To Greener Pastures

Chapter Two

Wesley looked out the window of her car ride, passing fresh, rolling fields. Lush green with dots of white and yellow flying by, and trees rustling lazily in the wind. The back of the car from where she sat was stuffy, earning occasional sniffs from her nose.

"Ma'am, you can crack the window down if it gets to hot."

The driver's gesture was met with silence, and he awkwardly refocused himself to the road.

Wesley's eyes turned to her hands, rubbing the calluses on her fingers. Paled skin holing herself inside now uncomfortably heated by the sun stubbornly blazing through the tinted window.

She finally cracked open the window, the wind jostling up her short, curly hair. A pair of burgundy wading through grey locs, peering now to the open sky.

Her grip tightened around the suitcase handle. The blades of grass on the edge of the path nipped greedily at her untouched ankles. Flies buzzed loudly near her ears. Wesley stood in front of a stately house, standing proud in a small, middle-of-nowhere pack. Certainly, it was a bit more opulent than any home she could spot from afar, but still with the rustic charm that accompanied southern housing. Rolling up to the door, she knocked curtly.

Nothing

She knocked again, a bit louder.

She heard unrushed thuds hitting the floor, and after a moment the door creaked open, revealing a measly old woman, short and stout. Big, round glasses rested comfortably on the bump of a boxey nose. Dark-greyed hair hastily put in a frayed bun. A hefty, carpet-like shawl rested comfortably on her shoulders, and she wore a long night gown, finished off with fluffy slippers.

"I'm sorry, young lady, I don't hear well enough now. You come in and take off those shoes at the door, and if you don't got slippers I'll give you some."

Her voice was shakey, but comforting. The inviting atmosphere beckoned Wesley inside.

The inside felt comfortably tight, with air that fills your lungs with homely warmth. Soft rugs, mounted animal heads, a crackling fireplace. A home with every inch covered in forest greens and burgandies and browns. The subtle creek of the wood floorboards as Wesley was lead up to her room. A small space, relatively empty except for the bed; headboard to the wall but both sides free and stacked with comforters, two sidetables on each side, a desk at the far end in the corner, and an ornate closet, opened and empty. A pair of window doors with curtains was next to the desk. Another door at the other desk side went to, presumably, the bathroom.

"I'll leave you to pack yer things, I'll wake you bright and early and I'll cook you something good. Nothing you allergic to right?"

"No, Missus. You can give me anything," Welsey aimlessly scanned the room,

"Oh, I'll love cooking for you. Now you call me if you want anything, and call real loud too."

The lady shuffled out the room. Wesley rolled her suitcase to the corner of her room and sprawled the rest of her things on the desk, lightly laden with dust. She walked over to her bedside and heaved her ached muscles to sink itself down the blankets, imprinting her figure to the mattress. Heavy eyelids clasped together, and sleep marched in tow.

"Young lady, come get some food!"

Wesley's eyelids snapped themselves open. Her bones felt heavy, weighed further by what surrounded them. She dragged herself from the bed and placed her palms to the small of her back, pressing inwards and rewarding a muted crack. Shuffling to the desk side, she opened her suitcase for the clothes of the day, her bathroom essentials, and her reading glasses. She grabbed her towel and opened the the bathroom door. The tiled walls where checkered with a soft mint and eggshell white. The floor colored with viridian, and this mix was occasionally broken by the gold trims of the mirror and various shelves and holds. Wesley steeped into the bathroom, letting the cold of the tile wash over her foot. She steeped into the shower, and turned it on— through a little trial and error. Cold droplets sifted through the crevices of her body and down to the tile. She tried to imagine her worries being infused with one and carried away down the drain. Down the drain, further and further, until it returned to the Earth.

She stepped down past the animal heads and paintings, and crossed the living room arch to the dining room. She dressed as light as she wanted to for the hot summer; loose white t-shirt with a pocket, red, near knee-length shorts, and black and white jogging sneakers she held in her hand. To keep her things, she brought a black crossbody bag that hung a little loose.

Even from just walking down, she smelt a hearty smell coming from the kitchen. Coming in and sitting down, she was met with an array of food. Flat pancakes, browned and wobbly, stacked and collectively emitting the scents of cinnamon and crushed blueberry. Peach crumble in a large glass pan wafting fruit cinnamon notes, a guiltily fatty sausage pile sat just to it's right. A pail of cornflakes sat on the far end of the table, and all in front where fresh fruits chopped to fruit salad. Orange slices and kiwi slabs and whole blueberries and green grapes. Some frothy and thick milk, strong smelling coffee, orange juice, and water stood in unmarked pitchers on the kitchen counter, accompanied by small bottles of syrups and sauces. The elderly woman from before made herself busy washing dishes. When she turned herself to grab another pan from the stove, she spotted Wesley and clutched her heart.

"Heavens to Betsy! You ever thought of putting a bell around yer neck?"

The woman let out an exaggerated sigh, turning back to the dishes to finish that last pan, and leaving Wesley to pick what she wanted to eat.

"Is that all yer eating, young lady? No wonder you're so quiet, you're as light as feather 'n you look like one too."

Wesley came up with a hard look on her face, and before she could answer she got another talking to.

"Eat, c'mon! You eat as much as you want. You worried about the weight, you work it off later," the lady shook off the water from her hands and wiped the rest on her apron.

Wesley nose was still scrunched, but she took another sausage and a bit more fruit.

Uncomfortable silence, then broken by the lady heaving herself to a stool next the counter.

"Yer staying here fer a month, right?"

"Yes, Missus"

"Oh, cut with the just 'Missus', you call me Mrs. Ronda."

"Yes, Mrs. Ronda."

"You goin' outside fer today? Unless those sneakers are yer inside shoes," Mrs. Ronda chortled.

Wesley nodded, slicing of a piece of sausage and letting the juice of it seep into the crooks of her mouth.

"Not sure why you came here fer your time away. You usually come 'here' when yer midway to your 'there'. I'd say we got damn near nothing, but I say that cause y'all people from the city need a little more to get their gears going."

Wesley focused mostly on her food, but had an occasional gesture to show she was listening.

"If you want to look 'round, you go 'head and look 'round, but I'd say to check the pack square, 'cause we got a farmers market. You get the freshest here before it gets shipped off somewhere else."

Wesley was cleaning off her plate at this point, politely listening, and she decided to continue up the conversation just to know some things.

"Mrs. Ronda, are you the only one in this place, where's your mate?"

"He's not dead, if that's what yer thinking. He's a late sleeper, and he's not the people person. He takes care of the backstage, the bills, the the upkeep. You got something wrong with yer room, you tell me 'n he'll come fix it. We live here, and when we retired, we decided to turn it into a bed 'n breakfast."

"You don't live in a packhouse?"

"Packhouse? Packhouses 'gone out ages ago, and only cityfolk think us country bumpkins still do that. Werefolk are tight, but I don't think I could stand livin' in one house with the town, love can only get you to here when privacy's involved. When folks found that out, we went and made our own houses. We still kept the old town packhouse, but now we use it for meetings."

"Is that where you're Alpha lives?"

"No, no. Somewhere 'long the line we stopped doing Alpha leadership. We got wolves born Alphas in this town, but any werefolk can lead, if they got guts enough. Now we just hold mayoral election, like them Furless do."

Wesley decided to pause her questions a bit for breathing room. She picked up her plate and went to the sink to wash it.

"Please, Missy, you leave that for me," Mrs. Ronda was midway from getting up.

"I insist, I want to," Wesley called back at an appropriate volume, so Mrs. Ronda could hear over the running water.

The distant sound of cicadas was heard through the open window. Light beams warmed up the table, and graced the food as if it were heavenly, and in Wesley's opinion, heavenly it was.

"Who's the, uh.. Mayor?", she started back up.

"You'll meet him soon, he hosts all the gatherings and events, with all the oldest helping behind him. Foster Armstrong, and he's not named ArmStrong for the fun of it. He's got the looks of a bear, 'n shaped like one too. You'll know 'em when you see 'em."

Welsey washed her hands off on a nearby towel.

"When's the farmer's market?"