“You have to go to town,” Heimee said over breakfast.

“Why?”

“Otto’s sick. You need to buy medicine.”

“Again? He was sick for days on our way here.”

“He’s not a bright ox. Keeps his mouth where his butt should be. Here, seven bolts should cover it,” Heimee extended seven guillings to me over the table. “There is an apothecary in Bum-hole, a sweet old lady. You’re going to love her. She knows what Otto needs.”

I happily strolled down to town, the sun caressing my face. For one, it was much better than spending the day raking; for another, walking has a way of soothing the spirit.

An hour later, I entered Guillings Burrow. It wasn’t much bigger than Bastard’s Bank. It was, however, much filthier, its streets paved with mud-baked hay and dung. Where I came from, the stonework was straight and symmetric, unlike Burrow, which was crooked and ugly. My guess is that construction only began after the stonemasons visited every tavern—of which I counted six. Six! One tavern for every tenth household. I wondered how much of Heimee’s business was done right at his doorstep.

One such building had a wooden plaque bleached by time reading: APOTHECARY. I passed through the bead curtains inside. The dim light forced my eyes to adjust. A funky smell like a bog mixed with jerked meats, cheap perfumes, and spices terrorized my nose.

Jars of pickled things lined the walls: vegetables, animal claws, animal tails, ears, whole animals, herbs, and hearts. One contained baby ekkuh’s heads tightly packed together. The ceiling was a plethora of dried things: all kinds of leaves, several types of chilies, whole skinless jerked animals—of what kind I could not tell—hens perhaps. Perhaps human babies. It creeped the caboodle out of me. Large open bags revealed several ground spices, leaving little room to walk on. One of the labels read ground giregaro genitals: suitable for headaches.

No, thank you.

I tiptoed around, afraid to stumble upon something and touch something by accident. Were those eyes in a jar? A wrinkled, frowny face followed me from over the counter. The old lady wore black robes, her skin pale and hairy, and generally looked as if she was a thousand years old. “Uhdo matcha be?” the old lady said. I had a hard time reading her trembling lips.

I pressed on. “Heimee said you’d know what Otto, our ox, needs. He ate something bad.”

“Him, uh, oh haw. Sneerarup.”

I didn’t even try making sense of that. So I shook my head and touched my ear. “I’m sorry I’m de—”

“Arya retarded?” Now, that’s a sentence I can always pick up.

I sighed. “No. Just deaf.”

“Cannya talk normal?”

I stared at her.

“Ya look retarded to me. What we ol’ stinky trunk wanagan?”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Our ox, Otto, is stomach sick.”

She regarded me over her pointy nose. “Ugon. Who matcha be?” I think she said.

“Ludik.”

My name provoked a heavy frown as if she disliked it dearly or suffered a sudden stroke. “Shada getcha something foya?” She leaned over the counter in a conspiratory manner. “I’veroot here, poisonous efeatan raw, bah cooked, kamakya whole.”

That conversation was making my head in. “You mean, cure my deafness?”

She shook her head. “Just the retardedness.”

I blinked. “Just the ox medicine, please.”

She creased her wrinkles, chewed air with her toothless mouth and disappeared behind a bead curtain.

While I waited, I continued to peruse the bizarre collection further and noticed a girl queuing behind me. Her lips moved. Was she talking to me? Oh. Not again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” I said.

She had beautiful almond eyes. Freckles spotted her tanned cheeks, and her dark braided hair fell over a long pale-blue jacket. She stepped toward me.

Was my mouth open? Was I staring? I glanced away. She was saying something again. Why couldn’t I read her lips? I was looking right at them. Then I felt a bit invasive. How long had I been staring? Why was my face getting so hot? She said something else. Boy, her lips were pretty. As she rolled her eyes and gestured toward the counter, I panicked.

I squinted, trying to make sense of what she was trying to say. She stepped even closer, grabbed me by the shoulders, and spun me. The old lady gazed at me, shaking her head slowly.

“Retarded,” she said, followed by a bunch of stuff I couldn’t be bothered with.

I tossed the seven guillings on the counter and took the herb jar in my arms. The apothecary slid two bolts back, and I pocketed them, turning to the girl. I wanted to say something, anything—since when was I mute? Oh, Bastard’s bother, what was wrong with me?

She tilted her head slightly and smiled. Her lips were moving again. This was my chance. Sweat formed on my brow. Bastard, I was hot. Then she gestured with the palm of her hand in front of me like she was pressing it against an invisible pane. Oh, I knew that one, “Stay.”

I nodded.

She stepped around me and addressed the mean old hag behind the counter. I couldn’t look away from her—the girl, not the old hag. She was mesmerizing.

The old hag brought her a jar of gray gunk of some kind.

The girl’s hands shot around as she spoke with that dehydrated piece of human composite who’d crossed her arms, giving the girl an unconvinced look. The girl repeatedly landed her fist on the counter, and the apothecary sneered in return. Arms flailed and arched in the air, and somehow things were exchanged.

The girl swiveled on her feet, a cocky smile on her lips as she held her jar. She motioned for me to follow her outside the museum of revolting grossness.

Her lips moved again. “You must be new here.”

Yes, I did it! I read her lips. Now what? Uhhh.

She waited for me to react and then extended one hand to me. “I’m Brinn.”

I puffed my chest and shook her hand. “Ludik. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Who was I?

She bit her lower lip. “Lud, huh? Are you well?”

“Yes, you have excellent lips.” I wanted to slap my face. “I mean, I read lips. Yours are excellent.” Much better.

She tilted her head, her mouth producing an oh. “You’re deaf. Never met someone deaf before. What’s it like? To live without sound, I mean?”

“It could be worse. I could be legless. But I guess that’s what the legless say about the deaf.”

Brinn giggled, or maybe she had hiccups. It’s hard to tell. “You have a nice voice.”

Did I read that correctly? Nice voice? Was she deaf as well? “I’m often complimented about it.”

“What brings you to Burrow?”

“Heimee—”

“The master distiller, huh? Oh, so you’re the one he found up north.”

“How—”

“Small town,” she offered.

“I see. Listen, I have to take this to our ox. But I would like to meet you again.”

“Why don’t you come ice skate with me tomorrow? We have to make the best of it before the snow comes.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Brinn smiled politely. “You can always find me at the bakery if we miss each other.”

I bowed for some reason, then awkwardly tried to make up for my clumsiness. I walked home like there was no ground beneath my feet. I’d made a friend, and she didn’t find me weird. That’s an absolute win in my book. I wondered how Graze was doing. Suppose he was learning pottery with his dad. I wish I could tell him I was learning to make whisky. I bet he would get a good laugh out of that.