Chapter 8
The Village
The Gods never wanted suffering to grace their greatest creations. They tried to apply honey to the horrors of the world, no matter how insignificant. Yet, the horrors have persisted and they did the only thing they knew best: creation.
Trentin offered to bring us into the market today. No doubt planning on taking any money earned straight from his son’s pockets to fuel his tavern time tonight. After his quarrel with Sawyer days ago he is in surprisingly good spirits. The two don’t speak, though.
Climbing onto the wagon, Sawyer loads bundles of freshly cut, but brittle, fenceposts onto the bed. His eyes keep catching mine and I keep finding myself blushing. Our conversation last night gave me hope.
“Let’s get this over with,” Trentin announces, spitting a glob onto the dirt. “I tire of this place.”
“You live here,” I snap over my shoulder. “Get used to it.”
Trentin makes a swirling signal above his head and hops onto the seat.
He snaps the whip against the two horses pulling the wagon and we take off.
I’m sitting facing the road behind us, legs tucked under the dress Ma lent me today paired with a worn scarf on my head and some sandals she had in her trunk.
I look like a true village girl, though my pants at home beckon me.
Sawyer sits at the front of the wagon with Trentin. With me, Hal is steadily picking at some dried dirt caught under his boots when Trentin starts cursing at the horses, throwing more angry whips at their backsides.
We both flinch at his brutality.
“You’d think that whip would have frayed and snapped by now,” I say quietly to Hal, nudging him with my arm.
“Oh, Liv, he wouldn’t let that happen, now would he?” Hal teases back. Some sort of dark, sad hidden humor.
The dirt road leading from our stead a few miles from the main village is dusty and barren.
It’s an isolating place, but at least we have market day where we attempt to retain any community we have in our small area.
The wagon comes to a stop and the horses neigh as we all unload, grabbing crates and baskets with us.
Ma sent with me some pottery she fashioned with the clay found in the dried river.
Not feeling well, she sent me alone today, so I am tasked with setting up.
I look around and see only a few other stands set up. A smaller market today, then.
I find our usual spot next to the dried fountain in the center of the square.
The fountain is a stone edifice of twin trees wound around one another.
It has seen better days with no water available to grace it.
I sometimes try to imagine it flowing, try to imagine a time when our village was more of a city.
Sawyer finishes up bringing over the rest of their crates and Hal has already attracted a few cattle farmers.
I can read his decline to a low-ball offer on his fence posts, shaking his head with a still cheerful smile.
The farmer eventually gives in to Hal’s already low price, exchanging bills for posts.
Sawyer helps the man bring them back to his wagon across the square.
It really is small today. There are a few stands around with potatoes, onions, a few assorted greens, ribbons, and other various textiles. I’ve nearly forgotten about the pottery when a man steps in front of me, looking down as I startle from his abrupt presence.
“Hello,” I choke, caught off guard by how large he is.
I almost drop one of Ma’s cosmetic dishes that I added delicate flowers to.
I dried a few of the flowers from my hair and made a paint for it.
With a little painting oil and the purple pigment, it came together nicely.
Now, they can find eternal life in the form of art.
The man in front of me is partially blocked out by the brightness of the sun, but most of his features start to come through.
If I didn’t know better, I would have confused him for Sawyer.
Messy hair, large eyes, and even his smile is nearly identical, but where Sawyer is soft, this man is firmer.
The only stark difference being he is a bit larger than him with a darker head of hair.
On that note, I try to look past the man before me to the spot Sawyer was standing at to find it empty.
He chuckles and the sound is warming and somehow familiar. He looks down at the pottery in front of me.
“Selling these?” he asks, bending down to pick a couple pots up, examining the artistry. His accent is one I cannot place. I also cannot place a reply because, for lack of a better explanation, he is as beautiful as the sculpture behind me.
“Y–Yes. The pottery. I am selling that,” I chuckle, covering my cheeks even more with the scarf. I’m an idiot. My blush creeps across my cheeks. I look past the man across the square and see Sawyer making his way back from the farmer.
“Who crafted these?”
“Oh, my mother,” I say, avoiding getting lost in those eyes.
“Your mother?” the man asks, eyes glancing between me and the pottery some more. I nod. He clears his throat. “Well, she’s very talented.”
The stranger nods and picks up the largest one we have and my heart pulls knowing how proud Ma was of these two. They’re a matching pair. One is night and the other day. “Two sides of the same coin,” she said when she finished.
He keeps looking at me and I try to seem busy with my scarf. “These two will be it for me,” he says, pulling out a pouch of coins and bills. “And your work?”
I glance down at the pottery, wishing I had something of a contribution. The paintbrush suddenly feels very heavy. “I’m more of a textile artist. This scarf, for example, is a sample of my fabric dye.”
He leans forward, eyes piercing mine and my breath hitches. While I thought his hair was pitch black, I now see a streak of red towards his hairline. The moment seems to last forever until I realize he is inspecting the fabric pattern.
“Not for sale,” I say, more rudely than I intended. He stands upright, his attention back to payment. “How much?” he asks.
“Ten grata, sir,” I manage, my mind racing to make sure I remember to thank him.
“Ten? Only ten?” he says, examining the pottery again and shaking his head.
“No, twenty,” he states, handing me the bills.
His purse nearly spills over as he does so.
My hand shakes as I reach for it, but he pulls back and turns his head to the side, shaking it again.
He reaches back in his pouch, pulling out double what he initially offered.
Forty grata.
“Your… mother does fine work. Thank her for me,” he says, a friendly grin forming on his face. The man turns his heel to leave but pauses yet again.
“Oh, thank you, sir,” I manage to say, afraid to have offended him. His generosity is unmatched to anything I have experienced.
The stranger turns his head back to face me once more. “Tell me your name, please,” he asks, crouching down to eye level with me once more. “I’d like to hear it.” I instinctively reach for my scarf, thankful for it covering the bruise beneath.
“I’m called Liv, sir.”
“Liv?” he questions curiously, our eyes looking deep into one another. His hand reaches forward, brushing the scarf from my cheek. My breathing rattles, slow and shallow. The stranger’s lips purse and his brow furrows. Instinctually, I grab the scarf and pull it back across, smiling apologetically.
“And your name?” I let out, hoping to change the subject. His eyes move back up to meet mine, his solemn face finding a smile again.
“That, you already know, dear Liv,” he says coyly, standing back up.
“Thank you again, for the pottery.” The man takes one last look at me before moving on.
I’ve never met him, never seen him in my life, and as fast as he had appeared, he disappears.
I search for him around the square from my spot, trying to remain subtle, but he vanished into thin air.
A traveler, then.
What a life.
The midday sun crests high above the market. It’s mostly died down since my last sale with the mystery man. Hal sold most of his posts and my pottery still lies in front of me, only missing two items. I’ll have to figure out a way to get rid of the rest of these.
A flash of light reflecting across the square catches my eyes, waking me back up. Sawyer is walking towards me, hands clasped together in front of him. It’s been a couple of hours since he abandoned Hal to the task of selling their wares.
“What’s that you’ve got,” I pry, leaning forward to peek into his hands.
He pulls them up and winks. “You’ll have to come find out.” He backs up, gesturing with his head to follow.
I glance at Hal and grin, unsure of what is going on, but he chuckles and shoos me away. He can take care of the customers, if any.
Sawyer pockets the thing in his hands and grabs me, dragging me away from the market towards the grove of trees on the south side. My feet are barely able to keep up with his excited steps.
“Where are you taking me?” I yell as we skip over fallen logs and rabbit holes.
“You could just follow along with my ideas for once. The Gods know you are a stubborn woman.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be any fun now, would it?” I tease back, keeping up with his hurried pace.
The grove is the only place you can really find vegetation around here.
It’s more of an oasis, if I’m being truthful.
Shrubs graze my ankles as I try to follow a soft path frequented by others.
Sawyer keeps his pace, occasionally glancing back towards me.
We pass by birch trees of all sizes, most adorned with carvings from previous visitors.
Some left by lovers, widows, friends, or random phrases etched into the wood.
We slow in a section of tall grass, soft and flowing in the gentle breeze.
“Close your eyes,” Sawyer orders.
I squint, looking around for any hint of surprise but find simple peace. The trees flow gently in the breeze with birds jumping from branch to branch. It’s quite tranquil here.
Heaving a giant sigh, I yield and close my eyes.