The recent cold front left me with stiff joints and fumbling hands. Have you ever tried to whittle with ice blocks for fingers? It’s impossible.
I need gloves, and perhaps -if I can afford it- a jacket.
My animal pelts haven’t been selling well though. My arrows have a slightly unnatural bend to them that keeps sending them off course. I try to calculate and make up for this error, but it’s unpredictable. They keep piercing the wrong parts of the body, so I have to shoot them again. No one wants holes in their fur coats.
I would have already made new arrows, but I need gloves first. For the gloves, I need money. For the money, I need better arrows.
This equation swirls through my head as I walk into a small, worn town. The crisp morning wind tears at my britches, attacking my body through the fraying holes. I refuse to shiver. Shivering tightens your muscles, stopping your blood from warming you. I can’t afford that.
Colors of light reflect off water droplets coating the grass. I sidestep a wayward pile of manure on the cobblestoned street and immerse myself in the sounds of people waking and preparing for the day.
One man emerges from his home, milking bucket in hand. I nod. His eyes tighten and he nods back. I pretend not to notice how his pace quickens until he passes me, and enter a small store. A bell rings when I open the door. My hand lingers on the worn knob. This store, in the center of the village, is a common trading place.
Grumbling echoes from the back and soon the sound of shuffling footsteps are replaced by the sight of a man, hunched over with age. The hour suddenly dawns on me and I realize my early business might not be too welcomed. Why don’t villagers rise with the sun?
“Mornin’.” I take in his disheveled clothing as he approaches the counter before me and try to appear apologetic.
He looks at me with beady, untrusting eyes. “What do you want?” I notice his gnarled hand tighten over an axe, which he brought in with him. Everyone reacts the same to my presence here. You can never trust the people that emerge from the forest. I’m different, but they don’t care. They have livelihoods to guard.
I take my hand off the metal knob, which steals my heat, and stick it firmly in my pocket. That was unthreatening enough, right?
He doesn’t lower the axe.
“A trade.” My voice catches a little. I clear away the cough from a lingering illness and remove my hands from my pockets. I unsling my pack from my shoulder and display my set of pelts.
“Hm…” He steps forward, itchy a grimy beard and picking up a pelt. “Fox skin?”
I nod. “Underneath is bear.” His eyes dart up to mine, skeptical. “Lucky shot,” I clarify.
He snorts, placing the axe besides him on the wooden counter, then removes each skin to examine. I wait patiently.
“I’ll take these. The rest is no good.”
“No good?” I retort, watching him separating the piles and reject two fox furs. “They’re the fines-“
“-they’re marred,” he interrupts, pointing to an ill placed arrow hole. He looks back up to me, eyes daring me to disagree.
I grit my teeth and relent. “I want gloves and a coat.”
He purses his lips and the haggling begins. I get my demands met once I promise to work off my remaining debt. He disappears out back with the furs. I lean against the counter and exhale in relief, my warm breath puffing out around me like smoke.
That’s when I see him. There’s a flash of green in the corner of my eye and I turn to see a figure cloaked in green velvet, pocketing something from the shelves.
As I straighten to stop him, I notice several things: There’s a dark wet spot on the side of the cloak, and he’s cradling it with the delicate fingers of his free hand; his hands which are pale, not the common caramel color my own skin is. His head snaps up and suddenly I find myself staring down his fierce gaze, rare green irises burning into mine like fire. My hand halts in the air as my final realization settles in. It’s not a man, it’s a girl. And she’s hurt.
She has a dagger out before I can react. Her dominant hand holds it, abandoning its place on her side and covering the hilt with her blood.
Dimly I notice I never heard the door chime, and neither did the storeowner because I’m sure he would have left the back to hover over us. Regardless, I don’t pull my own weapon. She’s a girl.
She takes advantage of my hesitation and presses the weapon to my throat. “Make a sound and it will be your last.” Her voice is soft, but hard with the slight hidden tilt to her vowels.
She looks so out of place, carrying a knife the length of her forearm. Regardless, I do not doubt her threat. I remain silent. We eye each other for a moment. She’s small but I can see by the way the cloak flows over her form that she’s strong.
She slowly lowers her dagger and sheathes it, apparently concluding I’m not a threat. Me, who towers over her with strength gained from years of meeting the rough demands of the woods. I’m baffled by her bravado, but her accent, her pale skin and green eyes, the ease she in which she wields that dagger, only one conclusion makes sense: “You come from the forest.”
“So do you,” she remarks casually, examining a set of medical cream before pocketing it.
I narrow my eyes, catching her hand as it reaches up for more. “I’m not one of you though.”
“Clearly,” she snorts. She doesn’t pull back her hand. Instead she glances up and studies me. I think I detect pity. “It’s been a cold winter.” She says slowly.
“It… has.” I respond, not following.
She carefully frees her wrist and places a set of matches in my hand. “Death doesn’t care about right or wrong. A dead man is a dead man.” She closes my hand around the box. She slowly lowers her hand from mine and those foreign eyes gauge me.
Peeved, I open my mouth to respond but the store owners exclamation cuts me off. “Thieves! Drop it!” Metal drags against wood as he picks up his axe.
A smile creeps upon her lips and she breaks the pitying stare. Moving with surprising agility for an injured one, she reaches up and yanks a shelf down. It tumbles between us and the storeowner. “Run, you fool,” she hisses in my ear, darting out the door with her stolen medical supplies.
“You little-!” the owner bellows. Metal flashes in the corner of my eyes.
I duck just in time. It whistles over me and embeds into the wall with a thunk. Adrenaline pumps through me. Before I can think it through, I grab what I can, ignore my guilt, and run.
Wed Jul 18, 2012 8:25 pm