Writing Challenge 002

Diander walked on, south across the farmland of the valley.  He looked to the west, seeing the sun nearly atop the mountains.  Soon the range’s long shadow would stretch out, robbing the valley of both light and warmth.  Twilight in Valen was long, as the sky remained illuminated long after the land itself had been tucked beneath a blanket of shadow.  Once that happened, the valley floor chilled quickly, as the freezing winds from the north were trapped between the mountains and rushed south.

Scanning the road ahead, he saw a farm house on the east side of the southbound road. It was tucked back off the road a few hundred yards and looked a like a modest, single family farm house.  It was probably only a few hundred square feet of living space inside, and likely only one large room.  He said a silent thank you to whichever of the Gods had been watching over him today.  As he approached the house, he called out “Ho there!” to announce his presence.

The owner stepped out, hesitant to great the unexpected visitor, but smiled when he saw the merchant's outfit that Diander was wearing. “Well met, sir!  I feared you a spook at first. What brings you by my farm at this late hour?”

“The setting sun, mostly,” Diander shrugged, reciting the lie he had rehearsed as he made his way to the house. “I was late leaving Valen, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be making it to the Drowning Dryad before the night sets in.”  The Drowning Dryad was a popular inn on the edge of the Border Wood utilized by anyone travelling south out of Valen.  It was so frequently filled that the innkeep could afford regular and reputable guards to actually keep his guests in an easy state of mind.

The man looked up at the mountains, the sun nearly kissing the summit. “No, I suppose not. You’re looking for a warm bed and a hot meal then, sir?  We don't have much, but we're more than happy to welcome you into our home for the night."

“Actually, just a roof over my head will do fine. I’ve got some rations, and I don’t mean to inconvenience you.” Diander shifted a small pack on his back at the mention of rations.

The farmer looked him up and down.  The way his face finally set, Diander was afraid that he had ruined his ruse. “Well, there is a seed shed out around back. It’s mostly empty now that the crops have been laid, so there should be plenty of room.”

“I thank you, and hope to be able to return the favor some time.” The man nodded absently and backed into his home.  Diander smiled one final time at the man, just before he closed the door, and started around to the rear of the house. He found a detached shed, with its door facing a window on the rear of the house. He could see the home’s owner silhouetted by the hearth’s light in the window, watching him. Diander smiled again, adding a wave this time, and entered the shed.

There was a lantern hanging by the door, and a striking stick hanging from the lantern by a leather throng. He removed the melon shaped lantern’s lid, smelled the oil inside, and ran the striking stick across the rim. The sparks cause the wick to light on the first strike, and Diander replaced the ventilated lid.  The small rotund lanter filled the space with light.

Once he had light, he closed the door and silently cursed himself. A merchant with buisiness in Valen like him wouldn’t volunteer to sleep in a shed. “Oh well.  At least I won’t be out in the wind all night.” He saw a nearly empty palette of marked grain seed bags that looked like they would make the perfect makeshift mattress.  He removed his shirt and folded it into a neat square. He set it at one end of the bed and hesitated. Thinking better of it, he placed it aside. “It’s not one of your cloaks,” he scolded himself, “you can’t just use it as a pillow!”  Instead he tossed the small pack to the "head" of the bed.

He sat on the edge of the makeshift bed, holding his head in his hands.  His hair fell past his fingers, shielding his eyes against the yellow-orange glow of the lantern. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally. He looked up and peered into the shadows along the ceiling ny the building's framework.  Dropping his hands between his knees, the spider web of darkness on the roof descended creating umbral curtains in the small space. Diander’s face cracked with a sad smile. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and sighed. His hand slid down his face and through his unkempt beard. “Humph,” his mouth twisted in contemplation. “That’s not going to get me accepted as any sort of business man.”

He looked around the seed shed, taking in the sparseness of it, appreciating the form-follows-function design of it.  There were no adornments.  All there was in the space was the last few sacks of grain seed, the palette they lay on to keep them off the earthen floor, the lantern that hung by the door, and a single shelf with some small gardening tools.

Examining the clutter on the shelf, he came away with a small, five-pronged hand rake, and a sickle. “Not exactly a straight razor and lather kit, but this should do.” He set about the task of trimming his beard, using the rake as a sort of guide and the sickle to crudely cut down the crop of facial hair. When he finished, he gathered the trimmings and fed them to the lantern’s flame. Satisfied that both the shed and his face were clean enough, he lay down on the seed sacks and closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Sometime later, in the dead of night, Diander sat bolt upright. He looked around the shed frantically for the danger that had roused him. After a few seconds, he calmed himself enough to hear it. The garden tools on the shelf vibrated very slightly. Every once in a while, one would shift enough to lose its balance, and it would rattle roughly against its neighbor.

He swung his feet off the bed, and felt the vibrating hum through the earth beneath his feet. Getting on his hands and knees, he lowered his ear to the ground. The rhythmic thumping of hooves at a steady cantor seemed unmistakable. He wasn’t certain how many there were, but by their pace, it was clear that this was definitely no small caravan pushing on through the night making up time.