My fairest maiden,
Let me relate to you a tale of curiosity as I found myself a miniature figure in a drama this past week at the market village. While I was there admiring the fine day and hoping to enjoy some fresh foods I approached a young man, not more than seven years of age, who was working diligently at collecting tart apples for sale.
“Excuse me, boy, are these green apples organic?”
“Are they certified?”
“No, sir, they are perfectly sane.”
“I mean did an independent body, perhaps crown appointed, verify the natural methods by which the apples were produced?”
“They’re apples. This tree grew them, it did. I picked them. This can be verified by you seeing my arm reaching up and plucking said apple from said tree.”
“So there were no volatile chemicals used in their production? No unguent or other strange solution dreamt up by the local alchemist?”
“No.” Turns to side, “Mother, when you’re done wrapping that fish for the gentleman with the bad haircut could you give me a hand with this customer? After he’s been cudgeled we’ll need to dispose of his body.”
The boy then turned his attention to the blacksmith, “Father, once you’ve sharpened that blade adequately could Mother and I borrow it so we can dispatch this troublesome traveler? I’d ask the guards for assistance but they appear to be absconding with someone’s possessions”
Such was my conversation at the market, can you believe it? Needless to say I hurried on my way. After purchasing a basket of apples and a fish from his mother as an act of appeasement, lest I found my head separated from my body, I quickly bought a turkey from a woman I can only assume was the boy’s aunt. While I was preparing to go I also acquired some small skewered creature, squirrel it was said, from a peasant who looked like he could use a few pieces of metal in his pocket.
Although the market village is an enticing setting, its architecture a hint of what that fine kingdom has to offer, the curious creatures that inhabit the village seem to suffer from some kind of bizarre hostility that cannot be good for business.
As I write this it occurs to me that the guards were probably not guards at all, but brigands whose disguise gave them cover of legitimacy as they aided their fellow market criminals. And, as I munch absently on this delicious roasted squirrel, I cannot help but wonder about its true source.
I must take leave of you now. I will send a bird later today with this letter. I must go as I have just become aware of the reason why I saw so few rats at the market.
Like what we're doing here? Let someone else know!