The Kodiak

FOLLOW THE MINSTREL

PHIL AND FRITA

The evening sun filtered through the shutters of a small cottage in Apex, filling the air with the scent of fresh bread. Flour dust floated lazily above the worktable where Frita kneaded dough with practiced hands.

The door swung open.

Phil burst inside wearing the grin that usually meant trouble.

“Frita, I’ve had a brilliant idea.”

Frita didn’t even look up.

“Should I be worried?”

“I think,” Phil announced, placing his hands on his hips, “that we could make a fair sum of money singing for the drunks at the tavern.”

That got her attention.

She looked up.

“You are the drunkard at the tavern.”

Phil pointed at her.

“No, I’m serious.”

“So am I. All the coins you earn selling my baked goods that aren’t spent on rent, flour, firewood, and other living expenses end up in your ale cup.”

Phil smiled triumphantly.

“You see? That’s exactly my point.”

“What point?”

“Drunks spend money.”

Frita stared at him.

“No. No, Phil. That’s not a point. That’s an addiction.”

Ignoring this entirely, Phil continued.

“We become traveling performers. Sing songs. Tell stories. The people love stories.”

“You can’t play an instrument.”

“I can learn.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Watch this.”

From behind his back he produced a strange round object wrapped in leather.

Frita blinked.

“What is that?”

“A drum.”

“It looks like a bucket that lost a fight.”

“A drum,” Phil repeated proudly. “A fine drum.”

She took it from him and examined the craftsmanship.

To her surprise, it wasn’t terrible.

In fact, it was rather good.

“This is not a bad job.”

Phil straightened.

“I know.”

“You made this?”

“While sitting at the market.”

Frita looked impressed despite herself.

Then she struck the drum.

Boom.

Another strike.

Boom.

A rhythm formed.

Phil smiled.

“You see? We already have music.”

Frita grinned mischievously.

“Oh, we’re making music?”

That should have warned him.

Instead, Phil sat down.

“Proceed.”

Frita beat the drum again.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Then she began to sing.

“I met a strange man years ago,

A curious fool with nowhere to go.

Nobody liked him wherever he’d tread,

Most folks wished he’d leave instead.”

Phil’s smile faded slightly.

“That’s fair.”

“And I didn’t like him either,

Not a little bit.

Not one tiny bit.”

“Less fair.”

“But then he helped me learn to bake,

To shape the dough and make sweet cakes.

He stayed through failures every day,

And taught me not to run away.”

Phil’s smile returned.

“See? A lovely song.”

“He helped me bake.

He helped me grow.

He taught me things I didn’t know.

He promised roads we’d one day roam,

Beyond the town we’d call our home.”

Now Phil was positively glowing.

Frita continued.

“And now I love him more than bread,

More than pies both round and spread.

More than cakes and sugared treats,

More than all the food I eat.”

Phil nodded happily.

“Very good.”

NORTH AND EAST

“For though he’s not the finest sight—”

Phil narrowed his eyes.

“Frita…”

“He’s rather short if we’re honest here—”

“Frita.”

“And sometimes after market days,

The man develops certain aromas—”

“FRITA.”

“Not horrible aromas, mind you, just—”

“THAT’S ENOUGH.”

Frita burst into laughter so hard she nearly dropped the drum.

Phil pointed accusingly.

“You were doing so well.”

“I was being honest.”

“You were being mean.”

“The best songs are honest.”

“The best marriages omit details.”

Eventually the laughter subsided.

Frita set the drum down.

“Fine.”

She folded her arms.

“If we’re doing this, you show me the world.”

Phil extended his hand.

“You have my word.”

She took it.

The bargain was made.

Weeks later, long after their first performances had begun drawing coin from tavern patrons, Phil came barreling through the door again.

This time he looked pale.

And excited.

A dangerous combination.

“Frita!” he shouted.

“Get your things.”

She looked up from a tray of cooling pastries.

“What?”

“We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Harthsmere.”

Frita blinked.

“Harthsmere?”

“Why?”

Phil was already gathering supplies.

“There was a huge brawl in town.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you on the road.”

“No.”

Phil stopped.

“No?”

“Not on the road.”

“Why not?”

“Because every time you tell a story on the road, you turn it into a song.”

Phil opened his mouth.

She raised a finger.

“Not in a song, Phil. Just tell me.”

Phil sighed dramatically.

“A lady’s kid got snatched.”

Frita’s expression fell.

“Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It really is.”

Frita grabbed her travel bag and headed for the door.

Behind her, Phil nodded thoughtfully.

“You know…”

She groaned.

“No.”

“It would’ve been better news in a song.”

“Phil.”

“And now that I think about it, it actually has a rather good rhythm to it—”

“Phil.”

“I’m hearing drums already.”

“PHIL.”