BREAD FOR BREAKFAST or WAGON'S LOL
The road was a bit further than mother had led me to believe. My feet dared not slow, the anticipation of my first visit to the city driving them forward.
Our village was tiny in comparison to the grand panorama of the capitol city. The sights, sounds, and smells. I could almost taste the fresh, hot, thick crusted rolls now, slathered with melting butter, straight out of the old brick ovens which have made them the same way for a hundred years. A traveling merchant had delivered some to our local tavern many seasons ago. I had dreamt of nothing else from that day forward.
Cresting the hilltop I could see her standing brilliant against the backdrop of mountains and vales. What a beautiful sight. My heart raced. My pace quickened.
It was several hours later as my energy waned that I stopped to break for a moments rest. The place was picturesque, a roadside stream churned out its song among the small rocks it tumbled from and an old ruin of moss covered stone spoke of a time long ago, lending a quiet serenity to the atmosphere.
It was there in that stillness that I spied a trinket, of what I had deemed of little to no consequence at the time, laying in the rubble of the roadside grass. It was only a shard of metal, no, perhaps it was a pin of some sort. Whatever it was, I should have discarded it on the spot, but owning almost nothing, placed it into my pocket instead.
The sun was nearly set when I finally approached the far outer limit of the city gate. A strange variety of people traveled to and fro. Wagons, and horses, carts, and an assortment of merchants, clergy, soldiers, and townsfolk. The dust kicked up choked my nostrils and caused me to cough. Never had I seen the likes of this many people all together in one place.
The city gate guard laughed at my meandering, star struck, disposition, poking his fellow guardsman to look in my direction.
“New comer.” he jested.
“Village idiot I’d say by the look of him.” the other replied, an obvious look of disdain on his face.
I did not reply. I didn’t do anything actually. I was caught in the squeeze of traffic within the gate and went with the flow. For the first time in my life I was afraid. I’d never felt like this before. It was so overwhelming. What should I do? Where should I go?
My stomach growled in hunger. It would have to be satisfied on what two small copper coins might purchase for dinner. It was all I had, that, and a strong back upon which to earn a living.
My heart grew glad as I walked along. I was young and was able to do anything I set my heart and mind to do. I had finally reached my future, for better or for worse, this was it. This was the beginning to the rest of my life. I knew the city would hold a thousand directions for me to choose. It would be up to me and shear determination to see them through.
“Help me please.” came the call. “Will anyone please stop and help me?” It sounded again.
The crowd pushed hard toward one side of the road. The push was undeniably away from where the call for aid had come from.
“What kind of people are these?” my own heart cried as I saw the feeble old man struggling with a broken wagon wheel on the far side of the road. Surely an old man was not so terrible that everyone should go out of their way to avoid him.
I pushed my way through the crowded street and broke free of its strangle hold. Perhaps no one else would, but I would aid this old fellow.
“Can’t believe there is one who would dare to brave the odor to help me…” the old man giggled, so happy to have finally received some aid.
I didn’t understand. “What odor?” I asked, gesturing my ignorance with palms held up.
The old fellow lifted a portion of the canvas flap that covered the load filling his wagon. The entire cart was full of skunks. The fresh release of odor at the lifting of the flap sent the crowd scrambling even further, giving air to bitter comments and harsh threats.
The feeble old man gazed straight into my eyes with searching. “This odor does not offend you?” he ask.
“Honestly good sir.” I replied. “As I live and breath, I can smell no foul scent. I must be immune.”
He handed the broken wagon wheel to me, a sparkle of interest in his eyes. “Carry this and follow me.” he instructed.
I did as I was told and before I knew it we had entered into the city proper, meandering down a series of alleyways, through courtyards, and around market places filled with busy sights and sounds galore. People of all casts stepped aside as we approached.
“What sort of man is this?“ I wondered to myself. He seemed to command respect from so many. He was old. Perhaps he was well known by the people of this city and well respected because of it.
We finally came to journey’s end at a Cartwright shop in the lower portion of the city, more specifically, the Wheelwright shop located to one side of the main building.
After several moments of discussion between the old fellow and the proprietor of the business, who referred to my new acquaintance as “The Skunkman”, a steel pin was produced and held into the air for inspection. It was exactly like the one I remembered having placed into my pocket.
I produced the pin and handed it to the old man telling him of how I had discovered it along the road into the city. His only remark was “Attention to detail, ehhh….” He returned the other back to the proprietor, no money having been exchanged, and led us back through the busy city streets to where his disabled cart was stranded.
“What, no thieves have stolen your goods?” I jested. The old man got quite a chuckle from the remark, laughing heartily while he repaired and reattached the wheel, my strong back used as the jack to lift the wagon while he did so.
Suffice it to say, I have done well for myself these first few weeks in the capitol city. I drive wagons for the old man, who has decided to expand his trade to sell other goods. I have found that almost all my days are unencumbered by traffic and the newfound respect I have gained causes even the city guards to give me a wide berth.
Mother would be proud that, not only have I not starved to death, but I have managed to locate the bakery that creates that wonderful bread and they furnish me with a fresh, hot, loaf every morning absolutely free, if I promise to move along and not linger. It seems that as a wagon driver of fresh skunk, along with great respect, there are many perks to the job, one of which is fresh bread for breakfast.
When I was going through puberty and producing copious amounts of sweat, I never thought to consider the greater range of motion given to me a sign opf respect!. I must consider this long and hard as I decide if he has Kartagener syndrome or if Guard #2 was right!
Spectacular!
