor’s reputation followed him around like a ghost; I knew I wasn’t in any danger.

The inside of the cabin was as decrepit as the outside. There were two rooms. The smaller one held his bed and a large lockbox next to it. The room we stood in held two wooden chairs, a table in between, and a wood-fire stove fitted in the corner. More windows were shattered on the two sides of the cabin to my left and right like someone had broken in. He took a seat and waved to the one across from him. I sat and studied the man before me. You expect the man to be as big as the legend, but this legendary figure was small in stature. He looked like a typical elderly man, but the scar running like a river across his cheek said otherwise.

“Let’s get on with it then.” His voice was course—years of screaming commands had taken a toll on it, I’m sure. I couldn’t make out the Eastern accent that the histories said he had.

“You seem prepared for this,” I said, taking out my parchment and ink.

He continued to stare.

I raised my eyebrow but readied my next prepared response. “I am hoping to write about your life Mr. Farmoor.” I paused, waiting for his objection. None came. “With your permission of course.” I held my head up high and stood my ground. I came all this way. I couldn’t be denied. Not now.

“Okay.”

That took me off guard. “Did you know I was coming?”

He thought at that. “Yes.”

There were thousands of pieces about Farmoor. From books, plays, songs, and even religions, his story was deeply rooted in our history. It makes sense, seeing that he was the leader of the rebellion. However, only one person had ever managed to speak to Farmoor about his experience in the war. Thomas Togun. His resulting book had been the wellspring from which these pieces of media drew. Nearly all common knowledge about Farmoor’s life could be traced back to that book, and originally, their meeting.

I planned to change that.

“I was hoping to revisit some items from Togun’s time with you, as well as conquer new territory with your life now.” I looked around. “Whatever that may entail. But seeing as nobody has been able to contact you since you met with him, I figure whatever I put out will sell.”

“Who is Togun?”

His mind must be worse than I thought. “Thomas Togun is the man who interviewed you about seventy-five years ago, Mr. Farmoor,” I said with sympathy.

“I don’t know any man by that name. I’ve never been interviewed.”

“You are Nikolas Farmoor, correct?” I asked, taken aback.

“I am. Look, I only let you in because I figured it was time for them to finally hear about what happened to me. Before I go, I thought maybe someone could learn from my mistakes.” He looked down, obviously thinking about the past. Probably when he lost the ancient daughter. “But if you can’t even get your facts straight, then I don’t see the use.”

“Mr. Farmoor, I apologize, but my facts are straight. Thomas Togun interviewed you seventy-five years ago, or at least he said he did, and later released a book. He titled it, ‘The Life of Nikolas Farmoor’.” He looked up and met my eyes. “Sir, he had quotes from you and witnesses of your meeting.”

We sat in silence. I couldn’t wrap my brain around this. If they didn’t have that meeting, then nothing we knew about Farmoor was true. With the knowledge that those histories were even a little bit false, my town would be thrown into chaos. Forget that, the world would be torn apart.

“What did he say about me?”

So I started to relay the histories to the man who inspired them.

He sat there in silence, taking in the words. Now and then he would ask for clarification, or to repeat what I said, but he never contradicted me. After about thirty minutes of recollecting everything I remembered, I finished with the meeting that Togun reportedly had.

“I think that’s about all of it. That I remember, at least,” I said.

“And people… believe all of this?” he asked.

“Some do more than just believe. They revere you.” I peered into his hard brown eyes. “Is any of it even true?” He got up from his chair and went to look out of the shattered window.

“I miss the plains in the east. Despite the bloodiest battles, despite my hardest decisions, I could always find peace in the wind. The wind doesn’t feel the same here.” He turned to look at me. “I wish it were true. Few of those stories are. The outcomes are similar, but the journey there was… much worse.”

“Mr. Farmoor, if it’s alright, I would love to hear your side of the story,” I said.

He sat back down and began to tell me the story I’d heard my entire life, with a few key details completely altered. He accomplished everything that Togun said he did, that was the good news. However, if I had known what he had done to get there, I never would’ve stepped foot in this cabin. He paused when he reached his daughter.

“Am I really this religious figure?” he asked.

“Most people know you are not a god. Very few are that fanatic. But most people look to you for strength and guidance.”

“I see. Before I left for the war, my wife said I would eventually run my family into the ground. She didn’t realize how right she was. I don’t deserve anything that your people give me. My men do.” He wiped away a tear. “My daughter does.” I reached to put my hand on his leg.

“Mr. Farmoor, you may not be the man I was expecting to see, but you are not the man from these stories. I can see that. Your daughter would be so happy to see that you’ve changed.”

I stood up from my chair. “I still want to write your story Mr. Farmoor, but I hardly think you deserve to be painted in that light.”

“This is what happened Maria.”

I gathered my supplies. “Yes, and trust me, I’m sitting on a gold mine. Every author’s dream. But sitting in front of me isn’t a person to take advantage of. It’s a friend. Who’s been worried his whole life that people would only see a monster. You’re just a man, trying to do his best. Like all of us.”

I visited Mr. Farmoor a few more times before his death. He showed me the woodworking that he did out back. He told me more stories of his childhood and the man he dreamed of being. I saw that man now. So while the author in me wanted to share the truth about the hero, I wanted to share the story of a friend. It may not have been the right decision, after all, the world does deserve to hear the truth, but couldn’t they also use a little hope?

I finished my book a year after his death. I wish I could say it sold as much as it would’ve if I had told a different story, but it didn’t. However, everyone who read it said they were inspired by the man in my story. The man who had regrets, but always strived to move forward.

The Old Man and His Cabin