“Good morning.”
“How’s your family?”
“In good health, thank you.”
The early summer sun shined that morning just over the horizon, spilling a pale yellow light across rooftops. Bakers, who had been awake before dawn, carried trays outside to attract customers with the alluring scent of warm breads. The blacksmith and tinkerer, with their shops near one another, exchanged tips to one another as they did every morning before setting to work. The carpenter’s understudy provided gold to the tanner next door for leather. Teachers noisily corralled rambunctious children toward the school house. Carts moved quickly to their destinations, on paths used so frequently the wooden wheels wore ruts in the dirt. Transitioning the streets to cobblestone was taking longer than anticipated. The ordinary people of Oteka Village emerged from their homes in the same order as any other day, like the well clock tower that chimed the precise amount of gongs for every hour.
Cyrah sat on the second floor window sill, one leg swinging outside and one limply hanging in. She observed this identical routine happen daily from the same precarious position, only varying slightly based on the weather. When it rained, less people bustled along the stony paths. When the wind picked up into gales women chased chickens and ribbon from one end of the village to the other. The conversations she overheard never strayed far from the norm. Cyrah once heard this particular village was the most peaceful among all of those established within the kingdom. Oteka was surrounded by woods inhabited by various wildlife that made great game for hunters, and no one possessed a care in the world. That peace also meant routine and routine meant simplicity, which lacked adventure. Occasionally, she wondered if that was what her father had always intended for their new home.
Oteka had been exciting for a month. A brand new house, a new village to explore, new people to meet, and a whole new way to live all on her own. Cyrah was ready to be independent. She expected a refreshing and different experience, for each day to carry excitement. Cyrah was wrong. Before long, days merged together, and she tended to her morning routine mindlessly. The birds swooping in for spare food tweeted their unique songs to make an orchestra that ushered in dawn. The rooster crowed when the sun streamed in her eastern window. This was her signal to rise for the day and complete her chores. She milked the cow, gathered eggs, fed and groomed the horse, fed the pig, and then became a spectator while the other villagers began their day.
The rich aroma of dough rising in a brick oven wafted toward Cyrah’s window, and from the other direction was the sweet scent of cookies and cakes. Combined, the smell was just enough to cover the stench of animal dung of neighboring farms. Cyrah swung her leg inside her room and snatched the book from the end table by her bed. Already a week had passed since she last visited the library, and she read the book from front to back until it was memorized. The library would be opening soon, just as the town clock rang eight times, which was moments after the boys were ushered into school. Cyrah bounded down the stairs and out the front door to be swept up in the busy commoners going about their average day, hopeful the library had a new book to offer.
Cyrah moved among the people instinctively while her mind wandered in a more thrilling tale of fantasy. Imagining that she dodged living fauna and evaded traps. This helped her to ignore the talk. One of the first busy places she passed was the community tub for washing laundry. Each woman arrived with their own barrel to fill with soap and water and begin the daily chore of scrubbing dirty clothes from their children and husbands. It was best to complete this as early as possible so the clothes would have all day to hang and dry in the sun. The women there varied in shape and hair color, but the rumors never changed. The old married women gossiped about new couples while the younger women always discussed married and single men, and they all debated about who was with child and who was not. Of course, it was not a typical morning unless Cyrah heard a word or two about herself.
“There she goes again, that Cyrah. The poor thing, lives all alone. I wonder why she doesn’t find a husband.”
“A husband? That one? What man would be interested in her?”
“True. She never talks to anyone. You might suppose she wants to be alone for the rest of her life.”
“Her head’s in the clouds. Maybe if she focused on important things, like how to prepare a hearty meal, she might make a nice prize for a man. But only if she started dressing like a lady.”
“Bah. I heard she’s a witch. Those books she reads are brews for her cauldron. If a man were ever interested in her, she would kill him with poison!”
They all cackled and Cyrah’s response was always an amused smile. They had no clue about her because not once had she spoken to them. All because she chose solitude over a handsome smile. Education over monotony. Slacks instead of a dress. She was convinced they only fabricated wild stories because they were bored. Cyrah escaped their world when she entered the library. Books were her only salvation. They opened up new, imaginary places for her to explore. She loved to be immersed in the drama, blissful romance, heartache, grief, and fierce sword fights.
“Good morning, Cyrah,” the librarian called from behind a rickety desk.
“That it is, John,” she greeted, and waved. She placed the leather bound book on the counter.
He beamed at her and pleasantly inquired, “How many times did you read it?”
“Three,” she answered with a grin, and picked up the short stack of books resting on the desk. She turned to approach the shelves and slid them in their places based on alphabetical order.
“Glad to hear it was good. I hope to read it next,” he said, and scooped up the book she returned. “You know, if not for you, I would have no customers and I would be out of business,” he advised, wagging the book in her direction. “Your donations truly support this place.”
Cyrah laughed, light hearted but warm as a hearth on a snowy night. “I sometimes wonder if this library is the only reason I moved here. Truly, you must receive funding from the castle. The coin I manage to scrape together every month cannot possibly be enough.”
“I do, but without the support of you and others I would barely make ends meet,” John admitted.
“And if it were not for these books the drawl of everyday life would send me out of my mind, although most people think I already am.” She and the librarian shared a laugh. Cyrah strode toward the counter, and hopefully wondered, “Do you have a new book?”
“I do. A brand new novel that I think is perfect for your interest,” he said, placing a book bound with a hard crimson cover on the desk. “In fact, I expected you today, so I held it back for you to borrow.”
“You are too kind, John. I can return it in a few days,” she promised, grateful, and lifted the book into her arms.
“I am eager to hear your opinion, Cyrah. Take care and enjoy the beautiful day.”
“Thank you,” she replied humbly, and reluctantly returned to the busy street through the library’s double wooden doors. Cyrah sighed heavily because even that interaction was always similar, though he never usually thanked her so generously for her donations. Such gratitude made her question if the library, or her dear friend, was under a financial burden.
She casually made her way with the flow of the crowd, sapphire eyes focused on the cover of the new book. She analyzed the picture of the stone castle high up on a mountain, and a large tree grown in a courtyard far below. The picture intrigued her to learn what fantastical tale was written on the pages, and the only way to find out was to start reading immediately. With an excited smile, she hurried to her favorite spot.
Cyrah made only one detour on her journey to check the progress of reconstruction happening in town. The wet season recently ended, which meant new homes were being constructed and old ones needed repair. She stopped to watch for a few minutes while the men worked on the roof of a new building, some of them balanced on a beam to start erecting walls. Watching them hammer in nails with mallets and measure angles for accurate placement of timber was knowledge that she absorbed, silently critiquing their failure to apply any safety measures. An injury, while devastating, would have been the most exciting event of the decade.
Nearby was the home of the lady who bred and raised chickens. They escaped their owner regularly, and Cyrah offered daily to help, which added some fun to her bland day. Except, today the chickens were content within their fence, so she hurried along to her destination.
She dodged carts and horses, goats, sheep, and villagers carrying loads too large to see over. After two years, Cyrah was an expert at maneuvering through the village’s traffic without even paying attention. At last, she reached Leo’s Tavern. The log building was nearly vacant during the day. A cobblestone path circled a dribbling fountain that decorated the grounds. Benches and tables littered the lawn on both sides of the worn dirt path to the tavern’s doors. With no business, it was the most secluded place to read without being distant from the hustle and bustle of the market. She sat at a table with the book open wide in front of her on the table, face hovering inches from the pages and sun warm on her back. The smell of the fresh crafted paper and newly printed ink was euphoric. The world around her dissolved as she began the first chapter of her new adventure.
Kilena Shrelack 