A Land of Will
1310 Words
The forge was quieter late in the afternoons.
Most of the work had been finished. The tools had been put away and the horses waiting outside had already gone home with their owners.
Only heat remained.
Willand set the finished iron onto the workbench and rolled his shoulder. His shirt hung from a peg near the door. Nobody wore one properly in the forge unless they wanted to collapse.
His skin still carried a sheen of sweat from the furnace and soot dusted his face where he’d forgotten not to touch it. He reached up and removed his nose mask, immediately making it worse.
Master Hobbs, the old blacksmith, looked over from his bench.
“Done already?”
“Yessir,” Willand said, peeling off his apron. “All that’s left are the horse shoes. I’ll do those tomorrow. Jon says he won’t be needing them until the weekend.”
Hobbs grunted, squinting at the bolt between his fingers.
Willand put the apron down and crossed over. “You said I could collect today.”
The old man didn’t look up. “Did I? It’s not the end of the month.”
Willand leaned back against the table. For a moment, he said nothing.
His mother’s medicine had already stretched longer than it should have. Mya had started splitting doses. Pretending she wasn’t.
Then—
“My mother’s medicine.”
Master Hobbs glanced at him. Then his hand disappeared beneath the table and brought out a cloth pouch.
Willand caught it. Heavy. He looked inside, and the sight lifted his brows.
“This is… This is more.”
“You earned all of it,” Hobbs said, not even looking away from his bolt. “At this rate, I’m going to have to take on more work.”
Willand looked at the old man.
People always thought old age made people gentler. Mostly it just made them less interested in pretending not to care.
Willand caught him by surprised and kissed the top of his bald head. “Thank you.”
Master Hobbs blinked. “Never do that again.”
Willand nodded seriously. “I will.”
He ran for the door, snatching his backpack off the floor and his shirt and jacket from the peg.
“And don’t spend it on something stupid.”
Willand stopped. Turned. “When have I ever done that?” he smirked.
“Clean yourself up, boy,” Hobbs shouted as Willand slipped out the door. “You look like something the furnace spat out,” he muttered to himself.
Outside, the afternoon air felt cold after the forge.
Willand set his things down beside the trough and dipped both hands into the water. Black soot dissolved immediately. He washed his arms first, then his neck and chest, splashing water over his hair and pushing it back out of his face.
That was when he noticed them.
Four girls standing near the road. Watching.
The moment he looked over, three of them immediately dissolved into badly hidden laughter and shoved the fourth forward.
Willand almost smiled. This happened enough with Olive to be familiar.
Since she was a little girl, she had always seemed to have something to say to him but could never get around to it. Willand wondered how much she would manage to say today.
She approached in tiny steps.
“Hi, Will.”
He looked up. “Oh. Hi, Olive.”
Then he went back to rinsing soot from his hands.
Olive stood awkwardly for a second. Her cheeks had gone red. Behind her, her friends were already losing their minds.
Olive gathered courage. “Are you going home?”
Willand reached for his shirt. “Not yet.”
“Oh.”
Willand pulled his shirt over his head, then smiled at her—easy, kind, absent.
“Tell your big brother I asked about him.”
Olive blinked. “…Okay.”
He picked up his bag and jacket and started walking. Behind him, one of the girls groaned loudly— “That is NOT what you were supposed to say!”
Willand laughed once under his breath and kept going.
He made it to the market place—the busiest part of the town even at this time of day. People still crowded the roads. Vendors shouted over each other. Children darted past. Smoke and food and sweat mixed into the familiar smell of town.
Willand slipped through the crowd until he reached the little medicine shop tucked between a tailor and a spice stall.
He pushed the wooden door open.
“Is that the lovely Yo’annie?”
Yo’annie looked up from behind the counter and broke into a smile.
“Will.” She spread her arms. “Lord Felix released you early?”
The question stopped Willand in his tracks.
“Oh!” Yo’annie said, slapping herself on the forehead. “I keep forgetting you work for Hobbs now.”
Willand laughed and walked over. “It takes some getting used to.”
Yo’annie laughed. “How is it, working for that old grump?”
“Hot,” Willand nodded. “Really hot.”
Yo’annie smiled.
The shop was empty. Rows of jars lined the shelves and every bottle seemed to promise something unpleasant.
Willand glanced around. “Looks busy in here.”
Yo’annie sighed dramatically. “Well, if business is good—”
“—then the village is suffering.” They said it together.
Willand smiled.
“So. What do you need?” Yo’annie asked, folding her hands.
“My mother’s medicine.”
Yo’annie nodded immediately and reached toward a high shelf. “That’s good,” she said. Then casually, “will it be on credit?”
Willand grinned and reached into his pocket. “No.” He dropped coins onto the counter. “I’m pa-paying,” he said whimsically.
Yo’annie’s eyebrows lifted. Then she smiled.
“Ah.”
“And… can I have a vial of sleeping medicine?” Saying it aloud made something tighten in his chest.
“She isn’t sleeping again?”
Willand rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Something like that.”
Yo’annie brought both down and set them carefully on the counter. “The last few nights must have been rough for your mother. I kept telling your sister she could take it and pay later.”
Willand huffed quietly. “Well, you know how stubborn Mya is.”
“I do.” Yo’annie looked at him. “Runs in the family.”
Willand rolled his eyes.
Yo’annie counted out change. Before she could hand it over, Willand stopped. Something warm drifted in through the doorway. Milk. Vanilla. Butter. He sniffed and turned his head.
“What in the world…?”
Yo’annie pointed outside. “Tsami’s pastries. I haven’t resisted once.”
Willand stared. “…That’s cruel. What does he put in those?”
Yo’annie leaned closer. “Witchcraft.”
“Then Tsami must be a really, sugary, buttery good witch.”
Yo’annie slapped the coins onto the counter. “If he is, I am happy to be bewitched.”
A smile threatened to show on Willand’s face. “I think I’ll stop by and treat myself and Harmon to some witchcraft.”
Yo’annie burst into laughter. Willand laughed along.
He put the vials securely in his bag and scooped up his change. Then he looked up. “I hope I never have to come back here.”
Yo’annie smiled. “I’m afraid I have to hope you do.”
Willand snorted. “Take care, Yo’annie.”
“You too, Will.”
After all his errands, Willand stepped out of a jewelry shop with a small, fine box in his hand, only one coin of his wages left in his pocket, a small parcel of pastries under his arms—and Lord Felix’s manor waiting somewhere beyond the trees.
- Writer
