Chapter 32: Dream Sailor’s Dreams

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“You shouldn’t talk to them so much,” Sabill says as she walks by me, water jug in hand.

I turn to ask her what she means - or why - but she is off to the cistern, so I take the chamber pot back into the cottage, out of the bitter cold.

“It’s bright out there,” I say, but Trinket corrects me.

“The hoar frost makes it seem bright,” he says. “The darkness has only partly lifted. It’ll settle back. You’ve sandals, lad?”

He knows that I do, but I ask, “Are we to go on the Path of the World?”

“No, but we’re going to be inside for a bit longer. Put on your sandals and help me carry down more bread. You’ll not want bare feet walking through the frozen grass.”

The cottage is abuzz since some light creeps back into the world. No one understands the paths of the skerries and how they wend through dark skies and light, warm and cold. Four candles are already burned.

I’ve sung my song with Jimbe ten times and started to learn a new one from Mr. Trinket’s wife, who sometimes sits with us in the common room, and sometimes in the parlor.

And always the People of the Square watch, bodies limp.

Since the woman in the scarf’s admonition -

Ah, I when first I learned about talking with the People in the funny way of opening and closing their mouths, I ask them their names. I give them mine, of course, but the man says, “No names for outsiders, Bessil of Bocut.”

I learn one name, later on, but I will not share it.

Since the woman in the scarf admonished me, I ask the People of the Square - starting with their head woman - whether they are hungry. Sometimes, they take only water or ale. Otherwise, I mash up bread for them with water in a bowl and feed them in turn. Each gets half a loaf and I mash each up separately and feed each person separately.

This all takes longer. I tell them, at first, about the long dark that I remember, then about how my mother secured for me a position with the peddler. Then other things. A bit about Lake Town, but not the whole story. About Aunty Alete. About learning my symbols.

And I talk to them, as I must to find out whether they are thirsty, holding each by the chin and opening and closing their mouths, allowing their words to form.

We - Trinket and me - go up the slope to the granary. Peasants, there, form a line up the slope to their longhouse, both men and women. They toss loaves of peasant bread, one to the other, up the slope.

At a grunt from the peasant nearest us, all stop and - after the current loaf is passed up the hill - they all make subservience to us, kneeling and bowing down. I see the women who have Harvest Dolls in arm and wonder why they keep them. Isn’t such a doll a terrible reminder?

“Come inside, Bessil,” Trinket tells me. “We’ll take our due and leave the beasts to theirs,” he tells me as I follow him into the building. He counts out three loaves each for the people in the cottage and one loaf each for the People of the Square.

“Will it be enough for them, sir?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s takes a lot of time and effort to mash it up for them. You’re a true lad, Bessil, keeping your word, even to such folk. You’ve earned your shells, right enough.”

He sends me down the hill carrying the bread in a bag and follows on with fuel for the fire.

I hurry down the slope, nearly losing my footing twice in the icy grass, for the light is fading out of the sky. I put down my burden on the table and go back out to check on Trinket, who carries his heavier burden and rushes to the safety of the lamp.

In the dark of the last candle, I can’t sleep. I don’t think Jimbe is asleep either, but he makes a point of pretending.

Finally, I sit up. Hearing and sight can merge in the dark, the tiniest sounds lifting up the faintest image. I see and hear that the man and the woman of the scarf are asleep, but I say hello to the Head woman.

“Happy in the light,” I say.

I reach for her chin, wrap my fingers under it and push it up.

“Happy in the light,” she says, one up and down for each sound. The sounds are funny, with bits missing, but I’ve learned to understand.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask.

“Yes, but, I might not answer.”

All the questions I want to ask - what is the mark? Where are you from? Who lifts your arms and legs? Why can you not move without the cords? Why can’t the cords move you inside?

Were you born like this? Is this your choice?

“Do you dream Sailor’s Dreams?” I ask.

“No,” she says.

“Never?” I ask.

“I have never had a Sailor’s Dream,” she says. “Nor are those dreams in our songs. They are perilous.”

I think to ask, how do you stop them? But this is not something I want to know.

Submitted: August 15, 2023

Fantasy sprite goblins bones