Tag Archives: exile

Miscellanea

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Winter Comes Early to the Outpost

Snow covered over the road ahead and the stubbled fields that surrounded them, still drifting down from above. No one had come this way in some time for theirs were the first footprints to mark the trail and the snow was already to their ankles. The few trees they passed – short and shrubby, like all the trees in these parts – still had most of their leaves. Winter’s arrival had been sudden and unexpected, especially for the straggling band of travellers with thin coats and thinner shoes.  

On their journey north – flight would be more accurate – they had camped out in the shelter of those sorts of trees, for they tended to cling to lowlands where water gathered. Water, which had been problematic for much of their travel, would be no worry tomorrow. The creeks would be flowing again. But none of them were in any mood to spend a night in a snowbank. They were already cold and soaked through and it would be hard work to get any fire started to warm themselves. 

That was why when they came upon the smattering of houses that didn’t quite constitute a village, one of which included an inn of the old style, two stories and square, they went inside without any discussion among themselves as to whether it was wise. It wasn’t, but neither was staying outdoors for a winter’s evening in their thin coats and pants that they had hoped to have more time to find proper replacements for. The place smelled of mildew and disrepair, but they supposed so did they. A few locals, sipping harvest ale, gave them a careful once over, registering who and what they were, before returning to their muttered conversations.  

The innkeeper sized them up with a skeptical eye, weighing whether their money was worth the trouble. How many rooms, was all he said. They asked for the cost and there followed a back and forth that ended with an agreement for two rooms for the six of them, with meals included. Drinks would be extra. A girl was summoned from the back and sent out into the snow to let whoever would be cooking know. They looked longingly at the heavy coat she shrugged on. It was an hour before dinner appeared, during which they sipped at peppery harvest ales they couldn’t afford and tried to ignore the stares from the locals. The girl brought a great pot of barley soup, ladling out a bowl for each of them, and handing them day old bread to soak it up with.  

She looked at them with a fierce interest that worried them, sitting on a stool behind the bar, clearly wanting to speak with them. The innkeeper noticed as well and angrily banished her upstairs to ready their rooms.  The other locals kept their interest better disguised, though their eyes kept flicking in their direction and their talk grew lower and lower. One man left and returned twenty minutes later, which caused them some consternation. But they reassured themselves that the constabulary wouldn’t have a station in this place and it was doubtful anyone was willing to endure the weather to go summon one. They hoped. 

After they’d eaten four of them went up to wash and ready for bed while two other remained below to drink another ale and keep an eye on the locals and ensure no one had any plans. They retired upstairs only when the tavern had emptied and the innkeeper was cleaning up. Though they felt confident the constabulary hadn’t been summoned they still took shifts sleeping, one person in each room keeping watch.  

They left before dawn, slipping out onto the empty road in the darkness. The snow had stopped and again theirs were the first footprints to mark the way, which would make them easy to track but couldn’t be helped. They had reached the edge of the village when the girl appeared, dressed for travel in her thick coat and heavy boots. I’m going with you, she said, her breath clouding the air. They argued with her, telling her there was no place for her among them, that where they were going was no place for a girl like her. She let them speak their piece and repeated her words, adding: you won’t make it without me. There was a certainty to her gaze they could not argue with. 

Field Notes

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Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Summer Days and Summer Nights Are Gone

With the latest troubles down south an intermittent straggle of newcomers had begun to arrive in town. Most passed through on their way to other places. A few decided to stay longer, attracted by the cheapness of the rent, but when they struggled to find regular work they would move on, rarely lasting more than a month or two. The latest arrivals, a couple, had taken up residence in the Dunning place on the outskirts of town at the beginning of June. Most of the newcomers ended up there. It was a dilapidated eyesore that everyone agreed should have been torn down years ago. Instead Marvin had halfheartedly tried renting it for years without investing any in improvements and he treated these southern exiles as an unexpected windfall. 

The couple mostly kept to themselves and the locals didn’t press them. Their politeness, for which they were famed, was an armour to hold strangers at a careful distance. They were nice, kind even, helpful when asked, but they did not intrude into the couples’ lives and seemed to demand the same. Don’t tell us of your struggles and your hurts, we have our own and you are the cause. That was never said, but the couple felt the weight of it all the same in the way they were accepted but never quite welcomed anywhere they went. 

Summer went by with them still in the Dunning place. They kept the yard well, fixing the fence and planting a garden, enjoying its fruits. The man took a job in the grocery store, part-time, and they both had hours at the greenhouse. The woman was a teacher it was said, but obviously not accredited for these parts. The man’s former career was unknown, but it was obvious he hadn’t done farm work or anything like that, so no one was willing to trust him with their equipment. He was a good worker, Don said, and he wished he had more hours for him. 

Night began arriving earlier and earlier, a chill coming with it. Morning frost would be white on the lawn when they rose. The couple was still there, much to everyone’s surprise. They remarked on the abruptness of the change – the week prior had been blanketed with summer warmth – and were met with shrugs that said that time was over now.  Well, they knew about that, all too well. Everyone worried about how they would handle the winter if they were staying on. A few solicitous folks told them they should see about buying a good winter coat before the weather really turned. The couple assured them they had brought adequate winter clothes with them and the locals assured them they were wrong.   

Mornings the couple would walk together north down the gravel road that led from their house to the new elevators, those towering concrete structures, the tallest buildings for a hundred kilometres or more. During the summer they had marvelled at the crops in fields on either side of the road, at the brightness of the day even so early in the morning. Now their breath clouded the air and they went out later, waiting for the sun to rise. There was only stubble in the fields now, harvest finished. Overhead geese flew in formation, heading south. They would stand and watch them until they disappeared in the sky and then turn their backs to keep going on.