Hands holding onto the straps of her backpack, Whistlecork walked the street, hat tied firmly under her chin, lest it lose the battle it was currently waging with the mounting wind. The soles of her boots were worn so thin that she could feel each rock and bump of the ground through them, but the scarf around her neck was thick and warm, and her jumper, although patched, kept out the bitter sea winds.
The town she was walking through was a nowhere place. A place of fisherpeople and seasonal workers, and not much else, and there were few of either around today. On the wind, she could smell the faint scent of malt, maybe from a brewery as far as the next town over, riding along on the incoming storm.
She had hoped to find a place to stay, but the deserted streets and abandoned nets spoke for themselves, the houses dark, shuttered tight against the growing grey clouds
She shifted the pack on her shoulders and considered finding somewhere to ride out the storm. It was still a couple of hours until true night, and that night came early this time of year, earlier even still, with the weather as it was.
Stopping still, she looked around. Maybe there was an old boat shed which could shelter her, but it still wouldn't be a pleasant night.
If she kept going then she would be out of the village before she had decided on anything, the whole place was barely more than ten houses, not even large enough for an inn of its own. Not uncommon, most things were probably just handled in people's homes or down on the docks, but unfortunate for her right now.
Maybe she would find better shelter in the forest, but the wall of trees which normally sheltered villages such as these had been logged down in place of fields and pastures, and she would be soaked through before she was even halfway there.
Flummoxed, she stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by abandoned nets and the weathered trappings of lives, completely alone. Even the seabirds, normally a constant companion to her, were hiding away, sheltering from what was to come.
She shifted the pack on her shoulders again, biting her lip as she considered what to do, then, out of ideas, she knocked on a random door.
A minute later she knocked again, and then when that didn't work, she hammered a couple of times on the shutters.
Another minute of waiting, during which she wondered if maybe the village was actually abandoned, and how difficult it would be to break into one of the houses, and then came a clatter as somebody unhooked the top half of the door.
A worn face peered out at her through the crack in the door, "wha'd'ya want?"
"Shelter!" she replied, pushing up her hat so the figure could see her face more clearly.
She was peered at with a judging eye, before the door slammed shut, fully opening a moment later. "Ge' in, afore the rain gets ye!"
Pulling her hat tight onto her head and adjusting her straps once more, Whistlecork slipped into the house.
-
The inside was, structurally, much as she had expected, a one-room home, with a fireplace on one wall, a stove on the other, and the trappings of a life scattered around. In other ways, it was nothing like she would have predicted. The room was an old oil lamp, placed on the centre of a wooden table, which itself was placed in the centre of the room. In the fireplace was lit a small fire, and from a bed in the corner two small faces peered out at her. The other occupant of the room was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, an older person, winding together a fishing net. There was another net folded neatly by their side, and all across the walls, a huge variety of stuffed fish. Above the fire, the mantelpiece was crowded with little trinkets and oddments, and up on the beams, she could see jugs and ceramic faces peering down at her.
As she placed her backpack down gently by the door, she realised that she had expected the place to be more spartan, the epitome of poverty, but no. The room was cluttered but tidy, and the faces of the children were bright and curious, awoken by the guest, apparently blown in on sudden winds.
Glad to finally be rid of the weight of the pack, and glad of the opportunity to be off her feet, Whistlecork eased herself into one of the wooden chairs which bordered the table, leaning her elbows gratefully onto the timeworn surface. There were two comfortable chairs by the fire, but those weren't for guests, worn over years to the shapes of their owners.
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Outside, the wind was picking up, but the building was old and sturdily built, the roof grown up over generations, and inside all was safe and warm.
The woman who had let her in fussed with the kettle on the stove, muttering incomprehensible utterings to herself, flitting about as if unsure how to deal with this sudden guest. She hesitated in front of the stove for a second, before reaching up and pulling down a rusted-looking tin from a high shelf. An observant pause before she gently eased the lid slightly open, and then she peered inside with one baleful eye, as if whatever was inside might escape should she open it too far.
Another pause, and then a violent shake of the head. The tin was shut with a snap and promptly returned to its place on the shelf. There was then a brief narrowing of the eyes as the woman looked around, and then, bending down, she retrieved another tin from under the cooking surface, where it had been previously hidden underneath a flowerpot. An easing, a peering, an added sniff this time, and a sharp negation of the head as the tin was quickly sealed and returned to its hiding place.
Whistlecork and the two children watched this whole display in enraptured silence, whilst the figure by the fire didn't stir from their mending.
The third tin seemed to be the charm, this time a nod, just as sudden as the previous shakes, and gradually, out of the tin, were coaxed two biscuits. These were placed with ceremony upon a tiny plate, which had been removed from behind a candle on the mantelpiece and lovingly wiped with a clean cloth and a little water from the teapot, all whilst still juggling the biscuits.
This small and seemingly practised ritual over, the saucer of biscuits was placed on the table before Whistlecork, along with a steaming cup of something she was hesitant to call tea, but the leaves for which had also had to be wheedled out of a large jar on a shelf by the stove.
Looking down appraisingly at the two biscuits and the steaming mug, the woman nodded sharply one last time, turned down the oil lamp, span around, and, grabbing a cup for herself, settled down into her own chair by the fire and then promptly fell asleep.
Whistlecork sat and sipped her tea in silence, listening to the sounds of the rope, the crackling of the fire and the howl of the wind outside, clawing at the shutters and tearing against the walls. The distant crash of the sea and, once, the sound of something splintering in the distance. The eyes of the two children never left the biscuits, and as she drank around the dregs in the bottom of the cup, she eyed the figure by the fireplace. They were still quietly winding their net, and their eyes hadn't strayed from it once, that she had noticed.
A surreptitious glance at the sleeping woman, the cup of tea cold on the hearthstones, and one last glance at the two children, and she considered her next move.
She had sleeping things in her backpack, a bedroll and a pillow, more than enough to be comfortable. With an exaggerated groan, she rose to her feet, slid the two biscuits into one hand, and walked around the table towards her backpack. As she passed the bed, she tossed the biscuits at the children in a sort of discus motion, never slowing her gait.
The two children fell upon them like starving mice, ducking under the covers together with silent giggles.
By the door, Whistlecork set out her bedthings, rolled herself up in the blanket, accidentally caught the eye of a large pike as it stared down at her from pride of place above the door lintel, and then got some sleep of her own.
-
By the next morning, the storm had blown itself out, leaving the world outside fresh and clean, the dissipating magic almost visible in the morning fog. As she sat on a small stone bench outside the house, she rolled her trousers up to the knees and stashed her boots away into her pack. They wouldn't last more than an hour on the damp ground, but she would be alright. The effect of the storms had been stronger lately, but that wasn't a bad thing.
She had been awoken around dawn by the movements of the occupants of the house, the weaver attempting to leave without waking her, despite her place in front of the door, nets slung casually over one shoulder, one foot raised, hand on the door-frame, caught in the act.
Breakfast was a single strip of bacon, lured out who-knows-where, fried eggs, and her contribution to the meal, slabs of fruit cake, spread with borrowed butter, and much more fruit than cake. She had picked it up several villages before. It was the perfect travel ration, high in energy, good for the mood, and perfect for barter, and she tried to always keep a loaf on hand. The whole breakfast had been conducted in mutual silence, before the woman had taken her leave, choking down the last of her meal, throwing on a shawl and grabbing a basket from by the door, rushing out as if unexpectedly possessed by a spirit to move.
The two children disappeared as soon as the light was up, hand-in-hand, slices of cake clutched tightly in the other, and she didn't begrudge them the lack of goodbyes either.
From somewhere in the distance she could hear the shouts of other children, crowding together on the shore like the seabirds they truly were, looking for things that the sea had thrown out overnight.
Sometimes a storm would throw up small treasures, shells and pieces of twisted wood, but sometimes, after one such as last night, more interesting things would appear too. Birds made of stone, which fitted perfectly into the palm of the hand, spoons of twisted metal, drilled with tiny holes, or earrings of bright sea gems, which tarnished and dulled to stone once removed from their habitat. Things which could not possibly have survived the ages and atmosphere, but which, somehow, had.
The door beside her was firmly shut, and it promised to be a warm day, time to stop wasting daylight!
Hefting up her pack up onto her shoulders, Whistlecork ground her bare feet into the soft ground, nodded, and set herself back on the road to Nowhere.