Chapter Text
“Just a few more miles. This trail has got to end at some point.” I huff, exasperated. Deep down I’m acutely aware of the fact that trails could go on for more than a marathon’s length. I’ve ran such trails before, all through the swamps of Florida. This particular trail was a favorite of mine and my team’s, back when I actively ran cross country. Now, it was a sweet nostalgic spot that served great memories and physical exhaustion.
It begins with a prickling on the back of my neck. That odd and hardly describable feeling of something being wrong. I look around me, darting my head. There are no gator tracks to be seen, and I can no longer smell the dull muggy dampness of the swamp. The mosquitos seemed to have calmed as well, and while I normally can’t feel their bites until after I finish running and let the blood cool under my skin, I am acutely aware of the absence of welts on my thighs and calves.
I stutter in my pace. I shake my head quickly becoming dizzy and disorienting myself. ‘Is it disorienting if I’m already disoriented?’ I ask myself in an odd mix of bitterness and frenzy. I cannot tell which way is the main road, I cannot tell which way is north; my keychain compass is spinning and I feel the bile rise in my throat. Where am I?
I think through all possibilities. My keys glint at me, taunting me. Where has magnetic north gone? Did the pole shift finally happen? Is the world going to end?
The sun is fast setting and the air begins to chill. The stars are wrong. They seem closer, almost, like if I could reach up just a bit, I could brush against the moon with the tips of my fingers. The swirling galaxy pattern of the smattering of light in the sky is just visible, and the clarity jars me. I have never seen such detail in person, only in data reductions from telescopes on remote corners of Earth. Yet, despite the beauty I am still afraid.
Where is Orion? The Big Dipper? Cassiopea? Bootes? Polaris is nowhere to be seen and my observations leave me standing still and panicking. The Earth, on it’s 23.5 degree tilted axis, on its ecliptic, with its tides and its orbital period, is wrong.
I have to move. The birds echo endlessly in my ears and the blood rushes faster and faster in pace with my breath. I cannot move.
I glance at my compass again. Magnetic north does not exist. The Earth is not below me. I do not know what is below me. There is no axis, no sun, no stars of mine, nor is that moon my own. I do not know how long I stand but I do know that I fall, and when I look upwards the world is still wrong. So subtly, terrifyingly wrong. Where are the gators? The mosquitos? The lingering acridness in the air that follows humans wherever they go? Where am I?
I’m going to die here.
The world is still wrong.
I’m on my last energy bar, and the sun still rises in the east and sets the west. But it isn’t my sun. My sun is a beautiful main sequence yellow star. This is an imposter. A beautiful one nonetheless.
My damp dry-fit shorts and short-sleeve don’t do much to improve my sense of impending doom either. I think of all the things that can kill me simply by virtue of my inferior physiology: hypothermia, hunger, thirst. Never mind the countless nasty things that lurk in the woods: bears, wolves, large birds of prey. I am no survivor, at least not of the land. I can slum it with the best of them in heated basements of ritzy high-rises, but throw me into a world full of beautiful skies and greenery for miles and I’m a goner.
I know that the constant walking and lack of protein is going to cause some series atrophy at some point. I can’t afford to think about that. I can’t hunt, I can’t fish, and I don’t know what berries are poisonous and which aren’t. I do not have shelter, and if it rains the chances of me dying from exposure skyrocket. All I have is a small pack on my back with water, tampons, hand sanitizer, and energy chews. What I need is civilization.
I wonder how I didn’t die during my first night in this horrid world. Left out in the open, dissociated to high hell and left to rot in an oblivious sleep. These episodes happen at the worst time, and I lament the fact that no amount of breathing or yoga seems to help. I have no friends here to lead me onward and help me through, and I can’t afford to take such a chance again. I have to be more careful.
If I was to estimate, I’ve walked about 10 miles. I can feel the blisters taking refuge on my tired feet and I wince in anticipation of long hard days to come. Hopefully the calluses I build now make my journey a bit easier. My thighs are strong in their conditioning and abuse, but my butt isn’t used to such long distance treks, and I can feel it quivering in exhaustion.
‘Is that smoke?’ My reverie is broken by the smell of something rank, yet not. It is welcome, it is assuring, it is people. I break into a run. My calves are tight with use, my hip flexors scream in warning. If I keep this pace I will be in pain, but I am already in pain. I promised myself I would exist out of spite to the universe (albeit I was 16 and angry at the world), and exist I will. This may not be my Earth, but it is still the same universe I despise (at least I hope).
Close and closer I come to the smell. The trees thin, and for a brief moment I wish I knew what kind of trees they were. I had never cared for biology. ‘Focus.’ I look to the smoke once more and I realize I am very close.
These are people who terrify me. They are human, like me, yet they speak a language I do not know and they are filthy and coarse in their manners. The streets are paved with horse and human shit. Children run about dressed in piecemeal clothes that wreak of poverty and trial beyond anything I am familiar with. I sense no joy in the women who mill about with wicker baskets full of linen and chores of the early morning. This is a land of only hardship and duty.
The men stare at me as I pass by, eyes lingering upon my modest breasts and dirt streaked legs. I struggle with the urge to cover my face with my hands and simultaneously cross my arms over my chest. I must look like an absolute whore to them in this medieval culture. The woman who can spare a glance from their work do so curiously. Those who can spare more than a glance take in my unusual appearance. I may as well have been walking through the center of the straw lined street with a spot light.
I stop in front of what I hope is an inn. It’s got a dangling sign with a poorly painted animal of some kind, and it’s two stories full of chatter and the smell of life. I enter behind a matronly woman who spares a smile at me. I smile slightly back and she takes it as invitation to start a conversation. I have no idea what she’s trying to ask me, but I take a shot in the dark as the cadence sounds vaguely familiar.
“Juno. Juuu-noooo.” I point to myself exaggeratedly, hoping to God that I answered her question. Her answering show of teeth cause me to let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. Mimicking me she points to herself and annunciates slowly, “All-drid”.
A man then brushes his way past me and sneers in my direction. I think whatever he says means ‘whore’ or ‘bitch’, or some manner of derogatory name for a female. The language may be different, but some sentiments are universal. Hastily I move out of the walk way next to Aldrid. The inn is crowded and smelly, but she seems familiar. Hopefully this is my chance to get a meal and place to sleep, although I have no idea what the currency is here.
She walks up a rickety flight of stairs and beckons me into an equally drab room. There is a bed and wardrobe on one side and a small basin the corner with clean looking water and block of something unpleasant looking. Aldrid, after a few moments of rustling in a closet, turns to me with a bundle in her hands and says something that is so alien in its cadence my confusion was impossible to hide. She points to the bundle and the basin in the corner with a smile and then bustles out the door. Quickly I peel off my filthy clothes and pack and step into the basin. The water is cool and I can’t help but shiver as I scrub the caked mud off of my shins.
I examine the lump of unpleasantness. I think it’s soap, so I sniff it closely. It has no smell, but instead a grainy texture that I have a feeling will exfoliate the skin. I run the bar harshly over my stomach and neck, and while it feels a bit unpleasant, I feel much cleaner.
I finish scrubbing and rinsing relatively quick, just using water to clean the muck from my hair, and begin to figure out the clothing Aldrid has given me. There are too many laces and ties, and the color is faded and drab. I feel as though the world around me has been dipped into a dulling filter and nothing has any vibrance anymore, especially in the inn.
I think the more sheer layer is an under thing of some sort, with a band sewn into the breast area and the general shiftiness of it. The second layer seems to be a nightdress. They come down to my shins and the nightdress hold absolutely no form on me. I look like a sack of potatoes.
With meticulous timing Aldrd knocks briefly and without waiting for an answer enters the room. She looks at me and nods, saying something that I don’t understand. I just smile tiredly as she moves behind me and sits on the bed. She tugs me downward and soon I am sitting between her legs as she tugs and detangles my hair. It reminds me of my mother, and I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the sudden intense burst of anxiety and fear.
She sings something while I weep, and it is the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. I feel as though I have come home, that I walk with an unknown strength, that I can overcome this new place and thrive. There is a tingle on my skin that I chalk up to wariness and exhaustion. I understand the meaning of the song and the hope it conveys despite the alien language, and while a part of me is dully alarmed, I can’t seem to truly care. I refuse to look the horse in its mouth and instead complacently let Aldrid braid my hair and lull me to sleep.
I don’t remember drifting off between the legs of a strange woman in a strange land, but I awake to the brightening blue of a sky just before dawn through rickety shutters. There’s a sharp rap on my door.
“Coming!” I hop out of my bed and make my way to the door, but Aldrid has already entered with a new bundle of clothes. She smiles at me and gestures, so I smile and grab the clothes with a quick thank you. She still stands there though, and I now look confused. I gesture to the clothes, and she nods, turning around to give me some semblance of privacy.
Throwing whatever modesty I had left to the wind, I shuck off my nightdress and unfold the foreign tan dress. It has more laces and ties than the nightdress, but the waist is taken in and there is a band below the breast that looks as if it is supposed to be tied tight to emphasize my chest. Unlike the nightdress it comes down to my ankles and the loose sleeves stop at my wrists. It isn’t exactly easy to put on, but I manage well enough.
Aldrid nods at my appearance and then gestures to the shoes she brought me. They’re simple things made out of some kind of hide with laces going up to the bottom of my calves. It takes me five minutes to get them on and laced properly with Aldrid’s help, but in the end I look like a local. Albeit a brown one.
She leads me to a kitchen where she is greeted amiably by all working. The workers look at me with blatant curiosity. They are all unkept in some manner, whether it be five o’clock shadows or frizzy braids (much like mine), or the younger looking ones with dirty faces and bright smiles. I don’t feel any hostility, but I do feel my otherness. I look down at myself. I am wearing the same clothes, my hair is done similarly. I look back up and shamelessly scrutinize the workers.
There are baskets of breads and platters of jams and butter being rushed this way and that by pretty serving girls and young pretty serving boys. They rush into an out of the kitchen area shouting what I can only assume to be orders and the three cooks take action with each call. I also notice that there is not a single person of color in the room. I am strange and alone in my tan-ness, and now I am acutely aware. I see every little glance and shuffle, hear every odd whisper, but I’ve been in similar situations before and resolve to just giving a small smile and try not to look sick with discomfort.
Aldrid points to an apron laying upon a barrel near her left and I grab it and tie it on. Four years in food service prepared me well for Mc Donalds or IHOP, but not a renaissance fair cookery. Nodding her head approvingly she leads me to what I can only assume is a prep station.
There are various knives and blocks of wood and a carcass of meat. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s a deer. I point to it and say so, and Aldrid gives me a bland smile. It’s a deer. I have never cooked anything other than prepacked chicken in my life so I stare at her in disbelief. She smiles and nods her head toward the deer; her meaning is clear. I shake my head, gesturing with a lone knife that had been laying about unsheathed that I had absolutely no idea what to do.
Aldrid looks at me again. She points to the deer. She says a word. I repeat her. I think we are saying ‘deer’. She nods at me. I point to the animal, “deer?” I question. She nods, and voices her affirmation. “Yes.” We’re off to a good start, I suppose. She takes the knife and begins to hack bits of meat off. I notice that what could have been considered good cuts of meat had already been taken off, and I suppose that I’m just taking off the last bits. Maybe for a soup or something. The thought makes my stomach growl. Now if only I knew when I would get to eat.
I peel off my bloody apron and sigh as I feel the wetness of my dress graze my stomach. I knew that animals were full of blood, but I didn’t know how much. The tub of water in the corner of my shoebox room looked more inviting than words could describe, but its disappointing length and width meant I would have to content myself with taking a disappointing bird bath. Again.
The raggedy clothing Aldrid had given me before the night was over on the corner of the bed, and I strip down without thought. But now I have to pee. I’m naked in a dingy room with no windows in the middle of a foreign land with foreigners who speak a foreign language on a foreign planet, and I have to pee. The food is horrible bread with odd looking porridge two times a day, and I’m so hungry. My vision tunnels on a small dirty looking pot in the far corner of the room.
The inn is silent. My stomach growls.
I begin to cry.
The following weeks are similar. I wake from an uneasy sleep to a familiar yet unfamiliar star rising in the east drowning out the not-whippoorwills and not-larks. I grimace as I run my tongue over my teeth and feel the grit and buildup of sleep and days without brushing. I idly think that I need to find a way to fix that.
I put on Aldrid’s hand-me-downs from the small chest at the foot of the bed. They are much too large, made for someone blessed in the chest and hip department. I try to salvage the look, cinching my waist tightly with a belt she left. I suppose it doesn’t look bad, but I also suppose it’s too much to ask for these people to have discovered the mirror.
I hurry into the kitchens, and dawn begins to break more clearly. The room is bustling with life, and now that I am a more of a familiar sight not a single person spares me much of a glance.
Aldrid spots me and beckons me over, “Juno!” She’s at the prep station again. This time, there is only a crate of peppers and onions before her instead of the normal carcass that I struggle to butcher. I am instantly relived; finally a thing I am familiar with. I give her a bright smile and greet her. “Hello Aldrid.” She points to the pepper and onion and annunciates them slowly. I copy her. She smiles. It’s a familiar cycle. Then she says what I can only assume means “Grab a knife.” As I only know the word for knife and she’s pointing at the knife block. Context clues have become my saving grace.
I sit with a group of woman my own age, around 19 or so, to break fast as they say. They don’t talk to me much, with the language barrier and all, but they smile and remain at ease in my presence. Perhaps they aren’t that unused to foreigners? I guess I won’t know until I finish learning the language, so I sit up and attentive throughout their conversation, hoping to learn something, anything at all. It’s slow going but I think I’ve leaned the word for ‘handsome’.
The porridge is beyond bland, and I long for the saltiness of bacon and over medium eggs. I swirl the gruel slowly, knowing that if I don’t eat it, I’ll be laying awake in bed later not just crying, but curling in on my cannibalizing stomach. These long couple of weeks haven’t done anything to dull my longing to go home. I miss my mother and father and I miss my friends. I miss school, and even my coworkers.
The sound of the inn fades slowly into the background whoosh of my heartbeat and circulatory system. I can hardly hear the other girls. It’s happening again, and I cannot stop it again. In the distance I hear Aldrid call for us to get back to work with her benevolent smile and pleasant disposition. I am grateful for her generosity and her willingness to take in stranger with no concept of the common language, but I can’t help but wonder when that generosity will run out. It’s bound to fall through when she realizes what’s wrong with me. When the mood swings and thousand yard stares freak someone out just enough.
I can’t quite register my surroundings. I know that there’s a knife in my hand, that there’s still a crate of onions to be cut. I know I am picking them up, chopping of the ends, taking of the peel and chop chop chopping away. I know Aldrid is talking to me. I cannot answer. She walks away, and I still cannot speak. The hustle and bustle of the kitchen flows onward and I dimly hear orders being called out. I am not aware how long I stand at that station, but can only measure time in 6 crates of onions and peppers. Aldrid stands in the corner, and I am suddenly aware of the lack of people. I stand still, looking at her blankly. A small corner of my mind is weeping from my inability to move and talk.
‘Time to be human, let’s go girl. Kick it in gear. Say something, open your goddamn mouth a speak!’
‘I can’t.’
Aldrid gives me that kind smile once more. It’s full of understanding and motherliness and it’s enough to make me break. For the first time since I arrived here, I let myself truly cry. I still cannot speak, but she doesn’t need words to understand me. She holds my weight, and my taller frame ensconces her, yet it’s her that cradles me. She walks me out of the kitchen, down a simply lit hall to my room. I sit on the bed and stare as she undoes my braided hair and unties my tightly cinched sash. She kisses me on the forehead and mutters something full of reverence, as one might pray to God. Does God even exist? I wonder, still sitting hunch backed and full of nothingness.
‘God, what’s going on?’
It’s been two months, and I can hold a rudimentary conversation. The…well I suppose the closest thing I can call him is line cook, named Derrel, has become a partner in crime of mine. He’s been a welcome constant who didn’t let my not-understanding of his language stop him from teasing me. If anything, it’s been the catalyst for learning quicker. Who knew double endentres were universal?
“What for dinner tonight?” I ask, knowing my fluency is stilted and awkward, but also maintaining pride in my ability to pick up that much.
“Venison.” What a surprise. “Hunters bring in many. Rangers here. Must be delicious.” To my ears, Derrel’s speech sounds just as chopped and coarse as mine does. He speaks slowly for me, and most of the time (at least recently) I can get the gist of what he says. Nevertheless, my ears perk up at Rangers. I had heard about them from the other girls I eat meals with. They were apparently strapping lads of incredibly handsome stature that sometimes came to the inn between their travels. “Men of the land”, Aldrid had referred to them once, and I couldn’t help but be curious about this group of people who seemed to be worshipped by the people who I worked with.
I chuckle as Derrel flips his spatula in a showy manner and drops one. He had the grace to look abashed, and his partner cook, Gunnar, shook his head in a fond yet exasperated manner. “Heyo!” I greeted him and smiled a blinding smile. A picture of perfect innocence.
“We cook venison because of you. You know I hate. Always get your way.” He shook his head at me this time. This time it was Derrel who full out guffawed. Both cooks knew I preferred preparing venison to preparing beef. I have a soft spot for cows with their big eyes and even bigger personalities. I cried for hours the first time I had to look at one’s carcass.
Derrel and Gunnar couldn’t understand my softness, and I suppose to them it didn’t make sense that I was so ‘at home’ in a kitchen yet I shrunk away from viscera and blood. I couldn’t very well explain that Taco Bell and Tijuana Flats had meat shipped to them and I only had to thwap it onto an assorted carbohydrate and call it a day. Thus, I decided to write off my squeamishness around dead farm animals as one of my many foreign idiosyncrasies and nutted up enough to butcher a deer.
“You know it!” I reply easily, turning and checking the plate in front of me to ensure the presentation was as good as it could be. I hadn’t thought that in this primitive village the kitchens and culinary services would be advanced enough to have a sous chef, line cooks, and prep cooks, but I’m thankful. Some things are different though: Aldrid serves as head matron rather than executive as she never touches a pot, but rather ensures the overall quality of meat, vegetables, and starches. Proper disposal of waste and putting up of dishes fell to Ambol, an elderly man who’s Aldrid’s right hand, but sometimes his gruffness is rather off-putting. I thank the wrong stars and not moon every night for my good fortune to have fallen into her good graces, as it was enough to grant me the ability to move around the kitchen and finding what best suits me.
I had been on dish duty recently, and will still be if Vargis, the young man who’s station it is but who also has a new wife and child to tend to, wishes to have a night off. My first few weeks as prep cook helped me prove my worth with vegetables (and not so much with meats) and general competency in a kitchen. I eventually floated over to the position of expediter, something I was very familiar with. It was there that I was obviously in my niche and Aldrid, bless her heart, took notice.
“Juno, Sigrid no here, need substitute.” I whip my head around and see Aldrid looking at me expectantly. I’m in shock.
“I cannot! I barely understand Common.” And while that sentence was fluent enough, that was about as good as it gets with me. I look to Derrel and Gunnar, both of whom are looking at Aldrid with eerily similar frowns.
“She is not well enough in Common. She will cause problem.” Derrel had a point, and Gunnar nodded along with him. I knew I had made a good decision in becoming fast friends with these guys.
“Trial by fire.” Aldrid nodded and that was that. Trial by fire. I hear the phrase often, especially from Derrel as he sometimes pulls me off of the expo line and has me work on the wood stove searing steaks and frying vegetables. I made it clear I can arrange things prettily but I could not cook (as clear as I could anyway), and Derrel made it a point to turn me around. This, however, was much different.
The battle was lost. I looked down at myself and saw the same hand me down with a cinched waist and limp fabric. It was an old style thing, sleeves down to my forearms, fabric down to my ankles, and rucking near my breast to make them appear more perky and appealing (something that doesn’t change no matter what planet, I suppose). I hadn’t worked long enough to stain it and I hadn’t sweat through the fabric. I figured my braided hair must still look neat.
I take of my apron and set it down with more than a little bit of attitude, wincing as Aldrid raises a gray brow. I don’t mean to look ungrateful, but I’m not excited to make an ass of myself. I stick a sickly smile on my face and smooth my dress once more. I suppose it must be appropriate enough for serving, as Aldrid makes no comment and I cannot sense disapproval. I follow her into the dining area and she points to several tables in a cluster.
“These yours, take orders, make nice, talk, beer.” She says a lot more in between, but I repeat what I understand to avoid confusion. She nods and smiles that beatific smile once more. I resign myself.
The area is empty save the ladies setting the tables and the boys cleaning the floors. Dinner service is within the hour and all of their hard word will be undone by naught but a few filthy travelers who haven’t heard of water before. Keeping my sneer in check will be the hardest part of the night. I assume the while inn is closer comparison to an Earthly 4 star hotel, the clientele is not.
Maybe I should just drop my expectation of cleanliness, especially if these are now to be my people and I am to be living with them. But these are not my people. My people have discovered indoor plumbing and women’s rights. They’ve discovered the moons of Saturn and the Hale-Bopp comet. And pre packaged meat.
But here I am working in this dingy yet middle class inn. Serving travelers whose language I can hardly speak or understand, who come from lands that I cannot pronounce. Not only am I lost, but I am a young woman, and here that has no worth. My education, my ambitions, my likes and dislikes; they all mean nothing here. There is a void in my chest, a not unfamiliar one, but a different one all the same. It claws at me when I lay down to sleep, it causes the dew to gather in the corners of my eyes. It pounces when I least expect it. It is pantherlike and deadly, and so I tighten my leash on it.
‘One day I will make peace with you, too. I owe my existence to myself.’
Dinner service is running along smoothly. My tables are still empty, and so I have not interacted with customers at all. I’ve been busying myself calling back orders and running expo as I prefer. Aldrid remains a few feet from me overseeing the bustle as usual, and I look toward her.
“Sigrid no here, neither her customers.” Aldrid looks at me with a twinkle in her eye.
“Perhaps.” I smile at that. I know I shouldn’t be counting my stars yet, but I can’t help it. The universe may have dropped me in this medieval hell hole, but at least it grants me some mercies. I go back to rearranging asparagus and potatoes.
“Juno, table.” My smile drops. The universe really has it out for me, then. Aldrid smiles wider and I clear my throat and step away. Putting on my most pleasant smile I enter the dining area and swiftly trip over my feet. Great start.
My tables are pushed together and filled with the burliest, filthiest, and most intimidating group I gave ever seen. I swallow as the bar man, Alimar, steadies me. I smile at him but his face remains impassive. I get the feeling he doesn’t like me much, but nevertheless I nod and continue on.
“Hello. My name is Juno, I will serve. What can I get you?” I stumble over my words. I had been practicing them with Derrel since preparation started, and now my nerves have decided to make me look like an idiot. Which I guess I am since I cannot read or write here.
‘Huh, I really am an idiot’
The man, gruff and appearing to be in his early 30’s, nods at one of his companions and looks up at me,
“12 tankards and a basket of bread for now. More people come.” I nod and smile,
“Be back!” I hurry away feeling heat on my cheeks as a few of his companions laugh at me. I haven’t been laughed at since middle school, and I had forgotten how awful it felt. Well not directly anyway, but the ladies I work with usually are so kind as to hide it.
“12 tankards and a big bread basket!” I call back. I hear an affirmative, and smooth my dress nervously. Another server, Gudrun, appears next to me,
“Can help you carry out?” I ask, and she readily agrees. I smile and tell her my thanks. Sooner than I would like the men in charge of the refreshments begin pushing tankards toward me on the long wooden table. Gudrun and I pile six each onto large metal trays and begin the perilous journey toward the mega-table I’ve been tasked with. The bread would have to wait.
As carefully and as un-obtrusively as I can manage, I begin to place a tankard in front of each of the men. Careful not to cross their faces with my arms, not bump their backs with my armpit, I smile a little brighter with each successful placement. I nod at the man who have me the order earlier.
“I will be out with bread soon.” I make so spin around and head back to the kitchens but he makes a curious sound in the back of his throat that makes me hesitate.
“You serve like halls of kings. Where are you from?” I understand this question, I had gotten it a lot. But I’m not sure if I understand his implication. Do I serve like I am used to dining with kings? Serving kings? Most likely the latter, but I cannot be sure.
“Far. Very far. I do not know of Kings.” I give a stunted bow and do not see his reaction.
Hurriedly I grab a pre-arranged basket of bread and head back to the dining area, placing it with the same care I did with the tankards. I startle when another member of the company grabs my forearm. Have I done something wrong? Did I offend him?
“You no speak good Common, what do you speak?” He relaxes his hold at my frightened face and I take a breath of relief. He’s just curious. Just a handsy, curious fellow. My fear turns to bitter amusement. No, I do not speak common very well, but he wouldn’t know English if it hit him over the head with an Oxford Dictionary.
“Dico Lingua Latina. Mater lingua.” My words are full of merriment and teasing. I may not be able to speak Common, but I am multi-lingual. Why not indulge in a bit of harmless flexing?
At my words the entire group straightened and stared at me. The man who had placed the order dropped his jaw and nearly his tankard, beer dribbling from his reddish beard.
“You know language of old.” His voice has lowered from its assured cadence to an almost reverent whisper. I shift my weight nervously. This is exactly what Derrel warned me of. My tendency to tease and jest is going to get me into trouble, he says often. And here I am with a table of some twelve men staring at me as though I hung the not moon and not stars. Like their prayers have been answered.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” I’m almost pleading. I’m so nervous I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my limbs. My arms shake with a desire to flee and my eyes dart toward the swinging doors of the kitchen. Why couldn’t I have just kept my mouth shut. Why did I take Latin for my foreign language requirement?
The man digs around in his jacket for a brief moment and pulls out a cylindrical case. It is one of the most ornately beautiful things I have ever seen. I stare, fixated beyond my better judgement as he undoes a latch and takes out a decrepit and wasted piece of…parchment?
“Can read this? Please.” His eyes hold such a profound glimmer of hope that I cannot just turn away.
“I can try.” I place the tray on the table in front of one of his companions with a murmured apology and delicately take the scroll from him. Beautiful calligraphy and stylized borders greet my eyes. I am in awe of such a clearly ancient text and feel so dirty handling it with my bare hands. Aren’t you not supposed to touch old things? The oils on your hands ruin it, I remember from a documentary on the History channel. But I don’t have a choice here.
“Uhm….yes. I understand it. I do not have Common words? I, uhh….” I stammer out, glossing over the ancient yet familiar language. It is written in classical form, with no punctuation and no distinction between upper and lowercase. It is gorgeous and flowing. But unlike it, my Common was not gorgeous and flowing. It was ugly and stilted and I still had so much to learn.
He looks at me with piercing eyes and I look back.
“You do not lie.” It wasn’t a question but I answer anyway in my nervousness.
“No.”
He nods, satisfied and says something in what I know for sure is not Common, and I am suddenly overwhelmed with the amount of things I do not know. I clear my throat and hand him back the scroll, and he accepts it graceful with a nod, tucking it back into its case.
“Can I get anything? Food?” I manage to get out, tucking a fly away hair behind my ear and smoothing my dress. He nods and requests a full spread. Grateful for the dismissal I rush to the kitchens, flustered as I have ever been.
“Full spread for 12!” I shout back. I hear an affirmative and sigh in relief. It will be a while before I have to go back out there. I amble around the table toward the back of the kitchen where the drinking water is stored. I drink two full cups before I see Aldrid walking up to me, and I give her a wobbly smile,
“Hello.” It is an awkward and unnecessary greeting but it is excused as one of my foreign quirks. She gives me a serious and considering look.
“You will go with them.” I’m so startled I can hardly remember how to breathe. Did she mean the men from the table? The one’s who caused me to almost enter cardiac arrest?
‘Uh, listen here lady, you may be my boss but I am a person. I go where I want as I please. You are not my mama!’
But all that escaped my mouth was, “What?”
“You go with Rangers. They need help. You help. ‘Tis noble.” And there it is. The most medieval part of this weird place. The belief of quests and journeys. Honor and valor seemed to top the charts where virtue was concerned (and heaven forbid you have a vagina, then virtue was your only concern). Every story told at dinner time and among my fellow coworkers (besides gossip) were tails of brave men who fought the enemy back to the Shadow.
Rangers, it seems clear to me now that, are some sort of noble people who go on quests and save the day. The good guys, the heroes, the people who go into dangerous situations and slay dragons and whatnot. The brave men against the Shadow.
I am not a hero, and the thought of the Shadow terrifies me.
“I cannot. No fight, no survive.” I spread my hands, trying to covey my feelings of how utterly pointless it would be for me to journey with a group of men into the wilds acting as a deadweight.
“They will protect. They need you. Sunrise be downstairs.” I have never seen Aldrid look as stern as she is now. Her eyes blaze with a fire and age I have never before seen, and it scares me in a way I have never felt before. I feel compelled to agree, not because she is making me, but because of the sense of rightness I feel. Whereas the moon, sun, and stars are wrong, this command is right.
I could stay here, in this inn. Joking with Darrel, avoiding Ambol, and smiling with Aldrid all of my life. I could die in this horrid little town whose name I have never given a damn to learn. I could lay in bed at night feeling wrong and horrid, feeling a dread and void that I cannot explain even in my mother tongue- or I could go. Go into the wilds with these 12 men with scruffy beards and severe faces. Figure out this strange land with strange customs, figure out my purpose.
“I – Yes, ma’am.”