Chapter Text
Mules and Mixed Metaphors
Jon was in the information and advice gathering stage of deciding how to approach his eldest. As was often the case when he needed information and advice, it was his sole surviving cousin he sought out. The only cousin who had not betrayed him.
“Has he been to see you recently?” Jon sat in one of Gary’s study chairs. A chair he had sat in a hundred times. A chair his oldest son might have occupied not too long ago. “Roald? I know he sometimes comes to you when he thinks he can’t talk to me because I am too stern or too unreasonable.”
He had, years ago, chosen not to be perturbed by that fact. To instead regard it as positive proof that he had been wise indeed to name Gary as Roald’s godsfather when Roald was a mere babe in arms.
“Why should he have come to me this time?” Gary’s eyes were sharp and fixed on Jon in the flickering golden candlelight that unevenly illuminated the shadows of his bookshelf-lined study. “Why should he believe that you are so stern and unreasonable?”
Jon paused. Collecting and arranging his thoughts into a semblance of order. Took a fortifying sip of the reddish drink Gary had offered and poured for him. It tasted of cranberries and spices from the damp jungles of the Copper Isles. Places where he had never set foot. Once his mouth was moistened and his mind suitably ordered, he related the full story of what had transpired in Lord Wyldon’s office. Complete with the background details of the contract Roald had written and persuaded many of his fellow pages to sign.
When Jon had finished his tale, Gary’s verdict was a single word, tartly spoken. A compound word, but still a single word. Disappointing in its paucity. “Mule-headed.”
“Mule-headed?” Jon pressed when Gary frustratingly failed to elaborate on this pronouncement. “Who is mule-headed? Lord Wyldon? My son? Me?”
“All three of you.” Gary spread his hands as if the answer were obvious. Self-evident. “Though primarily the first two in this particular incident. Lord Wyldon is–to borrow a phrase Alanna has uttered on more than one occasion–so stiff that if a design were painted on him, he could be used as a very effective shield. And your son was mule-headed as well, although, again, it can’t be too surprising when the princely apple does not fall far from the kingly tree.”
“You are mixing your metaphors,” Jon pointed out with the triumph that could only come from catching his cleverer cousin in a logical or academic error. The situation occurred so rarely that he felt he should commission portraits of them when they arose. Have them framed and hung in the royal gallery for future generations of Contes to admire and awe over. “First my son is a mule in your estimation. Then an apple. Apples are not mules. Mules eat apples.”
Realizing that he was not an expert on the dietary habits of mules, Jon went on with slightly less confidence since he knew that Gary would be quick to pounce on any factual mistake he did make, “At least I think they do. Horses do, at any rate.”
“Mules do eat apples.” Gary sounded as if it physically pained him that someone could be as ignorant as Jon. “And what would you know about mixing metaphors? I distinctly remember you snoring your way through our reading and writing classes as a page.”
“It’s not my fault our reading and writing master was dull enough to lull an insomniac to sleep,” Jon retorted. An argument he had once tried, unsuccessfully, to make to Gary’s father when he was a page. An argument that had not, alas, been able to save him from punishment work. “And, for the record, I didn’t snore. I never do anything so undignified as snoring.”
“Your son–” Gary seemed determined to cut through the nonsense to provide his usual dose of sharp-tongued clarity– “is wandering through the forest in search of the trees, and you can’t accuse me of any mixed metaphors there. If you are lost in the trees looking for the forest on the other end of the woods, how will the two of you ever meet?”
“I do want to meet Roald.” Jon scrubbed at his face with his palms. “I am just not sure how. No matter what I say or do, he sees me as too hard on him. Too strict and stern.”
“A common complaint twelve-year-old boys have about their fathers.” Gary’s tone was bracing. “Nevertheless, you must go to him. Point out all the trees that are all around him in the forest. My father always did that for me when I was a lad, though I didn’t appreciate it every time.”
“When did you ever wander the forest in search of the trees?” Jon frowned at his cousin, because he always thought of Gary as the sort who never missed anything.
“All the time when I was a boy.” Gary chuckled reminiscently. “All those rainy afternoons I stared out the windows mulling over my deep thoughts? That was me wandering in the forest in search of the trees. How I enjoyed wandering through my mental forests in search of my trees. I loved it even more than reading, because I could turn over like hoed earth what I had read in my mind.”
“Your father–” Jon remarked– “was hard on you. Harder than I am on Roald.”
“I was a more difficult son than Roald.” A crooked grin split Gary’s face. “Much more mischievous and sarcastic. Sharp-tongued. Convinced of my own cleverness. Merrily oblivious to what a young fool I was.”
“But–” Jon keyed in on the point that fascinated him the most– “you never seemed to resent your father.”
“My father and I spoke the same language.” Gary’s explanation only increased the sinking feeling in the pit of Jon’s despairing stomach. Made him wonder if he would ever find a way to truly reach Roald. “That allowed us to understand each other. Gave us a common plane where we could meet and communicate despite any differences of opinion.”
“Roald and I do not speak the same language.” Jon sighed. Exhaling a bitter truth. “When I seek to protect him from his own impulsiveness, he takes that as a sign I do not love him. When I support his contract as staunchly as I can, he acts as if I have betrayed and abandoned him.”
“Find a way to translate your language into his to bridge the gap between you, then.” There was sympathy in Gary’s chestnut eyes even if his words were matter-of-factly uttered. “He likes words of affirmation. Praise and affection. Hearing that he has earned your approval. That he hasn’t disappointed you.”
“He enjoys having his ego stroked.” Jon smirked wryly. “Something he and I have in common then.”
“Not having his ego stroked.” Gary corrected. Shaking his head. “Having his heart touched. Feeling loved. Valued. Approved of. If you touch his heart, give him some much longed for words of affirmation, I guarantee you will see some of his stiffness fall away. That he will have some words of affection for you in turn.”
“I must let my heart touch his.” Jon stroked at his beard. Wondering how to apply his cousin’s advice that wasn’t, in the final analysis, so different from his wife’s. Both his wife and cousin seemed to understand his son better than him, he thought. A sad thought for a father to have.
“Yes.” Gary nodded. Clapped Jon on the shoulder with enough force to overturn a cart. Drawing a wince from Jon, who noted inwardly that Gary had never been particularly mindful of his own strength when administering such friendly buffets and blows. “Do something special with him. Something you will both enjoy. To remind him of how much you love him. How much you treasure your time with him.”
A memory unfurled like a banner across Jon’s mind at Gary’s words. Vibrant with color. Bursting with promise. Himself in a Corus Midwinter Market with a wide-eyed little Roald at his side. Holding Jon’s gloved fingers tightly with one hand while the other lifted a sticky sugar plum Jon had bought him at a stall presided over by an enterprising, apple-cheeked woman to his lips. Lips that kept up a constant, excited stream about the toys on display. About the jugglers and acrobats performing to a cheering crowd by the frozen fountain in the center of the cobbled square.
The resurrected memory caused a lance of decision to pierce through Jon.
“I shall take him to the Midwinter Market,” he pronounced. Standing. Determined to speak with his son before inspiration and resolve faded. Failed. “Buy him something sweet. We have not gone there together in awhile.”