ONE #

In the dead of night
I pray for your arrival
and dream of your smile
yearning for your scent.

By the light of day 
I am left alone
beside myself
and entirely distraught.

To know your father
is to know your potential
to hear Bridget's plans
and to see them in action

with hopes
they soon
come to 
pass.

Ithica (b. 413).
“By Dusk's Light, Awaiting Dawn,” journaled Year 433.

I #

Year 442 The Village in the Shins

As the sun crested over the Guardian, the great mountain which had forever stood stolid vigil over the quaint village in the Shins, Ithica breathed deep and reveled in the brisk chill nipping at her lungs. Autumn was making her way out the door, making room for Winter by the hearth.

Unlike the others, Ithica held no grudge against the cold—only respect. Unlike the others, she welcomed the Winter into her home, savored the long dark mornings. But unlike the others, Ithica could keep her crops during Winter’s long stay.

Her garden still boasted wide spade-shaped leaves of healthy squash, still enjoyed the fiery blooms of dense marigold bushes. Her soil was rich and moist, full of worms and nutritious detritus, and her Ma’s wicker basket was filled three times over each and every morning.

She’d never understood why her garden was so uniquely bountiful. Folks oft gossiped about Ithica, in speculation of her seemingly preternatural gift to bring about harvest, day in and day out, season after season. Some said she was gifted by the gods, others claimed she must have colluded with a devil.

But Ithica credited the land, the rich soil littering the bounds of her home. She and her husband had only recently arrived to the Village, their cottage had been long abandoned when they first moved in, but Elder Hama had told of another woman who had lived there long ago, bearing the same gifts.

As she made her rounds, hunting for dreaded squash bugs and vine borers whilst showering her plants with rainwater from the green glazed watering jug with painted white streaks her husband had made her for her last nameday, Ithica came upon a bulbous yellow-striped zucchini hanging over the pinewood rim of the raised bed.

How on earth have I missed you?

The squash had grown too large to chop up and roast—it would have less flavor and be filled with seeds—but she could shred harvest and dry the seeds and shred the fruit to put into a loaf of sweet bread.

Drawing a small, hawkbill knife, Ithica cut free the zucchini from the vine and plopped it into her basket. As she did, she felt a sting on her thumb. She knelt and examined the plant, expecting to see a horsefly or a brown recluse poised for battle on the stem.

But there was nothing of the sort. No, instead there was a wicked thorn tipped with her blood. Not like the prickly hairs that were cause a rash, but an actual thorn, twice as large as the spines of a Hawthorn.

Goodness… I had no idea they could grow like that.

The tiny puncture began to weep crimson. She pressed her lips to the wound, tasting salt and dirt.

A din of squealing, shrieking children came thundering up the hill and lingered at the garden’s gate. Ithica rose and crossed the mulched pathway to greet to the children who oft visited her garden.

“Miss Ithica!” hollered young Shelka Morn, waving her short, thin arms about as if Ithica hadn’t known she was there. “Can we play today? Please!”

The other children echoed Shelka’s plea, nodding their heads and bobbing up and down. Shelka stood half a head taller than even the oldest boy among her entourage. Though she wasn’t the oldest child her age in the Village, Shelka’s face bore an air of wisdom, well beyond her years. Something behind her eyes was alight, as if the girl were a newly erected lighthouse tended by an ancient keeper.

Ithica crossed her arms. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I’ve just discovered my squash has thorns!”

Murmurs of amazement rumbled through the posse of children. A younger blonde girl whispered something in Shelka’s ear. Shelka nodded, her expression that of deep contemplation.

“We’ve discussed it, and we’re willing to take the risk.” Shelka said.

“It’s my garden, lass,” Ithica tittered, “shouldn’t I be involved in your deliberations?”

“I’m not sure what deliberate nations are, but my council is a closed one.”

“Alright.” Ithica opened the gate. A warmth spread across her chest as she watched the children’s faces alight. “But do be careful,” she presented her wound. “Lest my plants bleed you dry!”

Shelka and her entourage hurried over the threshold, calling out half-forgotten thank you’s over their shoulders as Ithica tread the path down the hill back home. With the children out of sight, the warmth in her chest cooled a bittersweet ambivalence at the forefront of her mind.

When will you bless me, Bridget? How many years must I wait? Ithica’s knees were aching by the time she’d made it to the dooryard. That had only began last winter. I’ve not much youth left for it…

Hromgir sat working on the covered porch, pumping the pedal of his potter’s wheel. So engrossed in his work, he hasn’t noticed Ithica’s approach. What looked like a large wash basin made of sickly, gray mud was taking shape beneath his massive bony hands. Thick black patches of hair, tangled with specks of clay, sprouted between his knuckle and the back of his hands, running up his arms to join with his thick black beard and the bed of chest hair hidden beneath his green tunic.

When they wed, just a season after they had met years ago, Hromgir was built like a bear; covered with padded muscles and a big, hairy tummy full of mead. In the last few seasons, Ithica’s husband had shrank into a lanky echo of the warrior he had once been.

“Who’s this one for?” Ithica asked, leaning on the porch railing.

“Helgi—she’s been asking about this every time I’m in town.” Hromgir turned and looked at her with brown, loving eyes, continuing to throw his clay blind. “You’re back a bit early, eh?”

“Aye.” Ithica showed him her thumb. “Did you know zucchini squash can grow thorns?”

Hromgir squinted at the puncture. “I ain’t ever heard of that—there’s some tobacco in the pantry.” He let his foot off the pedal and let the clay to slow to a gradual stop. “I’ll mash up a poultice.”

Together they retreated into the cottage It had been a bloody mess when they arrived those short few years ago, but together, they had made it a home.

Wreaths of dried flowers and herbs hung from each of the four walls. One of the carpenters in town had crafted several free-standing shelves, and mounted a few on the wall nearest to where they prepared their food—all of which, were lined with Hromgir’s projects in varying states of completion. There were many finished items; cups and plates and bowls—among other dishes and trinkets—glazed in myriad colors and patterns. So too were there pieces that had been thrown and baked, but had yet to be painted. ‘I’m waiting for the vision to come,’ Hromgir would always say when Ithica would ask why such things still cluttered their limited storage space.

So too were there jars upon jars of seeds and dried herbs, poultices and oils, among other mixtures fermenting for various purposes. In last few seasons, it had fallen mostly upon Ithica to provide the harvest to the community—it seemed lately most other gardeners in the Village were failing to yield crops—but her passion lied within herbalism and alchemy.

Both she and her husband shared cooking responsibilities, but regardless of who was preparing the meal, Ithica always had an extract to drip into it. These were the things that her mother had taught Ithica, thing knowledge that had been passed down the line of unnamed women for generations.

Gardening, growing something from nothing, was in her blood.

And yet, I’ll have no one to pass my knowledge to…

They sat at their small dining table that doubled as a prep table and a writing desk. Hromgir retrieved a jar full of dried Ionian tobacco leaves they had traded for last summer.

“Remind me what else I need?” Hromgir said as he set the stone mortar on the table.

Ithica sighed. “Water, dearheart. Crush the leaves with water…”

“I knew that!”

The pungent paste that Hromgir mashed would serve its purpose, but he was as green as they come when it came to herbalism, and his mixture was too wet to cling a more serious wound, especially after a bandage was applied. But Ithica loved that he was willing to try new things, and gladly accepted his doting and hovering. It didn’t matter in the slightest that she could have just rinsed the puncture with boiled water—what mattered is that this man she chose loved her.

And she loved him. More than life itself, at times—though those things tend to go hand in hand.

“Collin stopped by,” Hromgir said. “We have a couple newcomers moving in. He asked us to help with the welcome feast tomorrow night.”

“Really?” Ithica was shocked. No others had come to the Shins since she and Hromgir arrived three years ago. “Who?”

“A couple of minor nobles from Valencia, of all places.”

“Valencia? What in the nine hells would bring them all the way up here?”

Hromgir shrugged. “Seems they’ve fallen on hard times.”

Haven’t we all?

They sat in companionable silence for a time. Sometimes looking into one another’s eyes. Sometimes not. Then Hromgir placed a strong hand on her inner thigh and gently squeezed.

“I’m not sure I can take more disappointment…” Ithica whispered, though his touch called forth contradictory urges from the deepest archives of her being.

“We’ll never know if we don’t try.”

His expression was so calm, resolute. She wondered if he felt the same pain as she, and if he did, if he felt it every day as she did. His dependable confidence, his willingness to charge blind into uncharted territory suggested not. Then again, he surprises me every day…