October 25th, 1795 aex

Sherik Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Pa was finally distracted. Sherik silently thanked the visitors who’d frightened Jerri as he climbed the ladder to the barn loft. He crawled to the far corner, parted the heavy hay bales, lifted the crude hay blanket, and snatched both leather satchels. He placed everything as it had been and sped down the ladder.

He readied Butterhoof and led her from her stall. Pa always had trouble with her, but Sherik knew to be gentle. It took little time for him. He fastened the satchel filled with Plucker’s feathers on the left of the saddle and the other on the right. There was no reason for this particular configuration, it just felt like the right thing to do.

He hopped into the saddle and rode out the back door, pushing it closed from Butterhoof’s back. They trotted along the river away from the house. Butterhoof cleared a low bit of the fence and entered the forest just outside their property by way of a faint trail only they knew about. It wound through tight trees and low branches. The ground was littered with growth, but the trail was just distinct enough to follow. The sun barely shone through the roof of the forest. It was a cool retreat from the heat at midday, but unsettling and easy to be lost in if he was ever stuck using it to sneak back home under the moon.

They emerged from the woods and jumped another fence into the clearing where Pa had first met the northerners. He halted Butterhoof and looked back toward the house. He could only make out the small shape of a carriage parked on the road in front. What if it’s those northerners again? Pa will want my help. He leaned and touched the satchel of violet feathers fastened to the saddle and smiled. I’m helping the farm in my own way, Pa. One day you’ll see that.

They rode off down the road, taking an alternate route to Picklewood.

* * *

Old Lady Florabelle’s home sat on the most remote stretch of the alternate route. The once proud structure now slanted and was partially reclaimed by the wild. The roof needed to be rethatched, paint no longer close to the white it had once been peeled off the wall panels, and some of the panels popped out from the secure grip of nails and began to curl.

Mister Darrow’s sons and Parren Greenshore would help the old widow with anything she needed, as she had no children of her own, but it wasn’t enough. She’d had all sorts of crops before her husband and the last of her children passed. Roots, lettuces, grain, and countless herbs, but alone in her old age, she only had the energy for chickens.

She lived off their eggs and never killed any for meat until they were quite old or waited for them to die themselves. Many hens died young from egg laying complications. Those were the only times she’d eat young meat.

Mister Darrow donated grain, and sometimes chicks whenever she needed them. In exchange, she offered to knit quilts and clothing for his family, so long as they provided the materials.

Sherik halted Butterhoof and hitched her to a fence pole at the end of the path to her front door. Old Lady Florabelle’s once lush lands were now, like many other places after the previous summer, a tangle of dried and dying grass. The property had been reclaimed by the wild. Only a small path that led from the road to the home, around it, and to the chicken pen remained clear and maintained. She had Parren to thank for that.

The front door loomed at the end of the path, slanted and not perfectly aligned with the frame. Sickly orange light moved behind the inconsistent cracks around it even in the brightness of noon, and a chill crawled up Sherik’s spine. He’d been afraid of Old Lady Florabelle since he was a child. Not for any reason in particular, however. He stared at the door for a moment and sighed. It’s for the farm. He unfastened the satchel of feathers and left Butterhoof’s side. The chickens clucked and seemed in a slight panic. He couldn’t see their pen from in front of the house, but they must’ve sensed him.

He reached the end of the path and knocked. Soft enough not to break what seemed a fragile door, but hard enough for her old ears to hear. He waited patiently while quiet footsteps approached from inside. The door opened. A wave of sickly-sweet smells charged from the tiny crack in the door, nearly pushing Sherik back. He held his ground and his breath.

She looked at him, perplexed. The wrinkles between her brows were a dry riverbed that ran to her crooked nose, always a little red at the tip. She had a grey mustache, thicker than what Sherik could grow, and massive ears that her violet bonnet couldn’t hide no matter how tight she tied it.

Her dark eyes searched him up and down. Sherik tapped his foot, losing patience. She stood with only her head poking from the door. He wanted to say that if he was some malicious visitor, her old body couldn’t stop him from entering just because a fragile door lay between them, but he refrained.

“Oh.” She opened the door fully and stood surprisingly well-postured with her hands on her hips. “It’s you.” Her voice was deep, almost like a man’s, and clearly unimpressed. She was dressed as if she expected some young suitor who wished to court her. Most old ladies, especially those who lived on farms, grew out of the fancy dresses and changed to something plainer and more practical. Old Lady Florabelle must’ve disagreed, for she wore a grand violet dress, tight on the torso and massive like the fat part of a bell at the hips. White flowers in an unorganized pattern took nearly as much space as the violet, and white frills circled the bottom of the dress, her wrists, and along the low-cut neckline. She wore a white undershirt, for which Sherik was thankful, and a violet frilly cloth wrapped around her neck like a ring.

He presented his satchel and didn’t say a word. She watched him for a bit, perhaps confused by the lack of greeting. She bent forward, opened the satchel still in Sherik’s hands, and peeked inside. “’Bout twenty?” She narrowed her eyes as they met his.

“Seventeen,” Sherik said.

She stepped away, never turning her back on him, and closed the door. There were scratches and light knocks as she fiddled with a locking mechanism, and her soft steps receeded.

Free of the fragrance of Florabelle’s home, Sherik exhaled and took in a breath of fresh noon air. Butterhoof snorted from the road. I know girl, I want to leave, too. He trampled a tuft of dry grass that grew nearly to his knees and noticed for the first time how many long weeds had taken root in her usually well-tended paths. The clucking chickens had relaxed, but Sherik wondered when they’d last been fed.

Florabelle fiddled with the lock again, giving Sherik enough of a warning to hold his breath to avoid the initial blast of foul-scented air. The door opened. Sherik refused to breathe until the wave passed. The smell was still there, but not as bad as its initial assault.

She held out paper money pinched between a finger and thumb with a very feminine tilt to her wrist. The money changed hands. Five old, dirty, and ripped one-dollar notes, but Sherik pocketed them nonetheless.

He dipped his hand in the satchel, gathered and organized its contents, and grabbed every feather in one grasp. He dropped the fistful into her anxiously awaiting hands. She wrapped her bony fingers around them the moment they touched her palms.

“How much do you sell those for in town?” Sherik had always wanted to ask.

She shot him a cocked brow and fiery eyes, like a mother ready to discipline her child. It intimidated him, but he’d never let it show.

“More than what I pay you, clearly.” She gently put the feathers in her deep robe pockets. “I’m not going to tell you who I sell them to either. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“It’s not that,” Sherik said. He’d never thought of cutting her out of the business. He was happy with the amount she paid and never even tried to think of ways to make more. But her answer did raise a concern. “It’s just that,” he trampled another weed, carefully choosing his words, “you may not be around much longer, with all due respect, and I’d like to continue this business if such a thing were to happen.”

The dry corners of her lips quivered as if she was going to laugh, but laughter never came. “I’ve a feeling I’ll outlive you. Rude boys like yourself don’t tend to make it very far in this world.”

Sherik sighed and turned away from her. He walked up the path, eager to unhitch Butterhoof and ride off. His stomach turned upside down when he realized she was following him. He settled beside Butterhoof and fastened the empty satchel to the saddle. He also transferred the five dollars from his pocket and stuffed it into the other satchel that held money from previous sales. The rest of the notes were as dirty and weathered as what she’d just given.

“Why is your money always so ugly and ripped?” He turned to find her closer than he expected. She stood only a few inches behind him and stared him straight in the eyes.

“It’s still money.” Her breath was sour.

“I’m not complaining, it’s just curious.”

She smirked and came even closer. “I made the mistake of hiding my cash in the pockets of a coat my husband never wore.” Sherik tried to inch back without her noticing, but he was caught between her and Butterhoof. “After my beloved’s untimely passing, Mister Darrow thought it a perfect coat for a man to wear whilst underground.”

Sherik’s eyes widened and he suddenly felt sick from handling her notes.

“He’d never consulted me, as I was grief-stricken.”

“Enough.” A chill ran down his spine. “I don’t need to know the rest. Thank you for your business.” He turned, unhitched, and climbed into the saddle.

“Hold on,” Florabelle said. “I haven’t seen that handsome young Parren in some time. My weeds need trimming. I’ll give you another dollar if you—”

“No.” He urged Butterhoof onward toward Picklewood. “I’ve got many things to do, sorry.”

He rode off, and Florabelle never moved from her station at the end of her door path. Sherik saw the old lady in a new light. Perhaps he had always been right to fear her as a child. Old Lady Florabelle was not as frail and helpless as she wanted all to think.