I Carry His Bags

The kingdom's songs never mention me.

They sing about Sir Jumoke the Bright, Dragon-Slayer of the West, Savior of Three Villages, Bearer of the Sunblade. Children wave wooden swords and pretend to be him.

Merchants sell paintings of him. Bards argue over which of his adventures makes the best verse.

Meanwhile, I carry his bags.

I don't mind.

Someone has to remember where the bedrolls are packed.

The first time I met Jumoke, he was trying to fight a troll with a loaf of bread.

Not because he thought it was a good weapon. He'd simply forgotten his sword.

I'd arrived just in time, handed him the weapon, and stepped aside.

The troll went down. Jumoke got the glory.

That arrangement suited us both.

People assume sidekicks dream of becoming heroes. They think we're waiting for our moment. Waiting to step into the light.

I've been in the light. It's hot. It attracts insects.

The shadows are more comfortable.

Take the dragon of Blackstone Peak.

Everyone remembers Jumoke climbing the mountain.

Nobody remembers that he'd packed for a three-day journey and the climb took eight.

By day four he was ready to eat his boots.

I wasn't.

Because I had quietly stuffed extra food into my pack before we left.

When we reached the summit, Jumoke charged through smoke and fire and defeated the dragon in a battle that would later be described as "earth-shaking."

I spent that time sitting behind a boulder with three frightened goats we'd rescued on the way up.

One of them kept trying to eat my sleeve.

When the dragon fell, Jumoke emerged covered in soot and triumph.

The crowd cheered.

I untangled a goat from my cloak.

Everyone has their role.

Heroes are strange people. They run toward danger because danger exists. They leap from cliffs because they're confident something will break their fall. Usually they're right.

Usually.

My role is making sure "usually" stays true.

I check rope knots.

I count supplies.

I remind Jumoke which royal banquet requires three forks and which requires four.

Once I even stopped a war.

Nobody knows that story.

A duke and a prince were about to sign a peace treaty. Jumoke had spent months negotiating. One wrong move could have ruined everything.

As the ceremony began, I noticed the documents had been switched.

Not deliberately. A sleepy clerk had simply grabbed the wrong papers.

The treaty on the table wasn't a peace agreement.

It was a tax proposal.

An extremely unpopular tax proposal.

Had the prince signed it, there would have been riots before sunset.

So while everyone watched Jumoke give a speech about unity, I slipped forward, exchanged the papers, and returned to my place before anyone noticed.

The treaty was signed.

Peace was secured.

Jumoke received another medal.

I got a cookie from the clerk.

Honestly, I think I got the better deal.

Years passed like that.

Adventure after adventure.

Triumph after triumph.

Songs and statues and celebrations.

And always, a few steps behind the famous hero, there was me.

Then came the day Jumoke retired.

He'd earned it.

His hair had turned silver. His sword arm wasn't as quick as it once was. The kingdom was peaceful.

At the farewell ceremony, thousands gathered.

The king praised him.

The crowd applauded.

The bards sang.

Then Jumoke did something unexpected.

He called my name.

I nearly dropped the tray I was carrying.

The crowd parted as I walked to the stage.

I hated every second of it.

"Most people think I did these things alone," Jumoke said.

The crowd laughed knowingly.

"No hero works alone."

He turned toward me.

"This is Duane."

Thousands of eyes landed on me.

I considered running.

"Every dragon I defeated, every village I saved, every quest I survived..." Jumoke continued, "I survived because Duane remembered what I forgot."

People smiled politely.

I don't think they understood.

Jumoke did.

He always had.

"He carried the supplies. Fixed the mistakes. Solved the problems nobody saw. If I'm the story people tell, he's the reason the story had an ending."

The crowd erupted into applause.

I wished they wouldn't.

But something warm settled in my chest anyway.

Not pride.

Not exactly.

Recognition, perhaps.

The ceremony ended. The cheering faded. The kingdom moved on.

A statue of Jumoke was built in the capital.

There was no statue of me.

Thank goodness.

Imagine having pigeons sit on your head for centuries.

These days I run a small shop near the market square. Jumoke visits sometimes. We drink tea and complain about our knees.

Tourists still ask him for stories.

Nobody asks me.

And that's perfectly fine.

After all, every spotlight needs someone standing just beyond its edge, making sure the bulb doesn't burn out.

I've always been happiest there.

The funny thing about being recognized once is that people start noticing you.

Not everyone.

Most people still walked past my shop without a second glance. They came in for rope, lantern oil, maps, and the occasional piece of travel gear. They left satisfied and forgot my face before reaching the next street.

Exactly how I liked it.

But every now and then, someone would pause.

Their eyes would narrow.

Then they'd point.

"Wait. Aren't you that Duane?"

As if there were a famous version and a regular version.

I usually responded by handing them whatever they'd come to buy.

Most got the hint.

Some didn't.

One rainy afternoon, a boy of about twelve marched into the shop with all the confidence of someone who had never paid taxes.

He dropped a notebook on my counter.

"I want to be a hero."

"Congratulations."

He blinked.

"That's it?"

"What were you expecting?"

He looked disappointed.

"A speech."

"I charge extra for speeches."

The boy folded his arms.

"Sir Jumoke gave speeches."

"Sir Jumoke enjoyed hearing himself talk."

The boy laughed.

I liked him immediately.

His name was Mark, and over the next few months he became a regular visitor.

He asked endless questions.

How do you fight a dragon?

How do you survive a shipwreck?

What's the most dangerous monster?

Did heroes ever get scared?

The last question interested me most.

Because every hero I'd ever met had been terrified at one point or another.

They just kept moving anyway.

"Do you know the scariest thing I ever saw?" I asked him one afternoon.

"A dragon?"

"No."

"A giant?"

"No."

"A demon?"

"No."

Mark leaned closer.

"What was it?"

"Sir Jumoke trying to cook."

The boy groaned.

I laughed.

But beneath the joke was a truth.

The things that destroy people aren't always dramatic.

Sometimes they're small mistakes.

Forgotten supplies.

Missed warnings.

Tiny cracks ignored until they become disasters.

Nobody writes songs about preventing disasters.

Only surviving them.

Mark came by so often that eventually he started helping around the shop.

He stocked shelves.

Swept floors.

Organized maps.

Poorly.

One evening, as we were closing up, he asked a question that caught me off guard.

"Were you ever angry?"

"About what?"

"That Jumoke got all the credit."

I paused.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows.

Inside, the lanterns cast long shadows across the shelves.

"No."

He frowned.

"Never?"

"Not really."

"Why?"

I considered the answer.

Because the truth wasn't simple.

There had been moments.

Moments when I'd solved a problem and watched someone else receive praise.

Moments when I'd worked for weeks on something that became another person's victory.

Moments when being invisible felt less like freedom and more like being forgotten.

But those moments had passed.

The larger truth remained.

"I didn't want what he had."

Mark looked skeptical.

"Everyone wants that."

He gestured vaguely, as though fame occupied a physical location.

"Not everyone."

I pointed to the window.

Outside, a crowd was gathering around a traveling performer.

Dozens of people pressed together, all staring at a single person in the center.

"See that?"

"Yeah."

"Looks exhausting."

Mark laughed.

"I'm serious."

I was.

"People think glory is a reward. Sometimes it's a responsibility."

The performer outside stumbled.

The crowd immediately began whispering.

One mistake.

Everyone noticed.

"Heroes don't just get applause," I said.

"They get expectations."

Mark watched the crowd.

I could see him thinking.

Good.

Thinking was underrated.

Years later, after he was grown, that habit would save his life.

But that's getting ahead of the story.

The trouble started the following spring.

Trouble always starts in spring.

I don't know why.

Maybe winter gives it time to prepare.

Word spread through the kingdom that travelers were disappearing along the eastern roads.

Not many at first.

One merchant.

Then two.

Then a caravan.

The stories were inconsistent.

Some claimed bandits.

Others blamed monsters.

A few insisted it was magic.

The king sent scouts.

The scouts didn't return.

That got everyone's attention.

Including mine.

One morning Jumoke arrived at my shop carrying the expression he always wore right before things became complicated.

"Oh no," I said.

"What?"

"You're making that face."

"What face?"

"The adventure face."

"I do not have an adventure face."

"You absolutely do."

He sighed.

Then he smiled.

Which was worse.

Because smiling meant he'd already made a decision.

"We should take a look."

"We?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Duane."

"Jumoke."

He folded his arms.

I folded mine.

We stared at each other across the counter.

A familiar ritual.

One we'd repeated for nearly forty years.

Finally Jumoke said, "You know I'm going either way."

"Unfortunately."

"And you know you'll worry if I go alone."

I hated when he used logic against me.

Mostly because it worked.

From the back of the shop came a voice.

"I can lock up while you're gone."

We turned.

Mark stood there holding a broom.

Far too eager.

Far too interested.

Far too young.

Absolutely not.

Jumoke looked at me.

I looked at Jumoke.

Then, to my horror, we both said the same thing.

"No."

Mark groaned.

And just like that, without meaning to, I realized something unsettling.

Somewhere along the way, I'd become the responsible older person.

The role I'd spent my entire life avoiding.

And that, as it turned out, was far more frightening than any dragon.

Mark argued for three days.

Not continuously.

He slept occasionally.

But every waking hour seemed devoted to convincing Jumoke and me that he should join the expedition.

He listed his skills.

He presented plans.

At one point he even brought charts.

Charts.

As if organization had ever won an argument against two stubborn old men.

In the end, he came anyway.

Not because he persuaded us.

Because we caught him following us halfway down the eastern road.

"Go home," I told him.

"No."

"That wasn't a question."

"No."

"You're making a terrible first impression as a sidekick."

"I'm not a sidekick."

That should have been my warning.

The eastern roads grew quieter the farther we traveled.

Villages stood half-empty.

Merchants refused to travel after sunset.

Every story pointed toward the same place.

An abandoned fortress deep in the hills.

The locals called it Hollow Keep.

A dramatic name.

Places with dramatic names are rarely pleasant.

When we arrived, we found no monsters.

No bandits.

No sorcerers.

Instead, we found something stranger.

People.

Hundreds of them.

Travelers, merchants, wanderers.

All living inside the ruined fortress.

No one was being held prisoner.

No one was trapped.

They simply refused to leave.

At first we couldn't understand why.

Then we met the man at the center of it all.

His name was Daymond.

And people adored him.

Every word he spoke drew a crowd.

Every opinion became law.

Every idea was treated as wisdom.

He wasn't a king.

He wasn't a wizard.

He wasn't even particularly clever.

He was simply charismatic.

Dangerously charismatic.

The kind of person who could convince people to stop thinking because he promised to do the thinking for them.

Over the following days we learned the truth.

Travelers arrived at Hollow Keep.

Daymond welcomed them.

Fed them.

Praised them.

Made them feel important.

Then gradually he convinced them to stay.

To surrender their money.

Their plans.

Their independence.

Their lives.

Not through force.

Through comfort.

People gave everything away because it was easier than deciding for themselves.

"How do we stop him?" Mark asked one evening.

We sat around a small campfire outside the fortress.

Jumoke stared at the flames.

For the first time in years, he looked uncertain.

"You can't fight someone like that with a sword," he said.

"No," I agreed.

Mark looked between us.

"Then what?"

The answer arrived the next morning.

Not from Jumoke.

From me.

A rare and deeply suspicious event.

I spent the day walking through Hollow Keep.

Listening.

Watching.

Taking notes.

By evening I had a plan.

A small one.

The kind nobody writes songs about.

The next day I started asking questions.

Simple questions.

Questions Daymond couldn't answer.

Questions his followers had never considered.

Where did the food come from?

Who kept track of supplies?

What happened if everyone stayed forever?

Who repaired the walls?

Who made decisions when Daymond wasn't present?

At first people brushed them aside.

Then they started discussing them.

Then arguing.

Then thinking.

Thinking is a dangerous habit for people who have been told not to do it.

Within days the cracks appeared.

Not in the fortress.

In the illusion.

People began noticing contradictions.

Promises that didn't make sense.

Problems nobody had solved.

For the first time, they looked beyond Daymond's smile.

A week later, families started leaving.

Then merchants.

Then travelers.

Soon the crowds disappeared.

Without an audience, Daymond's influence vanished.

Not with a battle.

Not with a grand speech.

Just questions.

The fortress emptied.

The roads reopened.

The kingdom celebrated.

Naturally, everyone credited Jumoke.

He accepted the praise with remarkable grace considering he had done almost nothing.

"I'm proud of that," he told me later.

"You should be ashamed."

"Probably."

Mark laughed.

By the time we returned home, summer had arrived.

Life settled back into familiar rhythms.

Or so I thought.

A month later, Jumoke appeared at my shop carrying a wooden box.

"Oh no," I said.

"What?"

"You're carrying a mysterious box."

"I can carry a box."

"Not when you're smiling."

He set it on the counter.

Inside was a medal.

Gold.

Polished.

Official-looking.

The kind of thing important people create to congratulate themselves for noticing other people.

"What is this?"

"The king wants you to have it."

I stared at the medal.

Then at Jumoke.

Then back at the medal.

"No."

"Duane."

"No."

"You earned it."

"I absolutely did not."

"You saved an entire region."

"I asked questions."

"You ask very good questions."

Mark, who had been organizing maps nearby, snorted.

"That's actually true."

I looked at both of them.

Then at the medal again.

It gleamed in the afternoon sunlight.

A symbol of recognition.

A symbol of achievement.

A symbol of attention.

My three least favorite things.

So naturally I accepted it.

Then immediately hung it on a nail behind the counter where nobody could see it.

Years passed.

More than I expected.

More than I wanted.

That's the strange thing about time.

You never notice it leaving.

One day Jumoke's visits became less frequent.

Then they stopped altogether.

Not because of an argument.

Not because of distance.

Simply because every story reaches its final chapter eventually.

When he died, the entire kingdom mourned.

The streets filled with flowers.

The bells rang for hours.

People told stories.

Thousands of stories.

Stories about dragons and battles and impossible victories.

I listened to them all.

Some were true.

Most weren't.

That's how legends work.

They grow larger than the people who inspire them.

After the funeral, I returned to my shop.

The building felt quieter than usual.

For a long time I sat alone behind the counter.

Thinking.

Remembering.

Missing my friend.

Then the door opened.

A young traveler stepped inside.

"Excuse me," she said. "I'm looking for advice."

I glanced up.

She looked nervous. Excited. Ready for some grand adventure.

The kind of person who stood at the beginning of a story.

"What kind of advice?" I asked.

She hesitated.

Then her eyes drifted past me.

Toward the wall behind the counter.

The medal still hung there, half-hidden among coils of rope, old lanterns, and a shelf of account books.

"Is that yours?" she asked.

I looked over my shoulder.

"Oh."

I'd forgotten it was there.

"Unfortunately."

She laughed.

"It looks important."

"It isn't."

"Then why keep it?"

That gave me pause.

I'd never actually thought about it.

For years it had simply occupied that nail.

Collecting dust. Doing nothing useful.

Much like several nobles I'd met.

Finally I shrugged.

"A friend gave it to me."

She nodded as if that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

"Everyone says you're the person to ask," she said.

I almost laughed.

After all those years. After all those adventures. After all the effort I'd spent avoiding attention.

People had finally learned my name.

Not because I slayed dragons. Not because I won battles. Not because medals hung on my wall.

But because I'd been useful. Reliable.

Present.

The sort of person others could count on.

As legacies go, that wasn't a bad one.

So I smiled and gestured toward the chair across from me.

"Sit down," I said.

"Tell me what you're trying to do.”

Outside, heroes came and went.

New adventures began.

New legends took shape.

And inside a small shop near the market square, just beyond the spotlight, I listened.

Exactly where I had always belonged.