Author: Tristraam
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III
At the northwest corner of the square stands a large but extremely ragged and weatherworn tent. Despite its shabby appearance, and its off-the-beaten-path location, this ancient and patchwork marquee is still surrounded by a huge mob of patrons. The other produce vendors look on jealously from their elaborate stalls as dozens of eager shoppers huddle anxiously around it, vying for the attention of the manager.
This stall had been selling fruit and vegetables for years out of memory. The owner had inherited it from his father, and his father before him, and so on. It was such a fixture of the market that even the elves, whose lives and memories were long, could scarcely remember a time when the Tillswain’s shop had not been there.
“All right, all right! One at ‘time now. I’year ya just fine!” growls the stall-keep, a grizzled but kindly old human.
His name is Bolger Tillswain, and his earthy appearance fits well with the décor around him. His family have been farming this land for generations, and selling their crops for nearly as long. They were Fay-folk through and through, and this was the reason for their popularity. Bolger made it a point to know every one of his customers and their families by name. His father had always said a friendly word tasted far better than the juiciest peach, and the Tillswains have lived by this code since time out of memory. Sometimes business sense was just common sense.
“Ned, yer sod! Get up here! There’s customers t’serve. Bring some melons with yeh too!” he shouts behind him. Turning back to the crowd, he says, “Now then, Missus Del’yer, that was half a stone of taters an two dozen carrot? That’ll be one gold, twilver, if yeh please.”
A muffled clatter comes from the back of the tent. Through the rear entrance bursts the gangling form of young boy, a large crate of dew-melons in his hands. His foot catches on a tent peg, sending him toppling forward. The crate hits the ground with crash, sending a wave of melons rolling across the tent floor.
“Oi, yeh daft bugger! Them’s comin’ out yer wages,” shouts Bolger, “If’n yeh weren’t my grandson I would’er sacked yeh long ago.”
The younger Tillswain begins collecting up the melons hastily, his eyes avoiding the gaze of his grandfather. “Sorry, Gran’da, I…. Oops!” he squeaks as a melon slips from his fingers and bursts on the hard earth, spraying a fleshy cascade of fruit-shrapnel into the air.
“Gah! Leave ‘em already, Ned. We’ll gather em up later. Take care of Missus Hillock here,” he says, turning to smile at a middle-aged human.
Ned shuffles over to the woman, sparing a last fearful glance between the remains of the melon and the back of his grandfather’s head. The elder Tillswain, ignoring his grandson for the moment, turns to another customer, “Hallo Mister Thatcher! What can we get for yeh today?”
IV
The mad flow of customers continues throughout the morning. By the time they close for midday meal the Tillswains, both elder and younger, are panting with exhaustion. Falling into a chair, Bolger heaves a sigh. He props his legs up on an empty crate and plucks an apple from the nearby pile. Polishing it against his chest, he leans back and closes his eyes.
”I’m gettin too old fer this, Ned. These ol’ bones jes can’t keep up like they used teh.”
The young Tillswain looks up in alarm, “Yeh can’t leave me teh do all this alone, Gran’da! Look at this mess,” he says, waving his hand at the shattered remains of the melon.
Turning to his grandson, Bolger gives him a wry grin, “Yeh may be a bit clumsy, but ye’r still a Tillswain at heart. Yer Nan an’ me raised yer best we could, an’ you’ll do fine when the time comes.”
“Besides,” he says, taking a bite from the apple, “I ent gone yet! I’ve still a season or two left in me.”
A tiny “ahem!” interrupts their conversation. Rising from his chair, the old man peers over the top of the stall, “Who’s that then?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Tillswain,” calls a soft voice.
Looking down, he sees a small figure standing there, identity hidden behind the veil of a cloak.
”How can I ‘elp you miss…?” he prompts.
“It’s me, Mister Tillswain… Alethea.”
“Why ‘ello ther Alethea,” he says in surprise, “We’ve not seen you round in quite some while! Why’re you wearin that cloak? It’s ruddy hot ter’day. Have it off then, so we can have a look at yeh.”
“Oh no!” Alethea replies in shock, “Mother says not to take off my cloak in town. It’s for protection. No one can recognise me like this.”
“Pish posh!” grunts the old man dismissively, “why’d anyone want teh harm yeh?”
“Not me – Mother. She says it’d be dangerous for anyone to recognise me. If they knew I was her daughter there could be trouble,” says the girl, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Nonsense! We known yeh since you were knee high to a grasshopper. If’n yeh can’t trust old Tillswain, who can yeh?”
The girl considers this a moment. “I guess it’d be ok for you then,” she says finally, “but don’t tell mother!”
She removes her hood, and old Borger Tilswain blinks. His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. After 93 years of closely scrutinising crops for the slightest sign of imperfection, it’s not surprising that his vision is suffering a bit.
”Why Alethea Ilen’thre. I do believe you are the most beautiful girl these old eyes have ever had the fortune of seeing. More lovely than the apple blossoms in springtime, I’d say. Close yer mouth Ned.”
Alethea smiles shyly, feeling her face warm. Bolger gives her a small wink and, seeing her embarrassment, changes the subject.
“So what can we do fer yeh on this fine day, Alethea?”
Remembering why she was there, she reaches into her cloak with an, “oh!” and pulls out a tattered note.
“Mother is having a dinner party tonight, and she sent me along for supplies. She’s ever so busy at the moment trying to get the house ready for our guests. Important guests!” she says, handing the shopping list over to the old man.
“Let’s see here… Couple these are a bit rare for the Fay, but I think we have all yeh need. Ned, “ he says, handing the note to his grandson, “see if’n yeh can get all this packed up ‘en ready for our young mistress here, eh?”
The younger Tillswain struts off to collect the order, doing his best to look suave. He stumbles over a crate of cabbage as he turns to have one more look at the young half elf.
“And how is yer Mam doin these days, Alethea?” says Bolger, smiling and shaking his head at his grandson. Turning back to the young girl, he adds, “Haven’t seen her round in quite a long time either.”
“Alright, I think. She still misses Lorem a lot. I can hear her crying in her room sometimes.” she says in a quiet voice, adding, “I miss him too.”
Nodding solemnly, Bolger gives her a warm smile, “He were a good boy, yer brother. All the Fay misses him.”
Bolger remembered the lad very well. Lorem was Alethea’s half brother. Unlike Alethea, he was full Fier’Dal, but this didn’t change anything. Despite the human in her, and the sizable difference in their ages (he was 40 years her senior), he had still treated her like his sister. Unlike others in there family.
Following in his father’s footsteps, Lorem had joined the guard. His mother had been very proud of him, as she had told the old shopkeeper on several occasions. She didn’t seem to mention Alethea quite as much, he noted.
Just over a year ago, the young (for an elf) warrior and his patrol had happened upon a human farmstead being raided by orcs. The troop had managed to drive the invaders off, but Lorem had fallen during the battle, the victim of an orcish arrow.
“I used to love playing with him,” Alethea whispers sadly, “I would pretend I was a warrior like he was, and we would duel in the garden with wooden swords. He was a good brother.”
Seeing the young girl’s eyes welling up, Bolger turns the conversation back to the present. It didn’t do to dwell in the past.
“So who’re these guests of yers, if’n yeh don’t mind an old man’s pryin.”
“Lord and lady Brol’arn,” she says, pulling back from the edge of tears.
“Ooo err!” says old Tillswain, his eyes widening in surprise, “I ‘yerd a’ them, I’yav. Them’s fancy folk up Brenwold way, ent they?” Hearing about nobles always made his rustic accent thicken. Probably out of spite.
He didn’t know much past farming, and even less about the goings on outside the Fay, but these were practically royalty, from his point of view. The Brol’arn family were quite influential, from what he knew, and held the deeds to several farms in the area. (3)
He also seemed to remember that they had a son only a few years older than Alethea. His wonderings are interrupted as Ned appears from the back with a large sack of vegetables.
“Ah, here we are. That’s a big load, lovely. Would yeh like Ned yer carry it for yeh?”
Ned looks up with a smile, “I’d be happy ter do it!” he says, a bit too quickly.
”That’s alright. I can manage it, and its not that far to walk,” says Alethea.
“Well if’n you’re sure then, that’ll be, let’s see… three gold, swelver, If’n yeh please.”
Reaching into her cloak, Alethea pulls out a small purse. She reaches into it and produces a small handful of coins. Selecting a few, she hands them over to the old farmer. She give them a delicate curtsy, then lifts the sack over her shoulder.
”Thank you very much, Mister Tillswain. I’ll tell mother you asked on her. Have a good day!”
“Good afternoon, Alethea. Tunare watch over yeh,” he says, bowing to the young girl.
Watching the young elfling depart, he mutters to himself, “And good luck to you, Missus Ilen’thre, if yeh think yeh can sell off that one so easily. She’s young, but she’s a fire in her. Ye’ll have a time gettin’ that one to do an’thin she don’t want to.”
Smiling, he sits back in his chair and takes up the remains of his apple. Taking a bite, he thinks, “she’s too much of her father in her to fall fer your scheming.”
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