The Wandering Inn_Volume 1

by Pirateaba

  Before I know it, it’s lunch-time. I could certainly use something to eat, and Durene takes me around the garden, letting me feel the growing plants and the bunch of potatoes she yanks up.

  But then we hit a problem. Durene goes into the kitchen to cook them while I sit outside and listen. But after twenty minutes I know something’s wrong. I can hear her trying to be quiet, but the clattering and the burnt smell can’t be so easily hidden.

  “Is everything okay? Durene?”

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  There’s a catch in her voice when she comes out and tells me she’s ruined the potatoes. I don’t get it, but if there was a fire alarm in her house it would be blaring. She doesn’t even let me inspect the ruined food; apparently it’s so burned she just dumped it outside for the pigs.

  “I can’t cook potatoes. I’m sorry. I normally eat them raw.”

  “Well, we can’t have that. Let me help you.”

  “Help? But you—”

  “I can’t see, but I can cook. Come on!”

  I reach out and touch her arm. It’s a big arm, and she recoils instantly. But I soothe her and guide her back to the kitchen.

  It’s an odd thing, cooking while mainly instructing someone else. Odd, but fun. Only for me at first, but then Durene gets into it.

  We make sautéed potatoes. It’s an easy recipe, but I have to show Durene how to cut properly at first. I hear her cut herself twice before I realize her form is off.

  “Like this, see? If you’re cutting leaves like this rosemary—do it like this.”

  Durene gasps, but I place the knife at my knuckles and roll it across the cutting board, slowly slicing the herbs into small slices.

  “Easy as anything. Don’t worry; even if you can’t see, there’s no way to cut yourself like this, see?”

  “I do! That’s incredible!”

  “It’s not. Really. Now, let’s get to work on the rest of those potatoes, okay?”

  “Okay. The chopped potatoes are…here. We boil them?”

  “That’s right. Is the water boiling? And you added the salt? Put them in. They’ll go there for about four minutes, okay? Now. Where’s the pan?”

  “I put the oil in.”

  “Now the potatoes. Flat side down. There. Doesn’t that sound good?”

  The sizzling oil makes my stomach wake up. I smile as I hear Durene clumsily sliding the sliced potatoes around the pan.

  “Is it crispy golden brown? Okay, let’s reduce the heat. Now…a bit of butter. Just a bit…and the rosemary…doesn’t that smell delicious?”

  “It does! It does!”

  Success. We sit down and Durene eats her food as if it’s the best food she’s ever had. Apparently, it is.

  “I’ve never cooked anything like that before. Do you have a Skill? You must!”

  “I wouldn’t call it skill. I just learned from a great chef.”

  Thank you Gordon Ramsay. I might not be able to see them cook, but I do love chefs who tell me exactly what they’re doing.

  “Are you a [Chef]? Is that your class?”

  That’s an odd way of putting things. I shrug, a bit embarrassed.

  “I wanted to be a professional chef, and then a professional food critic when I was younger. I gave up on that when I found out someone else had already become blind Masterchef. And, it has to be said, I’m not that good at cooking.”

  “But this—”

  “It’s not nearly as good as something professional chefs can make, believe me. And you did all the hard work.”

  “You know so much, though.”

  I want to squirm a bit with embarrassment.

  “I just studied a lot of different professions, that’s all. Chef, food critic…at one point I wanted to be a billiards player, but that’s not actually possible. I wanted to do anything that wasn’t boring, so I tried a lot of things.”

  “That’s so amazing. So much better than I am.”

  I think she’s staring at me. I can feel her proximity towards me. Her voice is also much more intent—she sounds fascinated. I can’t help but smile.

  “You’d be surprised what you can pick up if you work at it. Forget cooking—I once disassembled and reassembled an old computer by hand. That’s…like a complicated device.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I…I only have the [Farmer] class.”

  There it is again. Class? I frown.

  “Classes? Do you mean jobs? You mean, you get assigned a job?”

  “No. I’m just a [Farmer]. Level 6. Do you not have classes in your world?”

  “Oh wow.”

  Is it obvious? Did I not notice it because I can’t see? But Durene assures me she doesn’t have her class and level floating above her head like an MMORPG. Even so, my mind is blown because now I realize I’m in a video game. Or something like a video game.

  “You mean, you played games with the fates of people?”

  “No! It was all just pretend. But it’s exactly like how you’re describing your world.”

  “Oh.”

  We sit together, in her garden, talking. By this point Durene and I are comfortable enough to sit closer than before, and yes, she is tall. I’m not short myself; apparently I’m around 184 cm, or around 6’1 for people using the horrible US measuring system, but Durene is at least a head higher than I am. Possibly bigger; she hunches over as we talk.

  And she is huge. And conscious of that; she treats me even more like a glass object than people who just know I’m blind. I am grateful in her case, though; it does feel a bit like a giant is keeping me company.

  Hmm. A giant?

  One last detail: Durene’s skin is rougher than normal. Her inside palm is fairly smooth, if callused, but the few times I brushed against the outside of her skin, it was surprisingly rough and even felt cracked in places.

  Odd. But she is a great listener, and we sit together long into the night. I tell her stories, and she tells me of this world. Magic and adventurers and a gaming system.

  Dinner that night is marinated mushrooms, again thanks to me marathon watching Ramsay videos. It’s good that I remember so many vegetarian dishes; Durene likes meat, but it is apparently a rare delicacy for her, despite the pigs she introduced me to earlier today.

  We don’t have any vinegar, but Durene’s garden is plentiful, and everything is so high quality that we barely need any seasoning to make it go down. Fresh water from the stream completes the meal, and Durene eats four times what I do. Good thing we made a lot.

  Sometimes I wish I could see. I have no idea what it would be like, and usually I don’t ever care. But when I’m having a bad day or I’m frustrated and wish things were easier, I wish I could see.

  But now, I just want to see her face. Even though it seems like Durene is self-conscious about it.

  I wonder why. I wonder as I tuck myself into her bed and listen to her snoring outside.

  At least I know she’s not a Troll. The ones from the Hobbit turn into stone in the morning, don’t they? Maybe people just grow really big in this world.

  Maybe. But she’s still a good person, regardless.

  Day 3

  Apparently, one of Durene’s obsessions is fish. Understandably so; she can’t catch much game and she sells most of her pigs rather than eat them. Her occasional chicken only comes when one dies, and as I’ve observed, she has trouble cooking even the most basic of meals.

  But fish? Fish is hard to get wrong, and Durene has a crude fishing rod that she tries to catch fish at the stream with almost every day. Apparently, she has little success and I figure out why quite soon.

  “You need some bait that wriggles. Worms are better. And you’re moving the line too much. Let the fish bite before you pull it out of the water. See? Patience is key.”

  It’s amazing. But no one’s ever taught Durene this, and she observes me fishing with rapt attention. I feel—

  I feel happy to teach her, and supremely annoyed no one ever taught her something as simple as this. Do people in
her village not know how to fish?

  Or is there another reason why she lives alone?

  I get half my answer after I yank the second small fish out of the stream, much to Durene’s delight. I hear voices, laughter; the sounds of several children. And then I hear the voices.

  “Freak! Come out, Freak!”

  Beside me, on the grass, Durene goes still. I pause, the crude clay mug Durene gave me half full as I scoop water out of the stream.

  “Where is she? Freak!”

  I hear merry laughter, running, shouts of joy at odds with the words and tone in the children’s voices. It doesn’t take them long to find us.

  “Freak! Freaky freak! Fr—who’s that?”

  I turn my head as the sounds of running feet stop. I counted…six kids? All young; probably around ten. Mostly boys, although there’s one girl in there. They pause uncertainly.

  “This is Laken. He’s a stranger to these parts.”

  Durene tries to explain. I smile and introduce myself, but the instant the children discover I’m blind, respectfulness vanishes.

  “He’s blind!”

  “A freak! Freak’s gotta friend!”

  “Freaks!”

  Is there something in the water here? Or is it just them? I frown at the kids.

  “That’s not a word you should be using about Durene.”

  “But she’s a freak!”

  One of the boys protests. Then I hear a yelp and the girl speaks.

  “I think he don’t know. He can’t see her!”

  “That’s right!”

  More exclamations.

  “You should run, Mister! Durene’ll eat your heart out!”

  “No I won’t!”

  “Aah! Run from the freak! She’s gone mad!”

  Durene stands up in anguish. And then I hear her yelp. Someone’s tossed a stone at her! I hear it plop into the stream.

  “Eat dirt, Freak!”

  Okay, mudballs. Another one flies. Durene’s not doing anything to defend herself, so I stand up. The mug of water is still in my hands. For a second I’m tempted to hurl it but—that wouldn’t be right. The children go silent. What should I say?

  “It’s nice to meet all of you. Cheers, mates.”

  I raise the mug of water in their general direction and then drink from it. Honestly, it tastes a bit like clay. I look at the kids, or rather, in their general direction I hope.

  “Now piss off.”

  Silence. I keep my face still. I’ve never actually stared anyone in the eye mainly because I could miss, and I can barely keep my eyes open for a staring contest in any case. My eyes still get watery even if I can’t see.

  But I am good at holding still and remaining calm. The children aren’t. After a few more seconds I hear them retreat.

  I sit back down next to Durene. She’s trembling.

  “You okay?”

  I keep my tone light as I reach for the fishing pole again. I can’t find it, but then Durene silently presses it into my hands.

  “Do you know what I meant when I said ‘cheers’? It’s an expression from another culture. It means, well, it’s something you say before you have a drink, or at a party.”

  “Really?”

  Her voice is quivery, but it is curious. I nod and smile.

  “I met an Australian guy once who could make that word sound like a threat. He said it to a bunch of soldiers who were bothering us and—well, it’s not always polite. It’s all about nuance, you see?”

  More silence. I hear Durene gulp.

  “I—I’m sorry. What they said—”

  “—Is none of my concern. Those little wankers were being obnoxious anyways. They’re too good to be called brats. Do they harass you often?”

  It’s nice to know more than one culture. It helps when you want to add to your repertoire of insults. Durene laughs shakily, then goes quiet again.

  “Sometimes. I mean, they come by sometimes but they don’t do more than throw things.”

  “Like rocks?”

  Silence is my answer. I clear my throat.

  “They’re miserable little monsters; don’t listen to them. Anyways, they’re just kids, aren’t they? Can’t you chase them off?”

  “I couldn’t do that! I might hurt someone, and then—”

  She sounds genuinely shocked. And afraid. Is she worried about the mob of stereotypical farmers with pitchforks? But that had to come from somewhere. Maybe she’s right to be passive.

  “I’m sorry if I got you in trouble. But I couldn’t stand by and let them harass you.”

  “It’s okay. I think. Yes, it’s okay. But I’m surprised you weren’t angrier when they called you a freak. You’re not.”

  Again, her tone suggests…what? Depression? Low self-esteem, certainly. But the clues aren’t all there yet, even if I know most of what’s going on. As for me…I shrug.

  “I used to be a lot angrier than this. But I’ve gotten calmer now; I don’t lose my temper that much. I’ve been called names too.”

  “Really?”

  I smile again, but this time with an edge.

  “Everyone gets called names. I’m just an easier target since I can’t see anything coming. Then again, I get it. When you’re a kid, anything weird is a target. Anything different or scary…it’s easier to shout insults than get to know the person. That doesn’t mean I think what those brats did was right, of course. Next time one of them calls you names, hit him. Or just call him names as well.”

  “I couldn’t hit anyone! And I’m not good with insults.”

  “What? Insults are easy. Come on, try one. Call me something.”

  “I—I don’t know. What would I even call them?”

  “Unexploded pimple? Pitiful asshat? Cowardly mushroom? Insults can be anything you want them to be.”

  The laugh that comes out of Durene is more like a bark of amusement, but it’s genuine and real.

  “Tell you what. Let’s grill up these fish and I can teach you some of the really pithy insults I’ve heard of, okay? You might want to cover your ears though; some of them could make a sailor blush.”

  She laughs delightedly and I smile again. It’s a better day, despite the kids. And the fish isn’t even burnt this time.

  Day 5

  I find myself spending almost all my time with Durene day by day. She’s an open person and easy to talk to; she likes listening more than she likes speaking, but she can break down this strange world into easy-to-understand fragments for me.

  She’s in the middle of giving me a history lesson about some version of Alexander the Great when I hear a shout. I’m ready for the kids this time, but to my surprise, only one comes running.

  “Durene! The wagon’s lost a wheel! Come and lift it, our Da says!”

  “What? The wagon? I’m on my way!”

  Durene jumps to her feet with amazing agility, and then hesitates.

  “I have go to help, Laken. Will you be okay? I can take you there—”

  “I’m fine. Go. I’ll be okay until you come back.”

  Again, being blind is not like being porcelain. I let Durene run off with the kid and think of what to do. Twenty minutes later, Durene thunders back to the cottage looking for me.

  I’m fishing.

  “Durene. You’re back. Is everything okay?”

  She smells a bit of hay and some other animal scent. And a bit more of that musky odor that’s probably her sweat. I hear her clear the stream in one jump.

  “Everything’s fine. I helped Mister Prost with his wagon; that’s all. The axle of the wheel broke, so he had Finnon go get me.”

  “Huh. Do they always call on you for help? It seems like they’d need a team of people to move a busted wagon.”

  She shifts next to me. Uncomfortably? It’s surprisingly easy to tell when someone’s hiding something even if you can’t read their face.

  “Oh—it wasn’t that hard. I just had to help lift it up a bit, that’s all.”

  She doesn’t even sou
nd winded. But she ran off and came back in less than ten minutes and helped a farmer put a new wheel on a wagon?

  Odd. Odd, odd, odd, odd…

  “You do repairs often, then? That’s pretty handy of you.”

  “Well, I don’t have a class. But if they need help lifting or, you know, raising a barn—”

  “Gotcha. So how bad is the damage?”

  “They’ll have to fix it later, but it looks like it was just the axle that went. I just got the wagon back to their home so they could give old Evera a rest. She’s their plow horse and she gets tired quickly.”

  Okay, so she pulled a wagon which might or might not have been full of produce an unspecified distance. Hmm.

  It could just be her class. Durene said she was a Level 6 [Farmer], but she has one [Enhanced Strength] skill already. Apparently that makes her way stronger than normal; when I asked her to demonstrate, she lifted me up with one hand as if I was a feather.

  But the skin? And the things those kids said? What could that—

  Bah. What am I, a detective? The answer is no, because I can barely solve a Sherlock Holmes mystery, let alone figure out those stupid wire puzzles. And Durene deserves respect from me, if no one else.

  She’ll tell me when she’s ready.

  Day 6

  “I need a class.”

  That was what I told Durene when she woke up in the morning. I get up before she does; not that either of us are late sleepers. We’re both morning people actually, although I tend to function just as well in the dark as in the light for obvious reasons.

  But I do like to hear the birds sing and feel the sunlight in my face. I don’t mind relaxing for an hour or two by myself in the mornings. As Zoe once told me, I’m the chillest blind guy she knows, which is to say I’m the only blind guy she knows. She knows a blind girl—Teresa, but she and I don’t get along.

  I hate Teresa.

  Durene is silent for a long moment after I tell her this. We made doughy crepes this morning and added some wild berries, but she stops eating them now.

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it what people do in this world? You told me no one you know didn’t have a class.”