Today's theme: The Peddler Man
Initial thoughts: What does he peddle? To whom? Where? Is he more than he appears? Less? Is he likeable or gross? Is he human? Is this metaphor or real? Why is a peddler important to write about? What sorts of things happen that involve peddlers?
The village was abuzz with the news: a peddler was spotted on the road, not a day away. He would be there by nightfall, and everyone knew it by mid-afternoon. All work ceased as the village prepared for the arrival of the stranger. The windows were opened, the blankets aired, and housewives were making their young children tend the flower boxes outside. The mixed smells of excitement and relief were in the air, and even the clover that covered the town green smelled sweeter in the spring air.
Kinar was the one who brought the news. He was out checking his traps early in the morning, as was his habit, when he spotted the wagon rumbling along the road, the metal wares clanking against the bright red sides. The horse that pulled the wagon was old, and looked as though it had seen better days. The man seated up high on the wagon looked equally as old, from what Kinar could tell from the distance. He rode back to tell the village at once.
That was how things
worked in Stonebridge. You saw something
interesting on the road, and rather than going to investigate it, you went back
to town to tell everyone about it. Kinar
was in his glory, telling time and again how he saw the peddler’s wagon this
morning. He was holding court in front
of the town hall, at the moment, detailing to the young girls of the village
all about his brief encounter, such that is was.
Seth, Kinar’s elder
brother and more silent of the two, watched from the stable across the village
green, shaking his head. “I’m not going
to hear the end of this one for a while,” he said.
“None of us will,” said
Proth, “but there’s still work to be done.”
Seth picked up his
pitchfork and resumed moving the loose hay.
“Do you suppose he could be reminded to come and finish his work?”
Proth laughed. “Let him have his moment, lad. It wasn’t so far off when you were same way,
if I remember.”
Seth blushed. “Please tell me I was never as bad as him.”
Proth smiled
widely. “If you wish, I can tell you
that, but I won’t promise that I will be telling you the truth.”
Seth scowled in
response. “You’re telling me I just have
to live with this, aren’t you?”
Proth beamed. “With age comes wisdom, my boy. Your brother will get there, too, but he must
come to it by his own path. Now, let’s
get these horses tended.”
It was early evening
before the peddler actually arrived. He
was ushered into the inn, given a meal of roast hen with herbed potatoes and
several mugs of brown ale to wash it down with, all while sharing the news of
the outside world with anyone there who might listen. The wagon was left to be awed and admired by
the villagers, while Seth and Proth tended to the peddler’s bedraggled
mare. It was more excitement than
Stonebridge had in years, and the peddler had not yet even opened his shop.
The peddler himself was
a lanky fellow, lean and thin, and possibly the oldest man Seth had ever seen. He looked frail and tired, and the clothes he
wore were starting to show their age. It
was the voice of the peddler, though, that was most surprising. It was a big voice, clear and sure, a deep
baritone that commanded the room in the inn, and as Seth listened between bites
of his own meal, he found himself being drawn in by the man’s words. He wanted to find out more about this
peddler, and why he was in Stonebridge now.
Thanks for reading,
Me
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