Chapter Text
Olyffe was a clever woman, not a wise woman.
If she was a wise woman, she would have left years ago. Left after her mother passed, before the strain and drain of her routine wore and ground her into place, into submission, cementing her to this little homestead for the rest of her life.
But she was not a wise woman, so here, she stayed.
Clever woman was her trade, her birthright, her position, her service to the small town at the bottom of the curving pathway that cut through the hills. It was title passed down through her family. It was her mother’s title; it was her grandmother’s and great aunt’s title. At one point, during her lifetime, there were six clever women assisting the town and aiding the inhabitants.
But now, it was just Olyffe.
All by herself with the title, the knowledge, a home, and a plot of land left to her by her foremothers. Goats, a few chickens, a gaggle of geese, some ducks, a few beehives, an overgrown orchard of dying cider apple trees living and growing on a plot of land with a pond, a spring, and a few buildings. This was all that remained of once bustling homestead.
It was still fruitful, still useful, still providing for her. It was not like it was when it was her and family. It was so much easier, when they were still here.
So much easier to bear…
Being a clever woman did not fill her pantry. Truth be told, she served her community more as the local goatherd than with her knowledge. Most of the townsfolk knew her as the vendor where they could purchase cheese, milk, honey, and goose down rather than soothing teas and salves.
Occasionally, someone would seek her assistance, walking up the stoney road to her cottage, and for something other than a log of goat cheese or down to refill their pillows.
Every once and a while, someone needed an herbal tea, a splinter needed removed, a few stitches to a cut, a wound flushed out, a salve for the skin or lips, or have an odd question that perhaps, in her knowledge or the collected knowledge of her family, she could possibly pose a solution for.
Today, Olyffe sat in her kitchen of her small cottage, a cup of hot rosehip tea in her hands, staring off into the distance. She was still and silent, but her mind raced. Her thoughts bounced about, flickering from one chore to another. Quietly, cautiously, she formed a list in her mind. Between thoughts, she nibbled on a piece of toast spread with goat cheese and topped with a small drizzle of honey.
Morning was one of the few times, Olyffe was still and her only company was her thoughts. After her morning respite, she would not rest until bedtime, long after the sun had set and moon had risen.
Outside, the world woke up as Olyffe was locked in her daily mulling. Bird and insects stirred. The goats shifted in their paddocks. Down in the village below, she could just barely hear the echoes of bells, the slamming of doors, families calling out to each other. The typical clank and clang. Olyffe planned out her day, her mind talking and arguing with itself over the day’s potential chores. Everything picked over, analyzed, and listed by importance.
There were too many green tomatoes. She needed to pick some. The vines will bend and break then she’ll get the blight. It will spread through the entire tomato patch. What to do with the green tomatoes? A chutney? A pickle? A tart? The beets need thinned out. What should she do with the leaves? A soup? A stew? A tart…maybe a quiche. She should see how many eggs she’ll collect today, and maybe she will make a tart. If there were not enough eggs for a tart, maybe she will make an egg drop soup with beet greens. Yes, that sounds good. Maybe scrambled eggs and greens. Does she want to make a stock? No, scrambled eggs with beet greens. Yes, that will allow her use up the leftover bread. She needs to take the goats to the northern pasture. The grass is getting high. The blackberries should be ripe soon. There is a hole in the fence she needs to fix. She needs more firewood.
When the goats feed in the north pasture, she will take a cart and a bucket. She will collect firewood, and blackberries, if they are ripe. She should take an axe. She might be able to fix the fence herself, and chop firewood. What can she take to market? Should she use the eggs for market instead? Is the cheese ready? Perhaps a few geese are ready for market. Should she sell a bag of down? Does she have enough down to fill a bag?
She sipped her tea. She flipped through the heavy tome. Decades of knowledge, collected by her foremothers. Dates, notes, ingredients recipes, odd and ends collected over the years. Blackberries were coming into season, she noted, tapping a finger on her grandmother’s notes.
If there are plenty of blackberries, she should take some to market. Maybe take a few green tomatoes. Onions and herbs can be thinned out. Perhaps she would find some highly sought out herbs in pasture. Fiddleheads, stinging nettles, young thistles, perhaps some mushrooms are in season. Those would make a good egg drop soup.
Olyffe grimaced. She will have to wait until she got there.
Uncertainty was her worse enemy.
It was so much easier eight years ago, when it was just her and her mother. Two years before that, it was her, her mother, and grandmother. A year before that, it was her, her mother, her grandmother, and great-aunt. Some point she did have a father, but he too, was gone. Only a few foggy, flimsy memories and sturdy pieces of furniture remained of him. There once was an aunt as well, her mother’s sister, but Olyffe had no memory of her.
Now, it was just her, her plot of land, her goats and geese, her garden, and the occasional visitor from the village seeking her knowledge and aide. It was tedious, it was hard, and lonely, but it kept her busy. She was never lonely when there was plenty to do.
Olyffe sucked in her breath and shook her head and shoulders, stiff and anxious. She looked out the small window towards the yellow, morning light. Outside everything appeared to glow gold, blessed by the morning light.
It is nice out, she thought, unfurrowing her brow.
For a summer day, there was a pleasant chill in the air, leaving the grass thick and sparkling with dew. A gossamer mist rose from the ground in the golden beams of the morning, lingering before fading into the trees.
He’ll probably visit today, she thought. She gave herself a small nervous smile, then took a sip of tea. Taking this newest thought into consideration, she reassessed the day’s plans.
On cue, she heard her front gate open and close with a clatter, releasing her from her morning contemplation. Slightly startled, she set her cup down and started towards her door.
He was early today.
From her position, she could see her visitor…no…visitors…from her front window. Four teenage girls apprehensively approached her front door…no…three of the girls approached her front door apprehensively. Staring intently at Olyffe’s door, their leader strode forward.
Olyffe was unfamiliar with the skittish girls. She did, however, know their leader. Arguably, she was better acquainted the girl’s older sister than she was with the girl herself. She was also mindful of the girl’s scurrilous family. It was enough for Olyffe to be wary of both this girl’s presence and intent. It completely derailed her morning.
Olyffe now had something different fret over this morning other than unripe vegetables and overgrown fields. She’d be fretting over this interaction long after its completion.
Her mind raced thinking about how to approach this transaction and what brought this transaction about. The miller and his family were not ones to visit Olyffe or her family. She could not remember a time when any of them needed her services at her cottage. Any exchange exclusively took place in the market place.
Ashleigh was the younger of the miller’s two daughters. In her youth, Olyffe interacted with the older of the pair, Amanda, down in the market place. “Interacting” in the loosest term possible.
Amanda was a bully in every sense of the word. Encouraged by her father and status, her brash nature, and larger statue, Amanda acted with impunity. If she was not throwing punches, Amanda was throwing insults. The weaker, the more passive her target, the more vicious, the crueler Amanda would act. Neither kowtowing, submitting, or retaliation could save a child from Amanda’s wrath or ire. She attacked without warning or provocation.
Olyffe learned to avoid Amanda. This fear kept Olyffe from playing with the other children as her family managed their stall. The children themselves were leery of Olyffe, the strange little girl who lived up on the hill with her strange little family. Introducing herself to her peers was a slow, tense process. Sometimes she would be invited to a play a game of marbles, maybe she’ll get to make flower necklaces, but nothing rambunctious. Her presence was tolerated.
Most of the time she would loiter about her stall, wistfully watching the other child; too shy to join in their merriment. Her mother, her always anxious mother, would try to encourage the cautious Olyffe to play with the other children. She still wanted her to stay within view.
It took one insult, one word, from Amanda to put an end her mother’s encouragement. One day, lonely, Olyffe mustered up the courage to join the other children. Nearby, Amanda kneeled on the ground, piling up stones for some nefarious game. Upon the sight of Olyffe, nervous and passive, Amanda reared up and screamed, pointing at the cautiously approaching Olyffe. Olyffe froze like a deer.
“WITCH!”
She then flung a stone at Olyffe. With pointblank accuracy she struck young Olyffe in the temple. With a wail Olyffe, went onto the ground. All the children, save for Amanda, scattered. Olyffe’s mother, shrieking like a banshee, came to her wounded daughter. With a smug smile on her face, Amanda watched the scene unfold before her.
There was no point in approaching the miller or reprimanding his daughter. Like poking a wasp nest over a sting, it was best sometimes to ignore the little infractions and disturbing the whole hive.
After that, Olyffe’s mother made young Olyffe stay in the stall with her family and under their watchful eyes. She never played with the other children. Her family’s little stall became her sanctuary, her school, her lookout, her prison.
Fortunately, Amanda was long gone. Married and moved away to be another town’s problem.
That left Amanda’s little sister behind, on her own, a new type of blight upon the town…or so Olyffe heard.
Ashleigh was not like her sister in either appearance or behavior. She was a plain, unassuming young girl with lightly colored hair, not quite brown, not quite blond. Her face was pale and heart-shaped. Her cheeks were freckled. She kept her hair in a single, thick country braid tied with a blue ribbon.
She could easily blend into crowds, completed overlooked by more…colorful individuals.
But there was something…off…about her. Unlike her maladjusted sister, Ashleigh scarcely socialized in the market, limiting Olyffe’s exchanges with her. Whenever she was about, she did put Olyffe on edge. Honestly, she put everyone on edge. It was her eyes. There was a coldness to her, to her eyes, that disturbed Olyffe to her core.
Blue eyes were alluring, but not hers. Her eyes were cold. Not like ice, not like the clear sky on a winter day, or deep water or a gemstone, but blue like stone. Cold. Still…almost unliving in nature.
According to hushed marketplace gossip from both parents and children, Ashleigh was just as reprehensible as her much older, more brutish sister. Unlike her sister, she never dirtied her hands. The bruises left on her targets were never by her but by whoever’s ears she tainted. Words never left a trace, no trail to follow back to her. She would staunchly deny it then her father would deny it.
And just like her sister, she was never punished for her discretions. She left only victims and ill ease when she was about.
Much like her maligned sister, the girl, somehow, kept an ever-rotating gaggle of companions in her orbit. Olyffe did not know or ask if this was born out of fear, admiration, or extortion.
Seeming the only people fond of Ashleigh and Amanda, and the only people Ashleigh and Amanda were fond of, were their own blood.
When in town, Olyffe never engaged in market gossip, fixating on her stall and goods. Much like a grazing deer in the meadow, she always kept an ear to the forest, listening for any threats.
Olyffe did not plan for this interaction today, nor did she have any idea how to truly approach this girl. She has faced worse. She had faced things more terrifying than an odd teenage girl. She will manage. She always managed.
Her bell chimed. Olyffe collected herself and opened the door. Immediately, the more pensive girls backed away.
“Good morning? Can I help you?” Olyffe spoke in her warmest voice.
“I’m looking for a husband,” Ashleigh stoically stated.
“Excuse me?” Olyffe was taken back.
“A husband, we’re looking for our future husbands,” Ashleigh stated bluntly. The three girls nervously chuckled, but stayed back. “We want to know who we are going to marry.”
“I cannot help you with that. That is a talk you must have with your parents. If you need milk or cheese, I can retrieve some for you,” she answered. “I have some jars of honey too. And blocks of beeswax.”
“No, we don’t want those. I heard that you can dissolve egg whites in water. It will show you an image of your future husband. How do you do it?”
“I am sorry, but you are misinformed. It is foolish to waste eggs on such silly little things,” Olyffe politely answered. She attempted to divert the girls’ attention. “Do your parents need eggs?”
“Can you read tea leaves and let us know who we will marry?” Ashleigh pleaded.
“Tea cannot be read, only brewed. It can soothe the throat and ease the mind, but it cannot tell the future,” Olyffe answered. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I heard if you drip melted wax into a bucket of water, it will take the form of clues that will lead you to your future husband,” Ashleigh spoke up. “Will this work? What wax do you use? Tallow? Beeswax? Bayberry?”
“I have never heard of such a thing,” Olyffe responded patiently. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Ashleigh remained silent, staring ahead into Olyffe’s cottage. Then without a word, she spun around and marched down the pathway to the gate. Her gaggle of friends followed behind her.
From her doorframe, Olyffe watched the girls leave. She could hear the chatter among the three girls and their footsteps on the gravels as they vanished around the hillside. Ashleigh never spoke.
Olyffe furrowed her brow and frowned. She had lost her train of thought. She returned to her tea, now cold, and her rattled thoughts. She sat down at the table.
She needed to milk the goats before she takes them out to the field. First, she needed set the poultry free and collect their eggs. From there she’ll decide on her lunch. The garden needed thinned out; weeds and yellowing plants removed from the beds. She needed to prepare her wares for the market tomorrow.
This was her life. It fed her. It sustained her. It gave her purpose. It kept a roof over her head and her pantry filled. It kept her busy in mind, body and soul.
It suffocated her.
&&&
Dawn was just upon the small town. Businesses were opening their doors and blinds as other townsfolk opened their eyes. A dark wagon drawn by two dark horses pulled into town. A rickety, metal cage was hitched to the wagon. Empty, it bounced about creating a racket with every cobblestone the wheels struck. Anyone in town who were asleep, was very much quite awake now. Leading the wagon and its load, sat a very odd man.
Rotund and pale, dressed with dark clothing decorated with silver buckles with a wide brimmed hat and a dark cloak, he stood in sharp contrast to the townsfolk, ambling about the streets locked in their morning routines.
Even heavily dusted from his travels, his clothing spoke of wealth and status. His clothing was dark and in pristine condition, neither bleached or faded from the sun or travel or patched stitched, unlike the clothing of the ambling townsfolk. His pale skin was similarly unmarred, neither reddened or tanned by sun nor scratched or scarred from the rigors of dealing with unruly farm animals and a trying existence.
The tavern owner was in the process of opening his business, but struggled thanks to a uncooperative lock. His young daughter, distracted, petted the guard dog that slept in the doorway. As the keeper struggled with his key, he gave the man a curt nod as a greeting.
Fixing his cloak and puffing out his chest, the man strode up to the tavern owner standing a few feet away from him as the owner struggled with his temperamental lock and key. The young girl hid behind her father as the man stared at her. The dog cautiously sniffed at the man’s cloak. He pulled his cloak away from the dog and snarled at it.
“What brings you here?” he asked the man, twisting and turn his doorknob. He gazed on the empty cage. “You looking to trap some animal?”
“Work,” the man answered, kicking at the dog. The dog snarled. The man held a finger up, “Animal…is not the word I would use to the describe the quarry I am seeking.”
The tavern owner was a tad incredulous at the man’s answer. He appeared to be quite affluent and not need of money. His skin was pale, his build soft and rotund, not tanned or hardened by the toils of the land. Labor was the only work about town.
Still the tavern owner was polite, “I’m sure we can find something for here.”
He returned his attention to his lock and his struggle. The man just watched him.
“Oh no, no, no,” the man heartily corrected with a thick chortle. “My line of work brought me here. My name is Oleander Paxfaire. My compatriots call me Lander, because I always ‘Land’ my target.”
Oleander paused, hands on his hips, looked about then breathed in deeply with a loud snort. “There is quite a heaviness to the air.”
“I’ve never noticed that,” the tavern owner, shaking his lock. His daughter clung to him.
The lock finally gave. With a shove, the tavern owner opened the heavy wooden door.
“Ah, finally,” the tavern owner said.
Oleander followed the keeper into his tavern and plopped down at a table. He set his hat on the table, revealing his balding, round head. His face was red. He coughed deeply, heavily, and then struck himself in the chest a few times with his fist.
The young girl hid behind the bar, watching the scene, staring at Oleander.
“I apologize for my disrespect, but I have been traveling for two days. I made great haste to be here, barely slept. May I trouble you for a meal?” Oleander explained.
“Today’s special is fried potatoes with onions served with rosehip tea. My wife grew the onions, sweet as honey,” the tavern owner explained. “It’s a favorite among the locals, sticks to your ribs till supper.”
“I’m sure it is quite enjoyable, but with my palate, I find vegetables quite indigestible. Tea is a drink best for the infirm and languid. It warms the belly and softens the muscles like wax,” he explained. He placed a few coins on the table. “I’m sure you have something more...palatable. Hung lamb or beef perhaps? Perhaps you have a string of white sausages hanging around or an old hen who no longer lays eggs?”
“I do have a ham in the cellar,” the tavern owner mulled out loud, staring at the coins. “We were saving that for Yule…”
“Good, good, a thick ham steak with some of those honey sweet fried onions would heal my road-weary body. If you can muster some stout or wine, I can tell you why I am here,” Oleander answered delighted. He turned to the little girl hiding behind the counter, “Please fetch me something to drink, young lady instead of hiding behind the counter gawking.”
“I can manage some stout,” the tavern owner spoke up.
He herded his daughter to the kitchen to peel the onions. He then poured a thick mug of stout for Oleander.
He set the foaming mug down. Oleander admired the mug, blew the foam from it, then gulped it down as the tavern owner retrieved Oleander’s meal.
Several minutes later, the owner set Oleander’s plate down before him. At the sight of the steaming, sizzling plate, Oleander slapped his pale hands together with meaty claps. He cut a slice of ham. With the ham, he scooped some buttery, fried onions. Then shoved the forkful into his mouth. He chewed eagerly, savoring it.
“So why are you here?”
“I had heard that there was evilness afoot in your village and immediately set forth to help your town,” Oleander responded.
“Is that what the cage is for? Some wild animal?”
Oleander managed a hearty laugh.
The owner was perplexed. “I heard nothing about evil being a foot in town. It’s quite peaceful out here. A couple pigs got loose and made a mess of things, but I don’t think a few broken fences and torn up flowerbeds mean that evil is afoot. I don’t think the cage you have is suitable for a few pigs.”
Preparing for the morning, he hefted a broom and began to sweep the floors.
“I heard you had odd, horrifying creatures stalking your forests,” Oleander explained quietly. “Much slyer than a pig.”
The tavern owner thought for a moment. He tapped his finger on the worn, broom handle. “Oh. That was a few years ago. A rich merchant, down the mountain, brought them in for his estate.”
Oleander was not pleased. His benefactor continued sweeping the floor.
“There were also rumors of a deformed calf being born,” Oleander said in a grave tone The owner stopped.
“There were two,” the owner responded. “There were two born last spring, same field. They each had one single eye and deformed jaws.”
Oleander grew excited, buttery grease running down his chin. His red face burnt redder. The tavern owner was taken back by Oleander’s excitement.
“Olyffe the goatherd said it was from a particular type of plant the mothers had eaten. We cleared the plant out and did some burning. It was growing in a few other spots, so we pulled it out. Hadn’t had a deformed calf born since,” the tavern owner explained.
“And nothing else odd has happened since then? No dark shadows lurking in the corners of your houses? No mysterious deaths? No screams in the night?” Oleander asked feverishly. He tapped his fork on the table “Illnesses? Plagues? Mysterious scratches? Visions?”
“No, not much happens here,” The tavern owner explained. “Just a quiet little town. Occasionally pigs get loose, and a few decades ago a brown bear came down from the mountain and did some damage. It’s hide and skull is in the townhall if you want to take a look at it. I can assure; it was just an ordinary brown bear. I’m sorry that you came here in vain.”
“Truly there cannot be such accusations without a grain of truth,” Oleander said, resting his greasy face in his pudgy hand. “Surely something odd is about—”
Oleander stopped mid-query to stare past the tavern owner’s shoulder.
Through the large window, a blurry, dark figure head and shoulders above any human walked—no strode—by. Oleander, his jaw dropping, food dribbling, watched and waited for the form to walk past the second window. Seconds later the black blur strode past the second window. It stopped and kneeled down in front of the second window. Oleander could see its horns, the bullish snout and ears.
“Oh,” the tavern owner said nonchalantly, looking over his shoulder. “That’s the minotaur. He shows up sometimes, usually from spring to fall. I guess he’s going to visit Olyffe…”
“The goatherd? The woman who claimed plants caused the deformed calves?”
“Yes. I guess he came to her very sick, a few years back. She fixed him up. Sometimes he pays her visit. Kinda surprised me, most of her experience is with goats,” the tavern owner answered. “Other than scaring a few folks, he hasn’t caused a wink of trouble. Doesn’t talk to anyone. I heard he’ll talk to her, but he just ignores us townsfolk.”
The minotaur stood back up and continued on his travels.
“What sorcery summoned such a creature? Do you know what those things are? A remnant of a darker time! A drollery that beast is!” Oleander shouted, agitated. “Those unnatural creatures were born from the hands of sorcerers. Born to fight, to kill to maul! They were bred for war! The flesh of humanity their bread and butter. Battlefields their homeland, blood their wine, the sundering of flesh and cracking of bone their music!”
Oleander jumped from his seat and bolted out the door.
The tavern owner stared at rattling door. He gathered his coins, the mug, and greasy plate. From the table he wiped the crumbs, spilled foam, and grease. He continued his sweeping.
&&&
Oleander flung the door open. Laying on its back from an earlier tummy rub, the dog sprung to its feet with a snarl as Oleander bolted down the street after the horned figure.
Several yards down the street, Oleander frantically searched around, taking into consideration with his next move. With its stride, the minotaur had made quite a distance from the tavern turned into a horned dot in the distance.
Turning back, Oleander raced to his wagon. His fingers shaking, fear in his gullet, Oleander rummaged through his belongings. Sword in hand, he went to his horses. He unhitched one and mounted it. He dug his heels into the horse’s side. The pair barreled down the street, disrupting the serene ebb and flow of the morning traffic. The town’s tranquil morning came to an abrupt halt as Oleander tore down the street. With clouds of dust in Oleander’s wake, the townspeople watched in confusion.
By the time Oleander caught up to the minotaur, the minotaur had reached the outskirts of the town. Here the cobblestone and brick roads gave to a gravel roadway, wide enough for only one cart. Oleander sprinted by the minotaur, who paused for a moment and observed the man. The minotaur continued a few more steps before realizing Oleander had blocked its passage with the horse.
“BEAST, I DEMAND YOU STOP RIGHT THERE!”
The minotaur complied.
His bulging, unblinking gaze directed at the minotaur, the tip of his blade directed at its heart, Oleander dismounted his horse. He slowly drew near the minotaur, his trembling blade, aimed at the minotaur’s throat or heart, the only barrier between them.
The minotaur was unimpressed.
“I demand to know what you want here, beast!” he ordered in his most commanding tone.
Blankly, the minotaur looked at him.
“Why are you in town? Are you a spy? What are your plans for this town?” he snarled. “I heard you can speak the tongue of man! Speak to me as you speak to the goatherd!”
The minotaur slowly blinked its eyes and huffed. From its height, it looked down at Oleander’s blade in his quivering hand. Still, Oleander stood valiantly in its path; his face stern, his body quaking. The minotaur huffed, gave Oleander one final look, then returned its gaze to the road behind Oleander.
“Your sword is poorly made,” it answered in an unamused tone. “The blade is not properly forged. It is poorly welded to the hilt; it will break there. The smith didn’t even try to hide the weld; you can clearly see the drips in the metal. It is a poor reproduction. Your business is with the blacksmith who forged your blade, not me.”
Then minotaur shoved him out of the way and continued on its way. Oleander chased after him and stopped him again, the blade aimed at the minotaur’s chest. The minotaur was indifferent. The minotaur attempted to step around the man. Oleander copied the minotaur’s step, blocking him.
“I demand to know why you are here beast! What plans do you have? Is the woman up on the hill your mistress?”
The minotaur balked at this comment.
“WELL! Why are you here?” Oleander spat, shoving the blade in the minotaur’s face.
The minotaur collected itself.
“I don’t know you, and you’re being very nosy,” it responded, fixing a satchel across its shoulder. “Mind your manners. I have no time for you.”
With that, it pushed him aside again and ascended the hillside, leaving Oleander shivering and sweating on the hillside. He had to look into this. This goatherd…this woman…Olyffe. He climbed back onto his horse.
Foul things certainly were afoot, despite the lackadaisical attitude exuding from the townsfolk. These fools did not know how dangerous of a situation they found themselves in.
He will get to the bottom of this.
&&&
Around the bend, the minotaur encountered the four young girls as they descended down the gravel road. Three of them immediately shrunk back as he lumbered by. The minotaur was indifferent to their fear. He strode by, not even bothering to give them a mere glance. His attention was on the curving road head, braced by fields of clover, corn poppies, alfalfa, and daisies.
Standing like statues, they clumped together, covering their mouths to hide their squeals, their faces turning white or red. Their eyes widened, staring at him. Out of annoyance, he snorted. In response, one squealed and flinched. Her companions braced themselves, waiting the minotaur to charge.
Their leader was indifferent, staring ahead as she marched by. She did not even turn her head to look at him, treating him with the same indifference that he gave her and her companions. As if in a trance, she walked by and down the road, unconcerned with him or her absent companions.
The minotaur strode on by. Once he walked past the girls, they made haste to catch up with their leader. The girls out of sight, the minotaur finally paused and looked down the bend.
Out of sight, their chatter returned.
Now disconcerted, the minotaur shook his head then continued on his way.
&&&
Oleander raced back to town to his wagon.
Clumsily, he dismounted, nearly stumbling to the ground. He clutched his chest, breathing heavily as he went down on one knee. The tavern keeper left his business to greet Oleander.
“How…” he began.
“That beast…that beast spoke the most vile of things to me,” Oleander sputtered and hissed as the keeper helped him to his feet, “Such vile things I dare not repeat.”
His cheerful mannerisms had disappeared as he pushed himself from the keeper’s grasp.
“I need to get to the bottom of this right now,” he stammered. He threw his arms into the air then pointed to the ground with a stomp. “Right now! The seeds of war have been planted!”
Mumbling to himself, Oleander disappeared down the street. The tavern keeper, confused, watched him storm off down the street then looked up to the hills, wondering…
&&&
Leaving her beet greens and squash tendrils to soak, Olyffe prepared the rest of her morning harvest. Green tomatoes, a few ripe tomatoes, a plethora of greens, a handful of beans and young peas, and some herbs…a flavorful, aromatic feast for the eyes, mouth and nose.
The goats had been tended to. Their needs were mostly met. Now waiting to be fed, they ambled about their pen while their milk curdled on the table.
Regaining some peace, Olyffe toiled in her workshop, formerly her great-aunt’s bedroom. Flowers, herbs, and mushrooms hung from the ceiling to dry. Tables, gifts from her craftsman father, were set against three of the walls. Set up on these were her jars and bottles of dried herbs and teas, books, candles, and lanterns.
Outside the goats grew impatient in their corral. Earlier, she had sent the geese, ducks, and chickens free to forage about her yard and pond. Once she was finished prepping her harvest, she will lead the goats to the fields.
A tart it is today. Soup tomorrow. She had retrieved only five eggs from her henhouse. Disappointing yes, but it helped her with her decision making.
Olyffe had finished shelling her beans when she heard the gate open again. She winced at the loud rattling of her wooden gate. Heavy footsteps thudded down on her stone footpath.
Today she will make soup instead. She spread the beans to dry on a wooden tray.
Her front door, slowly creaked open. Ducking to avoid her doorframe, the minotaur poked his head in and looked around her cottage, searching.
“Good morning,” Olyffe called to him, brushing the bean pods into a bowl. Unfit for animal feed, she will add them to her compost pile.
“Good morning,” the minotaur called out. She could hear him shuffling about, searching for her.
“You can come in. I just finished a small harvest,” Olyffe spoke, then poked her head out from the doorframe. The minotaur startled as her head appeared a few feet away from his tufted elbow.
“Did you have a long walk?” she asked, ducking back into the room to finish her task.
“I brought cheese,” the minotaur answered. He stood in the doorway of Olyffe’s workshop, holding up a wheel of cheese, coated in a thick layer of red wax.
In his large hands, the wheel appeared tiny. For Olyffe, the wheel would provide her with several meals. Olyffe could make her own cheese and had no shortage of cheese in her dwelling. Goat cheese had limited uses, and she did grow wary of it.
Still, she wished the minotaur would stop bringing gifts.
There was a point in their rapport, where she found his presence an inconvenience, even off-putting. Over time she had grown to appreciate, even welcome, his inconsistent visits. He was, in a way, the best merger of her typical cohorts; the unjudgmental, unbiased natures of her farm animals gifted the ability to speak, converse like the townsfolk. In terms of physical appearance, he did receive the worse from the two worlds.
No, she took that back. He was just odd looking.
Sometimes he was a wrench in her plans, sometimes his very presence would completely upend her chores, leaving her scrambling to complete or remember her established plans after his departure.
Eventually, she knew, the visits would stop. He was young, still a buck not a bull, at a transitory stage in his life, still trying to figure out the world and himself, not ready to be fully tethered to one place or lifestyle. Eventually he would find his place or grow weary of this place. Then he would leave to start the next chapter of his life.
Eventually it would just be her.
With the same energy as she had coming to accept his companionship, she had come to accept this.
“You did not have to bring anything,” she told him, wiping her hands on her apron. “Thank you.”
“I brought a melon, too,” the minotaur answered, beaming, removing a muskmelon from his satchel and holding up in one hand as if it was a giant pearl. “It’s very sweet. I’m sure you can use the seeds in your garden.”
“Thank you,” Olyffe said. “Would you like something to eat?”
The minotaur pondered. He then pointed over his shoulder to the goat corral and its agitated, vocal captives. “Don’t your goats need to go to pasture?”
“They can wait, I have a few things I need to do around the cottage before then,” she answered. “Would you tighten the handle on my axe?”
The minotaur’s ears perked up, and he smiled, a very genuine smile. Debatably, a terrifying smile to those unaccustomed to the mouths of minotaurs. His four front teeth and lower teeth were square and blunt like those of cattle. Unthreatening, even a bit humorous within his wide grin. However, his canines, the upper and lowers were overly developed, overly sharp—unnecessarily so.
Years ago, when Olyffe was a little girl, when her mother was living, she saw a baboon in a traveling circus. Its teeth were the only animal she could compare the minotaur’s teeth to.
His toothy smile stopped unnerving her long ago. Occasionally, it brought about a smile of her own. The absurdity of it…a predatory cow. She wondered, if he found it as amusing as she sometimes found it.
“Of course,” he complied keenly.
He collected her axe from the front door and sat down at her table with a dull thud and diligently set forth on his task. Olyffe stoked the fire of her little black stove and placed down a cast iron skillet. As the skillet heated, she brewed another mug of rosehip and raspberry leaf tea.
Olyffe sliced two thick pieces from a loaf of oat bread. Wrapping the loaf up in a linen towel, Olyffe returned it to the breadbox. Into the hot skillet she quickly toasted the bread slices to an even golden brown. Onto the toast went thinly sliced cheese. To the pan, she added a fat pat of butter. As the butter melted and sizzled, Olyffe whipped up three of her eggs, with green onions, sweet herbs, a pinch of salt and a pinch of long people. As she poured the egg mixture into the pan, the butter crackled and popped. Quickly she stirred about the eggs until just set. Then onto the toast went the eggs followed three slices of seasoned garnet-red tomato. The sandwich was finished with a handful of rocket leaves and the final slice of toast.
The minotaur had long finished repairing her axe and watched her intently. He was alarmed when she placed the sandwich and steaming mug of tea in front of him.
“I need to use those vegetables, don’t worry,” she calmly explained.
Ears perked up, minotaur took a loud, crunchy bite. His chest heaved with a gruntled rumble, like a muffled cowlike low.
“Are, those squash…are those from the squash I gave you?” he asked after swallowing. Ears cocked up, he sipped the tea, watching her, waiting for her response.
“Yes,” she answered. She picked up her and took a sip. “Only one grew last year. This year, I have several, so a much better year.”
His ears pricked up as he drank. The minotaur was pleased.
“A tree fell in the far pasture…”
“I can chop it up,” the minotaur answered quickly, immediately hefting the axe. “How big is it?”
“Just a wild cherry tree,” Olyffe answered, “Not too large, it broke my fence when it fell.”
“I can fix that, too” the minotaur said, standing up. With the remains of his sandwich in one hand, the axe in the other, he started towards the door.
With a crunch, he popped the remains of the sandwich into his mouth and licked his fingers. Taking one final sip of tea, he strode out the door, past Olyffe. She closed the door behind them.
She paused at the doorway, her mind going over her plans for the morning. In her haste, she had forgotten many of her plans. The minotaur had reached her gate. Axe over his shoulder, he turned and waited for her.
He let her walk by him and then shut the gate behind them and ensured it had properly latched.
Olyffe went to tend to her goats. The minotaur stood at the gate for a few moments, admiring the peridot-green orbs and the large, white trumpet-like flowers of the squash plant. Bees and butterflies gorged themselves on the white flowers. The plant, its vines and tendrils, and massive leaves, had taken over the stone fence and the stone archway around Olyffe’s little cottage. Freed, the goats stampeded into the fields with bleats. Olyffe followed behind her eager charges, herding them to their grazing grounds for the day.
At the clatter, the minotaur immediately turned on his heels.
Quickening his steps, he followed.