by Sandra Elsa
Plumes of smoke warned of a human settlement. Pink carefully scouted the population from the shelter of surrounding forests.
The village consisted of less than twenty, tightly clustered wooden houses. The countryside was dotted with small farmsteads. On the northern side of the village and behind her to the west, mountains rose sharply, covered with dense deciduous trees. To the east and south, rolling hills provided fertile fields. She was nearly to the eastern edge of the Swa Caran Mountain range.
A two-story inn, its lower floor made of stone, the upper of log, dominated the western end of the village. A hundred feet away from the inn, open air stalls stood waiting to be occupied on market day.
After spending half a day watching the village and the surrounding dwellings, she selected a small, neatly kept wooden cottage, surrounded by gardens. It stood a quarter mile distant from its nearest neighbor on the southwestern border of the holdings. The cottage’s sole occupant was an old man. Even having made certain of this fact, she approached with great trepidation. Her need for shelter and food barely outweighed her fear of capture or attack.
The old man was working in one of several small gardens with his back to her. Stray wisps of white hair stood up about his head, pulled loose by the work he was doing from the tail that fell barely past his shoulders. He wore tan woolen trousers, stained with rich black earth, and a dark green tunic that fell to his hips.
It encouraged her to see the gardens filled with herbs. She recognized clumps of rosemary and thyme, and over in a corner some sweet cicely clung tenaciously to life. They looked well-tended but not heavily harvested. This time of year, most of them should have been cut back to prepare them for winter. Perhaps he will trade me food in exchange for help with the gardens.
He didn't turn around as she approached, but a brief hesitation in his motion told her he sensed her presence.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She hadn‘t spoken in three weeks, and the nights spent cold and wet, freezing in the mountains, left her coughing harshly. The husky squeak that came out didn’t sound the least like her normal speaking voice.
The old man finished covering his plants with straw, then turned to look at her.
She knew she looked horrid. Many of the bruises and scratches remained livid. The hat had been lost in the chase, her hair was knotted and filthy, her clothes--little more than rags--could no longer conceal her gender. Though the lean weeks had done away with the youthful curves the men had seemed to find so appealing. She looked down at the ground, ready to flee if she had read him wrong.
With no hesitation he turned back toward his house and said, "Come along girl, supper’s already warm. You've the look of a starving wolf cub."
Pink couldn’t have hoped for more, but her feet hesitated, it was too easy. Her mind urged her to flee. Her grumbling stomach overruled her fears. “I can work for my supper," she offered, following him into his home.
At the doorway her steps faltered, fear made her glance back at the open path to freedom behind her. A strange compulsion urged her forward, pushing gently at her shoulder blades. Once she was through the door, the aroma of the simmering stew drew her on. The choice was no longer hers if she wanted to live. She would not survive another week outside any better than the herbs in the old man’s gardens.
"What is it you think I need you to do?” he asked, ignoring the panic written across her face. “You are rather fetching, but I think I'm a bit old for that sort of thing."
Relief at his words followed her brief start of fright.
Piercing hazel eyes watched both reactions.
That simple statement eased her mind of one fear. Back at the farm she had felt threatened by the older men as well as the young, married and unmarried alike.
The old man led her to a washtub filled with warm water, next to the fireplace. He handed her a rough towel and made her wash her hands and face before seating her at the finely carved mahogany table. The dinner plates were displayed in a glass-fronted hutch that matched the design of the table. Fine crystal and plain clay mugs shared an upper shelf.
Two open doorways entered into other rooms. The living area was impeccably kept, simple elegance.
He didn't need anybody to clean; that much was obvious. What did she have to offer for her keep?
He was nothing but skin and bone. “I can cook,” she offered. “Maybe help you finish preparing the gardens for winter, in exchange for a couple nights rest and two meals a day.”
He stared at her, turning away from where he stirred the stew. Pink rather thought her story would be obvious from her appearance. She would consider herself fortunate if he did no more than turn her away. But after a careful scrutiny, during which she was uncomfortably aware of the intense gaze taking in every scratch and bruise and the raw wounds from the hound, a smile spread across his face, friendly and welcoming. "I don't much like my own cooking. Since my grandson, Trace, left to join Lorth's army last year,” his expression darkened as he mentioned his grandson, but he continued on, “I only get a good meal when Jolyn stops in once a week from the village. The rest of the week I just throw some more vegetables at the pot. If you can cook I reckon you can stay as long as you like. It‘d be nice to have something besides stew for a change."
He ladled the maligned stew into a bowl and handed it to her. It wasn’t too bad. Nothing more meat and stronger spices couldn’t help. "You grow herbs in your gardens, why don't you add them to the soup?" Pink asked.
With a touch of melancholy in his voice he replied, "I grow herbs in my wife's gardens. I don't know what they're good for. Without her here to guide me, I don't even know the proper way to cure them.” He turned and looked out the window at the gardens before taking his seat across from where Pink sat. “For all I know they could be poisonous. She used to warn me of some that could kill if used in too large a dose, but I never paid attention. I wish I had now. I never imagined she’d die before me.”
For a long time he found the bowl of stew extraordinarily interesting. When his spoon scraped the bottom, he spoke again. “If you know what the herbs are, and how to use them, your assistance would be appreciated. They are simply my way of keeping Mari alive. Every spring I plant the annuals in the same patterns she planted, using the seed from the year before.”
Waving a hand toward the distant buildings he continued, “Throughout the summer and fall the villagers come to gather those they can identify. In exchange for this, Jolyn comes in once a week and cleans, and cooks, but I’m so secluded here, it’d be a welcome change to have somebody to talk to."