Dearest Tam,
I know it’s been awhile, but I hope things are going well for you in Solton. Are you still at the carpet refinery? I hope so; the winters up here on Mt. Herroll have been mighty cold these past few cycles, so the Elders have decided to invest in some new carpets from your refinery. It’d be good to know that there’ll actually be someone with a little common sense behind the carpets, especially given last week’s tragedy: following a freak accident, the local pie mill – you remember, the one we used to sneak into as kids to hoodwink the machines into putting glue into Madam Ryhern’s harvest pie? Alas, it is no more. It disintegrated completely last Thursday, following a series of events that can hardly be believed.
On Monday, young Master Tallowort told Old Mag that he would be leaving for Tuttlesby-on-Rowe that very evening. It seems that Master Tallowort fell for Barlyn the baker’s daughter. I know she makes the best pickled trout legs in the parish, but even so, I suspect she had a bit of help of a chemical sort, if you know what I mean... But I digress… Tallowort left for the coast with the baker’s daughter that very evening, and everyone knows that Old Mag is simply too ancient and feeble to run that whole mill by himself, but, mehercules, he declared that he’d be jiggered if he was going to hire anyone else to replace the boy.
I must confess that Mag surprised even I, who knew him best, with what he did that Tuesday. He went down to where the Showfolk were camped by the marsh and asked to see their leader! No one in their right mind goes down to Showfolk territory! I like to have died of shock! I had my doubts – serious ones, mind you – but he showed up bright and early the next morning in town square, clutching a shiny new lightning rod to his chest. You’d have thought he’d found the Scepter of Stentine, the way he was guarding that hunk of metal. He was going to use the infernal contraption to automate the mill!
Now, anybody with a lick of sense would have given up the whole idea after the first few times he was hit by those rogue bolts, but not Mag. Oh, no! He clung even more tenaciously to his plan, and he even went up on the roof himself to install the thing. Somehow, he avoided being struck whilst prancing about on the roof of the pie mill.
Alas, his luck could not hold out. Shortly after midnight, another lightning bolt struck the rod. It, being improperly grounded, began to superheat one of the devilled duck pies. It was only a matter of minutes before an alarm went off, Mag rushed in to see what was the matter, and the pie expoded. Just like that. The whole building went up.
Tallowort heard the news and returned at once, utterly devastated. If you aske me, they got just what they asked for. Honestly! He’s the one who convinced Mag to build the place out of cinnamon sticks. I told him it was highly dangerous and that something like this was bound to happen eventually, but did he listen? No! Of course not! And now Mag’s gone, Tallowort’s skipped town in his grief, and the whole mountain is without pies this season! I’m sure I’ve no idea what I’ll do for Gorn’s nameday. Maybe, if the elders work out a deal with your refinery, we could have the mill rebuilt – and much improved! – by then…
Hoping to see you in the carpet parade!
-Leeksa
His arms wave wildly in the late afternoon sunlight. I can’t hear what he’s saying from where I stand, half-hidden by the heavy curtain in this second-story window. I can’t hear him this time, but then, there really is no need. I’ve heard him many times before.
Birds swoop down upon those few insects foolhardy enough to venture out into the expanding pools of shadow that surround my sanctuary. I imagine those birds chirping in the trees, chattering excitedly to their neighbors about today’s catch, completely oblivious to the small crowd gathering below them.
A fat bumblebee floats lazily past my window, lured to this height by the flowering vine that has climbed its way artfully up the red brick face of the building. It visits a few of the brightly colored blossoms, never staying long. After a moment or two, it drifts back down toward the tiny garden beneath my window. I watch as long as I can, but it is quickly lost from my sight.
The bee now gone, my attention returns to the crowd and the spectacle they have gathered to observe. He faces a fountain that murmurs softly as a thousand minute waterfalls cascade downward from its many tiers. It is around this fountain that his crowd stands, a number of its members stepping up onto the wall around the fountain in order to better see him over the heads of their comrades. They listen raptly for a while, occasionally asking questions that inevitably cause another bout of wild arm waving and red-faced arguing. Still they watch and listen.
A runaway frisbee breaks the spell, and the crowd disperses as the frisbee is recaptured with a chorus of triumphant shouts from a laughing band of youths. The group moves on, content to continue the game, ignorant of the scene upon which it has just intruded.
The crowd has mostly gone now. Only a trio of young scholars remains, seated on the edge of the fountain, dangling fingers and feet in its cool waters. He lectures on, only slightly deterred by the apathy of his audience. My mind wanders as he continues to talk. I imagine the frisbee game winding its way across the lawn on the other side of the building, the group moving into and out of other scenes like it had passed through this one, altering them but failing to notice.
Suddenly, one of the three is standing, moving closer to him. Something has captured this young scholar’s interest. The scholar listens raptly to his sermon as the others look on, laughing. Neither he nor the scholar pays them any attention. The two stand there, one speaking, one listening, neither moving. His arms have ceased their frantic waving and are now held closer to his chest, only his hands participating now in the gesturing, his face no longer red. I try to imagine what he might be saying, but I can’t. This is new.
A young woman enters the courtyard, apparently planning to walk around behind him, but like mine, his attention is caught. His arm shoots out to point at her accusingly. It is as if he has bewitched her with this single, simple motion. She stops, then is drawn closer by something he says. She is within an arm’s length of him now, closer even than the scholar is.
No sooner has he started speaking again, still with the subdued gestures, than a second woman enters the scene from the other direction. He repeats that simple motion, and she too is instantly ensnared. She moves even closer than either of the other two and takes his hand in hers by way of introduction.
I watch the group below me, transfixed by the strangeness of it. Perhaps I am ensnared as well. A lifetime could have passed, or only a few moments, as I watch them, no longer sure who is speaking and who is listening. It now seems unimportant.
Though nothing seems to have changed, the meeting is suddenly over. He picks up his bag, several books, a shabby trumpet case, and his jacket. He nods to the scholar, to the two women, and begins walking across the courtyard. He passes the fountain and the tiny garden, and just before he passes out of sight around the corner of the building, I notice that the women are walking along to either side of him.
As I glance down one last time from my perch, the scholar looks up, and his eyes meet mine. Does he know?
