Unwanted Chatterbox

Worn boots trudged through the fresh mud. It clung to the laces and wiggled its way into the hole near Barnaby’s left sole. He tried his best to ignore the raindrops striking at his face and tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Beads of water ran down his glasses. They returned seconds later, no matter how much he tried to swipe them away. He didn’t dare complain, though. His mother would scold him if she heard another peep out of his mouth. Barnaby could only grit his teeth, hoist his pack over his shoulder, and continue to fight through the mud.

Their small caravan slowly made its way down the road, the only noise being the rain hitting the sopping grass and the wind running through the trees. The group had long since stopped talking. Most of the women and children road on carts pulled by the stronger men. Barnaby had volunteered to walk at the front. Anything was better than hauling a heavy wooden wagon around. Then again, at least those people had tarps to cover their heads and could sleep when the roads weren’t too rough. All Barnaby could do now was walk, and hope there weren’t any thieves up ahead.

The sound of feet suctioning out of mud grew louder, faster. Barnaby glanced over his shoulder, heart racing. Thankfully, it wasn’t raiders. Just some kid in a bright red jacket. He came to a stop beside Barnaby, his tiny chest heaving.

“You’re Barnaby, right?” The boy’s voice was squeaky with the slightest hint of cockiness. He had a gap between his two front teeth, and Barnaby could see that the kid’s hair was a mess underneath the hood. Barnaby raised an eyebrow, slowing his gate enough for the kid to catch up.

“You should get back to the wagon.” He nodded his head toward the cart. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“Nah, I don’t catch colds.” The boy straightened his own backpack. It was blue and green with cartoonish figures on the back. Barnaby doubted that it held anything of real importance. The boy craned his neck up, keeping his eyes on Barnaby as they walked. “What are you doing up here?”

“Keeping watch.” Had he seen this boy before? No, definitely not. Maybe he was one of the people that had joined them along the road. Plenty of families grouped up in the country, if only for survival's sake. Still, this kid barely looked half as old as Barnaby. Was he on his own, or were his parents somewhere toward the back? He was just about to ask when the kid sped up, marching on ahead of him. “Hey!” Barnaby grabbed the boy by the back of his jacket, pulling him back. The motion caused the kid’s hood to fall back. Barnaby paused, tugging it back over the idiotic child’s head. “Don’t do that, okay? Go back to your parents before you get yourself in trouble.”

The boy’s lips pursed, and for a moment, Barnaby thought he’d screwed up. Was this kid on his own? Orphans were all too common nowadays, so he wouldn’t be surprised. But this boy was so young. It seemed almost cruel—

“My mom’s napping, and Dad is busy pulling her cart thingy.” He skipped ahead, his tiny footprints quickly being covered up by Barnaby’s. He stuck out his tongue and tilted his head up to the clouds. Barnaby smacked the kid on the back of the head.

“I told you to go back to your parents. You need to do what you’re told.”

The kid frowned, looking Barnaby up and down. “How old are you?”

Does this kid only ask questions? Barnaby held back a groan. Well, I guess any conversation is better than being stuck up here alone. Even if it is with an annoying half-pint.

“I’m sixteen,” he answered, focusing again on the road in front of them. His feet were starting to kill him, and the mud in his shoe wasn’t helping. The adults would have to stop for a break soon, which meant Barnaby could finally rest his tired toes. He squinted, trying to see if there were any shelters beyond the thick trees. It was no good; it was a miracle he could see the kid at this point, with all the scratches and water obstructing his vision.

High-pitched laughter interrupted his thoughts. The boy was giggling under his breath, and it took all of Barnaby’s restraint not to knock him into the next week.

“What’s so funny?” He tried to sound scary, but the cold had taken all his fight out of him. The boy pulled his hood a little further over his eyes.

“You’re only four years older than me! Who put you in charge, huh?”

No one, he wanted to say. He’d just had to do it because no one liked being the first person down the path. But no one liked carrying the wagons, either, just like no one liked sleeping in a barely covered, rough cart. That was the bad part about being an unlucky kid. Drawing lots never went the way you wanted them to. So as much as Barnaby hated the sores on his feet and the constant cough in his throat, he kept walking.

Barnaby wiped a finger over his lenses. Ignoring the kid’s questioning look, he said, “What’s your name, scamp?”

“Braden, but Mom calls me Brady.”

“How’d you find out my name?”

Brady grinned, puffing out his chest. “I was walking around and saw you out here at the front. I asked some old guy who you were and what you were doing all by yourself.”

Barnaby rolled his eyes. “And you thought you would just waltz on up here?”

“I didn’t waltz, I walked.” The boy’s deadpan response made Barnaby snort. The older boy quickly covered it up with a cough, not that Brady seemed to notice. “And it wasn’t as if anyone stopped me.”

Barnaby put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Look, that was very brave of you and all, but you should really get back to your mother. You wouldn’t want her to get lonely, right?”

Brady shoved his hands in his pockets. The tip of his nose was bright red, and his cheeks were quickly following suit. He looked up at Barnaby, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. A pale lock fell across his forehead.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

Barnaby’s hand jerked back as if he’d been shocked. At the same moment, Brady stumbled over a root hidden in the mud. He quickly recovered and continued talking as if nothing had happened.

“I mean, it seems pretty mean, putting you up here by yourself. Don’t you have any friends?”

Friends? Had this kid lived under a rock his whole life? Barnaby reached out a hand and grabbed Brady’s shoulder, both to make sure he didn’t face-plant into the mud and to keep him from running too far ahead. When he didn’t answer immediately, Brady looked up at him. A little drop of water fell from the branches above and splashed on his cheeks.

Brady crossed his arms. “I used to have a friend. Back home, I mean. I bet he’s crying like a little baby now that I’m gone, having real adventures and stuff.” His voice grew a little quieter, barely audible of the wind and rain. “You have the same stupid look on your face that he did.”

Barnaby rolled his eyes, hand still on Brady’s shoulder. Well, he supposed some conversation was better than nothing, even if it was with a bratty little kid. He rolled his neck, letting the water trail down his neck. He pushed Brady a bit behind him.

“Listen, you can stay up here, but you need to go drop your pack off with your mom. You’re going to get real sick of carrying it around.”

Brady screwed up his face, grabbing at the straps of his backpack. “But you carry your bag around.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m in charge.” Barnaby flicked the boy in the face, leaving a bright red spot on his forehead. “Now go before I change my mind and tell your dad you were sneaking off.”

Brady rubbed at the spot on his head with grimy hands, but a smile still played at the corners of his mouth. He spun on his heel, running through the mud and ducking through the carts behind Barnaby.

“Be back in a second, Barns!”

Barns? The boy was already gone, though, disappearing in the mist. Barnaby turned back around facing the empty forest in front of him. For now, he would enjoy the relative silence, even though the cold was starting to seep through his clothes. The kid would be back soon enough if his parents didn’t get to him first. Barnaby tightened his pack’s straps and let out a slow breath that fogged up before him. Just a few more miles to go. A few more miles until he could rest, take off his shoes, and curl in front of a warm fire. Until then, he would just have to deal with the hole in his shoes and the water forever trailing down his glasses. And from the sound of squelching shoes behind him, he would have to deal with one new short problem, one that seemed to be too chatty for the dreary atmosphere around them.

           He supposed there could be worse things to struggle with.