A yawning girl sat and whistled, sharpening an ancient hoe and clearing it of rust that clung to it with desperation. The water on her washed face was yet to dry, and as drops of it fell on the ground she couldn't tell them apart from the morning drizzle that had begun. Of course it rusts, when we leave it here out in the rain all the time. Then you clean it, Éolan. Always you. With this stupid stone. Thunderheads gathered in the sky far above and soundless lightning from far away flashed on the silver of the sharpened edge of the tool in her hands. Having run her fingertip over it, she let it rest on the bench and picked up the bucket.
At the well she tied a rope to the handle and let it drop to a muffled thud. Flowers first. Then the chickens. Get some milk for the cat too. Mustn't forget to bake bread. She walked clumsily back bearing water in the bucket trying to walk on thicker grass and avoid muddying her dress. A rattle of a carriage and a hyah! of the driver came down the road from the direction of the village. This far from the centre? Must be looking for us or the neighbours. Eggs, most likely. She hurried to meet the guest. She knew the man, Theoden, a known customer of her family. Poor man. Recently widowed. You can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. ”Mister, good morning,” she said realising it was not so good. ”Have you come for the usual?”
”Good morning, my dear, good morning. Actually no, no I haven't. I come to deliver rather than to take this time. Oh, stay there, I'll come to you. This bloody road is just mud ankle-deep.” He got off his carriage and the rain worsened, plastering his thin grey hair on his forehead. ”Here you are,” he said and produced from his shirt a parchment of sorts, with a stamp signaling importance.
A letter? ”What is this?” she asked.
”No idea, dear. A man came last night, said couldn't find the one he's supposed to give it to. Said your name and I knew what to do. Offered to bring it to you for him, so here I am. Would've done it last night, but this darn back of mine was not cooperating.”
”A mistake, surely. Who'd write to me?”
”That looks like it came from Aldburg, I'd say. Judging from the stamp.”
”But I know no one there...” The horse on the stamp. Something official?
”Seems like someone there knows you, huh? He-he.”
”The one who brought it. What did he look like?”
”Oh.. He was, er... A soldierly fellow. Helmet, sword and all.”
”A king's man, then?”
”Might be, been a while since I saw them soldiers. Yes, yes. Could be. Who else would have such gears, yes?”
”Thank you for bringing it to me.”
”My pleasure, dear. Well, I'll be on my way now. Got a shop to run! Take care!”
”I shall. You too.”
He got on the carriage, turned it and waved a goodbye, leaving her staring at the paper in the rain.
Next day dawn found her looking at the palisade of the capital from a nearby hillock. She'd reached the place riding with the merchants from her village. Their shapes could still be seen to her right albeit faint in the distance, but yet she did not move from the spot where she'd left them. An apple in her hand, half-bitten, fell down. ”Now you're all nasty, look at you,” she said and picked it up. The dirt did not stop her from eating it, for that was the only breakfast she had, and a rub on her sleeve did the trick. As she looked at the town, she wondered whether or not it was rude of her to leave her home, seeing how tired and spent her mother was from all the work around the homestead. Her father was happy to let her go, on the other hand. Of course, they thought she'd return in a few days most; so what trouble could come from it, letting the girl stretch her legs a little? He knows what it's like. To be here, on the grass, in the wind. He rode. Before his hand was taken. Kind-hearted man, my father. Wants me to feel what he hasn't for a long time. And it's my fault. Of course, he wouldn't let her go without his old gear. The road is dangerous. Wrapped in a woolen cloak, a bag of clothes and some armor over her shoulder, and a hidden sword hanging at her side, she went on towards the gate, clutching a letter in her hand that she couldn't read.
When she reached the market she realised she was frightened by the crowd, but the fear was exciting. She felt infantile again, thrown in the world of most interesting design. Her attention was caught by a couple of men playing some sort of guessing game with mugs and a pebble, rapidly moving them across a wooded plank on the ground and making the observers guess under which one the pebble was. The big drunken man who'd agreed to play with them was mocked by the gathered bunch, both for the foolish intoxicated demeanour of his and all the money he'd lost to the swindlers. The chickens and the pigs sounded all around her, dogs barked, people yelled, and smells of mud, meat, and spices mingled in the air. The drunkard shouted and cursed before falling face down in the mud, unconscious. His foes, the ones who'd robbed him, disappeared into a tavern across the road, laughing at the fool whose money they were about to spend. On drink and more games. Pitiful life, day to day, stealing and spending.
The sign above the entrance showed an eight-legged horse, but it was the odor of ale and cheap cooked meals that read ''tavern'' for the illiterates like Éolan. Once inside, she looked around for a while, not sure what to do. A lame woman with a broom went by, swiping around. In the dust rising around her feet and the dirty kind of light that went through the windows and came from candles, she saw an empty table at the back that she soon took, far away from the couple of thieves who'd now teased the gimp. Waiting, she sat and ran her eyes over the scribbles on the latter amazed by the intricacies of the written word and bothered by the emptiness in her stomach.