Legends, stories scattered through time. Daring tales of heroes and heroines, who forged a path for the world we know today. For generations these legends have entertained, captivated, and inspired even the greatest among our ranks. How quickly then do we forget the most humble among us.
This, is a story about a time before scrolls, before kingdoms, before hunters and huntresses. The hero of our story is no legendary champion by any means. You'll never see his likeness in a statue, nor find his name in any history book. However, he was indeed legendary.
The snow was waist deep and crusted over with ice. It had been falling constantly. Night and day for almost two weeks. Howling winds streamed past the house and shook the barn every night. I was just a little girl when he first arrived. Our house was on the very edge of town, so we were the first to spot him through the blinding blizzard. Just a tiny, dark speck on the horizon. My brother, Timmy, was the first to see him.
"Momma, momma! Come quick! There's a man walking to town," he cried.
"Shut your mouth child. No one with their wits about them would be foolhardy enough to walk through this storm," she scolded him.
Curiously, I went to the window. At first I could barely see him, the fog obscuring my vision. I squinted into the storm, and there he was. The vague outline of a very bulky man. It was hours before I could see that he had a longsword on his back or that he was limping.
"Momma! Tim's right! I think he needs help," I called to her.
"Well if I'll be a blue eyed monkey. Fetch your father let's get that fool inside," she instructed.
My father and I rushed out to meet him. I tried to keep up as I waddled through the ice encrusted snow. Just before we managed to reach the man, he collapsed onto the ground. My father was just strong enough to carry him indoors before the wind kicked up again. I was just able to close the heavy wooden door to our cottage, throwing all my body weight against the force of the gales.
Even out of the storm, I could barely make out our guests' features. A thick, maroon scarf was wrapped tightly around his face. Ice crystals formed a thin film on all of his clothing. Everything from his heavy woolen coat to his heavy leather boots was frozen over. That's when I saw it. A heavy canvas bag hanging around his left shoulder. Curiously I reached out for it.
"Don't touch that," my mother scolded. "We don't know who he is, whatever's in there could be dangerous," she scowled.
My father had already hung the stranger's sword up on a peg on the wall. "We have to get him out of those wet clothes. Foolish boy'll catch his death of cold," my father growled.
I ripped his scarf off of his face. He was a plain looking man, pale sallow cheeks flushed due to the storm. Even with the cold, he was still clammy. His colorless face was further accentuated by his closely cropped red hair. From the few days of growth on his face, it looked as if he'd been in that storm for a while. We stripped him of his coat and boots, down to a plain white undershirt and wrapped him in a blanket. My father laid him down in a chair by our hearth. His bulky woolen coat dripped little puddles where it hung in the corner of the room.
My mother turned to my father for council. "Who do you think he is? Reckon he's with the army?" she whispered to him.
My father turned over his coat scouring it for any symbols. "Well, I ain't heard of any army that wears plain brown coats. No indication of rank or identification. Could be he's a mercenary?" he pondered.
"I'm not a mercenary," a strange voice shivered.
We all turned to see the stranger. He had clasped his blanket even tighter and was trying to huddle around the hearth.
"My name is Arthur Periwinkle, and I've got letters to deliver," he sniffled.
"You what?" my father practically shouted.
"I've got letters to deliver. It's my job," he punctuated his statement with a deafening sneeze.
"Sir, you'd best explain yourself. What are you doing delivering letters in a snowstorm?" my father thundered. At this point, he'd already fetched his hatchet. His knuckles on his right hand turning white, I could see a vein in his head that looked as if it was about to pop.
"Sir. I want you to know, I don't mean to hurt any of you. If you look in my bag, there are letters there. I was on my way to Avalon when this storm came about me. Thank you kindly for taking me into your home though," he quickly explained all the while shaking from either fear or the cold.
My father sat in the chair opposite of him, still eying him warily. "Alright, stranger,"
"Arthur," he interjected. "My friends call me Arthur," he added apologetically.
My father cleared his throat, trying to remain serene. "Arthur," he added almost spitefully. "Why don't you start from the beginning, where are you from?"
"Well I was born in the small village of Glen to a pair of bakers," he began.