Part 2 - 4

The Old Trail cut through the Neverwoods, fraught with stories never allowed at bedtime. Lazy Tomlin demanded from his own nannies to hear of the man-eating boars, castles hidden in labyrinths, and ghosts that roamed in the fog. But not until stepping under the looming branches did he question if the forbidden yarns were not all make-believe. An otherworldly air shimmered with each step he took in the Nevewoods, like a cake glossed over in icing. His eyes soon went glossy too, and his ears listened to an unnatural sound. A song carried on the breeze, humming and rising. It pierced the woods and hooked him like a fish upstream.

Tomlin strayed far from the worn grass and douglas firs of the path, drawn like a bead on a thread, down further until he reached a cleared spot of land. And on it was a hut unlike any he’d ever seen. Shingled and feathered, the hut sat on three legs. Not human legs, but a chicken’s legs with taloned feet, digging at the soil like any common fowl. A garden sprouted up in the upturned soil with basil, tubers, nightshade, and garlic all bunched together until spilling across a white-picket fence where within it, the source of the song.

A young woman sang, fair and freckled with the dress and bonnet of a grandmother, washed laundry in a bin. She eyed Tomlin from afar, in no rush to hurry or greet him, but stopped singing. Tipping over the muddy water, she peered up at Lazy Tomlin on fishing her laundry.

He clapped, and a grin stretched tight on his face. “That was such charming music for the country!”

The woman sighed out and put her hands on her wide hips. “What are you doing all the way out here? No one comes out this far anymore.”

“I’ve remedied that! I’m on my way to Porttown and took the Old Trail,” he said and stepped up closer to observe the singing woman. She had a high brow that never seemed to relax, with arched lips to match. “Fine weather, is it not?”

Sunlight pierced all over the odd little settlement, glistening a copper windchime and the weathervane with a hand pointing every direction but where they stood. Getting no quick answer to his question, he was unsettled. But it was made worse when he leaned on the fence but reeled back not feeling the familiar grain of wood that should be there. Latched together and stacked to his waist, were bones, smooth and hollow. “Miss are those-”

“Bones? Yes,” the woman said and swayed up in a walk with one eyebrow raised. She began to pin up the washing onto a clothesline. “Bones.”

“Is that from a boar?” he said and pointed to a skull not unlike his own with wide open sockets. “Oh dear, you must have found one of the beastly creatures out there. Frightful!”

“You can make it before nightfall if I show you the path back. It is frightful, as you say. No reason to linger. I won’t sing a song until you’re long gone,” she said and pointed to where he’d come from in the Neverwoods, and with the gesture, a strand of auburn hair fell from her bonnet.

Tomlin was very fond of the color. And her skin too, which was like honey still in the beehive. Obviously pretty if somewhat less wealthy, he decided this girl needed a husband to dote upon. What if he got all the way to Porttown to find only hags? Like a wound toy, he turned on his charms in a mechanical way obvious to everyone but him.

“Have I told you how lovely the color of your eyes?” he said, but faltered on staring at them. The girl’s eyes lacked a ring of color, making the purely dark. Like a marble of a cat’s eye, ready to hunt. “How-extraordinary they are! Why, if you don’t mind I’d love to stay here!”

The young woman muttered something under her breath and clicked her tongue. “It’s been ages since I got such a sweet compliment. How genuine of you to say. What do you call yourself?”

“Why let me give you my greeting so that I may shower you with more,” he said and held out his hand. “My name is Tomlin. Tomlin of Glenbaine.”

She took it, turned it back and forth like a pancake, and with a sigh said, “Mine’s Baba. You’re thin… crunchy almost. They must have fed you well, Tomlin of Glenbaine.”

He’d never heard of flattery using crunchy before, but with all the vegetables in the garden maybe country-folk said strange things. “Why, thank you. I’m a little crunchy, I’ve been told before. And you say your name is Baba? Like a sheep? You were named after a sheep’s noise?”

Letting go of his hand, she cleared her throat. “Not quite, but yes.”

“A lovely sheep,” he said and batted his eyes. “And you’ll fatten me up, I’m sure.”

She grit her teeth and said, “Not sure there’s time for that. I have to ask you to do a chore if you wish to stay.”

Tomlin’s eyes cast around, seeking a helper. But there was no one else to swindle into his work. But maybe this once, he’d try to do chores so well evaded in his upbringing. After marriage, he’d never need to lift a finger again to cook, mend, wash, or garden. For this young woman washed out horrid stains from laundry from beet juice perhaps, and ate well from the looks of the fence and overflowing garden even if just peasant’s food. What was one chore for a lifetime of ease?

“More than fair,” Tomlin said and gave a deep bow. “I am at your service.”