Chapter 11: Six Years of Winter

Charlie Cucumber was incredulous.

“You call that a prophecy, old timer?”

He was rewarded for this remark with another whack from the mayor’s cap. (Although Chastity had to admit this information was not exactly useful.)

Mister Barkroot shrugged, “As I said, it was a long time ago. But I bet it’s all written down somewhere in that old library. All the secrets of Skärselden, he used to say–the Seer. Spending all day scribbling and reading and what not.”

Mayor Roundhedge shifted nervously, then thrust his cap back on his head. He hurried over to the tavern door and bolted it shut, then returned, blowing out a few of the candles along the way.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking openly of these things, not even in Goldenberry,” the mayor whispered conspiratorially. “They say the Dark One has eyes and ears everywhere nowadays.”

A distinct shiver of unease ran through the gathering. The silhouetting firelight from the hearth cast exaggerated shadows across the tavern floor.

The Dark One? Chastity thought with mild alarm. That didn’t sound good. The older halfling nodded in agreement, still half lost in thought.

“I’m afraid you’re right, mayor. And he wouldn’t take kindly to anyone, or any place, sheltering a Paladin. But I ‘ope we’re of little enough consequence to escape his foul notice. Best thing would be to take the Tall Lady to the Seer’s ‘ouse. It’s locked up just like he left it, I imagine. Scrolls and books from floor to ceiling in that place, if the snow or rot ‘asn’t got in and ruined the lot.”

The mayor’s face lit up. He quickly disappeared into a back room behind the bar. There were sounds of extensive rummaging, and he re-emerged holding an enormous ring laden with keys.

“As honorary mayor, I’ve got the keys to the whole village. The Seer’s ‘ouse must be on ‘ere somewhere,” he said, scrutinizing iron key after iron key. “Blast if I know which one. That door ‘asn’t been opened in, what, a good ten years?”

“Oh, far longer I reckon!” Barkroot said with a cough.

“Wait a minute,” said Chastity. “You mean to tell me you have a whole library filled with incredible books and scrolls about prophecies and secrets, and all that–and no one has visited it once in over ten years? Not even once?” Sacrilege!

The mayor shrugged.

“Eh, we’re not really big readers.”

There was a chorus of hearty agreement around the tavern. “Aye, aye!”

“We love to hear a good yarn,” Roundhedge explained. “But sit down and read a big fat book? Puts us right to sleep! We prize short poems, especially limericks!”

At this, Charlie perked up.

“Ooh! I know a great limerick!” He cleared his throat and began, “There once was a Giant and a Halfling. One midsummer’s night they had a fling. They laid down in the flowers and–”

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“Young Master Cucumber! That’s quite enough out of you! Keep your bawdy verses to yourself. Need I remind you that this is a lady under holy orders!?” the mayor steamed. He tossed the massive set of keys to Charlie. “Take Barkroot with you to the edge of town and see if you can get in. I haven’t a foggiest what the right key is.”

Charlie thumbed over the many, many keys doubtfully.

“You know, I bet I could pick the lock if I needed to,” he mused.

“Charlie! Watch what you say in front of the lady! Picking locks like a common thief? How many times do I have to say it? She’s a Paladin under HOLY ORDERS!”

ꭘ

Soon the unlikely trio tramped along the crunchy, frost-laden village pathways toward the outskirts. Their progress was slow as Barkroot walked with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on his gnarled walking stick. Along the way, they conversed in low tones.

“Since I arrived, I’ve heard many remarks about ‘happier times’. It seems a lot has changed around here and not for the better,” Chastity ventured. She was still thinking of her obligation to repay the Underfoots for their generosity.

“Aye. Goldenberry used to be a bustling village in the heart of the Riverlands,” Barkroot explained wistfully. “We were gardeners, famous for our flowers and berries alike. There was scarcely anyone without their own small plot for growing fine green things. And folks would come from all around for our annual Pickle Festival, and not just halflings! We had regular trade with a dwarven settlement to the northwest. Even that is a memory now.”

“What happened?”

“‘You know who’ happened,” Charlie whispered. “The one we aren’t supposed to be speaking about.”

The Dark One, Chastity supposed.

“One winter the snow began to fall,” Barkroot said, “and it never melted. It was a winter without end, like the whole land had been placed under a curse.”

“You wouldn’t think that sledding down Thimble Hill and building snowfolk would get old, but it does!” Charlie added.

“How long ago was this?” Chastity asked.

“I reckon six years. Hard to tell without proper seasons to judge by…”

“Six years! It’s been winter for six years?”

“Aye,” answered Barkroot sadly. “The ground froze. The crops died. Only the hardiest fish swim this part of the river now. Some of the youngest in the village have never seen a spring flower, have never tasted a fresh goldenberry.”

So they are connecting this permanent state of winter to this Dark One, Chastity thought. I wonder if it really is some sort of curse. Whatever the truth, these people are experiencing hardship because of it.

“Many went north looking for work,” said Charlie. “Drifting off little by little. I figure about half the homes in the village lie empty now. Not much luck though. It’s the same everywhere. It’s like the whole wide world’s gone mad–an end to the seasons. They send back what they can through the merchant, which isn’t much, and the occasional letter.”

“You’ve mentioned the merchant before. Who is that?” Chastity asked.

“Tall Folk like yourself,” said Barkroot. “From the north. We know him as Honeytongue, although I’m not sure that’s his real name. I once heard him referred to as Charjør, but I don’t remember where I 'eard that. He travels with a great big wagon, pulled by a pair of ponies. The wagon’s laden with all kinds of goods from around Skärselden. You might meet the man someday if you stick around Goldenberry. A smooth salesman, that. He could sell a rat trap to a rat!”

“He is generous, though,” Charlie added. “He offers free transport north as part of his circuit. Halflings are easy, he says, they don’t take up much room in the wagon!”

Suddenly, a sorrowful look passed over the young halfling’s usually unflappable features.

“Aye, there’s the place,” Mister Barkroot said, pointing with his stick.

Chastity looked up to see a curious dwelling, separated from the rest of the village and halfway built into the side of a tree-topped hillock. It indeed appeared abandoned, with heavy snow piles reaching to the windows and a broken picket fence serving as a jagged perimeter of what must have once been a yard.

Charlie Cucumber jingled the heavy ring of keys.

“Shall we?”