Across the Western Grey

Chapter 1

     Most mornings, life in the small hamlet of Trafton was a quiet, structured, affair.  It was so regular, my father would boast to the big city travelers that stopped at our quaint roadside inn, that one could, if so inclined, set their watch to the comings and goings of the local townspeople as they set about their morning routines.  It could be said, he would argue, that at precisely 7:15, Thomas Crum, who ran a sizable farm further outside of town, could be seen driving his small herd of goats, or pigs, or whatever it was he was bringing to market that day.  The bleating (or lowing, or baa-ing, or what have you) would always serve as an alarm of sorts to Netta the baker, who was next door to our inn.  Netta would have a fire going immediately, with a cheerful smoke plume wafting out of the chimney in her roof by about 7:20. 

     By 7:25, the sweet smell of breads, biscuits, and whatever else he was baking that morning would begin to make its way over to our inn, and invariably travel up the floors until it finally entered my small, humble room in the attic.  By 7:30 I would be stirring, stomach beginning its morning symphony, and a few minutes after that my footsteps would be hammering on the stairs to come down the three flights and break my fast.  

     By 7:45 I would be sated and ready to face the day.  Most days this entailed nothing much of anything at all: a random guest stopping for a night on the way to bigger, more exciting places.  A few people visiting relatives for a few days.  Locals who don't feel like cooking, and instead come to taste whatever foods my father and sisters have decided to prepare for the day.  No mind, he would argue.  Quiet weekdays like that make it possible for us to focus on everything else that needs to be doing when you run a small inn—fixing, cleaning, paying bills, dealing with inventory.

     This was how it was most mornings, he would brag to his few guests, who, on those quiet days of the week, would stare out at the small village and see very little life at all.  He would tell them to come back on the weekend, because then they would see the hustle and bustle of market day—a day full of visitors, enchanting smells, and the promise of a huge evening meal celebrating whatever profit we made that night, as our small inn would be full to bursting with the travelers who came in from out of town, sold their wares, and then spent coin on one too many ales to make the long trip home. Sometimes on these quiet days a look would come across the faces of these strangers, a look that contained the one thing my father hated more than anything else in the world: the pity of another man.  Father couldn't stand to think he was pitied for having the audacity to live in a small, out of the way little town, so he would spend every weekday morning talking about how this little community became a bustling city of commerce come market day.  I don't think he ever saw, however, that his descriptions of goats and cows, or of Izzy the leek lady and her pungent bundle of vegetables, would only serve to enhance the visitor's pity.

     He would just talk, day in, day out, of how great our little hamlet was on that one day of the week.  I came to memorize his speech early on in life, looking forward to Saturdays and the gusto it would bring, praying to Those on High that these same pitying travelers would stay those few extra days to see what my father was talking about.  They never did.  I soon came to hate that speech.

     So it was, one quiet morning, when I woke up and came downstairs and found my father talking to a complete stranger, that the first thing I noticed that made me stop in my tracks was that my father was not giving that tired, drawn out, ghost of an apology.  Instead of the quiet voice of a man trying too hard to impress, and the unbelieving "oohs" of a bored traveler who just wants to finish his stew and be on his way, he was, instead, seated at a table with the visitor, laughing uproariously, and carrying on about people and places I had never heard of.  I'm not sure how long it had been since I had heard my father sound so relaxed and natural.  I stood there, at the bottom of the stairs, listening as my father's voice echoed around the almost empty common room.  I wondered how long it had been since I had last heard my father's voice sound like that.