Chapter 3: Peasant Bread

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The overseer’s name is Vesh. I remember him and his name clearly. Vesh speaks kindly to me.

“Here you go, boy,” Vesh says, handing me the loaf.

“Don’t coddle him,” the peddler objects. “He’s work to do before he rests.”

“Don’t be a pesh,” the overseer scolds him. “Hungry is stupid. You ever eat peasant bread before, boy?”

“No, sir,” I say. It’s a small loaf, as to fit in a man’s hand, but heavy. It’s black.

“Don’t bite into it,” he says. “You’ll break a tooth. Sit up to the table.” He puts a bowl in front of me and pours water in from an earthen pitcher. “Break it,” he says, making a twisting motion with his hands.

I try to break the bread but my right hand slips off it.

Vesh reaches for it and I pull back, fearful he’ll take it back and I’ll have nothing.

He beckons for it, then takes it and twists it between his hands, then hands it back. He has big strong hands. I wonder at that, for the peasants work, not the overseers.

“Now soften it up,” he says, a little impatient now, sticking one part in the water. “Give it a moment. Now bite careful.”

It’s not as hard as the ship’s biscuits I would know, but still dense to gnaw off a corner and chew.

“I have the dolls,” the peddler says.

“Good,” says Vesh. “The men will be down in the light.”

My stomach grumbles and moans as the bread settles in.

“Eat it slow, boy,” the peddler says. “Don’t overwork your guts or you won’t crap tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, rubbing the last bits of the right piece of bread in the bowl, trying to damp it.

The overseer points to the pitcher. “There, boy, don’t try to wick out water from something dry. Go to the pitcher.”

“Mind you don’t spill,” the peddler says.

The pitcher shakes a little in my hands - I’m so tired - but I get a splash in the bowl.

The two men are eating, now, too. It’s not water they’re dipping in, though. It’s a brown liquid, not the same as the honey ales back to home. Some kind of ale, nonetheless.

The overseer has big arms, a strong man. The skin is dry. A crack runs from near his elbow to near his wrist, the skin pulled apart and a white seam filling in. I try to catch his eye, see if the sprites have got to him.

He notices, but he ignores me.

“You know we don’t have many shells right now,” Vesh tells the peddler. “With what happened, we don’t have much.”

“I’ll take something else, this time. And I’ll want to pick.”

The overseer ladles himself some more ale into his bowl and says, “Agreed,” then turns to me. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Bessil,” I say, talking around a mouth of soggy - but soft - bread. “It’s good bread, sir.”

Both laugh.

“The peasants make it. Don’t know what’s in it, except mostly the stuff the townsmen won’t take.” He dips and then bites into it again. “Keeps them on their feet, though,” he says. “You apprenticed to this lout?” he asks.

“He’s just carrying,” the peddler says. “The last boy ran away to join the legion.”

The overseer looks at him funny. “When?” he asks. “In Beshof?”

The peddler shakes his head. “Fearsmere,” he says. “Don’t know why they came there.”

“What’s the legion?” I ask.

“Shut up, pesca,” the peddler tells me.

“Did the boy run off or did they grab him up?”

He shrugs. “Run off, I think. Didn’t look like a press gang, but I wasn’t there the whole time.”

“The dolls,” says the overseer. “Show me the dolls.”

The dolls are in my pack and I hurry to bring them out. My mother made these. The peddler stayed with us, at our house through the dark. I wondered if he would stay there like my father and then mother and I could stay in the house.

Six dolls in the shapes of woman children, with short hair, as the peasants wear it, and kerchiefs wrapped around their heads. The kerchiefs were stitched to the heads, not separate bits of cloth. I only just notice that at the time and I wonder at it.

“These are made by my mother,” I say. I start to talk more about her and about our town, but the peddler stops me.

“He can see them,” he says.

“I see. Yes, all six, like we said.”

The peasants dress in plain undyed cloth, a simple blouse and skirt. When I’ve seen them, it’s the same, man or woman. This doll has a bright shirt, blue, what they call rough dye where the pattern finds itself. Only a rich man could afford a lavish shirt and no peasant ever could.

“You’ll sleep here, boy,” Vesh says. “Go take a piss. We want to settle in before it gets dark,”

“Pesca,” the peddler says. He points to my belt. I’d taken the hood out of its spot when I sat down. It had been rubbing on me all day.

“Sorry, sir,” I say, crouching to pick it up off the floor.

“Don’t sorry me, boy,” he says, picking up his bowl and holding it to his lips. “The goblins get you and you’re no good to me, no good to anybody.”

Submitted: March 18, 2023

Fantasy sprite goblins bones