Chapter 9

The days passed uneventfully and the inhabitants of Anaholm lived their seasonal rhythm as they did every year. The farmers had long since sown the first seeds of the year and were working their fields. They bet expectantly on the first harvest of the year in the small pub, which was run by the baker's wife Mardha on the side and opened at weekends.

When the village's only pub closed a few years ago due to insufficient income, there was a cry of protest from the locals - especially the men. After all, there was a need for a place where people could chat over a nice drink and bet on future harvests and world events!

No wonder the younger generation is constantly emigrating and seeking their fortune in the big city, the village elders thought in frustration.

Despite the public outcry however, it proved difficult to reopen the pub.

For those who could imagine continuing the business, the great enthusiasm was followed by sober reality once the figures had been calculated. A village like theirs with 150 inhabitants would have to be made up of regular drinkers to guarantee sufficient demand, they realized, and put the project aside after consulting with the village elders.

The level of suffering did not seem so great that the elders would have felt compelled to propagate an extensive drinking culture in the village. 'Besides,' they said, 'there are limits that should not be crossed'.

To ensure that everything was in order, they conducted a survey in their circle, in which they voted 4:1 against the plan to 'promote a certain alcohol level'. Unfortunately anonymously, as they regretfully discovered when the one vote in favor emerged and curiosity spread.

Fortunately, the baker's wife took pity on the men of the village who needed a place to rest after a hard day's work and opened a small pub in the wooden hut next to her house.

Her teenage son had lived there for several years, annoyed by his parents' early rising times and his parents in general, until he sought his fortune elsewhere. He was now training as a painter in Minthral and would probably not be coming back. A house could only be painted at certain intervals and if he moved back, he would probably suffer the same fate as the former pub owner. So the hut would no longer be needed in the long term.

Mardha stood behind the counter and sighed at the thought. In her hands she held the carefully unfolded letter from her big boy. While the betting was in full swing at the few tables her hut could hold, she read the letter a second time.

Dear mom,

how are you? I'm fine!

Today we received a big order. Imagine, we're going to paint the town hall! Cordal is now rushing to get the necessary paint, which is proving harder than expected. There have been little skirmishes lately with the goblins that live in the woods between Minthral and Thrumban. Nothing serious, don't worry! The guards were reinforced a few weeks ago as a precaution, so I'm safer here than anywhere else on this planet!

Unfortunately, I also have some sad news to share with you. Rumor has it that monsters have been spotted in Brent Forest and everyone is advised not to enter the forest alone. It is therefore with a heavy heart that I will not be coming to visit you on your birthday and will be staying in the city instead. I assume that's fine with you and that you'd be rather angry with me if I came anyway! I hope to see you again soon, best wishes to Dad.

Your loving son, Tilkun.

Mardha sighed again.

It looks like I won't be seeing my boy for a while, she thought sadly.

If I catch those monsters, I'll hit their skull with my roll of dough! she only half-jokingly swore to herself.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The next trade convoy would reach Anaholm in six days. Then she would be able to stock up on the latest news again. Until then, all she could do was trust her son's assessments and try not to worry...,

she paused, because that was unrealistic,

...to worry as little as possible, she corrected herself inwardly.

Mardha folded the letter carefully, tucked it into her breast pocket where it wouldn't get lost and turned to the washing bowl filled with dirty glasses.

I can't keep up with the washing up as quickly as the gentlemen drink, she thought with amusement. After rolling up her sleeves she set about washing up.

"A little maid made her way to the well.

Wanted to fetch water and made her way to the well.

She looked deep, deep into it and

SPLASH! The little maid was no more,"

Mardha hummed to herself a local children's song.

After a while, she glanced out of the window and realized that it was already dark outside.

"Last round," she called resolutely into the room, earning disappointed looks.

Mardha didn't accept any objections. "I want to go to bed and you don't want any trouble with your wives. So, what can I get you before I close the bar?"

The last orders and bets were hastily placed.

The majority were in favor of a very sunny summer, which would be ideal for the grain. The assessment was based on solid observations: The hunter had risen first with his left leg in the morning, which had led to warm summers in the past, and one of the farmers had seen a cat sitting on one of his cows interpreting this as a good sign.

The majority of those present agreed that these were indeed solid omens and bet accordingly. They would see who was right.

Mardha's gaze wandered over those present and stopped in a corner of the room. Norna's cat was sitting on the floor, staring at the wall.

Lord Mitten was a regular guest in her little pub, especially when it got a little uncomfortable outside. So his presence, albeit at a reasonable distance from the hustle and bustle, was not unusual. The fact that he had simply been staring at the wall for quite a long time, on the other hand, was very unusual.

Mardha was beginning to worry.

Hopefully he's all right, Norna is attached to the tomcat. Let's see if he's recovered by the time I close the pub.

She looked back at her counter and wiped its surface clean.

*****

Lord Mitten was admittedly overwhelmed.

What is this lot? he thought, stunned.

For the last few days, he had repeatedly put off the inevitable and practiced avoidance and postponement. But his departure was approaching and sooner or later he would have to confront the unloved challenge. Unfortunately, some problems didn't go away with time, on the contrary, they actually got worse. And this one was one of those.

Spring cleaning.

He looked into his pocket dimension and wordlessly eyed the unsorted mountain of treasures piled up in the huge room in front of him.

Whenever an object seemed valuable enough to be kept, he had thrown it into his dimension and put off sorting and tidying until the indefinite future. After all, the texts, artifacts and other treasures were protected from decay and whether they were carefully sorted and presented on a shelf or lying in a pile did not change their value. If he needed a special object or money, he simply focused on it and let it materialize from the pile in front of him, before throwing it back into his pocket dimension.

But for the planned business, he needed an overview of all his treasures. After all, he wanted a professionally managed store and not a "I'll see what else I can find in the treasure mountain" business!

It needed proper bookkeeping and a proper inventory of the goods; he wouldn't settle for anything less. After all, he was no ignorant bumpkin.

Lord Mitten cursed his former self, who had left him this mountain in the firm belief that the once unloved task would surely turn into an enjoyable activity for him at some point, if only he waited long enough.

But I can't wait any longer, he thought bitterly.

He briefly considered whether he could delegate the task, but unfortunately, he couldn't think of anyone he could entrust with his collection and who could correctly assess its value and danger.

Maribold would throw me out if I asked for her help as a housekeeper, he thought with a short burst of amusement. Unfortunately, she knew how things probably looked in his pocket dimension.

Tsk.

It's no use, I'll have to deal with it myself. The realization made the corners of his mouth droop.

He reached for the first scroll with his mental representation in the pocket dimension and let it unroll.

Let's see what we have here, Lord Mitten thought.

He skimmed the title.

Ooohhhh...

The roll opened further and he delved into its contents with fascination.