Page 24 of Of Shadows and Blood

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.