On the Path of the Giants

Chapter 6: Lydia

        Things moved fast after the arrival of the Sharps in the village. The corpses of the hunters were asked to be burned – instead of the usual burial – and the smell of burning meat filled the air, the way that the thick black smoke was filling the village’s square. Lydia thought that the stench would never go away. Some hunters were complaining that not burying the dead would lead to bad luck. Old man David ahd lost his usual joviality, and bore a stern mask and an empty gaze where ever he went. From time to time, he would mutter about “dark times," and the “stain on the village.” The Sharpmen were often laughing at him, angering some of the hunters, who held him as a spiritual father. Thankfully, no one had acted against it, and another massacre had been prevented.

        Lydia managed not to gather too much attention, and was glad of it. Some of the other women of the village, who had tried to defend its traditions, could be heard crying out for help in the dark of the night. Lydia would shut her ears to the cries, close her eyes, and try to forget what was happening, so she could fall into a dark, dreamless sleep.

        Lydia had taken to preparing food in the village’s kitchen. The usual cook, Gina, had been taken by some Sharpmen after she had made a comment about the meat pit. She had never been seen again afterwards. The rumour in the kitchen was that she had been thrown into the meat pit, and buried alive in it. “If you like your pit so much, why not die in it” was the acompanying phrase. Some other people said that she had been hacked into meat herself, and served to the village as a token to the village. But Lydia, who was preparing the food, knew better than that. The meat was only dear, and occasionally hare. Or so she hoped.

        A week had passed since the Sharps had arrived, and Lydia was finally getting used to preparing the food the way the Sharpmen liked it. She would scarcely ever leave the kitchens, only leaving late in the evening, when the sun had set and the twilight had fadded, and most people had gone to sleep. She would then help gather the plates and cups that had been left at the tables, bringing them back in the kitchens and soaking them in water.

        That evening, as she ventured to the tables, she spied Ron Sharp himself, eating alone by candlelight. He was not wearing his metal shirt, but his blade was laid on the table in front of him. He seemed pleased by Lydia’s cooking – either that, or he was simply famished – as he gulped down spoonful after spoonful of stew, which Lydia had prepared with the herbs the Sharpmen seemed to adore. Lydia knew better than to disturb him in his meal, and began retreating back into the kitchen, attempting to keep the darker areas.

        “Come back, please” he said. She has not been subtle enough. Thankfully, his voice was not angry, Lydia thought, as she shyly obeyed. His traits seemed more sinister under the candlelight, although his smile – at once gentle and paternal – reassured her. She stood, keeping her head down, across the table from him. Sharp seemed to approve of her docile behaviour. Lydia tried not to think of how she felt about Sharp – death, war, and destruction – and rather focused on his good side. “It's always easier to be nice when you focus on the good side” her grandmother used to tell her.

        Sharp ate another spoonful of his stew, and looked at Lydia. “Are you the cook here?” he bluntly asked. Lydia smiled shyly, and nodded. He seemed to appreciate the silence she was allowing him to have, and ate another spoonful.

        “It is delicious. I would like to eat that all the time.” Lydia blushed, but the reddening of her cheeks was hard to see in the candlelight. However, her emotions were wrought so deep into her face that he easily guessed it. “What is your name?”

        It was as if Lydia had forgotten how to speak. Her eyes filled with panic, and her chin raised, slightly, although her eyes were still focused on the table between them. “Lydia” she answered, “My name is Lydia.” She was not used to speaking with the Sharpmen. She looked at the floor, and noticed that it was wetter than it should be, as if people had been pouring water on it. Although, the smell of it made her think that, maybe, it was not just water.

        “Sir” was the only word he added. His tone was firm, yet not angry. “You will need to speak properly if you are to follow me back to Tarto. We are leaving tomorrow morning, bring only as much as you can carry."

        Sharp finished the last of his bowl in one big gulp, and left the room. Lydia kept starring at the floor. She did not know whether to be honoured, or angered. 

        She was leaving the village tomorrow.