8
Hawthorne
It was your decision to wake up at 5 am. It was your decision to stay awake so you could be out of the door by 5:30. And it is completely your decision to be standing in the humid morning air at 6 am (or ‘round abouts) waiting for the cart to Penketh.
This is what I repeat to myself as I yawn miserably. In my head, obviously, I’m not a madman. My eyes fight against the last strains of my willpower and pride for sleep. I have to make a conscious effort to pry them open to make sure that I’m kept out of the dusty, musty soil-infused horse dung in front of my equally dusty and musty boots.
Any minute now, a cart should pull up, hopefully not crammed with people, to embark on the three-hour journey to Jemtong’s neighbouring portside town. I pray to whatever god lies above - or in the earth, I guess, I’m not honestly sure where they’d be - that I’m the only one with sanity low enough this morning to wake up at the break of dawn on the day after the star shower and the day of marketeering. My chances are looking good so far, I’m the only one sweating profusely in the market square as the sun rises from behind the mountains. I still haven’t gotten used to the temperature out here.
On the bright side, at least I get to see the first beams of sunshine fall over the tiled roofs and hit the gems which decorate some of the shop fronts. Their colours sparkle like little stars. Jemtong’s own tiny star shower in the morning sun. It's mesmerising, entrancing, hypnotising…
A rattling clatter of hooves snaps my eyes back open (they were shut?! Is my ego that low?). Circling the fountain in the middle of the village is Ms. Mais’ coal cart which trails black dust in the air as the cart bounces up and down to the horse’s careful trot.
Fortunately for me, the Myan people set up a communal transportation system for villagers to get to their destination around Myan many decades before I moved here with my family. In Jemtong, a few villagers with trades volunteer to transport citizens to safe towns where they plan to sell their goods. So, it's presumably good for all parties: the carters, if that’s what you call them (merchant?), get a lil’ buddy ol’ pal for the ride and the buddy ol’ pal gets to their place of interest relatively quickly. I mean, I for one would take a three-hour cart ride over walking through the woods alone, through the night for hours, any day.
Ms. Mais runs her cart to Penketh once a week, she’s one of the few kind merchants in Jemtong to do so, despite there being a large amount of them in the business of coal, metals, pretty things, mountain-mining things, you get the gist. She works in the coal business and brings her load from the Edelkohle mountains here to the Penketh coast. This is handy for me, as today, I am on a mission for fish.
I wave brightly at Ms. Mais’ tangled brown hair as it comes into view over the back of her tawny, broad horse. Her frizzy curls are shoved into a hat with a wide brim, intended to shield her rosy cheeks from the elements. She pulls to a stop in front of me with a wide smile, a rarity for folk living in Jemtong. She flaunts dirty, coal-stained overalls over a simple white shirt, probably not the best decision for someone working in the coal industry. The cart itself is fashioned specifically for her body type as a Dwarf, allowing her to pursue her career despite old traditions of Humans being merchants and Dwarves working in the mines.
“Guder moch, Ms. Mais!” I greet her cheerfully in Myan as I clumsily bound onto the bench next to her. She helps me up the large jump from the small step to the base of the cart with a calloused and coal-dusted hand. The seats are well worn with tattered, scratchy wool determined to tickle the behind. Their woven colours are greying and fraying with the centre being the area most affected by wear. Behind me, a makeshift shelter for the coal bulges and rumbles as Ms. Mais urges the horse, Noah, on once more.
“Moch froih, Hawthorne! How’s your mama, Eden, doing?” She responds in her strong Myan accent that I’ve never once been close to capturing in my four years of living here. However, it is almost devoid of the Jemtong dialect which is a blessing for her as the Jemtonian people do not have a wonderful reputation across Zyrona. Unfortunately, my family wasn’t given the luxury of this knowledge when we moved here. We just had to go, go, go.
“She’s had better days, but she’s managing. The fiddle keeps her company. How’s the trade?” I reply, shifting in my seat in search of the optimal position which avoids the fraying wool as much as possible. Ms. Mais doesn’t seem to be bothered by this persistent dilemma, but that may be because there’s little room for me to move to avoid it.
“The fiddle, eh? Have you passed on my invitation to the gigs at Fulke’s? The band’s still looking for a fiddler to my accordion and Werner’s mandolin. We’d love to have her.”
“I have, I think she’s interested, just not in the right headspace yet. Give her a few and I’m sure she’ll join ye.” Headspace is one way of putting it. She’s hardly moving and speaking is another. On the bright side, I’ve gotten to spend more time with her over the past few months which has been pretty nice, all things considered.
“Whattabout you?” Ms. Mais asks, surprising me with a question concerning me. I freeze in my shuffling and turn to look at her.
“The fiddle?”
“Eeyup.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” I chuckle, “My hands are about as elegant as a horse on a tightrope when I play.”
As always, Ms. Mais doesn’t dwell on the end of one conversation and immediately jumps into a new topic.
“You going to Penketh today?” Her light hazel eyes are steady on the road as she speaks. She slightly tilts her head and angles her lips in my direction whenever she talks. As if the sound quality is better received that way.
“Yuppers! Picking up some food for the month and dropping by some pals of mine. I’m hoping to be back home far before night falls. Y’know, full moon and all that.”
“Two!” she exclaims before addressing the first part of my answer, “Guder pokjun, your mama must be proud to have a boy like you.”
I smile softly, rubbing the knuckles of my right hand with my thumb. I like to think she is. Proud of me, that is. She seems to be appreciative of my efforts even though she never says so. And she does things for me that show me she cares, even though I know that she barely has the energy to get up anymore. Like when I was leaving the house this morning, she surprised me with a small painting of the star shower from last night. In the centre of the small cube was the silhouette of a tall figure in a billowing coat, immobile with awe at the rippling sky. She hadn’t said anything, just stood there watching me but it was enough to make my voice all wobbly when I thanked her.
I hug my trench coat to my body; bittersweet tears pricking at my eyes. Her painting is hidden in an inner pocket close to my heart amongst other paintings. Paintings made by…
Left by…
“What’d you think of the star shower?” The tears are shaken from the corners of my eyes as my head shoots up after hearing Ms. Mais’ voice.
“Uhhhh,” I pause, filling the space where I process her question with some kind of noise, “Oh! It was - it was beautiful! I’ve never seen anything like it! All the colours and everything. I’m so glad I decided to stay up late instead of succumbing to sleep like I wanted to!” I joke, earning a chortle from Mais,
“Hear, hear!”
It really was beautiful. Colours I’d never seen before, let alone imagined, had filled the night sky. First in wisps, then in roiling waves: magenta, turquoise, violet, vermillion, fuschia, navy and so much more. Then, the stars came. They had poured across the sky in mystical silver ribbons, leaving a glistening trail in their wake. It was the perfect picture, one she would have loved to paint. She really would have…
I had held my mother close to my side. Despite its beauty, I knew she was thinking of the tragedy that had befallen us after a similar event four years ago, just like I was. The fate of our home. Of my father.
I had taken a poker from the fire last night and throughout the entire display, I had it by my side, ready to swing at any abnormal presence. Any threat in the dark under the sky of falling stars. I was the man of the family now. And the eldest too. I would do anything to make sure my mother and the twins wouldn’t live in fear or sadness anymore. On the bright side, I’ve gotten a lot stronger and mature over the past few months. I feel so far away from the person I was when…
When she was here…
“D’ya think the Star Elf is back?” Again, Mais brings me back to the reality of the dusty road in front of us in the middle of the Finmork forest. Back where I’m from, we called it the Blackthorne forest where loads of morbid folk tales were inspired by its closely knit, needled branches with leaves of a deep evergreen colour. I knew Mais’ opinions on this matter: she practically worshipped the Star Elf and would enthuse about new things she had read, sightings and discoveries. She lives in Jemtong because of its proximity to the Star Elf ruins, hoping that she would be the one to assist the legend when they presumably rise and defeat all evil in the world.
I believe in them too, although with more caution towards their existence. But if they are real, they will help us defeat the awful, horrid creatures that destroyed my home. If not, it would probably be a heck of a lot harder to defeat the evil forces lurking in the shadows and across the border but, I believe we could do it. We could do anything if everyone comes together.
“I hope they are.” I answer honestly, “I think together, Zyrona could push back the cursed one and the ice snakes but we need the Star Elf, or someone like them, to be the shining light to guide us towards that. Right now, a lot of us are without hope. Especially after what happened in my home town and what’s going on in Xeorka right now. We need a saviour.”
Mais nods solemnly and sacrifices one hand on the reins to lift two fingers to her lips and bring them to her forehead; a symbol of prayer to the Myan spirits. She assumes her hand’s initial position on the reins again and allows a moment of silence to pass before speaking to me once more,
“You’re a good boy, Hawthorne, you know that? You were made to grow up too soon by the world but you’re a good, honest boy.”
I smile shyly again, thumb back to my knuckles.
But the truth is, I lied.
I’m not solely going to Penketh for fish and other ingredients. I’m hardly even popping by to say hello to friends. I’m not even going to the coast for a break from reality.
I’m going to Penketh to kill a werewolf.
I’m going to Penketh to make sure no one dies like my sister did.
Not sure where the bright side to that is.
Comments