//------------------------------// // Chapter One - The Reed Worker // Story: When The Snow Melts // by Bluespectre //------------------------------// WHEN THE SNOW MELTS   CHAPTER ONE   THE REED WORKER   Rain water dripped incessantly through the gaps in the roof, a staccato note to the heavy drum beat of the deluge outside. The modest wooden house, not much more than a hut, was in darkness, save for the light of the small fire merrily burning in the centre of the living room.   The house had been shuttered against the worst of the weather, yet with its ally, the howling easterly wind, it still found its way inside. Every crack, every joint and knot, became a whistling jet of cold air. Once, countless moons ago, Rush had been fastidious in keeping the forest home water tight and snug. After all, who would buy his wares if he couldn’t demonstrate their effectiveness to customers by managing to keep the elements from penetrating his own property?   Rush sat back on his heels, stretched his neck, and indulged in a good scratch. No one came here any longer, not since that day, that awful day so long ago. Now the villagers simply waited for him to set up stall, bought what they needed, and left. He couldn’t complain—they didn’t want to speak to him, and he didn’t want to speak to them either, the self-righteous hypocrites. Still, the rain and wind were a lot worse than usual. Even his bedding area had become damp despite the strategic placing of bowls and pans to collect the intruding water.   Occasionally, Rush wondered if he should bother to go up and repair the roof. It had been that long since it had been done last. The entire thing really needed to be replaced with fresh reed work. While it was a laborious task, he was certainly no stranger to strenuous work. It was just…   He yawned and shrugged to himself. It didn’t matter; nothing did really. One day he would pass from this world and meet his family again, and all would be well as it should have been in this one.   Picking up the bamboo pipe from side of the fireplace, the dark-haired man blew into the burning logs, fanning the flames to help boil the kettle hanging over them. One of the problems of having an open fire in the centre of the home was the problem of smoke. He’d incorporated a type of chimney in the top of the thatch for ventilation once, but that had been quickly abandoned after the first storms had struck, turning the house near inside out.   Rush leaned back and picked up the small wooden box that sat on a low shelf he’d made specifically for it. Opening it, he sniffed happily at the contents. The heady aroma of blackwort tea made him smile in satisfaction. It had been a devil of a job to get his hands on it, especially as the travelling merchant only visited the village once a month on his circuitous route through the region. With little way to mark the passage of days, Rush had had to rely on marks he’d made on the wall or by asking people in the village. He hated that. The villagers treated him like he had some sort of disease, avoiding talking to him or even coming near him. That was unless they needed reeds or reed work doing, of course, in which case they were his best friends.   He hated them. Well, maybe not all of them. Blossom was different, but the rest were nothing but a group of vain, selfish bigots.   The lid on the iron kettle began to rattle in earnest, and Rush quickly removed it from the fire, pouring the boiling water into the small, green-glazed, ceramic teapot. It wouldn’t take long for the water to be infused with the gentle yet pungent smell of the blackwort. He couldn’t understand why so many people didn’t like it. It was, after all, one of the rarest teas in the region. Granted, it was a bit stronger in flavour than most, but it still tasted wonderful on a cold day. A day like today.   Steam trickled from the spout of the teapot, the swirling white vapour standing out clearly in the cold air. The fire hadn’t done much to warm the place today, but Rush had dismissed it as unimportant. He had already decided to go out again after the rain had died down to collect another batch of reeds from the river, for it was ready for preparation and sale at the weekly market. It wouldn’t take long to build the fire up again when he got back. In any case, what harm was there in a little water and a few draughts?   Draining the last of the tea, Rush rinsed his cup and collected his cutting equipment from the work table. The blade was sharp, the keen edge vital for making short work of the reeds on the river bank. He bent to tie his foot and leg wrappings in order to keep the worst of the water out. They’d still leak of course, but there were worse things than getting wet, and there were those that had made their home amongst the reeds which would happily feast upon him given half a chance. Stories abounded in the village of those struck down with strange maladies following bites from the long snake-like creatures that would latch onto the exposed skin of the unwary.   In some ways, Rush was glad they were there. Few ventured into the river because of the stories and that meant more work for him, and more work meant food on the table. With luck, there’d still be enough coin left over for him to keep his stock of tea replenished as well.   The cracked mirror hanging on the wall gave him pause. The image reflected was distinctly unflattering. His unkempt black hair, the scraggly beard, and lined face hardened from years of manual labour did nothing to endear him to the locals. Not that he had any interest in that sort of thing anyway. They had their world; he had his. Rush liked it that way: peace, quiet, and best of all, no company.   It had stopped raining, if only barely. The clouds were a lighter shade of grey than they had been earlier, but still threatened a further downpour at some point. Rush collected his oil cloth cape from its hook beside the door and bundled it onto the frame pack, before hoisting everything up and onto his back. The familiar weight seemed a little heavier than usual, but as always he shrugged it off as something of little importance. He was getting older, time eating away at him as surely as the river dwellers would if they had half a chance. Rush looked down at the leg wrappings. If only he could thwart the onset of age as easily.   Unlike many of the villagers, he had never been blessed with children. Nobody in their right mind would want to be the wife of a reed cutter, no matter how much money he had. He’d found that out a long time ago, but it ceased to bother him as much as it had back then. Certainly, now and again, on the long dark winter nights, loneliness would jab his heart with its insidious cold fingers, but the feeling would pass eventually. A hot cup of tea helped see to that.   The solid wood door closed with a dull thud, Rush not bothering to lock it. Out here, there was no point. Other than his precious tea, there was nothing in the hut a thief would be interested in taking. Any money he had was spent on food, rice, and vegetables for soups and anything else that took his fancy. Occasionally the village would have a few extra treats in he’d indulge in: cakes, thread, and bolts of cloth to make new clothes and so forth. He was quite proud of his sewing skills and had made several sets of work tunics, most of which had been left hanging since the day he made them. He had his favourite, old and patched as it was, but set habits were hard to break.   The walk down to the river took around ten minutes, for it wasn’t far. He’d chosen the site for his home higher on the hillside in case of flooding, which the river did several times a year. If he was lucky, the floods brought fish that would end up stranded and help supplement his mainly vegetable diet. He would often experience a pang of guilt when that happened. Rush felt a deep connection to the bamboo forest he lived in and the other living creatures that inhabited it. He considered himself to be one of them, just another life trying to survive whichever way he could. In his eyes, a fish had a right to life as much as he did. So did the bears that preyed on the fish, he’d noted silently one summer.   Rush kept his mind empty as he worked, careful to take only the reeds that were mature, rotating the areas to ensure a constant supply that would keep him in business all year round. It wasn’t long before he’d cut, trimmed, and tied the latest batch into place, ready for the trip back to the work shed.   Walking slowly back up the track to his home, Rush made out a movement by the side wall of the shed and sighed…   He was back again.   “Rush! How are you today?”   The reed worker unslung his pack and began unloading the reeds. “Fine.”   “Have you considered my offer yet?”   “No.” Rush continued his work, steadfastly avoiding looking at the man.   “Oh, come on now. She’s a fine woman, fit and strong. You’d like her if you took the time to know her. Tell you what, come round tonight and we’ll introduce you!”   Rush pushed past the tall well-dressed trader, laying out the reeds on the table ready for beating. “I’ve already said no. Am I not being clear enough?”   The taller man’s eye twitched, his smile flickering before he continued his overly enthusiastic approach, “Look here, Rush, I promised your mother I’d keep you right and by the gods I will. I have a daughter and—”   “…And the answer is still no. Nasta, I’m quite happy here doing my job and living in peace.”   “In this dung hole? For the god’s sake, look at this place. Look at yourself!”   Rush looked down. The reflection in the puddle wavered but showed enough of the weather-beaten, world-weary man he had become. He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin and sighed.   “You see?” Nasta threw his hands in the air in exaggerated exasperation. “You need someone to look after you. Every man needs a woman behind them.”   It was too much. Rush picked up his long reed cutter, the broad blade old but sturdy, and brought it down in a snarling arc. With a loud thunk, the knife embedded itself in the support pillar by Nasta’s ear.   “I do NOT need a woman behind me, ‘good’ or otherwise, and I don’t know why I have to keep explaining this to you time and time again. How many times, Nasta? How many times do I have to repeat myself to you?!”   Rush was nearly shouting now, his eyes narrowed with anger. Nasta swallowed. “Look… Look, Rush, I’m sorry. There’s no need to get so angry. I’m only trying to do what’s best. You know that, don’t you?”   Lowering his head, Rush let out a long breath and pulled out the knife, returning it to the work bench. “I know, Nasta, forgive me. I know you mean well, but you must understand, this is my choice. It’s my life.”   Nasta put a hand on Rush’s shoulder, his voice was heavy with resignation. “This isn’t a life, Rush, not this. Please, will you come and meet her, just once? I promise I won’t ask again after this. Please…for me.”   How the on earth was he going to get out of this one? His late mother’s apprentice would appear once every month or so, try to coerce him into meeting his daughter, and then leave, only to try again a month later. He just never seemed to get the message, despite Rush’s constant refusals. Rush stared down at the reeds on the work table that was waiting to be crushed, dried, and tied. This was what he knew; it was what he understood. Women were like another species to him: strange, alien…intrusive.   He looked around the room. If, by some chance he ended up married to this woman, all this would likely change. Most likely he’d be expected to live in the village with her and her extended family in one of those ridiculously large houses. He shuddered at the thought. Lonely he may be from time to time, but he was free to live his life as he wanted. Nobody told him what he could and could not do.   He sighed in resignation. “Fine. Yes, I’ll meet her.”   Nasta’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful! I’ll tell my wife straight away. Petal will be so thrilled!”   Nasta began rattling off dates, times, and other arrangement details as if Rush was no longer in the room with him. His words flowed over Rush like the rain, but unlike those soaking droplets, he couldn’t simply throw his hood up to keep them out. Still, he didn’t have to actually listen to this, did he? But, damn it all, there was work to do, and Nasta didn’t seem to be getting the hint.   “…and then there are all the invitations. I mustn’t forget to invite the local officials, even if they don’t want to come. You know wha—”   Rush grabbed Nasta’s shoulders with both hands and propelled him from the workshop, a grim smile on his face. “YES! Thank you, Nasta. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do for the market. Let me know when you want me there, and I’ll come along, alright?”   “Wha… Yes! Yes, of course!” Nasta sputtered, propelled backwards and out the doorway.   Rush shot him what he hoped was a meaningful look and turned back to his workshop, before pausing. “Nasta?”   “Yes?”   Rush’s voice was a bare whisper. “Thanks for your concern.”   “I…”   Nasta never had a chance to finish before the large wooden door slammed shut, ending the conversation with a loud bang. Rush picked up his stone mallet and stared at the reeds on the table. Why had he agreed to this? For the gods’ sake, he should have just told Nasta to…   “DAMN IT!”   He brought the mallet down onto the reed with a resounding thud. Adding more, he repeated the process, crushing and working the natural material with far more force than was really necessary, but right now he didn’t care. His world was under threat, his little piece of this godforsaken land of greed and selfishness where he could be himself, be left alone. Now, with the assistance of Nasta, his mother was interfering with his life from beyond the grave.   They had never been a wealthy family, but after his father died, his mother had been wooed by the local business leader, and naturally, after some insincere rebuttals, she’d accepted his hand in marriage. Rush had been the baggage that came along with her, and he’d hated every moment of it. He’d never been that close to his mother, or even his father for that matter. They’d all been like a family of strangers living under one roof, never quite arguing, never quite fighting, never quite having a life. It was a constant state of grey, boring, dull, and cold. Rush looked out of the window and shook his head. It was just like the miserable weather.   He paused in his work, sweat pouring from his brow and chest heaving. It was ruined, all of it. In his anger with Nasta’s constant badgering, he’d crushed the reeds beyond use, and the whole damned day’s work was wasted. The mallet crashed down on the table as Rush picked up his knife and pack once again. He’d just have to work harder to make up for it…   “Females!” he spat, slamming the door shut behind him.   Trudging off along the muddy track to the reed beds, something cold and soft tickled his nose, making him look up to the sky. Large white flakes of fluffy snow, the first of this year, began to drift down around him. Soon, the winter would begin in earnest. Here in the mountains, the weather took on a life of its own, near drowning the land in white each year and bringing with it the bitter winds that made living in the bamboo forest feel a little lonelier than usual. Rush readjusted the pack and set to work, for he had no time for emotional introspection. It served no purpose, and he certainly had no need for examining thoughts and feelings that he’d buried long ago. No, all he needed was to keep working. That and a nice hot cup of tea when he got home would make this whole miserable gods-forsaken day seem like a bad dream.   The bamboo forest had a beauty all of its own, the slim leaves rustling in the gentle wind amid the quiet fall of snow. It was dark when Rush finished the last batch of roofing reeds, stacking them under an oiled tarpaulin ready to take to market. They should fetch a good price, he thought to himself. It was still a blasted shame about the others, but for his temper, he could have had near double the amount. Still, all told, not a bad day’s work.   Outside, the snow was coming down steadily, blanketing the muddy ground with a pristine white layer that stuck to his shoes and wrappings on his way back to the house. He was glad to be finished for the day. It was hard work, but made the rewards all the more satisfying. Back inside, Rush hung up his cape, removed the sodden wrappings and shoes, then set about building up the fire from his stack of dry firewood. Soon, the flames began to build and, with a little encouragement, transformed into a roaring fire that filled his home with warmth. Rush sidled over to a floorboard that he pried with his pocket knife, extracting an oilcloth bag from its depths. Opening it up, he took out the small, carved, wooden box and marvelled at it.   The images and symbols on the sides were strange, yet oddly familiar. When he stared at them for long enough, the alien characters felt like they were dancing just on the edges of his memory and understanding. On one side, carved horses pranced around rolling hills beneath a large sun, its rays bathing all those beneath it in its radiance.   On the opposite side of the box, the same horses slept peacefully beneath a crescent moon in a starry sky. The other two sides were covered in the odd language. At least, he thought it was a language, but none he’d ever seen before. Rush sat for a while, contemplating the odd thing. He hadn’t travelled much, although he’d always dreamt of doing so. As always, life had gotten in the way. There was always something to do, something holding him back. He sighed. Dreams were for dreamers, but regardless of that, it was what was in the box that fascinated and tantalized him.   A small, gold-framed lock thwarted any and all attempts at opening it. Rush had tried everything he could think of, always stopping short of brute force for fear of damaging the beautifully-made item. The travelling trader had sold it to him one day after he’d fallen on the mountain trail heading into market. Thankfully, a couple of the villagers out hunting deer had found him and brought him in. Rush had heard the commotion, and after finding that the local healer, Nasta of all people, had left to visit relatives in a neighbouring village, he’d intervened.   He sat back, the box on his lap and a fresh cup of tea in his hand. The trader had seemed oddly pleased to get rid of the thing, and for little more than the price of a steamed bun too. Rush expected it was more as a ‘thank you’ for helping him with his leg. He certainly hadn’t expected anything for free. Traders wouldn’t be traders for long if they gave things away after all, but still, it was what the man had said that haunted him…   “The box will return to its owner someday. Whoever that is, and when that would be, only it knows.” He had laughed. “It’s sure as hell not telling me!”   Rush had kicked himself for not asking more about it, but the box had been so beautiful that it had seemed to call out to him, resonating on some level with his very soul. In fact, no sooner had he seen the intricately carved object, he’d reached into his money pouch almost instinctively. Even the possibility of leaving it with the trader had never entered his head. The box was his; he had to take it home…   The symbols teased him with their odd language, yet despite enquiring with the local scholar, he’d never been able to discover what it said nor what language it was written in. He traced them with his finger, feeling the texture of the wood, strong and fragrant. Lifting it to his nose, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. In his mind, the world was full of sunshine, the fields green with lush grass, the trees rustling in a playful breeze. He lay on the gentle slope of a hill, above a sparkling river that was so beautiful that it made his heart sing. He could smell the sunshine, the grass, the trees, everything. Beside him, a horse trotted over, her pristine white coat glistening beneath the golden sunlight. She smiled at him, her deep purple eyes catching the light and filling his heart with a sense of happiness and wellbeing he’d never known. Rush tried to stand, but a slim white leg reached down, gently stopping him from rising.   The white horse slowly blinked, her mane a river of rainbow colours flowing out behind her as she spoke softly to him. Rush strained to hear, but couldn’t make out the words. Who was she? How could she talk?   The image popped like a soap bubble, leaving nothing but a warm glow and a sense of loss, of disconnection. He sighed, placing the box back in its hiding spot before rolling onto his side next to the fire. This happened every time he held that damned thing, so why did he do it? It was akin to torturing yourself…nice when it stopped. He had spent many nights wondering about the box, the images playing through his mind about what mysteries lay hidden inside the thing. Rush scratched at his chin, lost in thought. Perhaps he was losing his mind? He’d lived on his own here for so long now that he couldn’t remember when he’d first moved into the derelict building away from the main village. If it was any consolation, if he’d lost his mind, he wouldn’t have to keep putting up with Nasta’s incessant pestering!   Stretching out, Rush set up his bedding roll and snuggled in beside the fire. He’d have a shave in the morning and look at fixing that roof and the gaps in the walls. It was still snowing out there, and it was only going to get worse. If this was just the beginning of the winter’s snowfall, it was going to be a long one. The reed worker let out a huge yawn and pulled the musty old blanket over himself, letting his breathing slow as he closed his eyes. Rush didn’t tend to dream, or have much of an imagination at all for that matter, but tonight, he smiled to himself. He hoped he’d dream of the beautiful white horse with the purple eyes.