Memories of Home - Part 1

The sun hides behind a veil of gray clouds.

The chilled wind rustles the emerald trees. Instead of chirping cicadas, the foreign songs of birds and frogs fill the air along with the scent of wet grass. And instead of the familiar soft warm crunch of sand, the cloaked wanderer limps over a squelching muddy road. A large greatsword in a leather scabbard hangs over her shoulder, and a pair of weathered boots hangs from its crossguard by the straps.

Through the choral forest, the wanderer hears the distinct rhythmic trotting of hoofs followed by rattling wood. The wanderer looks over her shoulder to see a man driving a horse drawn cart, following her trail of bare footprints. As the cart approaches, the man raises his palm with an outstretching thumb, index and middle finger. “Grace!” He says, and the wanderer returns the gesture.

As soon as the cart passes, it hits a bump and the horse rears up and gives a loud cry. The mare bucks, breaking herself from her bonds. The violent quake nearly sends the man flying. The poor animal whinnies and springs around the trail, shaking its head.

“Oh, for the love of the Goddess!” The man cries, as he jumps off the cart and onto the road. “Stay there Fiora,” he says, seemingly to the cart. Stumbling through the thick mud, he calls to his unruly beast.

The mare sprints past her master, and directly towards the wanderer. She raises a hand and whispers with soft authority. The horse slows its pace and stops right in front of the wanderer. She gently grabs the mare’s bridle and strokes her mane.

The exhausted man trudges back towards his cart and leans on it. “Ah, thank ye sir!” He says. “Terribly sorry for the trouble!”

“No trouble at all,” the wanderer says, calmly leading the mare back to her master.

“Ah, ye can stop right there–” the man says, somewhat shaky, “ye can leave ‘er there an’ pass along.” The wanderer notices his hand dipping over the rim of his cart.

“Hm, I understand—” The wanderer says, who then pulls down her hood to reveal thin raven hair framing the face of a woman with light olive skin and dark eyes. She takes her scabbard and plunges it into the mud. “Though, I fear your beast of burden will flee. Allow me to help refasten her,” she says. Her voice is rich, deep and powerful, yet her accent is elegant and her words are soft spoken.

“Oh,” he says in a surprised voice, “apologies Miss!” His lips part into a nervous smile as he takes his hand off his cart, “Mistook ye fer a man under that cloak! Haha!” His big hearty laugh dispelled any tension that lingered.

“No offense taken, you are not the first,” the wanderer says, “nor will you be the last…” her eyes trail off. “A beautiful mare you have,” she continues, “what’s her name?”

“Ah, that there’s Barley,” he replies.

“Well then Barley, why don’t I return you to your master.” the wanderer says and begins walking her to the man, who meets the wanderer halfway, and ties a lead rope to Barley. He presents a friendly open hand to the wanderer.

“Name’s Dean, Miss! An’ we’re in yer debt!” He says.

The wanderer steps closer to Dean, looking down over him. She bends forward slightly, grasping Dean’s thick hand and shaking it firmly.

“Sammi,” she says.

“Well met, Sammi!” Dean says as he leads Barley back to the cart. The wanderer follows and helps him secure Barley.

“Ye’re a right good help, Miss!” Dean says with a beaming face. “Oi, Fiora!” He shouts to his cart. “Come out an’ thank the kind woman!”

“Fiora?” Sammi says in an inquisitive tone, as she looks over her shoulder to see a head of red hair over a pair of startled eyes peeking over the walls of the cart that quickly drop from sight.

“Oi, don’t be rude, silly girl!” Dean shouts. “Forgive me daughter, she's a wee bit shy.”

“No need,” Sammi smiles, “your daughter is right to be wary of strangers carrying big swords.”

Dean gives a hearty laugh. “She’s a clever one, I’ll give ‘er that!” He says. Dean’ eyes look over Sammi, then scan the surroundings. “Ye travelin’ alone, Miss Sammi?”

“I am,” Sammi replies.

Dean shakes his head, and his smile drops. “That won’t do, Sammi,” he says, “these parts ‘ave been dangerous of late. Even on the roads. Beasts, brigands and the like. Tell me where ye’re goin’, I’ll give ye a lift!”

“You’re kind, Dean, but my destination is Tyrmid. You cannot burden me that far,” Sammi says.

“Aye, well—true, but ye have to ferry through the crossroads, ey? I live not too far from the dock! Least let me take ye to my home! Ye can do what ye want from there.”

“It’s alright, really. I can—” as Sammi turns away, her foot slips on the treacherous mud, buckling down and putting all her weight on one knee. She grunts in pain and catches herself before completely collapsing. “Shit–”

“Emily’s mercy, are ye alright?!” Dean asks and kneels next to Sammi.

“Yes…” Sammi attempts to stand, but collapses again. Dean catches her as she sucks air through her teeth.

“Ye’re certainly not alright! C’mon then,” Dean says. He puts Sammi’s arm over his shoulders and wraps his arm around her side. “Easy now,” he says, and as strong and stable as a pillar, lifts Sammi to her feet. Dean brings Sammi to the back of his cart. “‘Ave a seat there, Miss.”

Sammi leans on the cart and is greeted by the sight of brown sacks, the sweet scent of grains and a rugged rifle latched to the wall. “Well, if you insist on helping, so be it.” She says, straining to keep her composure. She reaches her arm back, pointing towards her scabbard. “Though, at least allow me to retrieve my–”

Dean raises a palm. “Nay, I’ve got it. Ye jus’ make yer’self comfortable,” he says, and strides through the mud towards Sammi’s weapon.

Sammi drops her hand to her side, sighs, and hoists herself up, sitting on the bed of the cart with her feet hanging off the end. Dean returns carrying Sammi’s greatsword and shabby boots.

“Been luggin’ this around with a limp?” Dean asks, handing Sammi’s belongings to her.

“Well, the limp is only from last night. I had an accident,” Sammi responds, laying her sword and boots behind her.

“Ey, accidents on the road can be lethal. Thank Her Grace we found ye!”

“Hmph. Indeed.”

Dean climbs onto the front seat, and with a quick flick of the reins, he sends his mare into a slow walk that builds into a trot.

“Ye from the desert, Sammi?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Sammi replies.

“Ah, forgive me Miss, I didn’t know they made them as big as ye out there! Haha!”

“True, I am a mountain among my people. What they lack in height, they make up for in spirit,”

“Aye. I've met a handful of desert folk in The Crossroads,” Dean explains. “Very different lot, but decent!”

Sammi smiles at Dean’s remark. The miserably cold wind finally eases. A ray of golden light breaks through the clouds and greets Sammi like an old friend. She closes her eyes, letting the warm memories of home wash over her.

“Why ya got boots but ya don’ wear ‘em?” A small, squeaky and inquisitive voice pulls Sammi from her trance. She looks over her shoulder to see a little round freckled face peeking over the sacks. Fiora, Sammi presumes. She looks to her weathered boots, then back to the little girl.

“My feet are waterproof, the boots are not,” Sammi says.

Fiora squints her eyes. “Ye’re weird…”

“Oi, be nice Fiora,” Dean says. “Y’know, me wife’s a cobbler, best in Tyriana! She can fix ‘em up if ye like.”

“Does she make footwear in troll size?” Sammi says with one foot raised while wiggling her toes.

Dean laughs while Fiora stares intensely at Sammi. “I’ll have to ask ‘er that!” Dean says.

Fiora redirects her gaze to Sammi’s sword. “Wha’s tha’ for?” She asks.

“Protection,” Sammi responds.

“From wha’?”

“Monsters.”

Fiora clambers over the sacks and clumsily shuffles on all fours to Sammi’s sword, examining it carefully.

“Would you like to see it?” Sammi asks.

“Not really,” Fiora dryly states.

“Oh. Then I suppose you don’t want to see this, either—“ Sammi reaches under her cloak and pulls out a dark red wooden sheath.

Fiora’s gaze shifts between Sammi and the sheath. She crawls closer to Sammi until she’s against her arm.

Carefully, Sammi pulls the silver curved blade out partway. It beams with sunlight.

“Pretty…” Fiora says.

“You think so?” Sammi replies. “It was forged in The Sunlit Isles—”

“Ya been to the Isles!?” Fiora asks with a bright smile.

“Goodness no,” Sammi replies, “it was a gift. Given by someone from the Isles.” She delicately sheathes the blade and secures it under her cloak.

“I’ve read a book ‘bout the Isles,” Fiora says, “is it true they mash weird smelling leaves an’ boil ‘em in water?”

“Tha’s jus’ tea, silly girl,” Dean interjects, “mum makes it all the time…”

“Mum’s tea doesn’ smell weird!”