by Iscah
She locked the wheels in place and released her ox from his yoke, tying him to a nearby tree with a long rope so the animal might have more range to graze and attend to other ox business. She checked her plants, several of which dangled over the side of the roof, and was ready to spend the night quietly in her wagon, when some young men emerged from the pub and spotted her.
Visitors were not common for such a small village and always excited curiosity. The young men swarmed the wagon like flies scenting honey, but finding the young woman both taller than any of them and beautiful, hovered uncertainly.
"Good evening," the sorceress said and was met by an echo of the same greeting. She had grown easy with soldiers, but these unarmed young men intimidated her. Perhaps cause she knew they were very likely the same schoolmates who had been so cruel all those years ago. "It's late, so I'll open for business tomorrow."
"What sort of business?" one the young men asked.
"Medicines," the sorceress said, climbing back onto the wagon seat for the advantage of height and the small door where she could slip inside. "Cures for aches and pains."
"Do you do any magic tricks?" another asked.
"No," the sorceress said, and because she was an honest and accurate person added, "Not anymore." She graced them with a smile that put the men at ease.
"Let us buy you a drink?" asked a third.
"Or dinner?" offered a fourth.
This seemed a far better welcome than the stones she had feared, so the sorceress nodded her assent. She walked inside the pub and listened to the village gossip as she had in many other places. She refused the many offers of drinks, as a young woman must keep her wits about her in a strange place, and watched as the young men tried to improve their courage by dulling their sense. They asked her many questions.
"Is your husband with you?"
"I have no husband."
"Your father?"
"I lack that too."
"Give us a name?"
"I'm afraid that's impossible."
"Why?" they asked curiously.
With her most disarming smile, she said, "You have yet to give me yours."
After she had been given every name in the pub, she asked, "And which of you charming fellows is not yet married or engaged?" By the time they had finished answering and arguing over that question, they forgot to trouble over her name.
Not long after, she announced a plan to retire to her wagon, and there was a fight over the right to escort her. She ducked out before it was settled.
While not a very vengeful person, she had enjoyed the trouble she caused. She remembered what Leifhound had said about pretty girls and decided to linger for a few days. Besides, she wanted to see a few things before she moved on.
The next morning she found the small cabin on the outskirts of the village where she had lived with the old man. Other people were living there now, so she did not enter. It was no longer home. She returned to find the village awake and several villagers, not just young men, lingering by her wagon. She took her seat and explained her wares but put little effort into selling.
Since the villagers had to send word to Ellsworth to get a doctor, they were willing to try her remedies, even though they handed over their coins with skeptical faces. The gossip came quickly. She did nothing to encourage it but nothing to fight it either. She did excuse herself in the afternoon, so she could seek out her old friend from the tavern. A few quick questions told her the right house. It seemed to ease people's minds to know she had someone to visit.
The young bride remembered her. She was surprised to see the sorceress so changed and flattered the old acquaintance had bothered to seek her out. Having grown up so remotely with only her brothers for playmates, the girl from the tavern thought the village a grand place with plenty of agreeable company. "You're so pretty. I'm sure you'll find a man of your own soon," the young bride said kindly.
"I'm too tall for most men," the sorceress replied, for she did not want to hurt the young bride's feelings with her cynicism.
Since her husband worked long hours, the young wife agreed to meet her friend in town the next day after she had put the house in order. They picked flowers for the old man's grave and walked together to the graveyard. It was this kindness that kept the sorceress from being more elaborate with her little revenges. She had thought about confronting the village about their treatment, and while she never intended to harm anyone, she had considered breaking a few hearts or giving everyone a good scare. But since she had been seen walking with the young bride who was new to the village and enjoyed her married life so well, she did not wish to stir up any trouble which might hurt her friend. Instead she left quietly and continued on to Postnine with its waiting soldiers.
Postnine stood on the southwest edge of Gourlin that looked out upon the desert beyond. She had visited other Posts on the edge of the desert and knew all the soldiers were afraid of it, as though worried it might grow again and swallow them up.
But the sorceress felt no warning of danger or horrible nothingness here like she had with the witch. The desert was quiet and still in a peaceful way, and she began to think it might be the ideal place to attempt her study of more advanced forms of magic. The quiet would make it easier to hear the subtle nuances of magic needed, and the remoteness would take away the likelihood of anyone being harmed if things went awry.
Caravans that dared the desert were few and far between, but the sorceress questioned soldiers and merchants until she had learned the secrets of desert survival. While the desert stretched long, north to south, a determined caravan with a steady pace could cross east to west in six to eight days.
She practiced by traveling north from Postnine to Posttwelve and then Posteleven, which were numbered by their building date rather than in a consistent placement pattern. There she found a fragile map in the archive that spoke of an old well midway between Paradox and Pinnacle City. It was almost equal distance from Uritz, Gourlin, and Cordance, which she thought she might like to visit some day. This suited her perfectly for even a sorceress needs water, and it left her in service to no single country.
She told the soldiers where she was going, though they did not seem to believe her. She bought a large cauldron for storing water and as much feed and food as her wagon would hold, along with a few other necessities for desert survival, and struck out across the sand to find the well. After three days, she did, but her joy was short lived for the journey proved too much for her ox. The poor creature died less than half a mile from the water.
Through a combination of magic and sweat, she moved the wagon close to the well. The wheels buried themselves in the sand. Over time she cannibalized boards from her wagon and rebuilt it into a hut of crudest construction, kept standing only by the heavy application of magic to reshape the wood. Magic also kept the inside cool, even when the sun was intolerable, and kept her food fresh until she needed it. When the desert had cleaned the bones of her ox, she added them to the construction to ward off the timid and created a sense of mystique for the few visitors she might receive. When she needed something or grew lonely, she turned into a bird and crossed back into Gourlin for a visit. With only a small pack to carry, she could make the trip in less than a day.
As a young girl, she had wondered what had driven the strange old lady to live in the deep, dark forest or the hermit to perch high on the mountain with nothing better to do than wait until a wandering hero crossed their path, but now she understood. They did not hate people. They just needed the quiet and sense of safety, a place to keep things that were special to them or too dangerous to allow a thief to carry off.
There were a few people desperate enough to brave the desert to see her, and when they came she did her best to heal them and send them home. She preferred deliveries of food and supplies to gold and made this as well known as she could. But most of her time was spent in study, alone with her books and the peaceful still of the desert. As the years passed, she grew a little strange but never
bitter.
She did not stay forever in the desert. There would come a time, years and years in the future, when another prince would come seeking her aid, and to help him she would travel across the sea to the land of wizards. But that is a story for another time.
For now the woman with no name is content, and you must be too.
More From the World of Seventh Night...
The Girl With No Name originally appeared as a weekly serial on the FictionPress website and is the first story in a set of four called Before the Fairytale, which explores the early years of characters who come together as adults in the upcoming light fantasy novel Seventh Night, due for release on Kindle later in 2013.
The second story in this set Horse Feathers is currently being posted as a weekly free-to-read serial that updates every Friday on FictionPress. Horse Feathers follows Phillip, a young boy bored by his routine life at the unicorn stables. Phillip longs for adventure and a pegasus, but he must depend on passing travelers to tell him about the world. Until one day...
For new chapters, world maps, author's blog, news, and Seventh Night merchandise go to:
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Grammar and Glitches
Fiction writers will occasionally use phrases that are not grammatically perfect, particularly in dialogue, to create a certain effect. Some comma rules are hard and fast while others vary by style manual, and the Seventh Night world has a few peculiarities of language like the Eastern Mountain tongue and pegasus.
The plural of pegasus in this world is pegasus, just like the plural of sheep is sheep. Pegasus was a proper name from Greek mythology that has been adapted to all winged fantasy horses, so even though you may have seen pegasuses or pegasi, there is no standard plural form.
However, if you believe you have spotted a mistake or technical problem with the Kindle file, please let Amoeba Ink know by e-mailing:
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And we’ll fix it as promptly as possible.
About the Author
Iscah is too young to be called old and too old to be called young and like our sorceress is content with life but not done living yet. Iscah's fantasy career was born in kindergarten when the teacher insisted everyone lie still and be quiet for an hour every day, even if they had given up naps years before, and daydreams were the only way to avoid going mad with boredom. As an adult and preschool teacher, Iscah has a great sympathy for non-nappers and allows them to look at books or engage in other quiet activities when it's quite clear they aren't the least bit sleepy.