Rainy Day Instructions and a Roadside Encounter

“Ah,” the girl sighed, “the rain is truly heavy.”

Standing under the eaves, clad in a short-sleeved linen tunic, she stretched an arm beyond the shelter. The large raindrops, coalescing along the edge, fell in near-continuous strings, drumming against her porcelain-white, translucent skin, echoing the downpour outside.

Above, European swifts swooped and glided through the deluge, then, with powerful wingbeats, soared to snatch insects dancing in the rain-heavy air.

Beneath the blacksmith’s humble eaves, a clutch of swallow chicks huddled, only their small, dark heads peeking out. Their wide, flat, yellowish beaks remained tightly sealed, patiently awaiting the return of the satiated mother swallow with her bounty of insects.

A sudden gust of wind lashed out, drenching the girl. The swallow chicks, too, instinctively retreated deeper into their nest, lest the fierce wind tear them from their fragile home.

Retreating indoors, Noren left the door ajar. She settled comfortably into a wooden chair before the crackling fireplace, crossing her legs in a gesture of ease, warming herself while her gaze drifted to the rain-swept landscape beyond.

She thought of something, then glanced at her drowsy brother, who was slumped over the table. “Has all the wheat been brought inside?”

Frey, still caught between sleep and wakefulness, continued his rhythmic “nodding.” At the sound of Noren’s voice, a snot bubble burst with a soft ‘pop,’ and he blinked awake, raising his head with a bewildered “Huh?”

“I said—has all the wheat been harvested!” she repeated.

Frey picked at his nose, a sudden change in weather leaving him somewhat congested. “It’s raining, how can we harvest anything?” he mumbled.

She hadn’t expressed herself clearly, so she had to say it again. “Have the drying wheat been brought in?”

Frey sucked on his finger, smacking his lips with a faint echo of dream-borne delicacies. “So delicious…” he murmured.

“Hey!”

“Sis,” he protested, pulling his finger from his mouth and picking his nose once more, “the wheat in the fields hasn’t even been cut yet. It hasn’t been threshed, so what exactly would we be drying?”

With her question answered, Noren’s attention drifted back to the fireplace. She flicked the lingering water from her hand into the scorching embers, eliciting a fleeting ‘sizzle.’ As she gazed into the flickering orange-red flames, the image of a dancer in a vibrant red gown materialized in her mind’s eye, her slender waist swaying, her skirt swirling with wild abandon. A profound weariness began to creep over her.

“Sis,” her brother’s voice broke her reverie, interrupting her ‘spellcasting’ just as she was on the verge of drifting off.

She suppressed her anger. “What?”

“The villagers want to trade grain for iron tools.”

“Trade with them,” Noren instructed. “The villagers possess little coin; at best, they can only offer clipped currency and fragmented silver. It’s far more practical for them to exchange grain.” Suppressing a powerful urge to yawn, she parted her lips and exhaled a long, heavy breath.

“Also,” Frey continued, “a few more displaced people have sought refuge in the village. They appear to be refugees from Olomouc.”

She pondered for a moment. “How many households are in the village now?”

“Twenty or thirty households, I’d estimate!” her brother offered, providing a rough figure.

“Adhering to our established customs,” Noren began, “they are to be retained initially as temporary laborers, provided with a simple meal of gruel. Should they remain for a full hundred days, they will then be granted permanent residency. However, any conflict arising with the villagers during this probationary period will result in their immediate expulsion.”

Frey nodded after hearing this, then continued, “Sis, I’ve rendered all the pork fat into oil, you…”

“I can’t make it at the moment,” Noren demurred, waving a dismissive hand. “That particular dish is exceedingly intricate, and our supply of honey has dwindled to nothing. Before my departure, I pickled some cabbage in jars for you to quell any cravings. Once the skies clear, ensure all the turnip leaves, cabbage, and foraged wild vegetables are thoroughly dried. I will then take my time preparing them upon my return.”

With her instructions delivered, she leaned back into the chair, seeking repose, her breathing gradually deepening into a slow, measured rhythm.

****

Two young riders, a boy and a girl, sat astride a gray and a white steed, respectively. Each was cloaked in a hooded mantle, beneath which they wore soft armor and helmets. Broad-bladed battle swords hung at their hips, while bundles were secured behind their saddles, and bows, quivers, and javelins were slung from the saddle’s sides.

“Frey,” the girl called out, “I’m heading to Hradec to find a craftsman to repair the well. I anticipate returning within a few days. Should any unforeseen circumstances arise, seek out Tolke first. If he proves unable to resolve the issue, then ride to Hradec. Very well, I’m off now, hup!” With a gentle squeeze of her horse’s flank, the steed began its brisk trot away, its hooves splashing through puddles on the muddy road, staining her cloak with streaks of earth.

Frey watched his sister’s retreating figure until she vanished from sight. He then spat out the foxtail grass he had been idly chewing and turned back towards the village.

The heavy rain had only just ceased, leaving the roads a mire of mud. A soft mist clung to the air, while from the roadside woods, a chorus of joyful birdsong erupted. So bold was one long-tailed tit that it fluttered down and alighted upon the girl’s gloved hand, resting lightly upon the reins.

Noticing the small creature’s surprising lack of fear, Noren freed a hand and retrieved a long strip of smoked meat from her bundle. “Care for some?” she offered.

The tit, no larger than a finger joint, tilted its tiny head and emitted a soft chirp. After eyeing the smoked meat for a moment, it abruptly flapped its wings and darted away.

Her smile fading, she gently tugged at her horse’s lowered head, then turned her gaze to Tolke, who rode a short distance ahead. “Tolke,” she inquired, “are you hungry?”

The boy offered no reply. Noren’s brow furrowed slightly, and she repeated her query: “Tolke?”

“Huh?” Tolke’s back abruptly straightened, accompanied by a sudden, jolting movement.

“Would you like some jerky? It’s made from wild boar.”

Tolke turned his head back. “No, Noren,” he replied, “I’m not hungry yet.”

“Then rouse yourself, and try not to fall asleep,” Noren admonished, her thoughts, however, drifting to an inward grumble: ‘He must have been engaged in some ‘crafty’ endeavors last night. Young men are always so full of restless energy.’

She bit off half a strip of smoked meat, chewing with unhurried patience. After perhaps two or three minutes, a faint chirp reached her ears once more.

Glancing down, Noren discovered four tiny tits, their long black tail feathers fanned, perched on the horse’s mane. Their plump bodies huddled close, eight bright, beady eyes fixed intently on the half-eaten smoked meat she held.

The girl’s mood instantly brightened. She extended her open palm, and without hesitation, the small tits fluttered down, alighting directly in her hand to begin pecking at the smoked meat.

“Caw!” Two small-beaked crows landed on the gray horse’s head. They pecked inquisitively at its ear, then brazenly plucked a few hairs from its crown, their eyes fixed with unwavering intensity on the half-eaten strip of dark red meat.

These were unwelcome guests, indeed.

Under the girl’s scrutinizing gaze, the two crows folded their wings, adopting a facade of docile compliance. Yet Noren knew well that such cunning birds excelled at lulling their perceived enemies into a false sense of security, only to exploit the moment of weakness.

She had never harbored much fondness for such overly cunning creatures; they lacked the unwavering loyalty of dogs and the endearing charm of foxes. Moreover, they were notorious for operating in groups, orchestrating raids to pilfer precious grain. Consequently, the instant the two crows made their appearance, the bloodstone set in her silver necklace pulsed with a crimson glow.

Indeed, the very moment she averted her gaze, the two medium-sized corvids eagerly sprang into action. With a furious flapping of wings, they lunged forward, their sharp talons extended, perhaps desiring not merely the meat strip but the four live creatures for a quick, opportunistic meal.

“Snap.” The distinct sound of bones twisting and breaking echoed through the air.

Ethereal membrane tentacles swiftly lashed out, binding the feathered “bandits” in a vice-like grip. As the constriction intensified, the ominous sound of bones fracturing grew even more distinct.

The four long-tailed tits, already paralyzed with terror by the sudden assault, had believed their demise imminent. Once the immediate danger passed, they frantically fluttered their tiny wings and fled, abandoning even the enticing smoked meat.

“Hey~ Don’t fly away!” Noren called out, a hint of reluctance in her voice.

Tolke, hearing her speak, turned his head. “What shouldn’t go?” he inquired.

“None of your concern!”

“Oh,” he simply replied.

Discarding the pecked meat strip and releasing the ethereal tentacles, Noren confirmed the two crows were lifeless. She then methodically plucked their flight feathers, her voice chillingly devoid of warmth. “Only I possess the right to give,” she declared. “No one dares snatch what is mine directly from my grasp. Consider your feathers a payment I am pleased to accept.”