In the morning I wake with the sun. In no time at all I’m packed up and moving on the trail again. It’s not long before the path begins to level off as we reach the bottom of the mountain and begin to make our way across the valley. As I approach Isthmus, signs of human presence begin to pop up. The stumps of trees cut down for buildings or firewood, spots where the snow has turned to sludge and then ice as it warmed and cooled again from people walking over it, and finally as I near the village, people. There aren’t many. Few are arriving so soon after sunrise and with market day just beginning not many are leaving either. I fall in step behind what appears to be a mother and her daughter coming from the direction of a small village a few miles south of us. I don’t know why they are here so early. As is few vendors will have even begun to set up shop and the market will not truly begin for at least another hour, but we will be reaching the gates in less than a quarter of that time.

I push these thoughts out of my mind as the spiked logs of Isthmus’ protective wall come into view. I hurry forward, pushing past the two women, in my excitement to have finally reached Isthmus. I hurry through the gate and make my way toward the large, permanent stall of to the left of the main street. This is where I must go to pay to sell at the market. As I stand in line behind a large, burly man with scars on his arms I look around at the market being set up. A few local vendors are already set up, those who have permanent stalls that merely have to be carried out into the street, and many of the larger trading groups from out of town are quickly putting up their portable stalls. Those of us smaller vendors are not so lucky to have actual stalls and must make do with rugs and mats to keep our products from the cold, snowy ground.

I finally reach the front of the line and pull out the small coin purse containing the last of the money my mom and I made the last time we came here. I open it up and retrieve the five copper pieces needed to pay for the cheapest spots in the market. The man behind the counter sneers slightly at the coins but takes them and directs me to the far end of the market, where the fewest people visit.

I quickly lay out my rug on the wet snow and begin to arrange the pelts from my pack on it. I have a good haul this time. Several deer and rabbit pelts, a few fox pelts and even wolf pelt. The only thing that would make this better would be a bear pelt but that would be nearly impossible to get.

On the other side of my rug I lay out my herbs. These are not nearly as good a haul. Spring came short and fast this year and summer was not much better so there have been far fewer herbs than there should have been this year.

I finish laying out the herbs and sit down, settling in for the long wait. I watch the baker across the way as he carries out a steaming tray of various freshly baked treats. The smell reaches my nose and my stomach grumbles. I was in such a rush this morning to get here, I hadn’t taken the time to eat anything. I get the last bits of my food from last night out and pick at it. The smell of the fresh bread is still torturous but at least my stomach isn’t complaining anymore.

As the sun begins to rise higher in the sky, and those people who didn’t wake up at the crack of dawn to set up begin to stir, the market begins to fill with people. Some pass by without even looking at me, some glance my way but pass me by, a few actually stop to examine my pelts or herbs but after an hour I still have yet to make a single sale. If things continue like this my life, as well as my mother’s, are over. When we fail to produce the money the tax collectors will drag us off and we will be thrown in prison to rot or worse, thrown into a work camp.

I’m so engrossed in these thoughts that I don’t even notice the strange man approaching me until he stops right in front of me. The first thing I notice about him is his strange boots. They would look like the typical warm leather boots worn almost universally throughout the mountains, except they have intimate swirling patterns covering almost the entire surface. They are obviously well worn, and the patterns are hardly visible in places, but even so the traces of paint that once covered them is still visible in some of the thiner grooves of the swirls. There is no doubt that these shoes must have cost this man far more money than I can ever hope to make in my entire life. As I lift my gaze up toward his face I see that the rest of his clothes are in a similar state- old but obviously worth quite a lot even now. When my eyes finally settle on his face it seems out of place. I had expected him to look like many of the moderately successful merchants and traders that liked to dress like more successful men, but instead of the perfectly groomed hair and pretentious face typical of those men, the man in front of me now looks like he’s done with life. His long hair is tangled and matted and the the deep bags around his eyes seem to suggest that he hasn’t slept in days.

“Are you done?” He says in a gravelly voice as haggard sounding as the rest of him looks. “Well? Are you?” He says, starting to seem visibly annoyed by my lack of response.

“What?” I ask, realizing I’ve been staring at him for a long time.

“Are you done staring at me or are you planning to just gawk until I get tired of waiting for you?”

“Oops. He noticed. Now what do I do? Calm down. Just treat him like any other customer.” I look up at him and say with a smile, “What are you interested in?”

His annoyance seems to dissipate as he looks at the wolf pelt displayed prominently next to me, “How much for that one?”

“That one? 100.”

“Would you take a trade instead?”

“A trade?” I ask curiously.

“I’ll give you my jacket for that. My jackets a little used, but it’s in good shape.” The man replies.

“Deal!” I know it’s not money, but such a quality jacket isn’t likely to come around again soon. I probably shouldn’t take the deal, but something in me really wants to. I can just sell it if it comes down to it. And if I sell the rest of my stuff I should be fine.

“Here” he says, handing me the jacket.

I reach for the wolf pelt to give it to him when a thought crosses my mind, “Why would you want to trade your jacket for this pelt?”

“That’s my business” he responds gruffly, grabbing the pelt from my hand, “You got the jacket and that’s all that matters.”

“But…”

The man storms off, rapping the wolf pelt around him as a makeshift coat. I’m an Idiot. Why did I make such a stupid deal. I groan and lean back to look at the sky. It’s nearing noon, and the pale winter sun is almost straight above me. I reach out my hand, wishing to go somewhere, anywhere, else. Somewhere where I don’t have to worry about money or deal with other people. But in the end I just drop my hand down and sit back up to face my life.