The storm outside howled through the woods, bending trees
and stripping leaves from the branches.
Leaves, small branches and unidentifiable debris pelted the side of the
small cabin nestled deep in the woods, drumming on the wall in counterpoint to
the rain hammering the roof. With a
creak and a snap, one of the wooden tiles pulled away from the roof, breaking
off and sailing into the night.
Hunched over a scrap of parchment laid out on the cabin’s
one small table, Sam scowled as a draft gusted through one of the many cracks
in the cabin’s walls and seemed to creep straight up her back. Shifting awkwardly on her stool, she tried to
pull her tunic down to cover the gap between the top of her britches and the
bottom of her shirt. It was a useless
gesture, done more out of habit than out of any real expectation of success in
protecting herself from the random icy daggers stabbing her in the small of her
back.
Sparing a second scowl for the candle guttering on the table
next to her, she scribbled faster, trying to finish her note before it went out
and she was left entirely in the dark.
Well, she’d banked the coals well enough, heaped them together and
covered them with enough ash to last a day or so. It would have to do. Finishing with a signature cramped into the
little gap she’d left at the bottom of the page, she carefully folded the
parchment and addressed it simply, “Mom and Dad,” then propped it on the table,
in front of the inkwell.
Suppressing a squeak as another cold gust shot right up her
spine, she reconsidered the placement of her note and laid it flat on her
table, and weighted it down with a pewter cup, decorated on one side with a
small cat, and on the other side with elegant script. Rising, Sam took the candle with her as she
donned coat and cloak, pulling the hood forward. The near-constant gusting winds nearly blew
the candle out when she stuck it on the small shelf next to the door. Surveying the one-room cabin one final time,
Sam pulled on a heavy pack, then reached for the sword belt hanging on a peg
next to the candle. Face hardening, she
pulled it off of the peg, and buckled it around her waist. It felt awkward, too heavy and unbalanced.
It didn’t matter.
The pewter cup on her letter caught the candle’s light, and
she felt a pang of guilt, but there was no way she could take it with her. Nothing that was not essential could be
allowed to weight her down. Dropping one
hand to the hilt of the sword at her waist, she caught up the candle and blew
it out. Perversely, she had to try three
times to get the damn thing to go out.
Carefully reaching around to a side-pocket on her pack, she slipped the
candle in by touch, then opened the door.
Immediately, the wind seized it, tearing the handle from her
hand and banging it all the way open, smacking it into the wall. Stepping through, Sam had to grasp the handle
with both hands and pull hard to get the door to shut against the wind. Throwing the latch from the outside, Sam
slipped the string she had prepared around the hook and tied it off. It wouldn’t keep out any bandits, but it
would keep the natural course of nature from disrupting the cabin that had so
briefly been her home. Besides, if she
sealed the cabin up too tightly, her parents would never find the note she had
left for them.
It wasn’t like there was anything worth stealing in there
anyways.
Not anymore.
The remembered glint of candlelight off of the side of the
cup hung in her mind’s eye as Sam fought through the wind and into the night.
There was work to be done, and delaying wasn’t going to make
it any easier.
