They tell me I was out of it for three solid days. Nine meals, if you exclude the first. Three days that I dallied in and out of consciousness in the living room of strangers, shivering in spite of the warmth of the hearth they shared with me. Three days during which I was so unwell both physically and mentally that I didn’t bother trying to escape and resigned myself to being cared for. And after the tenth meal --or the eleventh, depending on how you’re counting-- I found myself noting with some small nugget of reget that I was feeling better. Not one hundred percent, of course, but better enough that I would do just fine to be on my way again.
But, you see, while the rain had stilled, the sky was still markedly cold and grey. Oh, it was the dry kind of grey, but, you see, if it did rain again, it would be positively heartless to leave without first fixing the damage I had caused. Oh, but I had no real obligation to them; I knew full well that they’d pack me a sack of food and send me on my way with a happy twiddle of the fingers if I so much as hinted in that direction. But, you see, I couldn’t afford to burn any bridges. If I left on uncomfortable terms with them, word would spread --at least as fast as my pet-name had-- that I was a creature of destruction and not to be allowed any sort of passage anywhere that would be remotely interesting. So, you see, it was in my best interest to stay just a little while longer to help them repair their door. I communicated this to Tam, and we struck out together to fetch some wood from the village’s lumberjack.
~*~
This was Tam’s favorite weather. Rain was comforting in a way, but it kept everyone pent up inside waiting for some sort of relief. They got plenty of hot, humid days in the summer. But this was a peaceful, almost mystical kind of weather, where fingers of fog twined through the trees overnight and receded ever so slowly over the course of the day. Occasionally a colder westly breeze would whisper through the branches and send shivers down the spine, but otherwise it was pleasant and mild. It was the kind of weather that amplified the crunch of gravel underfoot, the twitter of a bird that lingered yet somewhere in the canopy.
He was a simple man, but not unintelligent. Simple enough that he would open his home to a stranger, sure, but also smart enough to keep an eye on that stranger and measure and weigh whether he might bear any harm to his family. This Jester person certainly wasn’t a threat while he was sleeping off his illness. And now…?
Looking to one side, Tam watched as the purple-clad man trotted along beside him, heeling like a puppy that very much wished to be off the leash but knew better. Not a single hint of skin showed through the clothing: the mask. the scarf. the coat. the gloves. the bandolier straps. the mantel cape. the boots. At some points over the past few days, when the jester-- when Jester; he really wasn’t sure which it was-- when Jester sprawled on the couch cushions in the dead of sleep (probably sleep), he looked precisely like an oversized toy doll that the travelling merchants sometimes brought in from the bigger cities in the east.
It was hard not to think of him that way right now. This town was rich with folklore that whispered of magics tucked away deep in pockets of the living world, out of reach of most men. Some said wizards actually existed out in the big cities --wizards that could tame fire itself and bring a man back from the brink of death; wizards that could level a village with a smile and a snap of the fingers. What if? What if…?
Abruptly, the jester’s head swung round to meet his gaze --or, well, it felt like meeting his gaze. He found himself looking into the mask’s expressionless face and coughed an uncertain laugh. “So, uh, this is our town. It’s not much, but we’re all friendly here.”
He gestured to the humble array of buildings that lined the main road, with others spread out beyond amongst mossy tree stumps, and watched as Jester’s whole body turned this way and that with almost palpable interest. Then the masked man straightened and stabbed a finger at one of the larger buildings coming up on the right. It was probably the largest building in the town, long and low.
“That?” Tam wiped a hand through his hair with a chuckle. “That’s the market. Since we don’t have much by way of fields here, we get bulk shipments in from the towns east and west of us in exchange for our artisan crafts. We pick up supplies there. Do you want to stop in?”
Before the question was all the way out, Jester veered a sharp right and bounded toward the door. Tam snickered a little helplessly and trailed along after.
Inside, the building felt even larger than it looked from the outside, though the ceiling was low and claustrophobic with lanterns strung up all along the beams. Spanning the space were rows upon rows of barrels and crates. The more perishable items --the dwindling supply of them, at least-- occupied the rows closest to the door, and the grains, preserves, and spices filled up shelves toward the far end. Immediately to the left of the entrance were empty crates, barrels, and wagons for the borrowing.
Jester glided over the threshold and kept going, running his hands along the rim of a barrel, poking at a potato, leaning over to peer into the depths of a nearly-empty crate. He stopped next to a shopper comparing ears of corn, considered for a moment, and pointed to the one on the left before scampering on his way, leaving one very confused woman in his wake. More and more around the market people were starting to notice the peculiar man.
Tam hovered just inside the doorway and watched this all with a mix of amusement and worry, the way one might when their toddler runs up to strangers to ask them innocently-blunt questions. He wasn’t sure whether to apologize, try to explain, or just hide outside until everyone else left for the night. Rather than commit to any one, he settled for propping his shoulder in the doorway and bearing witness. Jester was a very suitable name, he decided. Like a king’s fool: no inhibitions, just moving and acting as he very well pleased.
At least the fellow villagers didn’t seem to mind. One or two backed away at first sight, but the more they watched, the more harmless he became, exploring his way through the rows of food and supplies. A couple noticed Tam lingering in the doorway and made the leap of logic, “Is he yours? Where’d he come from?”
Tam hefted his shoulders. “I don’t know, to be honest. He bust down my door a few days ago, then passed out sick as a dog on my living room floor.”
“He seems… different?” noted another, struggling to find the right word to express it. “Unique.”
“I thinking maybe he’s a performer or something? Far’s I can tell, he was traveling on his own. Ginger says she knows him from Glasielle, though.”
“From Glasielle? What in the world are they doing up there?”
“I dunno,” Tam chuckled as Jester ran his fingers through the rice several times, “but if this is a taste of it, I think I want in.”
As he drew near to the shelves at the far side of the market, Jester stopped to admire a woman’s shawl, a piece someone else in the village had hand-woven from hand-dyed cottons to show images of leaves and animals frolicking across her back. Then he picked up a jar of cinnamon and looked it over with great interest --even stooped his face toward it as if to take a sniff before jerking back with a shake of the head. He passed off the cinnamon and was on his way again.
Only once he had made his all the way around the market and surely poked, prodded, or examined at least every other item on display there-- only then did he land himself in front of Tam again with a nod. He stood up straight as if preparing to await orders, but glanced back to see the other villagers watching him and hastily slipped past into the street.
Tam offered a bashful wave to the others before following him out. “You’re a very odd fellow, aren’t you?” He chuckled when the man responded with a great bouncing nod. “Alright, alright, you silly goof. The lumberjack’s this way.” He jutted his chin toward the path before turning onto it. The path would lead them off into the depths of the forest to a fringe a safe distance away, where the lumberjack had a storehouse for wood and crafting tools for woodworking endeavors. They could build the door there and carry it home together.
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