Homecoming

“Nearly there. Just this last bend and we’ll be able to see it. We’ve made good time today. Good time!”

Neea’s stomach lurched with unease at the old driver’s words. She’d been down this road many times before. Rocky and gray, it wound through the Northern Mountains and was shadowed by ancient pines and firs that stretched to such heights that the blue sky above was nearly blotted out. And ahead, just as he had said, was the last bend before Forsbyr.

“You must be happy to put an end to this journeying and settle in, Scholar.” He looked back at her with a wink and a wide smile from his toothless mouth.

Neea mustered the barest facade of a smile in return, and to her relief, the congenial old man took it for agreement and let her be. Pim, the boy sitting in the cart across from her, knew better.

Thirteen long years had passed since she’d left the town for good and last seen the faces of people who were only too glad to be rid of her. Well, maybe not her exactly. She’d only been a child. But her family, or rather her father, Atto, had been the source of too much unpleasant drama.

Handsome and charismatic, Atto was a man who lived with his head in the clouds, unaware that the grandiose view he had of himself didn’t exactly match the reality.

“I’m an innovator!” he told her proudly, time and again. “A pioneer! When you shine too brightly, some people just can’t appreciate the brilliance.”

The townsfolk disagreed. When they looked at Atto, they saw a man too sly and too charming for his own good, who put more effort into weaseling out of work than he would have expended holding down an honest, respectable job. And all while his poor wife Tippa labored away night and day as the town washerwoman, doing her best to keep food on the table for her family.

Atto always had one scheme going and another up his sleeve, sure that it would make him unfathomably wealthy. He’d once persuaded Karl, the landlord of the Nightgate Inn, to invest in a new type of ale he’d concocted. It had sickened all the guests, and when Karl demanded his money back, Atto had already blown through it.

Another time he’d spent all the money Tippa had stored away to buy a load of kitchen goods off a traveling merchant. It had been a good deal—too good—and when the people of Forsbyr had bought his wares and found that the handles of pots fell off easily, and that the knives were shoddy and dull, and that the spoons and forks bent as soon as they were used, his shop went under.

While her mother busied herself with her work and her father was lost in his schemes, Neea spent the majority of her days under the tutelage of Master Timmond, the town’s resident Scholar. She had been quick to learn her letters and so eager to absorb everything she could about the world around her that Timmond had given her free rein of every book and scroll in his library. He taught her about all the herbs and plants he grew in his garden and their uses. When the weather was clear, he took her to the wilds to show her the minerals and ores the mountains produced and what could be made from them. They identified trees and shrubs, and he taught her about all the animals that made the woods their home and the tracks that they left.

But what Neea loved more than anything were days he spent teaching her the lore of the land, both that of the native Sogni tribes and that of the Empire the Settlers had long ago fled. All the tales of magic and mystery and monsters regaled her and planted within her an insatiable desire to pry the truth out of each and every one.

And when she wasn’t studying, she was with her friends, building forts in the woods, swimming in the mountain streams, and hiding and seeking amongst the town’s barns and crofts and gardens.

Then one day, when Neea was nine winters old, a fur trader wandered into town. He was serious and gruff, with graying hair and a gray mustache, and never a smile on his face. Narfi Skeggresen was his name, and he was the furthest thing imaginable from her father. Having had enough of Atto’s freeloading ways, Tippa informed him that she was suing for divorce and would be leaving him for Narfi.

“He’s a hard worker, and he’s looking for a good woman to help him keep his shop in Mailenskord,” she told him. “I want to be the wife of a respectable man for once.”

Atto was surprised, but when Neea refused to follow her mother, insisting that Forsbyr remain her home, he breathed a sigh of relief. And though Tippa was heartbroken to be separated from her daughter, the sneer on Narfi’s face made it clear to Neea that this was welcome news to his ears.

Tippa had left soon after, riding in the back of Narfi’s fur-laden wagon.

“When you’ve finally had enough of your father,” she shouted to Neea as they rolled away. “You can come to us in Mailenskord.”

With her mother gone, life in Forsbyr changed for the worse. They had less money than ever before, so Atto pulled her from her classes and forced her to take up her mother’s work. She had no time to study, nor was she free to frolic with her friends. Instead, she toiled away day and night, like her mother before her, and Atto took everything she earned.

“You’re just a child. You don’t fully understand the value of money yet. Not like I do,” he said.

Things carried on this way for a matter of weeks until one evening when there was a knock at their door. Neea opened it to find the kind, aged face of Master Timmond smiling down at her. With him were a few other men she recognized—Eivar Peerson, the fletcher, Tokke Broaddelver, the dwarf who supervised the mine, and Arne Tarunen, the town mayor.

“Neea dear,” Master Timmond said in the warm, familiar tone she so sorely missed. “Would you kindly fetch your father? We have some business to discuss with him.”

She nodded and let them inside.

“Oh,” Timmond added. “And it’s a bit private as well. Would you mind staying in your room until we’ve finished?”

Neea retrieved her father, who’d been tucked away in his room reading a book while she was washing the miller’s clothes, then obediently stole away to her room and shut the door.

She could hear a murmur of voices, gentle at first, then steadily growing louder. Her father gave a nervous laugh, but no one else joined in. The noises continued, then rose until she heard the angry, gravelly voice of the dwarf thunder, “It’s not right! And we won’t tolerate your conniving, lazy, good for nothing—”

“Tokke!” the Scholar shouted.

“—around this town any longer!”

Neea tiptoed to the door and cracked it open.

“It’s time to man up.” It was Eivar’s steady voice now. “Do the right thing by the girl. And if you won’t, at least send her to her mother.”

The house grew quiet. Neea could hear nothing now, not even breathing, and she wondered if everyone had somehow disappeared. Then the mayor spoke up.

“You have the chance to do the right thing now. I beg you to make the right choice.” The coarse sound of chairs sliding across the stone floor reached her ears, and she heard a shuffling of feet. “We’ll leave you be for now, Atto. Good night to you.”

When Neea finally crept from her room, she found her father brooding in silence at their table. She’d never seen him so disheartened before. He was always full of life, eyes aflame with passion and fire. It was as if the men had poured a pitcher of water over him and left him no more than a heap of ash, damp and gray and lifeless.

She walked over to him and he pulled her close and wrapped her in his arms.

“Oh, my little flame,” he whispered. “We shine too brightly for this town and they cannot bear it. It is time we moved on to bigger and better things.”

The next day they began packing away their belongings, and the day after that, Atto sold their little croft to the miller. By the end of the week, they had gathered all their things and stowed them in the back of their wagon.

Neea was in tears as her father ushered her into the seat beside him. The sky was still dark, and the sun had only just begun to peek over the horizon. And because she hadn’t believed her father would actually go through with it all, she hadn’t said goodbye to her friends.

“But Ilsa,” she cried. “And Rikkar! I can’t leave without them! And Master Timmond!”

“Hush girl!” Atto scowled. “You’ll wake the whole town with your howling. And I’d rather set off without so many eyes on us.”

Atto took the reins in his hands and clicked his tongue, and the wagon began to roll down the wide, cobbled road. No one came out of their houses, despite her protests, until they passed the Nightgate Inn, where Master Timmond made his home.

The door to the inn flew open, and the Scholar rushed out, nearly tripping over the boots he’d hurriedly pulled on.

“Hold up, Atto!” he commanded.

Atto sighed and rolled his eyes, but brought the wagon to a stop. Timmond loped over to the cart, spry for his old age, and Neea flung herself into his arms.

“There, there, child,” he whispered as he stroked her soft, brown hair. “All will be alright.” He looked into her eyes and dried her tears, then smiled. “You are the bravest, smartest girl I know. We’ve had many adventures together, you and I, and you’ve learned so much. But now you’re old enough to go on your own adventures without me.”

“But I don’t want to go without you,” she pleaded.

“Shush now and listen. You, my dear, are a Scholar. I know it in my heart of hearts. But your path to the Guild will look different from mine.” He slid a bag from his shoulder and handed it to her. “Look inside. I’ve given you your favorite book to keep you company on the road.”

“Master Inger’s Legends and Lore of the Sogni!” she gasped as she peered into the bag.

Timmond nodded. “And that’s not all. You’ll also find a journal, as well as pen and ink. Now, whatever you and your father get up to,” he shot Atto a warning look, “and wherever you go, I want you to write down everything you see and hear. Every story you’re told, every song that’s sung over a fire. Write it all down. It’s a part of your education, and it will help you to grow into the Scholar I know you will become.”

The sky was growing pale as the sun continued its rise. In the distance, a rooster crowed.

“Thank you, Master Timmond,” Atto said briskly. “But we really must be going now.”

Neea gave the Scholar one last hug, and he kissed the top of her head.

“Goodbye, Neea Kallenen,” he said, choking back his tears. “Write to me whenever you get settled in. I want to hear about all your adventures.”

The wagon began to roll once more, and in the quiet of the morning, like a dream fading into misty oblivion, Forsbyr disappeared forever.

“And we’re here, Scholar!”

The driver’s words startled Neea and shook her from her memories. The trees had thinned out, and not even a hundred yards ahead loomed familiar timber-framed buildings with their thatched roofs of yellow straw. And down the main road toward the middle of town, smoke puffing away from its chimney, sat the only two-storied building in Forsbyr: the Nightgate Inn.

It was the place Master Timmond had called home so many years before, and it was the place she and her apprentice would call home now. How could she ever manage to fill his shoes? And what would everyone think when they found out Neea Kallenen had come back to town? She’d imagined coming home for so long, but now…

She turned to look at Pim and couldn’t hide the trepidation in her eyes. He reached across, took her hand in his small one, and gave her a reassuring smile.

“It’ll be alright, Master Neea,” he said in his young, gentle voice. “And whatever happens, you’ve got me by your side.”

Finally clear of the trees, Neea could see that the sun was nearly overhead. Not too long from now, men would be trailing down the mountain path from the mine, dispersing to their homes for a quick lunch, or to the inn for a midday drink. The cart approached the wooden gate that marked the entrance to the town. A solitary guard stood watch on the rampart and waved a hand in greeting.

The driver waved back and called out, “G’day to you, sir. Got the new Scholar here. She’s something else, she is!” He looked back, beaming proudly at Neea, who was doing her best to shrink from view.

“It’s a woman?” the guard exclaimed, excitement mingling with the shock in his voice.

“Aye. Smart as a whip, too. Top of her class! Put all the boys to shame!”

The guard set down his spear, then removed his helmet and smiled. He was young, not quite yet a man, and only the faintest traces of gold-red hair sprouted in patches on his chin and cheeks.

“That’s great news!” he shouted as the cart passed under the gate, then reappeared on the other side. “Forsbyr’s been in need of a Scholar for some time. You’ll be quite welcome here, Miss—er, pardon me—Master!”

Neea had been too nervous to reply, but Pim nudged her with his elbow until she looked up, nodded at the young man, and said in a rather sheepish voice, “Thank you.”

Pim raised his eyebrows at her.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re supposed to be the one mentoring me,” he admonished with a smile. “You’re the adult, after all.”

“To be fair,” she retorted. “You’ve got quite an old soul for a child.” A few seconds passed and Neea let out a deep sigh. “But you’re right. I’m nervous is all. Let’s get this out of the way, shall we? It’s better to work a splinter out at once than to let it fester.”

The horse’s hooves clopped loudly as they proceeded down the road, and the wagon jounced and juddered on the uneven cobbles of the street. Neea and Pim did their best to keep all their luggage from sliding about.

They passed a few houses, their gardens enclosed by quaint wattle fences. Chickens ambled about, clawing and pecking at the dirt in search of bugs, and the occasional goat stuck its head over a fence and bleated a greeting at them. A shaggy black dog with a patch of white on his long snout darted across the way and nearly collided with the front wheels of the wagon. It stopped at the side of the road, barking reproachfully at them as they passed.

In the yard of one small hut, a slim middle-aged woman was bent over a tub of water, scrubbing away at a pile of clothing with a wooden washboard. Beside her sat a paunchy young man about Neea’s age, with long black hair that fell to his shoulders and a pair of vacant blue eyes. He nodded his head and tapped his foot as he sang an old children’s rhyme loudly and out of key.

“And the mice in the stead ran round farmer Nok’s bed ‘til the old tom cat fled…”

The woman joined in, her soft voice lending a gentle, even note to his. At the sound of the cart, she looked up, smiled, and waved. Despite the strands of gray that streaked her dark hair, she had a youthful appearance. And kind eyes, Neea thought, and she couldn’t help but to smile back.

They passed the fletcher’s house. She wondered if Eivar and his wife Frida still lived there, and what had become of their daughter, Ilsa. They’d been such close friends as girls.

And Rikkar…

Her heart skipped a beat when she thought of him. Though he was a few years older than she was, he had always treated her kindly. When other children teased her for being the poor daughter of a washerwoman, or gave her a hard time about her jobless father, he was quick to silence them with a stern glare and a sharp word.

Rikkar had been twelve, nearly thirteen, when she left, and she had begun to feel the stirrings of something for him. Something that at nine winters old she couldn’t yet put her finger on.

But age and experience had taught her what that feeling was. And as she thought of seeing him again, her heart raced uncomfortably and her stomach churned like a choppy sea. She felt as if at any minute the breakfast she’d eaten that morning would make an unwelcome appearance over the side of the wagon. She closed her eyes and tried to settle her nerves.

Soon, the horse’s footsteps slowed, and the cart came to a stop. Neea opened her eyes and gazed up at the building that towered overhead.

It was massive, built of thick, strong timber beams. A short set of steps led up to the wooden porch that ran the length of its wide frame. From the second floor a series of windows, their shutters flung open to let in the crisp, autumn air, looked out upon the road, and a door at the far end led to a balcony that wrapped around the entire building.

A sign painted with bright red lettering hung over the double doors of the entrance and read, “The Nightgate Inn,” and underneath, in smaller letters, “Last Rest Afore Mount Stoldjir.”

“Need some help getting down, Scholar?” the driver asked from his perch.

“No, thank you though, Trygve,” she answered, with a genuine smile this time.

“As you like.” He shuffled down from his seat, stretched his bony arms behind him, and gave the ground a few stomps with his feet. “Feels good not to be sitting anymore.”

Neea hopped from the cart and raised a hand to help Pim down, but he grinned and vaulted over the side. She raised her eyebrows at him and he laughed as he swept a clump of brown curls from his eyes.

“What?” he asked. “I’m not a Scholar yet. Just an apprentice.”

Neea grabbed a brown leather satchel, worn with age—the same one Master Timmond had given her so many years before—and swung it over her shoulder.

“The inn keep will see about the rest of our things,” she told Pim.

She walked to the entrance, hesitating only a moment before pulling open the double doors and stepping inside. Pim and Trygve followed behind her.

Immediately an array of smells fused together and washed over Neea: the aroma of fresh-baked loaves of sourdough and rye, the sweet notes of honeyed mead stored in aged oaken barrels, and the flavorful aroma of meat roasting over the roaring fire of the inn’s open hearth. They sang to Neea of memories from happy years long past.

She looked about. Nothing seemed to have changed much. Tables and chairs ringed the outer edges of the hall. The stone hearth sat at its center, and an open hallway led off to a series of rooms on one side. To the right, a stairway led to the upper floor of the building, which housed even more rooms and a balcony that overlooked the main hall. Iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and sconces of horn held candles that cast the room in a warm, yellow glow. And at the back of the hall, behind a long, polished counter, stood the man Neea supposed to be the inn keep.

“This is quite a big place for such a small town,” Pim whispered.

“Like the sign says,” Trygve answered with his scratchy voice, “it’s the last outpost before Mount Stoldjir. Town’s not big, but sometimes you get a party of Queen’s Men going out to the wilds. Or a band of Sogni coming to do business along the borders of the Steads.”

The man at the counter, who’d been busy wiping down a collection of tankards, called out to them.

“Welcome in! What can I do for you?”

The three approached the counter, Trygve taking the lead.

“The Scholars’ Guild hired me to escort your new Scholar and her young apprentice. I gather the position’s been empty for quite some time.”

“Aye,” the man nodded. “And until now, they’ve only been stodgy old men. This is a welcome change indeed.”

He looked Neea over, lingering on her eyes in a way that made the color rise in her face, then cracked a friendly smile and held out his hand.

“And what is your name?” he asked.

He was handsome. She couldn’t deny it. His long blonde hair was pulled back from his face. His beard was thick, and his blue eyes were piercing but warm. He had the build of a warrior more so than a barkeep, with strong, broad shoulders, and he stood a head taller than most men.

She shook his hand. It was strong and calloused.

“Neea. Neea Kallenen.”

“Neea? Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in some time.” His eyes widened and his face grew serious. “I’m not sure if you’ll remember me, but I’m Rikkar Svensen.”

Neea stood unblinking. Her mouth went dry, and she felt a familiar queasiness began to rise. Pim was about to speak when the door to the inn flew open and a gruff voice bellowed through the hall.

“Eh there! What d’you have on tap for us today, Tyr?”

Neea turned, thankful for the interruption, and watched as a small crowd of men traipsed into the room.

“You’re not Tyr!” the booming voice continued. It belonged to a dwarf with flaming red hair and a thick, full beard that fell to his chest. “What are you doing behind the counter, Rikkar? Helping yourself to a few pints while no one’s looking?” He laughed.

Rikkar smirked.

“I should,” he answered. “No, Tyr had to step out for a bit and I told him I’d help cover the place for lunch.”

“And have you been cooking as well?” asked another man, his voice as thin as his lanky frame. He sniffed the air. “It smells too nice in here. I didn’t think you knew how to fry an egg, much less all this.”

“Very funny, Alf,” Rikkar said. “I can cook alright.” He shot a quick, confident glance at Neea. “But Indra got everything started before she and Tyr left. Grab a plate. Bread’s over there, just out of the oven. Meat’s on the spit. I’ll bring out a wheel of cheese from the store room shortly.”

“And don’t forget the pints,” Alf added.

“No one’s forgetting those!” Rikkar smiled. “I’ll have them right out.”

Most of the men hurried off to get their lunch, but the dwarf stayed behind. He approached the counter and eyed Neea and her companions.

“And who might you be?” he asked, not unkindly. “It’s not every day we get travelers. And from the looks of you, what with your fancy cloaks and coats and all, you’d seem to be rather important.”

Trygve piped up, eager as ever to announce himself.

“Trygve Alderson. I’ve been hired by the Scholar’s Guild to deliver your new Scholar, Neea Kallenen, along with her apprentice, Pim Jarnolfson.”

The dwarf crossed his arms and examined Neea closely.

“Well, I’ll be!” he said. “Neea Kallenen. Here in Forsbyr after all these years.” A wide smile grew across his face. “Why, the last time I saw you, you were a wee little lass, just my height. And now look at you! Towering over me like a giant, all grown up, and a Scholar to boot! Oh, Master Timmond would have been so proud.”

Neea blushed at the compliment.

“And who are you?” Pim asked.

“Broaddelver. Tokke Broaddevler. I supervise the mine.” He turned to Neea again. “Bah, you probably don’t even remember me, you were so young. And Hildegund and I didn’t even have little ones until after you and your father left.”

“I remember you,” she said quietly. “You always sung the loudest when we gathered round for Winter’s Night carols.”

Rikkar snorted, and Tokke’s small body shook with laughter.

“She remembers alright,” he said, then glanced at Rikkar. “And you probably remember this fellow here. You weren’t too far apart in age, if I recall. And I’m certain Rikkar hasn’t forgotten you. Us old folks always thought the two of you would end up married one day.”

Neea went red and Rikkar coughed uncomfortably. Tokke looked from one to the other and grinned. “That’s enough dredging up old memories for now. Was that your cart out front?”

“It is,” Trygve answered.

“Rikkar,” Tokke said. “How about you get everyone their drinks and then we’ll see about getting our guests’ things stowed away.”

Rikkar nodded. “Sounds good.”

Tokke turned to Neea. “Let’s get you settled in and rested, and tonight we’ll gather everyone here to give you a great big welcome home. How does that sound?”

Neea smiled. “It sounds quite well indeed.”

By the time the sun was setting over the mountains and the day shift at the mines was drawing to a close, Neea and Pim had gotten their rooms mostly in order. And though the inn always had a decent enough crowd each evening, tonight it swelled wall to wall with people wanting to have a look at Forsbyr’s new Scholar.

Tyr, the innkeeper, was back behind the bar working to fill a never-ending stream of tankards and mugs with mead and ale. His sister, Indra, darted back and forth between the kitchen and the main hall, delivering steaming bowls of lamb stew and fresh loaves of bread to each table. Neea and Pim sat at a table near the hearth, trying their best to get a bite to eat between greeting all the villagers who were eager to welcome them.

When the initial excitement died down, a young man—the guard who had greeted them at the gate that morning—took up a lute and began to sing. He had a pleasant voice and played his instrument with a natural ease. Some people settled in to listen while others continued on with their conversations a bit more quietly.

Tokke Broaddelver made his way to their table with a curly-headed halfling woman and two small boys Neea knew must be their sons.

“I hope you’ve been enjoying yourselves this evening,” he said. “This is my wife, Hildegund, and our two boys, Jan and Jorgen. Twins, as you can see.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Neea said, shaking their hands.

“It’s good to have you back, love,” Hildegund said. She had a pretty little face, round and rosy, with a beaming smile. “And it’ll be good for Jan and Jorgen and the other village children to have a tutor again. They’ve been without one for a good while.”

Neea looked the boys over. They were smiling politely enough, but there could be no hiding the mischievous glint in their eyes.

“I’m looking forward to teaching you,” she said, then winked. “I’m sure we’ll be in for quite the adventure!”

They giggled and darted off. Hildegund and Tokke apologized and hurried after them.

Across the room, Neea caught sight of Rikkar. He hadn’t spoken to her once that evening. He had a mug in one hand and was deep in conversation with the lanky young man from earlier, Alf. He glanced her way, but when their eyes met, she turned away quickly.

Two tall women strode over to introduce themselves. They were clearly mother and daughter. Both were well dressed and exuded an air of confidence that made up for the fact that neither were exceptional beauties. From the stilted way they walked, it was obvious they were wealthy and accustomed to having their way. The older woman spoke first.

“Welcome to Forsbyr, dear. It is quite good to have a Scholar once more. I was growing quite impatient with the Guild and thought I might have to send a letter inquiring as to why our town had been ignored for so long. It may be small and out of the way, but it’s quite an important outpost. Of course, you would be aware of that, having resided here when you were young.” She gave Neea a formal smile. “I am Lady Sigrid Armanen, widow to Lord Eigil Armanen. This is my daughter, Bodil. Our family owns all the land south of the village, and we employ several tenant farmers.”

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Neea said, bowing her head to the women. She thought little of wealth and titles, and even less of those who acted as if they imbued one with some sort of intrinsic worth, but she had learned it was best to be as diplomatic as possible with such people. “I look forward to working with you while I am posted here.”

“You’re a Scholar, but your mother…” Bodil chimed in now, disdain dripping from her voice. “She was the town washerwoman, was she not?”

Behind her strained smile, Neea grit her teeth. ““She was.”

“Mother and I moved here only ten years ago, so you and I wouldn’t have crossed paths, but perhaps you know the man I am to marry? He’s lived here his whole life.”

“Oh, and who might that be?”

Bodil turned and pointed across the room.

“Rikkar Svensen.”

Rikkar glanced their way, and when he saw them staring, he swiftly turned his back to them. Neea’s heart sunk, and the color drained from her face.

“Yes, I know Rikkar,” she answered quietly. “Isn’t he the town blacksmith?”

“It may not be the norm for a commoner to marry into a titled family—any more than it is for a woman to become a Scholar,” she retorted, “but Mother and I think he is just the right man to manage our lands. And you have to admit, he’s quite the catch!”

Quite the catch indeed, thought Neea. Perhaps wealth and titles held more sway than she wanted to believe.

“Well,” Bodil continued, “Mother and I should be off. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. And I do hope you’ll be in attendance at our wedding.”

Neea forced a smile and bowed her head as they departed, but inside she felt a wreck.

Rikkar was engaged to be married? And to that woman? So that was why he had avoided her all evening. No. What was she even thinking? More likely, he just had no interest in her at all. She had, after all, just shown up out of the blue after years away. And it wasn’t as if there had ever been anything between them in the first place. They’d only been children all those years ago, too young to know anything about love. But still…

Pim placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you alright, Master Neea?”

“I could do with a pint if you don’t mind, Pim.”

“I’ve got you,” he said, and hurried from the table.

Neea rested her head in her hands and sighed. Perhaps when he returned, she would take her drink and slip away upstairs to spend the rest of the night alone, wallowing in her disappointment.

A soft voice broke through her thoughts. “Hello there. I don’t mean to interrupt, only I just arrived and haven’t had a chance to welcome you yet.”

Neea looked up. Before her stood the woman she had seen as they rode into the village. Up close, it was easier to tell that she was older, near to her mother’s age, but she still had a graceful beauty about her.

“I’m Hedda,” the woman said. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

“Please do,” Neea said.

The woman took a seat. There was something gentle and comforting, almost maternal about her presence that calmed Neea’s troubled thoughts.

“I’ve heard from a few of my neighbors that you grew up here. That your mother was the village washerwoman.”

“She was,” Neea answered. “Until she left my father to marry a fur trader from Mailenskord when I was nine. Then I took over her job for a short while.”

“And how long ago did you leave?”

“Thirteen years ago now.”

“My son and I moved here not too long after that. I’ve been Forsbyr’s washerwoman ever since.” She smiled warmly at Neea. “That’s quite the accomplishment, you know, to go from the daughter of a washerwoman to a Scholar! I bet your mother’s quite proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Neea said, blushing at the compliment. “And where is your son, if I might ask?”

“Oh, Jaako is in the kitchen with Indra. He’s a bit simpleminded,” she explained. “Doesn’t know how to read, can’t manage numbers, and there are a lot of things he really doesn’t understand. But he’s got a heart of gold and always wants to help, so a lot of the village folk give him little jobs to do. He helps Indra clean up the dishes in the kitchen most evenings.”

“That’s quite kind of them,” Neea said.

“It really is,” Hedda agreed. “My husband left us to fend for ourselves when he realized Jaako would never be like other children. I didn’t know how we’d get by, but this village welcomed us with open arms. Everyone here has become the family we didn’t have.”

Neea felt her heart warm as Hedda spoke. She recalled all the ways the townsfolk had looked out for her and her mother when they had next to nothing. Clothes they had mended and shoes they had made, all free of charge, and warm meals brought to their door after a long day of washing. Forsbyr was a good place, full of good people, and for that, she was truly grateful.

Hedda rose from her chair and yawned. “Well, I must be off now. It’s been a long day and I’m worn to my bones. But welcome home to Forsbyr, Neea. If there’s ever any way I can be of help to you, don’t hesitate to ask.” She began to walk away, then turned back and whispered. “Oh, and by the way, the wedding between Rikkar and Bodil? He’s been delaying it for a good while now. He’s not in any hurry to see that through.”

She winked and walked away.

Pim returned and set a pint of frothy ale in front of her.

“Here you are,” he said. Then, noticing the slight smile on her face, asked, “What’s brightened your mood?”

Neea took in the scene around her. The hearth fire popped and crackled and bathed the hall in warmth and light. Men and women stood chatting and laughing, enjoying their food and drink as the music played. Children darted about, chasing each other around the tables, hiding and seeking. She took a swig of her ale and grinned.

“I’m just happy to finally be home.”