Snippet #2409040

The sun woke him as always, rousing him from the kind of sleep only those who worked from sun up to sun down could experience. He turned, throwing the rough spun wool blanket against the wall, his bed being in the left front corner of his small single room stone house.

Bare feet touched onto cold stone floor and hesitated for a moment, until, with a groan the young man pulled himself to his feet, hands braced against his knees, bones cracking and popping with every movement, every pop/crack, met with a satisfied sigh. He allowed himself one more languid stretch, before making his way across the smooth, gray stone floor to the hearth situated in the exact opposite corner.

He worked unhurriedly, gathering things together that were needed to start the day. A kettle came first, water set to boil, fire catching easily to the dry wood, the coals left from the previous night more than enough to ignite it.

While the water heated, he moved about his small home. Pulling on his pants, cursing slightly as the cold leather came into contact with his skin. A pair of well cared for wool socks came next, followed by obviously well worn boots, beaten on by age but still serving their purpose. Standing from the three-legged stool he used to put on the boots, he moved back towards the hearth. However, he did not go directly for the kettle; that was just beginning to whistle, but instead he stood on his tows and reached gingerly above the hearth, drawing from a hidden alcove a silver pendant on a leather cord.

A gentle smile of both nostalgia and wanting moved across his face for a moment, while he remembered his father telling him of his mother, the women who had given her life so that he may live his. She had, of course, died as he was being born. The pendant the only thing of hers his father had kept, and then passed to his son, on his death bed.

The sound of the kettle whistling in earnest tore him from his thoughts, and he shoved the pendant deep into his only pocket\ before moving towards the kettle, donning a pair of old leather work gloves as he went.

The kettle was hot. He could feel that even through his gloves, he grinned then, as he poured the water slowly into a bowl full of tea leaves, he enjoyed tea very much. Even if he did have to drink it from a bowl, he'd had a cup once, but he had foolishly left it sitting on his porch one evening, it was not there the next morning. He hadn't gotten around to getting a new one.

Leaves steeping in a bowl, the young man resigned himself to his work. The sun was full up, and the fields would not work themselves. Though, he mused, sometimes he felt it would be nice if they could. It would give him time to pursue things beside his obligations. Such as reading more on herbal medicine, or, perhaps even something frivolous like painting.

Being a farmer wasn't too bad he supposed, as long as the crops came in he would always have something to eat, he really couldn't gripe. He had a roof above his head, and a warm hearth. The people rarely tried to cheat him, no more than he would expect at least, honestly, sometimes he wondered if people thought if they argued with him on the price long enough, they could get the vegetables for free.

With a resolved sigh he pulled back the bolt on the door. Letting the sun spread in to the dark house, casting away the shadows, and revealing the motes of dust in the air.

The grounds were just beginning to steam as he stepped out, heading toward the makeshift shed where he kept his tools, it was a good day to turn the soil, and prepare it for the next season of planting. That thought in the forefront of his mind he pulled the hoe from it's resting place, giving it a quick once over, and nodding his head when he was satisfied it was in good working shape.

He paid the people walking on the road near his field little mind, and they didn't bother him either. His field would be in the shadow of the great wall for only a few hours, and it was his intention to get the lions share of the work done before the sun would be beating down on him, as a farmer he both loved and hated the sun. Loved it's ability to nurture crops, to help them grow, and loathed it for what it could do to a man who did not acknowledge its superiority.

He spent the morning breaking into sun baked earth, rolling it over and over until he was satisfied, few people stopped him as he worked, mostly to ask him when he would be ready to sell what he'd brought in, he turned them away, with little more than: “It'll get to the market when it gets there.”

Some, however, stopped his work trying to be sociable, to them he gave only marginally more time, only enough that he could not be seen as impolite, and never more than that.

As the sun rose to it's highest in the sky at midday, and he'd finished all but about half of what he'd set out to, he headed in, kicking dirt from his boots as he neared the narrow edge of his small porch, and leaning the hoe gently against the wall to the right of the door. His tea that had been steeping since the early morning, it was cold, and strong from sitting so long. Just as he liked it. He drank at it as he ate at a raw tomato. Wondering if this was all there would ever be for him. Plowing, and planting, raking and hoeing, it was a purposeful life, if not terribly fulfilling to him. The only times he felt truly alive were when he sat upon the highest point of the wall he could get to, staring across the water, across the trees, dreaming of what it might be like, wondering what there might be for him out in the greater world beyond farming.

He sat lost in thought for some time, until at last he looked down and realized all the tea was gone, and he'd eaten the tomato fully. There was still almost half of the day left, time he would normally have spent working the fields, but today was different. There was still time to prepare the fields he thought to himself, yes, he would take the rest of the day off. Go and get some new books, take some of his crops and trade for coin. Then he would buy more books, a waste his father would've called it, to him it was an investment, knowledge was power after all. No one, absolutely no one, respected ignorance. He would learn as much as possible to make himself as less ignorant of the world as possible.

<<<>>>

The marketplace was bustling as always, He could hear the old and young alike gossiping like fools, he had little time or patience for people like that, he didn't care much for small talk, time is money, and not something he enjoyed wasting.

He had easily made his way through the stalls, his destination squarely set in mind, the old man he was looking for would give him fair prices on all his goods, he always did. As he made it within seeing distance of the stall he needed, a shout of greeting was spoken to him, and he caught sight of the waving form of Old-man Thompson. Just the man he was looking for.

Old-man Thompson was a bear of a man, even taller and broader of shoulder even than the young man was, in his old age he still had the sort of vitality that was absent in a lot of men even half his age, he dressed in well spun cottons. A shirt, and fine breeches of it, both of obviously higher quality than anything the young man owned. His hair was fully grey, but he still had a full head of it at the age of sixty five. He was clean shaven, with bright blue eyes.

“Jack, my boy! Come to sell me some of your fine vegetables?” He'd said, voice friendly, if a bit loud. Jack took it in stride, used to his behavior, he'd known the old man since he himself was just a boy, tagging along with his father to make a sell.

“I have fifty pounds of corn.” Jack replied, voice somewhat weary from the days work, but still strong, while swinging the heavy wicker basket from his shoulder down in front of the Mr. Thompson, who gave it a speculative look, before nodding.

“I can give you a fair price for that.” He replied, going for a leather coin pouch attached to his belt, no haggling, no trouble, Jack was pleased with this outcome. Even more so when the old man gave him twenty five gold coins for the basket of corn. “Not enough?” the old man asked seeing the stunned look on Jack's face. “Okay, five more, but not a copper over that.” He then lay five more gold in Jack's hand.

“Honestly Jack my boy, you work too hard. Buy some books, take a few days off.” He continued, the young man could do little more than nod mechanically.

“Thank you, sir.” He managed as Mr. Thompson walked away. “Think nothing of it.” Was the reply before he was gone.

Jack left, a lift to his step as he made his way to the bookstore he frequented.

<<<>>>

The shop had not changed at all since the last time he was there. The same musty smell of old leather, and older paper, ink, and lavender. The source of the lavender scent the young woman before him, grinning at him, like she hadn't seen him last week.

She was a slight woman, pale, but not in a sickly way. Her skin naturally milky. Long golden hair falling around and framing her face, making the green of her eyes shine all the brighter. He dress was of fine make, yellow, with a floral pattern, and probably expensive, he dutifully ignored the way it hugged her every curve.

“Jack! It's been too long!”Her voice was light, but surprisingly strong for such a slight women, he was easily a head taller than her. He smiled back at her, eyes already scanning the multitudes of titles on the shelves, weighing in his mind the pro's and con of each possible purchase.

“Alice, good to see you.” He replied distractedly, drifting towards the shelves laden with their literary treasures.

He began piling books into his arms, anything with a titles that sounded interesting, hours passed like that, Alice watching him a small smile on her lips, and Him gathering book after book to the counter. Sometimes stopping and reading whole chapters before moving on, before he knew it the sun listing low in the sky, and Alice busied herself shutting up the store, finally satisfied with his selection, he moved up towards the counter, money already in hand.

“Find everything alright.” she joked, laughing even as she spoke. Jack found he liked the sound, even if he didn't know how to respond to it.

“I, yes, I think so.” He replied handing her the money for the books and bundling them in his arms, getting ready to head back home.

“I don't suppose I'll be seeing you anytime soon, judging by the size of that pile.” She was smiling when she said it, but something in her voice made him reply differently than he normally would have.

“Perhaps not for books, but.” He paused there. What would he say? “Yes, but?” He'd stepped in it now, nothing for it but to charge forward head first.

“How would you like to come sit on the wall with me sometime?” It wasn't much of an offer he supposed, but it's something he'd shared with no one else. Her answering smile, and subsequent yes carried him all the way home, and until he went to bed that night.