Intro

The sky was especially lazy this day. The usual puffy white cumulus drifting along sluggishly on their private agendas had left. In their places were wispy threads of cirrus stretched out high on airy beds, seeming intangible to Saril. He thought that if he were tall enough to touch one, it might turn out to not really be there. He lay pondering these things by the lake as the sun's rays evaporated what remained on him of his morning wash. He came here often, and not only to remove the days' and nights' grime. The water cleansed his mind along with his body. His life was full of monotony, and not inclined toward worry as thanks, but the forces of entropy could not be eliminated by routine alone and so he found himself on worrisome occasions soaking in the cold waters of the lake. The lake was catharsis. It was a drug which clouded his sensibilities and left him only able to concern himself as to whether or not he would prune if he stayed in longer. He decided as he stood from the lake's side and bound his foot rags that he needed it, as much as he needed food or drink.

He'd washed the night prior, so this bath was to remove worry and not dirt. The harvest would begin tomorrow. He didn't worry for the strenuousness of the reaping, which he could handle, but for what came afterwards. In the past, he'd done reaping jobs for various farmers, as they were all that was available for someone of his age, and he found quickly that he couldn't feed himself on their pay. He wasn't sure if he was being underpaid because of his status as an orphan, or if all workers received so little, but he was generally given a small sum from the harvest, a basket or a sackful, marginally insufficient to tide him over to the next job. Memories of his first jobs were vague and dreamlike, since he was young, but he remembered being hungry throughout the entire ordeal, and mostly only getting by on luck; he would find a discarded loaf of stale rye bread, or receive a hand-out from a stranger on sympathy. He resolved to never go hungry again, and so he took to crop theft. The product from harvests was large enough that he could slip away with a livable sum and the townspeople would be no hungrier or wiser for it. It was through this, and not the small tributes offered to him in pay for his toiling in the field, that he eked out his livelihood.

He stretched as he walked, pulling his arms through various vectors and testing the limits of his flexibility. He wasn't sure where to go, having no money to spend or work to do, but eventually decided to visit the inn, which had attached to it a stable. The innkeeper Davam didn't mind his presence, and he found it was a good place to look for employment. Saril, after some walking, found himself in front of the frankly-constructed building. It was not eye-catching. Beams of wood ran up toward a roof slanted to one side, and a sign he couldn't read hung by a frayed string, swaying with the wind. Two dark doors were pressed into the side of the building like brandings on cattle. He eyed the smaller door for a moment, which lead into the tavern. He slowly swung open the door, stepped in, and closed it shut.

The clinical scent of ethanol hung pungent in the air, mingling with sweat, musk, and other decidedly non-clinical fragrances. A few people sat drearily at tables, looking like they wished the night hadn't ended. The gentle slosh of liquids being poured into mugs penetrated the silence every now and then, and Saril almost decided it was too early for gossip when the innkeeper Davam waved him over from where he was seated at a table, pulling at a mug of something. Saril trod over, weaving between empty tables and customers, and sat across from Davam after a quick greeting. He sat up straight so he could see over the table.

Davam was as he usually was. He wore fine, colorful clothes which looked like they belonged on a member of nobility instead of an innkeeper. His shirt's neatly folded collar led up to a pale, shaven face with a prominent chin. He stared Saril down across the table, looking pensive. He finally nudged his mug, probably cider considering the aroma, toward Saril, which he sipped. It was sweet, and he enjoyed its taste, but, not wishing to be rude, pushed it back over.

"I don't suppose I owe you anything for that."

"I'd hope not. There won't be any work for you after this harvests's over."

Saril was curious, but said nothing. He brushed himself off and waited for Davam to continue.

"The wheat isn't being replanted after this crop comes in." He sat back in his chair, sapping at his mug and awaiting Saril's reaction.

Saril thought about this, and could think of no reason why it would be the case. There wasn't adverse weather, or a drought. "Why not?" he asked finally.

Davam shrugged. "It wouldn't grow. The usual test crops wither." He paused to take a drink, gazing at Saril analytically over the top of his cup. "So, no planting means no reaping. And no work for you. What are you going to do?"

"Maybe I'll grow up fast and become a clergyman."

Davam smirked, but did not laugh. This was how it was with Davam. Always about composure. Finally he rose, grabbed his mug, and returned to his station behind the bar.

Saril waved, though he had no one to wave at because Davam had since turned, and rose from the table. He threaded his way through the tavern, looking for people whose tongues were loose from wine or loneliness. He wanted to confirm Davam's information and look for potential work, though he knew there would be none for him anyway. He stayed in the inn gathering information this way until midday, at which point he decided to have some bread. He took a sack of flour from his stash and went to the baker with it; since he was without money, he measured out two loaves' worth and told the baker to keep the other as payment. He left to replace the sack, then returned to collect his bread, which he nibbled on during his trip to the stash. It was food, and not particularly bad, but he didn't enjoy it. He'd been eating bread for longer than he could remember.

Finally he found himself at his stash, located beneath a tree outside the town. He'd dug a pit, not much larger than himself, then covered it with some ragged cloth he'd bought long ago. A few small sacks of wheat were tucked into the wall on one side, where the angle of the pit and structure of the cloth prevented the entry of rain most successfully. Having nothing else to do, he lay down and covered himself, his head resting on one of the sacks. The light of dusk diffused through the holes in the quilt.

His time in the inn confirmed Davam's information, and, as always, had turned over no openings for work. He tore off a chunk of the bread and threw it into his mouth, wishing furiously that he'd been a nobleman's son. He drifted off to sleep.

Author's Comments:

I don't know if I'm going to write this or not. I have a pretty good idea of how the rest of the story will go, but I don't think I'll receive much feedback, since the Spice and Wolf fan-fiction section is tiny. I don't want to write a fan-fiction about any other piece, though, and I'm not sure there's a good forum to receive writing feedback other than this one. So, that's my dilemma.

I'll try to find time to at least do the first chapter, and I'll see where it goes from there depending on whether or not I get a decent volume of feedback.