The road wound through the dry plain, empty beneath the bleaching afternoon sun. The melancholy knight reined in his horse.
“There,” he said quietly.
Beside him, a pudgy farmer riding an ass followed his gaze. “Where?”
“On that hill.”
The farmer shaded his eyes. “I see windmills.”
The knight frowned.
“Windmills?”
“Yes,” the farmer said. “Four of them. Grinding grain.”
The knight stared at the horizon with growing agitation. “My friend,” he said gently, “those are giants.”
The farmer chuckled.
In the distance, the tallest figure seemed to lift one enormous leg. The ground trembled faintly beneath its step. The knight leaned forward in his saddle. “Listen.”
The air rumbled with a low, heavy thud.
“Thunder,” the farmer replied.
The knight looked puzzled. “The sky is clear.”
The farmer hesitated.
“Well…distant thunder then.”
The giant took another step. The knight lowered his lance.
“You truly see only mills?”
“Of course,” said the farmer.
The knight studied him with the same sympathy a physician might show a feverish patient or a parent a particularly obtuse child. “Strange,” he murmured as he sallied forth.
***
Later, in the village square, the knight sat on a wooden bench while the blacksmith who had repaired his badly dented helmet hammered nearby. He watched the glowing metal bend under each powerful strike.
“Remarkable,” he said.
“What is?” the blacksmith asked.
“That dragon bone you’re forging.”
The hammer stopped.
“Dragon bone?”
“Yes,” said the knight. “A rib, if I’m not mistaken.”
The blacksmith stared at the iron bar in his tongs.
“This is iron.”
The knight tilted his head.
“You see iron?”
“Everyone sees iron.”
The knight looked around the square. A baker was carrying gold bars stacked like treasure from a conquered castle. A woman was drawing water from a well. Her dress shimmered with courtly embroidery. The knight rubbed his chin. “How curious.”
“What?” asked the blacksmith.
“How you all look yet fail to really see.”
The blacksmith laughed. “My eyes are fine.”
“This world rarely hides its wonders,” the knight observed thoughtfully. “But I’m beginning to understand just how common it is that most people can’t recognize them for what they are.”
Unperturbed, the blacksmith lifted the iron bar again. Flames burst outward. For a split second, he had a vision of tiny fire-breathing salamanders scattering madly across the forge. The blacksmith blinked. Only sparks, he thought. Of course…that’s all they are.
***
That evening the farmer sought the knight, breathless. “The windmills,” he said when he found him.
The knight looked up from polishing his armor.
“What windmills?”
“Your giants.”
“What about them?”
“They’re…gone.” The farmer hesitated. “I swear I was in the same spot.”
The knight’s eyes softened.
“And what do you think happened?”
The farmer swallowed. “I think…” He stopped. “No. That’s ridiculous.”
“Please,” said the knight kindly.
The farmer shook his head. “No. It was just the light. Or the heat.”
“But they vanished.”
“I’m not sure anymore.”
The knight waited.
“But there were,” the farmer admitted hesitantly, “what looked like very large footprints.”
The knight smiled faintly.
The farmer looked down. “There aren’t monsters like that in the world,” he muttered.
The knight mounted his horse. “My friend,” he said gently, turning toward the open plain, “of course there are.”
As the melancholy knight rode off into the dusk, the farmer stared after him. He tried very hard to forget the deep footprints in the earth and the windmills that he swore were on the hill earlier in the day. For a moment, he wondered if the wandering knight had a name. No matter. He hadn’t time for such nonsense. There were chores to do before dark.
The End
James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the mean streets of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Digest, Antipodean-SF, Metastellar Magazine, Sci-Phi Journal, Topiary Stories, Freedom Fiction Journal, Sudden Flash Magazine, and Exterminating Angel Magazine. More of his writing can be found on his blog, A Condor’s Quill.