The Next of Many
We sat down in the snow and looked
at the garland above the inn's doorway. They weren't going to let
us in anyhow, so why shouldn't we sit in the snow?
"What do you reckon it's made
of?"
"It's the same sort of weaving
as on those crowns made by young people who pick clover flowers,
Licho." replied Tymek.
"Clover flowers? This time of
year?" yelled I. "Not likely. Probably hemp, if ever I was a
woman of knowledge."
"Hemp,"
pondered Tymek. "Yes. Makes sense. That young one, Rol, started a
harvest of it down near where old Lesnik put
down roots."
"Lesnik?
Haven't thought of him in a century," said I, remembering.
"Mighty, that oak, he is."
We shifted our
seats in the snow. They weren't going to let us in anyhow, so why
shouldn't we shift?
"Why do you
suppose they put 'Happy New Year' over their doorways?" asked
I.
Tymek turned
towards the road leading into the darkening woods and wondered,
"Maybe it is to protect themselves from you, Licho."
"From me?"
laughed I, bemused. "Misfortune I bring into their lives. True. But
they call for me. I am at their service, even if I am not invited
inside like a proper houseguest. They have called for me for many
years, Tymek. They are misery. I am their bidding."
"Maybe a
joke then, Licho" said Tymek. "A joke to break up the bite of
winter."
The candles
inside flickered orange. We stood up. "Let us go, Tymek. Many more
visits this eve. Touch the garland, I will, Tymek. Let it rot. A joke
for the inn's master."
We left, down
the road and towards the forest. Inside, the inn's master toasted
to a new year. The next of many, of the rotted sort that had come
before.
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