< Link to Bucola #1

There’s still no sun. No burst of light greets the day, or to ignore for half an hour before I start my day. I must wonder at this point: Is the sunlight that short, or is it simply absent from this place?

I guess I’ll call this Day Three, though how one can know without a sun is beyond me. I had two good sleeps, so that’s how I’ll count days for now. I don’t know how long I sat looking into the trees that first “day,” but I did smoke two pipes, so it was (at least) a couple hours.

Then, after who knows how long, I awoke to only the light from the trees. The tree-light gets better all the time. I definitely see better now than my first emergence from the cave. My gratitude for the trees grows with every degree of eye adjustment.

I remember one cave trip where this would’ve been useful. I was in the northern part of the state, somewhere, and I stumbled across a cave. I figured this would make a great addition to an article on a state park, so without any preparation, I went into the cave. I hiked for about fifteen minutes, got enough to write about, and turned toward the exit – I didn’t want to press my luck. Of course, my flashlight died about ten minutes into my return trip. Yep, I could of used some glowing plants at that point.

The strangest thing is the unchanging brightness. I thought that, since the lights have about the same brightness as a night light, I’d have no trouble sleeping. Turns out: Because I live and move in that same level of light, it keeps me awake. Apparently, one gets adjusted to a change in light for sleep.

While I’m thinking about oddities, here’s another one: I sit beside a road, and you could easily fit two sedans side-by-side. But, I have not seen another person (human or otherwise) since I’ve been here. I figured with such a street, somebody must come by here often. I guess that makes me nothing for two on my expectations.

The only thing that I’ve seen on this road is a moon. I saw it on my right (which I’d expect to be west, but I’ve already mentioned my record on expectations). That moon was just past its height, so I decided to go to sleep, when I couldn’t see it any more. I moved my sleeping bag into the cave for a bit of darkness, and the moon appears on my left this “morning.”

Now, I sit beside a fire while cooking the last of the blessed fish from the random backpack. Fortunately, there’s still plenty of tobacco, but something will have to change foodwise. I have heard the sounds of at least small animals in the woods on the other side of the road, so hunting may be the next step – but don’t ask me how I’m going to do that.

Still, I’m not going to complain. I have food for the moment and a change of clothes. I admit the green jeans pretty much fit my style anyway, but the tan tunic shirt is nothing I’d voluntarily choose. The navy vest is nice though. It’s been a struggle, but I am trying to remember these blessings – helps me to keep moving.

I suppose the plan for the day will begin with another search of the cave before I explore the woods for game. I’ll simply hang-out here until the care opens up. I could go down the road, but I have no idea how far the nearest town might be, whether or not I’d be understood once I got there, or if the place would as soon arrest me for being an outsider. Given my lack of info, I’d just assume stay put and wait for the cave.

Was that thunder? While I would like to see a rain storm, that would likely make hunting more difficult. Still, I bet it looks cool.

No, wait. That is a constant sound; it’s only reflecting off the rocks weird. What is that?

Oh, that’s a horse and a carriage. I heard that when I took that one trip to Greensboro. I got way off trail and ended up walking along a road. I think I was as weirded out then as I am now. How often does one hear a horse and buggy?

Uh oh, the sound stopped. My cooking fire must’ve alerted the driver to me. All right, then – I need to meet this thing, and not look like a bandit at the same time. I’ll stick my pipe in my mouth and walk to the cave entrance.

Praise the Lord! The wagon restarts after I move toward the cave. Now, let’s go stand beside the road and look down it.

What new wonder is this? By the light of the trees, I see two, solid Clydesdale-looking horses moving what appears to be more a wagon than a carriage, but there’s also a very dimly lit harness around each horse. Then, I see two glaring ragdolls on either side of the wagon.

I have many questions, but the driver waves, so I return the gesture as I would to any passing car back home. The horses take to a trot to cover the last few feet before what would be a screeching halt in a vehicle back home.

The driver leaps off his seat in the next instant. How he missed my toes is a mystery known only to God. “Hi there, stranger.” He says, “I’m Herman, and it’s great to see you. I worried that you would try to rob me, but now I see you’re what? Are you living here?”

I take a step back. This is a bit much; I feel like this guy may have seen fewer people for longer than I have. Still, he’s a jovial enough fellow, so I extend my hand (more from reflex than anything else), and I’m somewhat relieved to see him shake it.

“Nice to meet you, Herman,” I say with much less enthusiasm. “I’m Jethro, and I can’t say that I’m living here. It’s more like camping out for a few days – I guess.”

Now, he steps away from me. With the same tone with which one might inquire of a bear who’s greeted you with an open mouth, he asks, “Are you one of those druids?” He moves toward my cooking fire before appraising my fish. All the while, he’s talking (whether to himself or me – you decide): “I’ve heard about you lot. You’re supposed to be real strange ones, but you don’t look like one. I’d expect to see less common-looking clothes and generally less stuff. I mean: You have a cast iron skillet. I thought you were supposed to live simpler than that.” Then, he turns around with the palm of one hand toward me, and he says, “Hey, pardon me for that. I just met you, and here I am making all kinds of assumptions. I’ve only ever heard tale about the druids, so I got excited.” He takes a seat on a rock beside the fire. “So, let me back up: Why are you out here?”

“Well, I’ve been accused of a great many things,” I say since I can’t stop the words, “but a druid is a new one. I do enjoy being outside, but I assure you there’s nothing magical.”

Herman keeps eyeing my fish. In fact, I don’t even know if he heard me – though, that might be for the best. Still, some food might grease the conversation, so I could at least find out where I am. Or, maybe he’s never seen cast iron before. “Would you like a fish?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t want to impose,” he says. (So, he definitely wants a fish.) Herman continues, “I mean you don’t look like a druid, but King Edward and the lords are always warning us about them. I don’t know; they seem almost mythical. The government promotes caution, while no one seems to have met one, or seen one personally – it’s alway a ‘brother’s friend’ or ‘cousin’s wife’ that reports on them. Do you think you could spare a fish? That’s all I’ll take.”

After all of that, I can’t even, but I could start with the obvious. “Yes, sir, you’re more than welcome to have a fish; I’ll even throw in a carrot to go with it, if you can tell me what you do. I was admiring your wagon, and I’d love to hear about those ragdolls.”

I get exactly what I needed: a laugh. Herman compliments my generosity and helps himself to a fish and a half with all but two of my remaining carrots. While I walk back to the fire, he takes his first bites, like he’s eating from a five-star restaurant.

Then, his eyes rise from the plate (that I’d pulled from my pack for my breakfast), and he stares at the ragdolls, like a lover who sees his beloved from a distance after an excruciating absence.

“Those are my greatest creations,” Herman says. “So, I’ve never been able to sell them – the price would be too high, except for, maybe, King Edward himself. You see: I made those over three years ago, and the light’s never faded. The combination of materials and my focus on making toys for the right child finally yielded those two dolls, and I doubt that I will ever produce their copy at this point. Not only are my techniques beginning to fade, but also my connection to buyers wanes. Though, I suppose one couldn’t expect less after thirty-five years on the road.”

Herman pauses to eat his meal even slower than before, with somehow more reflection, as if an entire career stretched before him. I feel bad for him in a way, because I know the trial of former capabilities against present realities. I mean: I can’t tell him about the challenges of an internet writer, because I’d have to explain the internet. Besides surpassing my talents, such an explanation might land me in a worse category than druid.

Still, traveling salesman of one’s own creations is something that might work. “I understand,” I say. “You travel around, creating as you go, but after a while, you begin to question your own relevance, especially as creation itself becomes a routine for payment.”

Herman looks at me, for the first time since he spotted my fish. He gives me a look, as only an elder statesman can give a young buck, and he says, “You look far too young to have that kind of perception, so what do you make?”

I hesitate. Internet articles would be a meaningless statement, and that’s not even close to what (I hope) I make. ”Stories,” I say. “I create stories about where I’ve been, what I’ve enjoyed, and all with the pride that other folks will want to go and see what I’ve seen.” (I mean that’s basically the goal of a travel writer, right?)

Herman nods his head, like an attorney watching the pieces of his case come together, and he finishes his dinner as a gleam returns to his eyes. “You know,” he asks, “what you need?”

Having no framework even to guess an answer, I shrug. Herman asserts, “You need a good sleep in an actual bed, and I know just the place. Will you come with me?

I consider leaving the cave. That thought concerns me greatly; what if the way home opens and I’m not here? Would I be stuck? Not only would I miss dinner time, but also every dinner from now on. I must stay. I can’t miss the opportunity to go home.

Although, if Herman had shown up as quickly as I expected, I would’ve immediately gone with him, so why the hesitation now? I have no provisions; the way home remains closed, and I have no other path forward.

I settle on asking: “Well, that depends. Where are you going?”

Herman bows his head while stretching both arms from his lap with his palms facing the sky. Apparently, he heard a fair question. He says, “I’m going to Peakshire. That’s the fifth largest town in our kingdom of Laird.”

Herman says, “It’s a big place but out of the way enough not to overwhelm. Their daily market is fantastic too. They’ve got just the right balance between customers, so I can sell some nice things and unload some older stuff. I always make a deal for the older stuff, so don’t think I’m a complete jerk. Although even, my old stuff is pretty good – if I do say so myself. There you can find almost everything you’d want. Well, depending on your quality concerns, that is.”

He certainly shows himself a true merchant after all of that; goods and services take top spot in his list of concerns, but I heard nothing about this good bed that’s supposed to be there. Wandering around an unknown market while he works sounds about like the worst idea yet.

Still, I do have that provisions problem, and that certainly motivates a change of scenery. What choice do I really have? The whole idea causes my face to clinch – squinty eyes, gritted teeth, the whole thing.

Herman must read the doubt on my face. He changes tactics and says, “Don’t worry, Jethro. It’s really not that bad. They’ve never been able to attract the right merchants to draw any serious crowd. There are no incentives to have a stall there, and they continue to charge a cut of the profits from their own merchants, so even local participation is low by comparison. They have some unusual rules for building too, so they’ve never appealed to the right people to grow either. Yeah, it’s a town, but it’s on the small, eccentric side.”

I think, “Not much better of a pitch, Herman.” I guess a smaller affair is better, but I have concerns about market-day being my introduction to this world. Besides my lack of interest in shopping, there’s also my lack of means to pay. However, I could see more of this light deal. I mean: Herman’s dolls shine as bright as the trees, so can everyone do that? If so, what magic is that? Does it have any connection to my use of the pinecone? That, in itself, might be worth seeing.

Though I feel my teeth relax, I still feel one eyebrow raised. I question, myself, about the abandonment of the cave. There’s a real unknown about what I’m in for, if I go with him. On the other hand, I still have no better alternative.

Herman, as good as a salesman as he is, recognizes the falter in my doubts, and he changes tactics again. He says, “Of course, what you’ll be interested about is the inn.  There’s no better public house in all of Laird – there are some equal to but none better, and sometimes I think the whole building shows the Light. That’s all thanks to Sabrina.”

He’s back in his zone, so he continues: “She’s a real gem. Her beds are feather, and she rotates them after every visitor. Sure, some of them are thin at this point, but you tell the right story, and you won’t have to worry about that. She adores travelers and will set you up, if you can only intrigue her – you don’t ever have to wow her, just get her curious. Plus, she’s got the best food and beer, so her place, The Cottage, is where you need to be.”

I take the deep inhale of surrender and say, “Fine, I’ll go.” I really can’t do anything else, and I would like a bed with a meal that I didn’t cook. Besides, one of my already written stories ought to be enough to intrigue.

So, I bury the fire, put the utensils in the wooden backpack, and follow Herman to his wagon. He climbs into the driver’s seat, and I put my pack in the wagon before taking the seat next to him.

And, I’m off to places unknown with only the promise of a bed.