When I wake up my guest is gone. I’d hope that the whole thing was an absurd dream. But my mind has never been that creative and hope has never done much for me. My hearing hones in on sharp metal cutting through the air.
Heading to the closest window, I spy Alessia in my yard. She’s training, despite the heat. Careful not to rip her gown, her movements are restricted. Each step she takes, every swing and turn is slow and deliberate. That said, I can hear how much force she delivers with each strike.
Her fighting style is unlike any I’ve ever seen. Given her wingspan and the length of her sword, each swing covers a lot of area. She maintains a sphere of defense while attacking. Keeping her grip close to her body should she need to adjust at any moment.
Though she’s just practicing, it feels like I’m watching something forbidden. Mostly because each time she moves her legs the gown does more than threaten to rise above her thighs.
I decide to retreat and let her maintain some privacy if she hadn’t noticed me.
I come across that garment she was wearing under her armor. I ignore the pungent odor wafting about and examine it. Whatever this is made of stretches as it’s pulled, it’s dyed well, with no streaks or spots. If there’s someone skilled enough to make clothing like this, I haven’t heard of them. Grabbing a knife, I press the tip of the blade against the garment. I can’t still have no idea what material it’s composed of, but it’s certainly more durable than it has any right to be. I can’t even make a small hole in it.
The thing still stinks, however.
“Alessia!” I call “come wash your garment, and give me that gown. I’ll alter it.”
“Oh, okay,” she answers back.
She’ll need clothes that fit, can’t have her flashing her bits to everyone. I’m no seamstress, but I can sew something that should fit.
She comes inside, sweaty from the blazing suns and her training. Her muscles glisten as she wipes the sweat off her forehead.
“In that blue container,” I point to it, “there’s powder to wash clothes with, use plenty of it on that filthy thing. Clean it in the tub.”
“Yes ma’am,” she responds.
“Don’t call me that, it’s Furti to you,” I reprimand.
“Okay, Furti.”
I take two old dresses from my wardrobe.
“Take your gown off and leave it on the windowsill there.”
She simply nods.
I grab my sewing kit and head outside. A moment later the gown rests on the windowsill. The temptation to look at the now naked stranger in my house is strong, but she’ll be busy being inelegant.
I rip apart the old dresses and sew them together horizontally to the gown, adding some much-needed length and width. The new garment isn’t exactly fashionable, it’s three very different colors and wildly varying fabrics. It’s clear why I’m a farmer and not a dressmaker. But it holds together, maybe. More importantly, it should be long enough to at least cover her gigantic thighs.
Sweet merciful rain, her thighs.
I prick my index finger with the sewing needle, drawing blood, to focus my mind. I let the blood drip into the soil below me.
“Your new dress is ready! Give me your garment,” I call out to Alessia. I put it back on the windowsill. A moment later she takes it and places her under armor there.
I hang it to dry on a clothesline. With no understanding of its making, I don’t know how long it’ll take to dry but it should be done by the time we come back.
Alessia comes out wearing the altered gown. It doesn’t look great, but it does reach her knees, reducing the chance someone will see her-
I choose not to finish that thought.
The stranger is still fit to burst out of her clothing, but it’ll do for now.
“We’re going into town, help me with the cart, please,” I ask her. She obliges, carrying the heavier baskets of crops to the cart. Having another pair of hands certainly makes the work go faster. Once everything I want to sell is on the cart I head to the front and tap the space next to me for Alessia to sit.
When she sits down, the cart tilts a bit. She’s taking up a lot of space up front.
“Oh, this is like a bike!” She remarks looking at the mechanism that moves the cart.
“A bike?” I put my feet up on the pedals. The thing doesn’t have a name, at least any I care to know. I start to push on the pedals and we begin our way into town.
It’s an exhausting process, especially in the summer heat. But I’ve become used to it, I can make this trip expending zero mental energy.
The only difference is the stranger sitting next to me adding substantial weight, and the awkward silence we find ourselves in.
“Is your finger bleeding?” She asks. I look at it with the same wonder. I had forgotten about it already.
“Just a little sewing accident,” I lie while flicking the blood away. Silence falls over us again.
She observes the woods as we progress, a dense forest that resides north of town. My farmstead is in a small cutout of it.
I can tell she wants to ask why I live so far from town, and I have an answer prepared in advance; that it’s closer to the river. It should suffice.
“You live all alone?” She asks suddenly, with a nod to the upcoming town, “any family over there?”
It’s not a question I was expecting. I thought it would be obvious, but I suppose nothing is obvious to Alessia.
“My family died in a plague a long time ago, in a place far from here,” I admit. It’s enough of the truth.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she offers.
“Why? You didn’t know them,” I counter. It came out colder than I intended. I don’t look at her but a pang of guilt cuts me. A feeling I usually push away, but instead I do something about it.
“I was one of the lucky ones, or unlucky, depending on who you ask,” I further elaborate. “It wasn’t a pretty thing, seeing a mass grave filled and burned. It’s why I stay away. Clouds Above, hopefully, another plague won’t happen, but if it does…” I let that hang in the air. It’s not necessarily the truth, but it makes enough sense to be.
“How about you?” I turn to her. I was expecting to see a remorseful look on her face or embarrassment. But she looks unabashed by the information I just disclosed. “You have any family?”
“I don’t know,” she responds. “The Guiding Light took my memory of my homeworld. Whatever life I had before is gone. I know I had one, I just can’t picture it.” She raises a hand to her head. “Like it’s locked behind a door, and I have no way of knowing where the handle is.”
“Why would your Guiding Light do that?” I ask.
“My theory is so that I wouldn’t have any biases, any prejudices I may have formed in my life wouldn’t affect my judgement. So that I could feel I belong anywhere, even when it’s clear I don’t. That any people could be my people. But sometimes I like to imagine I have one, a family that is, somewhere in the infinite universes.”
“You don’t think they’d be sad or worried about you?”
“I think I would’ve told them what I was doing. That they’d be proud of me. Knowing I’m saving lives.”
“It’s certainly something to be proud of,” I comment. I’m still not sure if I fully believe what she’s saying, being from some other universe. Alessia fully believes it, but that doesn’t preclude her from possibly having a heat stroke. I’ve known people who, after spending too much time out in the suns, say some crazy things. But then again, her suddenly appearing and having impossible armor supports her claim.
Perhaps this is all too much for me. Too much trouble, too much attention. I look over at her.
‘She’s certainly too much.’
“We’ll be in town in a little while,” I say. “I’ll sell my wares first, then we’ll see about getting you a dress that fits. Stay near the cart, you attract enough attention as it is.”
She self consciously pulls at her gown.
As we enter the town of Nusquam I stroll past familiar faces with smiles and quizzical looks for the stranger on my cart. Some take from my cart and pay me directly before going back into their clay houses. Others announce that I’m here with goods to sell.
I take the cart to the marketplace, where the majority of my goods will be sold. It’s a hectic, chaotic space with no room for my cart to maneuver through. Stalls and storefronts make up most of the realty. Others just sell their goods on a simple mat.
I’ve been invited several times to start a stall of my own. Having a solid location to sell my goods would certainly increase my profits, but that sounds like a hassle, and money is not why I do this.
My goods sell as well as they usually do, people inspect them and make small talk, a few bring up the stranger on my cart. I lie, telling them she’s a friend from out of town. Perhaps it’s not a lie but an exaggeration. I have only known her for a day.
I decide to stop at one of my favorite spots. A butcher stall, the smell of cured meats greet me before I see the man. Aurelius, as I know him, is always clean despite his bloody business. A neatly trimmed pitch-black beard augments a handsome face with kind brown eyes and a soft smile. Years of his craft and the diet he maintains have made him a man very thick with muscle and fat.
As he sees me approach, a gracious smile stretches across his face.
“Furti!” He calls, running his fingers through his hair despite it being very close-cropped. “It’s wonderful to see you again!” The kind of man he is, I know he genuinely means that. His voice is a warm, calming thing. But he mumbles a bit. When I first met him I could only understand every other word he said. Now I get the gist of what he means and can fill in the rest.
Aurelius is sweet on me, he always buys plenty of my goods, perhaps a bit more than he needs; and always gives me more than I ask for, perhaps a bit more than I need.
In my youth, he’s the kind of man I’d chew up and spit out in a matter of days. I’d ruin him for anyone else. Now that I’m older I wouldn’t say I can’t still do that, but I have the restraint not to.
Whether or not he’s sweet on me, he seems the clingy type. And that’s not something I want; not when I was younger and not now it seems.
With that said, I can’t help but wonder how well he handles his manhood. Given the size and strength of his hands, I imagine he’s well endowed. Is he a gentle lover like his personality suggests? Or is he wild like the animals he sells were in life? If I ever get my hands on his length I’ll-
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste my blood.
I need to focus.
“Hello, Aurelius, how are you today?” I ask him. Blood pools under my tongue.
“I’m well!” he answers “I have quite a nice selection for you. A few of the beasts I hunted myself!” Aurelius usually just buys from hunters, but recently he’s taken up the bow to get his wares. It might be because he wants to save some coin, it might be because he wants to impress me. It might be working either way.
He turns around to get something and I quickly spit the blood out of my mouth. I rub it into the dirt with my foot.
Aurelius turns around with a resplendent hunk of meat.
“Had this beaut sitting in my special spice mix for three days; Bria spice, a winter honey, and a few other things I must keep secret,” he explains.
I chuckle.
“It’s rude to keep secrets you know,” I counter. The irony of the statement is for my amusement.
“Well, I’ll give it to you for a nice price, if you give me a good price on your cryodaisies when they’re ready.”
‘Shit.’
“Sure,” I answer. “Anything for the best butcher in Nusquam.”
“That’s easy, I’m the only one!”
We exchange goods and more small talk before Aurelius asks,
“Who’s the tall woman sitting on your cart?” There is curiosity in his voice and a little jealousy.
It figures word would travel fast.
“She’s a friend from out of town,” I lie. He squints quickly, having trouble believing I have a friend out of town. I’ve made a point of being somewhat antisocial here. “A bit of tragedy, she’s looking to start over here. She’s touchy about it, so try not to bring it up,” I lie further. Aurelius is a kind-hearted man, he will spread the word and others will listen to him. Preemptively stopping any strange rumors about who Alessia is.
“Got it, where’s she staying?”
“I put her up in my place,” I assure him.
“That’s really kind of you,” he responds, not without a hint of more jealousy. He must’ve heard how beautiful Alessia is.
We conclude our business and I weave my way through the marketplace. There’s a noticeable amount of people pretending as if they’re not staring at the stranger on my cart. Alessia no doubt notices, but she’s just observing everything.
I return my now empty baskets to the cart.
“Good day at the market I take it?” She asks.
“Market’s abuzz with people because a beautiful stranger has shown up in town,” I answer.
“You think I’m beautiful?” She inquires with a raised eyebrow.
“I have eyes, Alessia. A blind man could sense your beauty I think,” I admit.
“My,” she says.
“But,” I continue, “you’re also new. All new things are beautiful in their own way. I was new for a while, but people get used to you, to your beauty. They get used to everything. So don’t let it go to your head.”
“You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you?”
I scoff at her.
“Let’s go to the seamstress before more people gawk at my terrible handiwork,” I say referring to the gown.
“You should be more proud of this. I don’t know how to sew,” she says while following me.
“What do you do if your undergarment rips?” I idly ask.
“It’s made from a magnetic weave,” she says. I can only imagine what that means. “It can repair itself,” she further explains.
I almost ask how, but think about the long answer attached.
“I see,” I respond instead.
As we walk to our destination Alessia draws more attention as people see her at her full height. She doesn’t seem to mind, possibly because she’s used to it.
We enter the dressmaker’s shop; though it’s made from the same clay bricks as all the other shops, it’s much cooler inside than others. It’s because of its high domed ceiling, letting the heat rise. The woman who runs the shop, Amabel, is checking a bolt of fabric.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she says before turning around. Her voice is light and weaving, such as her talented handiwork. She keeps her short black hair tied up in a bun with a head covering of her own design.
I’ve never asked how old she is, the seamstress seems to be around my age. Wrinkles from many smiles and time spent out in the suns grace her face. She has the vibrant spirit of someone much younger, however. She’s wearing a light blue dress with floral embroidery, it’s very impressive stitching.
Amabel, on the surface, seems like a delicate beauty that faints at the notion of hand-holding. But looks are deceiving.
“Hello, Furti,” she greets me. “Have you finally come to try out dresses for me?” She looks me up and down with a heavy gaze. Amabel keeps offering for me to model her dresses, but it’s clear that she’d prefer to see me not wearing one at all. Her glances and lip bites are too subtle for most but I catch them like one would a falling fruit.
Part 1 End
Comments (0)
See all