Isaac grumbled as he tore up rotted potatoes from the field. His dad, David, was collecting the ripe crops and tossing them in a cart. Isaac wiped the sweat from his brow and looked across the field. It was the beginning of harvest, and he knew many long days of toil lie ahead.
In the middle of the field rose a scarecrow, adorned in somewhat old armor. Other farmers had their children scare off crows, but there was too much work on the farm for the two of them already. His father had built this knight to stand guard over the crops and ward off roving birds. The droppings that covered the armor were a testament to the lack of effectiveness of this immobile warrior.
Isaac once asked his father where he found it, and only got a harsh grumble of: “at the marketplace, paid for it with an old ox.” Sometimes he would dream of donning a brand new set of armor, strapping on the breastplate and closing the visor as hordes of enemies charged towards him.
There were talks of war brewing, old rivalries and feuds gaining fire. Kings summoned captains, villages were being razed for fighting men. Isaac was excited to hear this news.
That was far off though. It would never reach their sleepy farming village. The men here were old, not made for marching and killing. And Isaac was too young, having seen barely nine winters.
“Isaac! Take this cart back to the house and unload it!” David yelled, snapping Isaac out of his daydream.
Halfway to the house, leading the donkey and cart carefully through the field, as to not crush any crops, Isaac heard the galloping of horses. He shaded his eyes and scanned the path leading to their house.
Eight men, wearing silver armor and carrying spears with banners approached. They halted ten feet from Isaac, who stared up at them in shock.
“You boy, what’s your name?” The man in front asked.
“Isaac Blackwood, sire.”
“How old are you son?”
“Nine.”
“Too young,” he muttered under his breath.
“Where is your father?”
“Out in the fields. That way,” Isaac pointed.
The man gazed in the direction and saw the armored scarecrow. He laughed and looked at his men.
“You see that. The bastard is using the old armor as a scarecrow. Doesn’t look like it’s doing much good. About as well as it did on the battlefield.”
David noticed the knights and started walking towards them.
“What do you mean?” Isaac asked.
“Your dad never told you? That armor was gifted to your family by the lord of this land. In return he was promised fighters whenever the kingdom was threatened. You might be called upon to fulfill that vow when you’re older. But not today. Today we come to collect your father. He has been summoned to fight in the war.”
“You mean my father fought in the wars long ago?”
Before the knight could say anything, David walked up and interrupted him. “No Isaac. The lord sent out his summons. My mother wouldn’t stop crying. I was chilled to my bones. Never held a sword before. Never killed a man. I was the oldest. It was my duty to my family and my lord. But I could’t bring myself to go. I was a coward. John, my younger brother, snuck out with the armor one day. I chased after him, but the army had set out by the time I reached the castle. We never saw John again.”
Isaac looked at his father, who had tears forming at his eyes. The hard lines on his face seemed deeper, ravaged by time and grief.
“We didn’t get a letter from the lord. Nothing. Just the armor, empty,” David said as he mounted the spare horse the knights had brought for him. He put on the armor that had just moments ago been on the scarecrow.
“And war will return it empty again.”