Bedtime Story: Strange Things Medieval People Did For Fun

Hey guys,

Tonight we're wandering into one of the weirdest corners of medieval life.

The strange things people actually did for fun.

Spoiler alert,

There were no phones,

No Netflix,

And definitely no escape rooms.

So what did people do?

Well,

They raced pigs,

Wrestled for cheese,

And believed farting contests were a valid form of entertainment.

It was a world where boredom met creativity in the most unpredictable ways.

Now get comfortable,

Let the day melt away,

And we'll drift back together into the quiet corners of the past.

The sun rolled slowly over the hills like a lazy egg,

Spilling golden yolk across the damp rooftops of a village too old to remember its own name.

Smoke curled from crooked chimneys,

Not in any real hurry,

And the mud in the streets squelched with the sort of noise that made you question your life choices if your bare foot landed in it.

And somewhere in the distance,

The rooster didn't crow.

He was awake,

He just didn't feel like it.

Perhaps he had laryngitis,

Or an existential crisis.

Or maybe,

After watching the same people trip over the same bucket every morning for the past three years,

He decided to boycott the whole charade.

Whatever the reason,

The silence was noticeable,

Which made the sound of the baker's boy falling off the stool all the more dramatic.

A loud thud,

Followed by a string of words he'd absolutely deny saying in front of his mother,

Echoed through the bakery as he rubbed the side of his head and blamed the oven for existing.

The bakery itself was still warm from yesterday's coals,

And the air inside smelled like sleep and flour and someone's forgotten sock.

A lump of dough sat stubbornly on the counter,

Refusing to rise out of pure spite,

And the baker,

An old man with arms like tree trunks and a temper like a thundercloud,

Snored loudly behind the sacks of rye.

Outside,

The village stretched awake one joint at a time.

A dog scratched its ear against the side of a cart.

A pig sneezed.

A cow named Gertrude,

Still half asleep,

Wandered into someone's laundry.

No one noticed.

Or if they did,

They decided it wasn't their business.

Two elderly women sat on a bench near the well,

Wrapped in shawls and opinions.

One of them had already commented that the sun was too bright and probably a bad omen.

The other was convinced the missing rooster crow meant someone had died,

Or would die,

Or had just forgotten to wind the sun properly.

She wasn't clear on the theology,

But she was certain it involved goats.

A boy with a mop of hair and a tunic,

Two sizes too big,

Tiptoed past the church,

Holding a bucket with one fish in it.

The fish looked judgmental.

The boy looked guilty.

He was supposed to deliver it to the reeve,

But he was thinking very seriously about eating it himself,

Scales and all.

He passed the tavern just as a bleary-eyed man stumbled out,

One boot missing,

A chicken under his arm,

And a daisy tucked behind one ear.

The chicken looked concerned.

Meanwhile,

The rooster,

Whose name no one remembered because no one had bothered to name him,

Stretched one wing,

Fluffed his feathers,

And stared down at the village from the thatch roof of the blacksmith's shed.

He watched the baker's boy burn his finger.

He watched a child fall into a puddle and not get up because he was pretty sure if he stayed there long enough someone might bring him a plum.

The blacksmith's forge hissed to life.

The hammering would start soon,

And with it the daily symphony of irritation.

But not yet.

For now,

The village was in that in-between moment.

Too late to be night.

Too early to be properly awake.

The liminal space of yawns and scratched heads and forgotten chores.

The cows were confused.

The chickens were muttering among themselves.

A goat chewed a boot and made eye contact with someone's grandmother.

She didn't blink.

Then came the cart.

The wheels squeaked in protest,

Pulled by a donkey that looked like it had seen things.

The driver,

An old man with three teeth and a contagious laugh,

Shouted good morning like it was a war cry.

No one responded.

Not out of rudeness,

But because most of them hadn't had their first mead or mushroom tea yet and were deeply suspicious of enthusiasm.

Finally,

With a grunt and a flap of wings,

The rooster let out a sound that could best be described as a sneeze trapped inside a yawn,

Followed by a suspicious silence and a deeply embarrassed shuffle on the roof tiles.

A woman hanging laundry looked up and muttered,

About time,

Before snapping her sheet so hard it could have doubled as a flag.

And just like that,

The village surrendered to the day.

Boots were pulled on,

Aprons tied,

Bread shoved into ovens,

Children were yelled at to stop licking fence posts.

Somewhere,

A bell rang.

Nobody knew why,

But everyone assumed it meant something.

The blacksmith began to curse rhythmically.

The priest practiced his sermon with a stick and a sheep.

The sheep disagreed with his theology.

By the time the sun was fully up,

The rooster had gone back to sleep.

His job,

As far as he was concerned,

Was done.

He'd made a noise.

People were moving.

The world,

However broken and ridiculous,

Was turning again.

And if no one had quite noticed the exact moment the day began,

That was fine.

It wasn't the sort of place where things started cleanly.

Here,

Mornings didn't arrive.

They shuffled in,

Lost a boot in the mud,

And hoped no one asked too many questions.

The first true scent of morning wasn't the bread.

It wasn't even the fire.

It was the warm,

Wet slap of old porridge hitting a wooden bowl,

And the unmistakable tang of someone's breath who had not,

By any stretch of the imagination,

Met a mint leaf in recent memory.

In the corner of a crooked cottage,

The hearth gave a grumble.

Flames licked lazily at damp logs,

Protesting their workload,

While a woman with one eyebrow and zero patience stirred a pot that looked suspiciously like it had never been emptied.

The porridge inside bubbled with a resentful plop,

Thick enough to stand a spoon in,

Thin enough to slide off when no one was looking.

Her husband,

Already shirtless and already sweating,

Sat hunched over a hunk of rye so dense it might qualify as a weapon in some kingdoms.

He took a bite and paused halfway through chewing,

Not out of delight but calculation.

Was this the same piece from yesterday,

Or had it been reincarnated from last week's loaf?

Either way,

It tasted like dust and commitment.

Next door,

A young girl was pouring reused ale into a cracked clay cup for her grandfather,

Who claimed it settled the stomach,

Despite strong evidence to the contrary.

The cup itself had a chip shaped exactly like the bishop's nose,

A fact the family mentioned often and laughed about never.

Outside,

More hearths began their morning chorus.

Wood snapped.

Metal clanged.

Somewhere,

Someone screamed,

Not again,

And a chicken was launched gently out of a window.

The rituals had begun.

Hygiene in the village was more of a suggestion,

A whisper,

An idea one might consider if time allowed,

And it usually didn't.

A man stood shirtless by a water barrel,

Splashing his face with such ferocity you'd think he was trying to erase it.

Another used the corner of a tunic that clearly belonged to someone else to wipe his nose.

A woman scrubbed her armpits with a handful of moss and muttered something that may have been a prayer or a curse,

Maybe both.

Tooth care was creative.

Some chewed sticks.

Others rubbed ashes on their gums with their fingers.

One bold soul insisted on using sour milk,

Claiming it scared the rot away.

It also scared away conversation.

In one home,

A child with tangled hair attempted to tame it by licking his palm and smacking his curls into submission.

His mother watched and said nothing,

Mostly because she was too busy trying to remove a slug from her shoe without waking the baby balanced on her back.

The bread ovens,

At least,

Were a source of pride.

That is,

If your definition of pride included guessing whether today's crust would crack your teeth clean or just chip them slightly.

The dough was often mixed with whatever was available.

Oats,

Barley,

The last handful of seeds someone forgot to plant.

On a lucky day,

There might be a walnut.

On an unlucky day,

A pebble.

At the edge of the village,

A man known only as Cricket was lighting his stove with a smirk.

He claimed his bread rose better when he sang to it.

The bread disagreed,

But the singing continued.

His neighbors didn't complain.

They just made sure to be very loud about eating anyone else's loaf.

Sacred rituals dotted the morning like breadcrumbs no one wanted to follow.

A few families knelt by their doors,

Murmuring blessings with half-closed eyes and fully empty stomachs.

The priest's bell rang once,

Though no one was sure why,

As he was still asleep in the chapel with a candle melted into his hair.

One woman tied garlic to her baby's ankle to ward off demons.

Another spat over her left shoulder after feeding the dog,

Just in case.

A boy rubbed mud on his forehead for strength,

Then promptly tripped over a bucket and blamed the mud for not working fast enough.

There was something both chaotic and deeply comforting about these rhythms.

Everyone had a part to play,

Even if their part involved burning the stew,

Cursing the cat,

Or waking up with half a beet in their bed.

No one knew how these habits started.

They simply were.

Passed down,

Picked up,

Misunderstood,

Misused,

And stubbornly repeated.

By the time the sun climbed higher,

The air was thick with smoke,

Salt,

And hope that someone,

Somewhere,

Had a clean spoon.

The porridge had begun to solidify into something resembling glue.

The reused ale was already room temperature,

Which was not a compliment.

And the bread?

The bread was cooling on crooked shelves,

Daring anyone to complain.

Morning had arrived fully now,

Not because the rooster said so,

And not because the clock struck anything.

There were no clocks,

And the rooster was still offended.

No,

The day began when breath turned to chatter,

And smoke rose from hearths,

And people,

Despite everything,

Got on with the business of surviving.

One crust,

One cough,

And one sacredly strange ritual at a time.

They gathered like clockwork.

Not the loud kind of gathering with shouting and barrels and broken fiddles.

No,

This was quieter,

Sharper,

More dangerous.

A semicircle of old women planted themselves near the well,

Just after sunrise,

Armed with shawls,

Strong tea,

And sharper tongues than most swords in the village.

Their backs were hunched,

But their hearing?

Impeccable.

Their knees ached,

But their memories?

Flawless.

Especially when it came to other people's worst moments.

The well itself had been there longer than any of them.

It sagged slightly to the left and creaked when the wind changed.

Like it,

Too,

Was trying to chime in on the gossip.

A wooden bucket swung lazily on its frayed rope,

Listening in as if it had ears.

Bertha was always first.

A widow since the flood of twenty-one.

Not the big one.

The smaller one,

That only knocked over the pigshed.

She arrived with her oatcakes tucked in a cloth napkin and her lips already pursed.

Her gossip didn't warm up.

It came out hot,

Fast,

And slightly burned.

Did you see the baker's wife?

She asked no one in particular.

Wearing yellow.

At her age.

Bold.

Martha,

Who was once a midwife and now just a professional skeptic,

Sniffed.

Bold or desperate.

I heard,

Said Agnes,

The smallest and perhaps most dangerous of the trio,

That she's sweet on the cooper.

Always asking for barrels she don't need.

The well creaked in agreement.

Or maybe it just shifted.

Either way,

The mood thickened like stew left too long over fire.

Barrels she don't need,

Bertha repeated,

Tearing off a corner of her oatcake with more force than necessary.

That's what got her sister in trouble,

Too.

Always needing things she didn't need.

They all nodded.

The kind of nod that carries the weight of at least four decades of silently judging people who walked too fast,

Smiled too wide,

Or enjoyed anything too enthusiastically.

A fourth woman joined,

Limping slightly and dragging a stool she claimed belonged to her late husband but clearly hadn't unless he'd been child-sized.

This was Elspeth,

Who only spoke when she could no longer keep it in,

Which wasn't often.

She sat,

Unfolded a suspiciously dry apple,

And said,

I saw the priest leave the tavern last night with hay in his beard.

There was a silence so heavy even the birds paused.

With hay?

Martha asked,

And a bruise on his forehead.

The oatcakes stopped mid-air.

Agnes blinked like she'd just received divine confirmation.

Well,

Said Bertha slowly,

He did give quite the sermon on temptation last week.

Said we must all be tested.

Maybe he meant himself,

Said Elspeth,

Biting her apple and chewing it like a statement.

A donkey passed behind them,

Braying loudly and dragging a cart full of nothing.

They didn't even look.

The donkey was not their concern today.

Today,

It was the priest,

The cooper,

The baker's wife,

And the woman from two cottages down who was seen planting something in the garden after midnight.

What sort of herb grows at that hour?

Martha asked with raised eyebrows.

The sort that gets your chickens to lay twice as fast,

Muttered Agnes.

The sort that gets your husband to speak less,

Added Bertha.

They all sighed,

Not wistfully,

Strategically.

A young girl approached the well with a bucket too large for her arms.

Her eyes were round with fear.

She greeted them with a quiet morning and reached for the rope.

Careful,

Bertha warned.

That rope frays more every day.

And if it snaps,

Martha added,

You'll end up in the well and hear everything we said twice.

The girl nodded too quickly,

Nearly lost her grip on the crank,

And retreated the moment the bucket hit the edge.

She spilled half the water on her dress and didn't even look back.

Agnes watched her go.

That one's too quiet.

Quiet ones always marry wrong,

Elspeth grunted.

Quiet ones listen too much,

Just like us.

There was a rare moment of laughter,

Dry,

Dusty,

The kind that didn't shake shoulders but rustled shawls.

They rarely admitted it,

But there was affection buried under the layers of judgment and oat crumbs.

A kind of sisterhood formed not by love but by repetition,

Survival,

And the shared understanding that everyone,

Eventually,

Gave them something to talk about.

They moved on to pigs next.

The big one near the churchyard had gotten loose again and eaten half a salter before someone chased it off with a broom.

They debated whether that made the pig holy or blasphemous.

Elspeth suggested it was both and that some men in the village weren't so different.

More oat cakes were passed around,

Some dipped in tea,

Others simply gnawed on for something to do.

No one asked for recipes.

They were all made with the same three ingredients anyway,

Oats,

Heat,

And mild resentment.

By the time the sun was high enough to warm the edge of the bench,

The women had covered everything from who was limping too suddenly to who was smiling too often.

They weren't always right,

They weren't always fair,

But they were always,

Unfailingly,

Watching.

And tomorrow they'd be back,

Same time,

Same well,

Same oat cakes,

And someone knew to talk about.

Inside the manor,

Where the walls leaned ever so slightly like they'd grown tired of holding secrets,

A young scribe sat hunched over a wooden desk,

Far too noble for his level of talent.

His name was Lionel,

Though some in the manor had taken to calling him Blot,

Not out of affection,

But because he'd once spilled an entire inkwell into the bishop's sleeve and no one had ever truly moved on.

At this moment,

Lionel was in his fifth hour of copying a legal charter so dull it could probably end wars just by being read aloud.

It was written in Latin,

A language that,

In Lionel's case,

Triggered a very specific response.

Sneezing.

Not metaphorically,

Actually sneezing.

Something about the parchment or the ink or maybe the overwhelming scent of obligation set his sinuses ablaze.

He dipped the quill.

It dripped.

He wiped the excess on a cloth that had once been white and now looked like it had survived three plagues and a minor exorcism.

With the solemnity of a monk,

He began the next line,

Et universis presentibus.

Achoo.

The sneeze erupted mid-sentence,

Splattering a constellation of ink across the parchment.

His nose now bore the mark of a man who'd fought and lost a duel with a squid.

Oh,

For heavens,

He muttered,

Blotting the page so aggressively the ink spread like gossip.

The steward poked his head in.

Progress.

Lionel smiled like a man on the edge,

By all appearances.

Good.

That charter must be perfect.

His lordship is having it read aloud at supper tonight.

Lionel blinked.

Read aloud to people,

To the bishop,

The magistrate,

And three nobles who understand less Latin than you.

He disappeared before Lionel could object.

That was the thing.

No one would understand it.

Not the bishop,

Who mostly nodded at things and blessed whatever was closest.

Not the magistrate,

Who once mistook a recipe for a legal summons.

And certainly not Lord Redgrave himself,

Who had insisted the document include a clause about goose ownership rights.

Just in case,

Lionel sighed and began again.

Somewhere in the hallway,

A maid dropped a tray.

The crash startled him into flicking his quill like a wand,

Launching a stripe of ink across the floor and onto a cat that had been napping far too peacefully under his stool.

The cat woke up with a howl,

Launched itself onto the desk,

And streaked across the page,

Leaving paw prints like small declarations of war.

Lionel froze.

The cat froze.

Both considered the consequences.

I didn't see anything,

He whispered to it.

The cat blinked,

Unimpressed,

And left the room with the air of someone who had just ended a relationship.

He stared at the ruined page,

Then at the previous four,

All of them smudged,

Blotted,

Or mysteriously sticky.

One had a dead fly pressed between two lines like punctuation.

Another had a faint circle where he'd once set his tea without thinking.

It wasn't that Lionel was bad at his job,

He was just employed in a job that did not care for him.

He liked poetry.

He liked stories.

He once tried to sneak a haiku into a land deed,

Just to see if anyone would notice.

They hadn't.

But now,

Every time the town crier announced that parcel's boundaries,

He accidentally recited a meditation on wind and wheat.

Still,

This charter had to be serious.

Apparently,

It concerned land use,

Taxation,

And some clause about cows that sounded vaguely threatening.

So Lionel tried again.

He sat straighter.

He wiped the ink from his nose.

He dipped carefully.

He breathed through his mouth,

As if that might stop the sneezes.

And he wrote,

A universus presentibus,

Bless you,

Came a voice from the hallway,

Preemptively.

He didn't sneeze that time,

But he did spill tea on his foot.

Midway through the paragraph about grain levies,

He began to wonder if anyone in the manor actually read anything.

The steward only glanced at margins.

The lord looked for his name and any mention of ducks.

The bishop pretended to squint,

As if he'd left his glasses in heaven.

Maybe,

Lionel thought,

This wasn't about understanding.

Maybe it was about performance.

Authority in long sentences,

Power in curled letters and unnecessarily large wax seals.

He paused,

Wrote a new line,

Quibustam terminis obumbratis,

Porcus regit silentium,

Which meant very roughly.

In certain shaded circumstances,

The pig rules the silence.

He stared at it,

Smiled,

Then reluctantly crossed it out.

Mostly.

By late afternoon,

His desk was surrounded by a graveyard of crumpled parchment,

A half-eaten oat biscuit,

And a mouse that may have been reading over his shoulder.

His nose was inked again.

His eyes were crossed.

But the charter?

Done.

Sort of.

Lionel wiped his hands on his tunic,

Stood,

And immediately knocked over the inkwell one final time.

He considered screaming.

Instead,

He whispered,

I shall blame the cat.

Then he rolled up the parchment,

Tied it with twine,

And left the room with the gait of a man who had lost a battle but would survive the war.

The charter would be read that night,

Mispronounced,

Misunderstood,

Forgotten by morning.

But somewhere,

Deep in its clauses,

A smudge shaped like a pawprint would remain,

Proof that at least two beings had cared enough to ruin it completely.

The sun was barely up,

The mist still loitering in the fields like gossip with nowhere to be,

When Edwin was handed a bucket,

A rag,

And a mission that would haunt him for seasons to come.

Go milk Gertrude,

The stablemaster had said,

Wiping his hands on his apron like he'd just gifted Edwin a sacred right.

She's in a mood today.

Be gentle.

Gertrude was always in a mood.

Sometimes that mood was sleepy disdain.

Other times it was outright war.

She was the only cow in the village with her own nickname among the children,

The Throne of Doom,

And her stare had been known to make grown men reconsider their professions.

Still,

Edwin nodded like a fool and accepted the task,

Mostly because saying no would have meant scrubbing the latrines instead.

At sixteen,

He was an apprentice in everything,

And a master of nothing.

He had once tripped over his own shoe while standing still.

Today,

He was about to learn how to milk a cow.

He approached the barn with the reverence of a man entering battle.

Birds chirped overhead,

Unaware.

The rooster finally crowed,

As if to say,

This is going to be good.

Inside,

Gertrude stood like a statue carved from indignation and hay.

She did not look at Edwin.

She looked through him.

Her eyes narrowed.

Her tail flicked.

Morning,

Edwin said softly,

Trying to sound confident.

I'm here to,

You know,

The milking.

Gertrude didn't respond.

She shifted her weight slightly,

Which might have meant come closer,

Or prepare to die.

It was hard to tell.

He placed the bucket gently beneath her,

Crouched on the stool that wobbled if you breathed too hard,

And reached out with trembling hands.

He had been told the technique.

Thumb and forefinger,

Then the rest of the fingers,

Like squeezing a pouch of mead.

But the utters felt like warm,

Twitchy balloons,

And just touching them made him flinch.

Sorry,

He whispered to Gertrude.

Gertrude sneezed,

Directly onto his face.

Edwin wiped his eyes and tried again.

He gave one slow,

Cautious tug.

Nothing.

Another.

Still nothing.

He looked up,

And Gertrude was chewing slowly,

Staring at him with a smirk that shouldn't have been possible on a bovine.

Please,

He asked.

Somewhere in the distance,

Thunder rumbled.

Or maybe it was the baker's cart.

Either way,

It felt ominous.

He adjusted the bucket,

Tried a firmer grip,

Tugged once more.

A single,

Pathetic squirt of milk hit the side of the pail,

With a sound that mocked him.

Progress,

He whispered,

And then Gertrude moved.

With a twist of her body that defied physics and modesty,

She shifted her rear leg and delivered a precise,

Calculated kick that sent the bucket flying,

Knocked the stool sideways,

And deposited Edwin directly into a pile of straw that smelled distinctly of past regrets.

All right,

He gasped,

Sprawled out,

Staring at the beams above.

Not progress.

Gertrude turned her head.

Snorted.

Resumed chewing.

Edwin sat up,

Covered in milk,

Straw,

And shame.

His tunic clung to him in patches.

His hair looked like it had been licked by a confused ghost,

And the bucket,

Now dented,

Lay on its side like a fallen crown.

He retrieved it,

Dusted it off,

Returned to the stool with the determination of a martyr and the posture of a drowned rat.

Okay,

He muttered.

Again,

This time,

He tried humming.

A soft,

Nervous tune that sounded vaguely like a lullaby and a funeral march at once.

He gave a gentler pull,

Eyes closed,

Hoping that maybe Gertrude was the kind of cow who responded to music.

To his surprise,

She stayed still.

A thin stream of milk began to trickle into the bucket.

He didn't breathe,

Didn't blink,

Just milked,

Slowly,

Rhythmically,

Imagining applause in the distance.

Then the tale came.

It whipped like a whip,

Designed by Satan himself,

Catching him across the cheek and mouth with a wet smack that tasted like manure and betrayal.

The bucket tipped.

Again,

The milk spilled like an offering to the gods of humiliation.

Gertrude let out a low,

Satisfied moo.

By the time the stablemaster returned,

Edwin was slumped against the barn door,

Defeated,

His hands sore,

His shirt stained,

And his expression one of quiet trauma.

Well,

The stablemaster asked,

Arms crossed.

Edwin looked up.

She gave me something.

Milk,

Mostly contempt.

The man chuckled,

Then glanced at the cow.

She only respects two people,

The priest and the old widow who feeds her honey oats on Thursdays.

Everyone else is just a target.

Gertrude snorted in agreement.

Edwin stood,

Handed over the dented bucket,

And wiped his hands on what was left of his dignity.

He wouldn't say he learned how to milk a cow that day,

But he did learn how not to,

Which,

In most villages,

Counted for something.

And Gertrude?

She stood regal and unbothered,

Queen of the barn,

Guardian of udders,

Watching the boy retreat with her tail swishing in slow,

Victorious arcs.

The sun hadn't climbed too far when the village children were released into the fields with what the adults generously referred to as important work.

Important in the sense that it kept them out of the bakery,

Away from the priest,

And preferably far from anything breakable.

They were told to gather weeds from the edge of the barley rows.

They were also told to not hit each other with shovels,

Not climb the scarecrow again,

And not pretend to die in front of travelers.

These requests were understood but not remembered.

A dozen or so children spilled into the fields like noisy birds,

Armed with small shovels,

Baskets,

And the kind of energy that made goats nervous.

Their clothes were patched,

Their shoes uneven,

And their priorities very clear.

Dig something up,

Throw it,

And if possible fall down dramatically afterward.

Thomas,

Age nine,

And already missing two front teeth from unrelated incidents,

Declared himself commander of dirt and immediately appointed a council made up of whichever children hadn't run away when he started shouting.

His first decree was to form a shovel brigade.

You dig,

You duck,

And if you get hit,

You scream,

He said proudly,

Gripping his own shovel like a knight holding a very flat sword.

Marigold,

The oldest at nearly 12 and far too intelligent for her environment,

Rolled her eyes so hard it nearly counted as a full body exercise.

She was supposed to be supervising.

Instead,

She found herself ducking as a rotten turnip flew past her ear.

That was a warning shot,

Yelled a boy named Pip,

Who was never entirely sure what he was warning anyone about.

The battle began soon after.

It was not a battle for land or glory or honor.

It was a battle for boredom,

For attention,

For who could yell,

I've been struck.

With the most theatrical flair while crumpling to the earth like a wounded bard,

Turnips became ammunition,

Clumps of damp soil were grenades,

Sticks turned into staffs,

And someone fashioned a helmet out of a cracked bucket and half a bird's nest.

At one point,

A girl named Elsie lay face down in the grass,

Arms spread wide,

Murmuring,

Tell my goat I loved her,

As if she were breathing her final words into the wind.

No one questioned this.

A younger boy,

Barely five,

Wandered through the middle of the chaos with a dandelion crown on his head and no idea what was happening.

He was gently struck by a flying potato and sat down to contemplate his life.

Two boys engaged in what could only be described as a duel,

Flat shovels clanging together with the precision of a blacksmith and the wisdom of a brick.

One tripped,

The other declared victory,

And began chanting a victory song made entirely of made-up words.

Everyone applauded,

Then booed,

Then applauded again.

A nearby farmer,

Hoe in hand,

Looked up once from his furrows,

Surveyed the chaos,

And returned to work.

He had seen worse.

Last spring,

They'd stolen a wheelbarrow and raced it downhill into the river.

One of them had emerged riding a goose like a chariot.

He didn't ask questions anymore.

Meanwhile,

The weed baskets remained mostly empty.

The shovels,

Though intended for gentle tilling,

Were now covered in dents,

Mud,

And possibly one regrettable snail.

No one had gathered anything remotely useful except for a curious clump of moss that someone insisted was magical and kept in their pocket for luck.

Marigold eventually gave up shouting instructions and began building a tower of rocks in silent protest.

It was at least productive.

For a while,

It reached an impressive height before someone mistook it for an enemy fortress and demolished it with a well-aimed parsnip.

There was one brief moment of truce when someone announced they'd found a rabbit hole.

Everyone gathered,

Wide-eyed and reverent,

Hoping to see ears.

The rabbit did not appear.

Instead,

They argued over what to name it.

Suggestions included Sir Flop,

Mud King,

And Dirt Jesus.

No decision was made.

The sun climbed higher,

Casting long shadows over the field where children lay sprawled like fallen soldiers,

Clutching their sides and laughing.

They were stained with grass,

Dust,

And several substances best left unidentified.

Their hands were blistered,

Their hair full of burrs,

And their faces glowing with the satisfaction of a good,

Pointless fight.

A bell rang faintly from the village square.

To lunchtime.

There was a collective groan.

Not because they weren't hungry,

But because the war had been just getting good.

Still,

They rose,

Shaking off dirt and honor,

And made their slow retreat back through the fields.

Thomas walked with a limp he absolutely did not have ten minutes earlier.

Marigold carried a single weed in her basket,

Symbolic more than useful.

Pip clutched a lump of turnip like a trophy.

Gertrude the cow watched them pass with deep,

Bovine judgment.

Back in the fields,

The overturned soil bore the marks of a morning well-wasted.

Small footprints,

Broken roots,

The scattered remains of vegetables pressed into service as weapons.

The weeds still stood tall.

But so did the stories.

Midday in the village didn't arrive with a bell or a whistle,

Or even much certainty.

It arrived in stomachs.

Grumbling ones,

Growling ones,

Small ones that echoed like a cave when poked.

It arrived in the way a man wiped sweat from his brow and looked toward the sun,

Hoping it was late enough to justify chewing something,

Anything,

Even if it had bark in it.

Lunch,

As a concept,

Was more of a hope than a plan.

Some families prepared for it like a ritual.

Others stumbled into it like a trap.

And many,

Especially the children,

Simply accepted that it would be whatever you could catch,

Steal,

Find,

Or chew fast enough that no one could question it.

In the bakery,

What little bread remained from the morning was crusted,

Hard,

And slightly warm,

If you held it under your armpit long enough.

The baker's apprentice gnawed on a slice while pretending to sweep.

It tasted like flour,

Smoke,

And apology.

Out in the pasture,

Three boys argued over the last scoop of stew in a wooden bowl.

The stew was gray,

Suspiciously gray.

No one could recall what had gone into it,

But one swore it had been turnip,

Another insisted beetroot,

And the third just muttered bones and refused to elaborate.

They decided the only fair way to settle it was a race to the nearest tree and back.

The winner choked it down while the others watched in a mix of envy and concern.

By the well,

An old woman unwrapped a cloth and revealed a hunk of cheese so aged it had developed a personality.

It smelled like foot and defiance.

She cut it with a knife that had seen better centuries,

Popped a piece in her mouth,

And declared it tangy,

Which was generous.

A dog sat nearby,

Hopeful.

She offered it a crumb.

The dog sniffed it,

Then left.

A little girl with dirt on her chin and daisies in her hair tugged a radish from someone else's garden.

She looked both ways,

Then bit it in half.

It was peppery,

Sharp,

And deliciously forbidden.

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve,

Stashed the other half in her pocket for later,

And skipped away like a criminal with no regrets.

The tavern naturally had food,

If you could pay,

Which most couldn't,

But the tavern keeper's son had a soft spot for sob stories and wide eyes.

He slipped two boiled eggs and a piece of stale pie to a passing widow,

Who claimed she hadn't eaten since Tuesday.

It was Thursday.

She winked as she walked away.

Some meals were more creative.

A boy named Lyle carried a squirrel he claimed he found already like that.

His plan to roast it was interrupted by his mother,

Who confiscated it and buried it under the herb patch,

Muttering something about curses.

He made do with a clump of sorrel and an apple he dropped twice.

Near the church steps,

Two girls took turns licking honey off a twig.

They'd found it near the beekeeper's fence and claimed it had just fallen off.

It hadn't,

But they were fast,

And the beekeeper was old,

And so the honey belonged to fate now.

They giggled between licks,

Sticking their fingers into the jar they had not stolen,

Just adopted.

An apprentice blacksmith,

Covered in soot and pride,

Munched on a roasted onion like it was a prize.

No bread,

No salt,

Just onion.

His breath cleared a six-foot radius around him,

And he liked it that way.

He called it warrior seasoning.

Out by the edge of the woods,

An old man cooked something in a pot over a low fire.

No one knew what.

He never said.

Sometimes he whistled while stirring.

Sometimes he just stared into the pot like it was whispering secrets.

Once,

Someone peeked in and saw a bird foot and what might have been a pear.

No one asked twice.

Not all meals were found on the ground,

Or stolen,

Or questionable.

In one cottage,

A mother handed out slices of oat cake and boiled carrots,

Calling each child by name like they were noble guests.

The food wasn't much,

But the children beamed like royalty.

One boy even bowed before biting his carrot.

She curtsied in return.

By mid-meal,

The air was filled with the sounds of chewing,

Slurping,

Spitting,

And one faint argument over who had licked which cheese first.

It was not elegant.

It was not clean.

But it was lunch.

A man on the road stopped for a handful of roasted barley from a pouch on his belt.

It tasted like burnt earth,

But he didn't complain.

Another traveler gnawed on a heel of bread he'd been saving since the last village.

He offered a bite to his mule,

Who declined.

The children who had nothing played a game with a walnut shell and two pebbles,

Pretending it was a feast.

One of them mimed drinking soup.

Another declared her rock was too spicy.

They all agreed it was the best lunch they'd ever had.

Eventually,

Bellies quieted.

Crumbs settled in corners.

Lips were wiped.

Teeth were picked.

And across the village,

People returned to their tasks with the slow satisfaction of survival.

Because in the end,

It didn't matter what it was.

Or where it came from.

If you could catch it,

Chew it,

Or bluff your way through eating it,

Then it was lunch.

And that was enough.

The shoemaker's cottage sat crooked near the edge of the square.

A squat little place with one shutter permanently askew,

And a front step that creaked in protest whenever anyone walked on it,

Especially the shoemaker himself,

Who was known for having the heaviest,

Slowest footsteps in the entire village.

Some said it was because he walked on purpose.

Some said it was the shoes.

And others said it was simply the weight of a man carrying years of quiet rebellion in his arches.

Inside,

The air smelled of leather,

Dust,

And secrets.

Sunlight filtered through a cracked window,

Spotlighting moats that danced lazily above a cluttered workbench littered with scraps,

Thread,

And half-finished boots.

It was a place of industry.

Of craftsmanship.

Of whispered snores that,

If you listened closely,

Didn't quite belong to a busy man.

Because the cobbler was not stitching.

Or hammering.

Or measuring.

At least,

Not in any way that produced footwear.

He was curled under the bench.

Shoes surrounded him,

Like tiny,

Mismatched guards.

A boot with a hole in the heel.

A slipper missing its twin.

A sandal with a buckle so rusted it had become a philosophical question.

The cobbler lay on his side,

Hat tipped low,

Mouth slightly open,

One hand tucked under his cheek as if he'd slipped into childhood mid-task.

His chest rose and fell in the kind of slow,

Deliberate rhythm that suggested a man very much not awake,

And very much not bothered about it.

If you asked him,

If you knocked or coughed or stepped inside loudly enough to wake the floorboards,

He would insist he was measuring souls.

Sometimes,

If he was feeling poetic,

He'd say he was conversing with the leather.

Once,

After a particularly long dose,

He claimed he'd been meditating on arches.

Everyone let him have that one.

The truth was far simpler.

He was tired.

And the bench,

Cramped as it was,

Had become a kind of sanctuary.

In his dreams,

He was always eating.

Mutton pies,

Mostly.

Thick,

Hot ones with flaky crusts and gravy that defied logic.

Sometimes there were potatoes.

Sometimes,

A flagon of ale that refilled itself,

As if the dream knew just how much he'd need.

No one ever interrupted him in these dreams.

No one asked for new heels,

Or to tighten the instep,

Or if he could fix the buckle before Sunday.

Just pie,

And quiet,

And the soft hum of a world where everything fit perfectly.

Above him,

Life carried on.

A young man stepped into the shop,

Looked around,

And called out.

Master Cobbler?

No answer.

He frowned,

Leaned over the counter,

And caught sight of a boot twitching ever so slightly under the bench.

A faint snore confirmed his suspicion.

He waited a respectful moment,

Then tiptoed out,

Deciding the shoe could wait another day.

No one wanted to be the one who woke the cobbler.

Not because he was angry.

He wasn't.

He was just slow to return.

His eyes took a while to focus.

His words came out like soup that hadn't quite boiled,

And once he mistook a broom for a customer and tried to sell it a pair of sandals.

Back in the shadow of the bench,

The cobbler smacked his lips and smiled in his sleep.

The mutton pie was particularly good today.

Outside,

The village buzzed.

The blacksmith's hammer rang out like church bells.

Children shouted over a game of chase the chicken.

The miller cursed about something that was probably his own fault.

And in the midst of it all,

The shoemaker napped on,

Undisturbed,

Wrapped in the scent of tanned hide and baked fantasy.

His apprentice,

A lanky boy named Joss,

Eventually poked his head in.

He spotted the boots in progress,

The scattered tools,

The lack of movement,

And sighed like a man twice his age.

Again,

He muttered,

He walked behind the bench,

Crouched,

And gently slid a rolled-up piece of felt under the cobbler's neck.

The old man shifted slightly,

Murmured something about gravy.

And settled deeper into sleep.

Joss didn't mind.

He liked the quiet.

He liked the way the shop felt like a secret between them.

He even liked that his master sometimes dreamed instead of worked.

It made the shoes he did finish feel a little more magical,

Like they'd come out of a place not quite in this world.

Back under the bench,

The cobbler's fingers twitched.

Maybe he was tying an imaginary shoelace.

Maybe he was reaching for another bite of pie.

No one would know.

A spider wandered across his boot,

Paused,

And thought better of it.

The snoring grew softer.

The light shifted.

Time passed the way it always did in the village.

Unhurried,

Full of corners.

Eventually,

He'd wake up.

He'd stretch,

Smack his lips,

Pretend he'd been checking a seam.

He might even say,

Ah yes,

It's nearly ready.

As if the shoe beneath his bench had been ripening like cheese.

But for now,

The cobbler slept.

Shoes all around him.

Dreaming of pie.

And not a single soul dared wake him.

The bell tolled softly over the village.

A gentle reminder that evening vespers were drawing near.

Chickens squawked in distant corners.

Dogs barked like they were defending the faith itself.

And the air began to settle with that odd,

Glowing hush that made every shadow look just a little longer than it should.

In the chapel,

Father Aldrich stood still as a statue.

Which would have been noble,

Had it not been for the sheer panic creeping across his face.

He had,

At that moment,

Forgotten everything.

Not his name.

He remembered that.

And not his purpose.

He was fairly certain he was still a priest.

But the sermon?

The scroll?

The passage from Luke,

That he'd been muttering all morning while feeding the geese?

Gone.

Completely,

Absolutely,

Gloriously vanished from his mind like smoke through a sieve.

He glanced around the sacristy,

Which resembled less a holy preparation room,

And more the inside of a cupboard that had given up.

Robes were slung over chairs.

Candles leaned like drunks against the walls.

A chalice rested upside down on a stack of hymnals that had been propping up a crooked stool for three months.

Somewhere,

A mouse scurried with the kind of confidence only divine proximity could afford.

All right,

Father Aldrich muttered to himself,

Lifting papers,

Lifting books,

Lifting a crust of bread that had somehow turned into a theological hazard.

Where did I?

I had it this morning.

He checked under the table,

Behind the altar,

In the cabinet where he once accidentally locked a vestment for Lent,

And didn't remember until Pentecost.

The scripture was not there.

Then he noticed something else.

Something colder.

He looked down.

No shoes.

His feet,

Pale and slightly alarmed by the stone floor,

Blinked back at him as if to say,

Good sir,

Why are we naked in God's house?

Oh,

Not again,

Aldrich whispered,

Shuffling toward the far corner where he kept what he called emergency shoes,

A mismatched pair once worn by a monk with one leg slightly longer than the other.

He slid them on with the resignation of a man who knew both fashion and symmetry were sacrifices made long ago in service to a higher calling.

Outside,

The village was already gathering.

The baker's wife stood chatting with the apothecary,

Likely about yeast or sin.

A handful of children were throwing pebbles at the chapel door in what they claimed was a game and not low-grade heresy.

And somewhere near the steps,

Old man Trigg had fallen asleep against a barrel and would probably stay there until someone tripped over him in the dark.

Father Aldrich wiped his forehead.

Vespers,

He muttered.

Evening vespers.

That means light,

Hope,

Repentance,

Shoes.

He blinked.

No,

He had shoes now.

Wrong thread.

He grabbed the nearest Bible,

Flipped through it like he was looking for a recipe,

And landed on something vaguely familiar.

Loaves,

Fishes.

Yes,

He'd make it about abundance,

About trusting the process,

About how even when things seem lost,

Something greater finds its way.

Perfect,

He thought,

Symbolic,

Relevant,

Vaguely edible.

As he straightened his robe and tucked the candle wax stains into a fold no one would see,

He muttered a short prayer,

Not to remember the sermon,

But to survive it.

His memory had never been strong.

Once,

He'd accidentally read a blessing over a baptism.

The baby didn't mind.

The couple left confused but oddly hopeful.

He stepped out of the sacristy and into the soft amber light of the chapel.

The villagers turned,

Their faces sleepy and warm and expectant.

He smiled at them.

The way a man smiles when he's just remembered his fly is down and there's nothing to be done about it now.

Good evening,

He said,

Voice echoing just slightly more than intended.

Tonight's reading is about trust.

He held up the Bible like a shield.

No one could see the page.

He wasn't even sure it was right side up.

There are times,

He began,

When we are sure we've prepared.

We've done all we're meant to do.

And yet we find ourselves standing barefoot in the house of God.

A pause,

A breath,

A knowing glance down at his mismatched shoes.

A chuckle rolled through the room.

He pressed on.

We forget things,

Small things,

Where we left the bread,

Where we left our temper,

Where we left a scroll with our entire sermon for the evening.

But God,

God remembers,

Even when we don't.

A murmur of approval.

Someone in the back whispered,

That's true.

And someone else shushed them with a loving elbow.

Father Aldrich smiled,

More genuine now.

The panic had softened into rhythm,

Into improvisation.

He found the parable tucked in the folds of memory after all.

Not word for word,

But heart for heart.

And so we gather,

He said.

Not to be perfect,

But to be present.

By the end,

No one knew he hadn't planned a word of it.

They left lighter,

If not holier.

The children stopped throwing pebbles.

Even old man Trigg stirred once,

Belched and muttered,

Amen.

Back in the sacristy,

Aldrich sat down heavily,

Kicked off the uneven shoes,

And exhaled into his hands.

He had no idea where he left the original sermon.

But as he leaned back and closed his eyes,

A dream of mutton pies floated through his thoughts.

And for just a moment,

He didn't mind forgetting.

In the beet field just beyond the village,

Where the soil clung to your boots like it had abandonment issues,

Love,

Or something wobbling in that direction,

Was happening.

Her name was Anwen.

His name was Tom.

They were both seventeen and bad at everything except pretending not to like each other.

The sun was high,

The beets were stubborn,

And the silence between them was thick enough to cut with a scythe.

Tom was supposed to be working.

So was Anwen.

The village had declared this part of the field communal,

Which meant everyone took turns pretending to care about beet harvesting while mostly chatting and arguing over who got the biggest roots.

Today,

Tom and Anwen had been paired together by the gods,

Or more likely by Marigold,

Who knew exactly what she was doing.

They worked side by side,

Quietly,

Sort of.

Tom cleared his throat.

Some of these beets are quite round today,

He said.

Anwen looked up,

Beet in hand,

Dirt on her nose.

Yes,

Very beet-like,

He nodded.

This one looks like my uncle's head.

Is that a compliment?

No.

She smiled anyway.

A bird chirped in the distance,

Possibly laughing.

Tom wiped his hands on his tunic,

Which only made them more stained.

He tried again.

I saved you a good one,

He said,

Holding up a beet with a lopsided grin carved faintly into its skin.

Looks like it's smiling.

Anwen took it,

Held it,

Gave it a serious look.

It does,

But in a slightly evil way,

Like your sister.

Anwen gasped.

Take that back.

I won't.

She tossed a clump of soil at his boot.

He dramatically fell backward into the soft earth.

Arms spread like he'd been struck by a lightning beat.

She laughed,

Too loudly.

He stayed down a little longer than necessary.

I was only joking,

He said from the ground.

I know.

A pause.

Do you think,

He ventured carefully,

That if you were a beet,

Just hear me out,

You'd be a very fancy one.

Fancy?

You know,

Regal.

The kind they only serve on feast days.

Anwen sat back on her heels.

And you'd be the one with the wormhole.

Charming.

A cart rattled by on the nearby road.

Neither of them noticed.

She plucked a leaf from a nearby plant and twirled it.

My mother says I shouldn't talk to boys in the field.

My mother says I shouldn't talk at all.

And yet,

Here we are.

Do you talk to other boys?

He asked too quickly.

Anwen raised an eyebrow.

Do you ask that of every girl who throws dirt at you?

No,

Just the ones who catch my eye while elbow,

Deep in tubers.

She flushed.

Not visibly,

But in the way she blinked a little slower and looked away like she suddenly remembered how interesting dirt could be.

I don't talk to many boys,

She said after a moment.

Most of them don't say anything worth hearing.

Tom tried not to smile so big it scared the birds.

I once wrote a poem,

He offered,

About turnips.

Anwen lit up.

Recite it.

It's terrible.

All the best ones are.

He sat up,

Wiped his hands,

And with all the dignity of a farmer knight,

He cleared his throat.

Oh,

Turnips stout and pale and round.

Thy leaves like hats upon the ground.

Thy flesh is firm,

Thy spirit true.

But still,

I'd rather look at you.

He looked at her.

She blinked,

Then snorted,

Then laughed,

Until she had to hide her face in her apron.

You're an idiot,

She said between giggles.

You liked it.

I loved it.

But if you ever say it out loud again,

I'll bury you in beats.

Romantic.

They sat there for a moment,

Not touching,

Not moving,

Just a shared silence filled with beat breath and awkward potential.

In the distance,

A goat bleated.

I like goats,

Tom said.

Anwen tilted her head.

That was smooth.

I'm warming up.

My father would kill you.

I'm very fast.

He's got a crossbow.

I'm not that fast.

They grinned at each other,

And it was the kind of grin that made the rest of the world slightly blurry for a few seconds.

Do you want to walk back together?

She asked softly now.

Even if I didn't,

I'd say yes.

I figured.

She stood,

Brushing soil from her skirt.

He scrambled to stand beside her,

And for a moment they stood awkwardly,

Shoulder to shoulder,

Pretending the wind was more interesting than it was.

She handed him the smiling beat.

For your poem collection.

He took it like it was a relic.

I'll treasure it.

They started walking,

Slowly,

Together,

One step apart,

Then half.

He reached for her hand,

Then pulled back.

She noticed,

Didn't say anything,

Just let the silence stretch kindly between them.

Behind them,

The field was full of crooked rows and half-filled baskets and the echoes of laughter that still hadn't entirely died down.

Love,

In the beat field,

Was clumsy.

It was chaste.

It was a disaster made of blushing cheeks and shared vegetables.

But for Tom and Anwen,

It was everything.

At the edge of the monastery grounds,

Past the herb garden,

And behind the crumbling stone wall,

Where no one bothered to weed,

Lived Brother Cuthbert.

He had a cell of his own,

Technically,

Though he was rarely in it.

He preferred the woods,

Or the pond,

Or crouched behind the chapel,

Whispering to slugs,

Depending on the day.

Cuthbert was not like the other monks.

For one,

He collected owl feathers,

Not quills,

Not relics,

Feathers,

Hundreds of them,

Sorted by length,

Hue,

And what he called emotional aura.

He kept them tucked into his robe sleeves like bookmarks for thoughts he hadn't finished thinking.

Sometimes they'd fall out mid-conversation,

And he'd chase them with the urgency of a man rescuing Holy Scripture.

He also talked to trees,

Not metaphorically,

Not in the literary poetic way,

Literally,

With pauses,

With questions,

With nods of understanding.

He referred to the oak near the well as Father Elric,

And often told the novices that the maple by the brook wept sap for sinners.

Some people hear angels,

He once said.

I hear bark.

And then there were the spoons.

Brother Cuthbert carved spoons with a skill that could only be described as unsettling.

No one had taught him.

One day he picked up a crooked twig,

Muttered something about hidden shape,

And by sunset had produced a ladle so elegant the abbot refused to use it for fear of spiritual offense.

Every spoon was different.

Some had handles shaped like spirals,

Others like bird beaks.

One had the faint face of a woman etched into its bowl,

And no one could look at it too long without feeling like they owed her an apology.

The kitchen had dozens,

Yet the cook insisted on using only one.

The rest were for show,

Or possibly for defense,

Depending on her mood.

No one really knew where Cuthbert had come from.

He arrived one misty morning with a satchel of moss,

Three acorns,

And a carved badger he claimed could smell sin.

The abbot,

Having once spent six hours chasing a goose through the cloister,

Decided he had no grounds to turn anyone away and welcomed him.

Since then,

Cuthbert had become both a curiosity and a legend.

Novices whispered that he once healed a pigeon with just his breath.

Others said he'd been struck by lightning twice and thanked the sky both times.

A few insisted he kept a journal written entirely in bird footprints.

When asked,

He only smiled and said,

Some truths are feathered.

The villagers regarded him with a blend of reverence and alarm.

Children left him offerings of dandelions and buttons.

Old women crossed themselves when he passed,

But asked for talismans,

Just in case.

Young men dared each other to ask him questions like,

What do you dream about,

And then fled when he actually answered.

Mostly echoes,

He once said.

Sometimes,

Jam.

One day,

The abbot tried to assign him a formal duty.

Script copying.

Cuthbert agreed and promptly filled a parchment with drawings of frogs in various hats.

When asked what gospel this was,

He replied,

Mark,

Probably,

If he'd had more frogs.

They moved him to gardening.

He planted in spirals.

The cabbage sprouted in a circle that seemed to repel snails.

The lettuce grew in the shape of a fish,

Accidentally honoring an obscure saint.

No one argued.

The produce was excellent.

And yet,

For all his oddness,

Cuthbert was beloved.

He never missed morning prayers,

Even if he arrived wearing a crown of thistles or dripping wet from some silent encounter with the stream.

He listened better than anyone.

When Brother Alwin's mother died,

Cuthbert sat with him all night,

Saying nothing,

Just whittling a spoon shaped like a weeping willow.

He once scared off a bandit with a long stare and a handful of dried mushrooms.

The bandit returned a week later to return a borrowed staff and ask if Cuthbert could bless his goat.

The spoon carver did,

Solemnly,

With three owl feathers and a chant that may or may not have been improvised.

The goat was never the same,

In a good way.

At meals,

He rarely spoke.

But when he did,

It was always something no one expected.

The moon is a borrowed tooth,

He said once,

Mid-pottage.

No one asked what he meant.

They just nodded.

It felt true.

Sometimes,

In the dead of night,

He could be seen dancing barefoot behind the chapel.

Slowly,

Gracefully,

Arms outstretched like he was listening to a hymn only the dirt could sing.

No one stopped him.

In fact,

A few of the younger monks started joining him,

Though clumsily,

And always in silence.

Was he mad?

Maybe.

Was he wise?

Possibly more than any of them.

But most agreed he was something else entirely.

A question the monastery had been lucky enough to receive without needing an answer.

So he whittled.

He wandered.

He whispered to the trees.

And the trees,

If you listened closely,

If you really listened,

Sometimes whispered back.

Down by the river,

Where the reeds swayed like nosy old men and the water moved slow enough to hear secrets,

The women gathered with baskets of laundry and mouths,

Already half open.

The sun was still stretching its arms above the hills,

But the gossip had already begun.

Laundry day was never really about laundry.

It was about the rhythm of scrubbing and speaking,

About pounding stains out of tunics,

While casually destroying reputations.

The soap was made of ash and lard,

Rough as sand and just as unforgiving.

Clothes got clean,

Sure.

But what really sparkled was the conversation.

The older women arrived first,

Wrinkled hands,

Sharp eyes,

Tongues oiled and ready.

They laid out their linens like battle plans,

Rolled up their sleeves,

And set to work with the precision of executioners.

Each slap of a wet garment against the stone was punctuation.

Did you hear what Maud's boy did with that hedge girl?

One of them asked,

Tossing a shirt down with flair.

No,

Said another,

Lathering a sock that had seen things,

But I hope you're about to tell me.

And so the tale began.

Half true,

Half invented,

All delicious.

Younger women trickled in next,

Laughing,

Yawning,

Clutching damp bundles.

They greeted their elders with respectful nods and took their places along the shore,

Feigning modesty.

But their ears were wide open,

Their hands scrubbing absentmindedly,

Their minds already stitching together what they'd heard last week with what they'd overheard today.

Somewhere down the line,

A girl named Brenna dropped a tunic into the river by accident.

She shrieked and ran after it,

Splashing wildly,

Only to be met with cheers and applause from the rest.

When she returned,

Dripping and defeated,

An older woman handed her a cloth and said,

That tunic floated better than your chances with the butcher's son.

Laughter.

It wasn't all cruelty.

There was warmth in the teasing,

A kind of rough affection wrapped in sarcasm.

They picked at each other like birds,

But if anyone else tried it,

They'd defend each other with fists and soap bars.

Midway down the bank,

Two sisters,

Ida and Roe,

Worked side by side,

Elbowing each other as they scrubbed.

Ida was quiet,

Which made her a favorite target.

So,

Roe said,

Eyes forward,

Voice casual.

You and Willem the miller's apprentice were walking awful close last market day.

Ida didn't respond,

Just wrung out a tunic with more force than was strictly necessary.

You were smiling.

He said something funny.

He's never said anything funny in his life.

A pause.

Then Ida,

Voice just above a whisper,

Replied.

He said he likes my laugh.

Roe blinked.

Oh,

There it was.

An accidental confession.

Not meant to be shared.

Already too late.

Roe grinned like a cat.

That's gonna cost you three weeks of firewood chores if you want me to keep that quiet.

Two.

Done.

At the far end,

Near a cluster of trees,

A woman named Elfrida hummed while beating a tunic that clearly belonged to her husband.

With every slap,

Her hum grew louder.

No one asked questions.

Eventually,

The confessions started slipping out like they always did.

Half laughing,

Half daring.

That's the thing about repetitive work.

It loosens the tongue.

The arms move on instinct,

And the mouth forgets to be careful.

I never liked the midwife,

Someone said,

Scrubbing hard.

She smells like sour milk and makes too many comments about hips.

I kissed my cousin once,

Another offered,

And then.

.

.

But it was dark,

And I didn't know until afterward.

I put nettles in my mother-in-law's bedding.

Gasps.

Cackles.

I think my husband's having dreams about that tavern girl.

You think?

Mine moans her name in his sleep.

They howled.

One woman laughed so hard she dropped her lye bucket into the river and had to wade in after it while muttering prayers that were only technically in Latin.

A soft breeze rustled the trees overhead.

Birds chirped,

Oblivious.

A frog plopped into the shallows and instantly regretted it.

By late morning,

The riverbank was a patchwork of drying cloth,

Damp skirts,

And freshly released secrets.

Some of the women lay back on the grass,

Catching their breath.

Others kept scrubbing,

Not because the clothes needed it,

But because it gave their hands something to do while their minds untangled new rumors.

A girl who'd barely spoken all morning suddenly said,

I think I want to marry someone who doesn't live here.

Silence.

Then a quiet voice replied,

Good luck finding one who wants to live with you.

More laughter.

Eventually,

The sun climbed too high and the work began to slow.

Baskets were refilled,

Tunics folded.

The river,

Now cloudy from soap and sins,

Gurgled softly as if promising to hold their secrets,

At least until tomorrow.

As they trudged back to the village,

Arms full and mouth still moving,

One thing was certain.

Before the next bell rang,

Every one of those confessions would echo off someone else's kitchen wall.

The clothes would be clean,

But the stories?

Never.

He arrived with a lute slung over his back and the swagger of someone who mistook mild applause for prophecy.

The villagers welcomed him,

Of course.

That's what you did when a minstrel came through.

Offer him a bowl of soup,

A spot near the fire,

Maybe a place in the barn if he didn't smell too badly.

He'd play a few songs,

Tell a tale or two,

Then vanish with the next cart of turnips.

But this one stayed.

At first,

It was charming.

His name,

He insisted,

Was Sir Eldrick of the Seven Strings,

Though no one could confirm whether that referred to his lute or something more anatomical.

He wore a hat with an absurd feather and spoke in poetic riddles even when asking for directions to the outhouse.

In the year of our lord,

May I inquire where yon latrine doth reside,

He once asked old Murda,

Who simply pointed and muttered.

Over there,

And don't yawn me.

He performed in the square every evening,

Without fail.

The first night,

The children danced.

The second,

The butcher's wife,

Clapped along.

By the fifth,

Most people found urgent reasons to be elsewhere,

Like checking on nonexistent goats or rearranging firewood.

The problem wasn't just that he stayed.

It was that he only knew three songs.

Exactly three.

One about a brave knight who loved a swan,

Which grew less romantic the more you thought about it.

One about a miller's daughter and some deeply questionable metaphors.

And one called,

The wind doth moan for thee,

Which involved a lot of moaning,

Literal moaning.

He hit the same note at least seventeen times.

When asked if he knew anything else,

He'd smile like he'd been mistaken for royalty and reply,

Ah,

But these are sacred tales,

Crafted under moonlight and muse.

And overcooked,

Muttered the baker's son.

It wasn't just the songs,

Though.

It was how every tale began.

In the year of our lord,

Didn't matter what he was talking about.

A dragon?

In the year of our lord,

A beast of flame?

A stolen pie?

In the year of our lord,

A most wicked pastry vanished?

Once,

He tried to explain the rules of a dice game to the blacksmith using the same opening.

The blacksmith nodded politely,

Then threw the dice into the fire.

He lingered at the inn,

Strumming softly,

Waiting for someone to ask for a tune.

No one did.

He wandered into the chapel,

Claiming the acoustics helped him commune with the divine,

Though the priest gently asked him to stop turning psalms into limericks.

He wandered the fields,

Serenading cows.

They're more forgiving than people,

He said one afternoon,

Sighing beside Gertrude,

The largest and least impressed of the herd.

By the second week,

He began inserting himself into conversations.

You know,

In the year of our lord,

Don't,

Someone would say.

But he would.

The children began avoiding him,

Fearing another rendition of the swan song.

The apothecary swore her sleeping draughts were selling better than ever.

The innkeeper,

Who had initially offered a straw pallet out of courtesy,

Started hinting that the weather was fine enough to sleep under the stars.

Eldrick took this as a compliment to his endurance.

He wasn't entirely useless.

He helped carry baskets.

He once patched a hole in the tavern roof,

Though he sang while doing it.

He was polite,

Clean,

Somehow,

And never stole a thing.

But his presence clung like flower dust.

Everywhere.

Impossible to remove.

Slightly sweet,

But mostly annoying.

A secret meeting was held behind the granary.

What if we tell him there's a music contest in the next town?

He'll come back with a trophy.

Can we bribe him?

With what?

Our remaining patience?

Someone suggested sending him into the forest to serenade bears.

Another floated the idea of marriage.

Surely someone in a far-off village would take him.

Eventually.

But no one had the heart to be cruel.

He meant well.

He smiled like a dog that didn't know it had tracked mud into the chapel.

And he was trying.

Always trying.

One evening the village gathered around the well.

A cool breeze stirred the lanterns.

Eldrick appeared,

Loot in hand,

Eyes shining.

Friends,

He began.

In the year of our Lord.

Groans.

Audible groans.

I shall perform a new piece.

Head snapped up.

New.

He cleared his throat.

Strummed once.

Then.

Silence.

I forgot the second verse,

He said sheepishly.

But I remember the chorus.

It was,

Unfortunately,

The moaning part.

Still,

He sang it.

People laughed.

Not at the song.

But at the spectacle.

Someone handed him a crust of bread.

A child danced.

Badly.

And for a moment,

The irritation faded.

He was still terrible.

But he was theirs now.

Every morning.

Just after the sun spilled across the thatched rooftops,

And long before anyone truly wanted to be awake,

The village Reeve began his round.

He walked with the ceremonial authority of someone who'd been given a job no one else wanted,

But everyone was happy to let him keep.

His name was Edren,

And he took boredom more seriously than most men took their vows.

He wore the same brown cloak every day,

Which somehow managed to look both stiff and sagging,

Like it had opinions but lacked the courage to share them.

A small wooden badge hung around his neck to prove his office,

Though most villagers assumed it was a token from a failed romance.

He walked slowly,

As if each step had been pre-approved by a committee.

And in a way,

It had.

The job of Reeve,

After all,

Was mostly about appearances.

He began at the east fence,

Where the slats had been half-missing since Candlemas.

He squinted at the damage,

Rubbed his chin thoughtfully,

And moved on without comment.

That was the ritual.

Check the fences.

Don't fix the fences.

Pretend you're making a list of the fences.

Morning,

Reeve,

Called a voice from the cowpen.

Edren nodded.

A fair morning to you,

Hilda.

Fence is down again.

Yes,

He said,

With the gravity of a man reporting on war.

I've noticed.

He did not stop.

If he stopped,

Someone might ask him to do something.

So he walked.

Past the broken fence.

Past the one held together with a belt.

Past the one that had been replaced entirely with bundles of dried reeds and wishful thinking.

The next stop was the grain store.

He checked the lock,

Which wasn't locked.

He checked the hinges,

Which were mostly rust and prayer.

He tapped the wood twice,

His version of an inspection,

And moved on.

Inside,

A mouse stared at him with the confident gaze of someone who paid no taxes.

He walked the perimeter of the pasture where the sheep sometimes remembered to stay.

A few stared at him,

Unimpressed.

One followed briefly,

Then got bored.

Edren stopped to inspect a gate that was technically attached,

But mostly leaning.

He placed one hand on it,

Sighed deeply,

Then stepped back and gave it a nod,

As if to say,

You're doing your best.

By mid-morning,

He reached the manor's outer wall.

It was solid,

Imposing,

And entirely outside his jurisdiction.

He stared at it anyway,

Just to feel included.

A servant passed,

Carrying a basket of apples.

Reeve,

She said with a small curtsy.

Walls seem sturdy,

He noted,

Gesturing vaguely.

She looked at the wall.

Then at him.

Then kept walking.

At the well,

He paused to inspect the bucket rope for fraying.

It had frayed last spring and frayed further every week since.

But so long as the water still came up and no one drowned,

It remained a future problem.

Edren tugged at once.

The bucket creaked.

Satisfied,

He moved on.

His notebook was mostly blank.

He sometimes pretended to write things down,

But the quill was dry,

And he'd forgotten the ink three years ago.

Still,

People respected the performance.

That was the key.

The villagers didn't want a Reeve who solved problems.

They wanted one who noticed them,

Made a serious face,

And then moved along like a man burdened with invisible calculations.

He made his way to the pigsty,

Which wasn't part of his official round,

But had become a personal ritual.

The pigs liked him.

He didn't know why.

Maybe it was his pace.

Maybe it was because he never asked anything of them.

He leaned on the gate,

Watching as one snorted and rolled in the mud with theatrical joy.

Must be nice,

He muttered.

Back through the main path,

He passed the blacksmith,

Who was hammering something too hot and too loud to be polite.

Edren raised a hand.

Fences holding up?

The blacksmith grunted.

It might have been yes.

It might have been go away.

By the time he reached the final corner of the village,

The place where the old millstone had been turned into a bench,

The sun was high,

And his job was technically done.

He sat,

Exhaled,

And removed his badge,

Setting it on his lap like a paperweight of responsibility.

He'd accomplished little.

Nothing had been fixed.

No scrolls had been written.

But every eye that had seen him knew the Reeve had made his round.

That was enough.

A boy ran past with a broken bucket,

Trailed by a trail of drips and laughter.

Edren watched him go,

Leaned back on the stone bench,

And gazed out across the village.

It was all still standing.

Mostly.

The fences could wait.

The mice weren't unionized.

And if the sky didn't fall before supper,

He'd call it another successful day.

Boredom.

Nobly endured.

That was the real job.

It began,

As most disasters masquerading as joy do,

With a bell.

A single,

Sharp clang rang out from the center of the village square just after dawn.

No one was scheduled to ring it.

It wasn't a feast day.

No saint was being honored.

The crops hadn't done anything worth celebrating.

And yet,

The bell tolled,

Echoing through morning mist,

Like a question no one wanted to answer.

Then came the shouting.

Festival day,

Someone cried.

No one could say who.

The words leapt from mouth to mouth like sparks in a dry barn.

By the time the sun cleared the trees,

It was already being repeated as fact.

It's festival day.

Of course it is.

Long live the festival.

What are we celebrating?

Doesn't matter.

Pies involved.

And that was enough.

The baker,

Still in his nightshirt,

Stumbled outside to find three women banging on his shutters.

We need twenty pies,

They declared.

I haven't made dough,

He replied.

Then make some,

They said,

Or the festival gods will be angry.

He blinked.

We have festival gods?

Today we do.

The blacksmith's apprentice began tying ribbons to a fence post.

The fence post collapsed.

He tied them to a goat instead.

The goat,

Named Oswald,

And already known for questionable decision-making,

Took this as a sign of political ascension and began head-butting barrels with imperial pride.

By mid-morning the square was unrecognizable.

Someone had dragged out a fiddle.

Someone else,

Who had never played the flute before but claimed a strong family resemblance to those who had attempted to join in.

The result was music,

If music could be defined broadly enough to include wailing cats and stepped-on ducks.

The butcher declared he'd host a competition.

Guess what's in this pie?

Entry was free.

Regret was not.

A group of children reenacted a heroic tale of Sir Turnip and the Dragon of Dirt,

Which involved one boy wearing a bucket and another pretending to breathe fire with the help of an unfortunate chili pepper.

An old woman blessed them both.

No one knew if she was an actual healer or just enjoying the moment.

At the edge of the crowd,

The priest stood squinting in confusion.

Who sanctioned this?

You did,

Father.

Someone lied.

Oh,

He said.

Well,

Let us give thanks.

He raised his hands.

A cheer went up.

The cheer had nothing to do with him.

It was because the goat had just stolen someone's hat and was wearing it with undeniable style.

Banners appeared,

Though no one could recall owning banners.

One was clearly a bedsheet.

Another had suspiciously familiar embroidery from someone's Sunday tunic.

But hung high and flapping in the breeze,

They looked official enough to convince even the skeptics.

There was dancing.

There was tripping disguised as dancing.

There was something that could only be described as enthusiastic flailing from the reeve who insisted he was performing a traditional harvest jig from his youth.

The crowd politely avoided eye contact while giving him space.

The pies,

When they emerged,

Were diverse in both content and structural integrity.

One was definitely just mashed beans inside a bread bowl.

Another may have contained fish or soap.

It was hard to tell.

Everyone agreed to smile while chewing.

The ale flowed early.

Too early.

By noon,

The blacksmith was serenading a pig.

The pig,

To its credit,

Seemed charmed.

By one o'clock,

Two arguments had broken out over whether this was a real holiday or just an elaborate prank.

By two,

Both parties were drunk enough to agree that it didn't matter.

Should we do this every year?

Someone shouted.

Yes,

Someone else replied.

Especially the pies.

No,

Not the pies,

Shouted a third,

Mouth still full.

Children raced in circles.

A man juggled three onions and then sneezed himself into unconsciousness.

The goat climbed the hay cart and attempted a speech.

No one understood it,

But the applause was thunderous.

As afternoon settled into its lazier phase,

The square became a sea of napping bodies and crumpled paper crowns.

The fiddler had broken two strings.

The flute had been lost in a barrel.

Someone passed around honey cakes that were mostly just honey with regrets.

The priest eventually sat beside the baker,

Both men sipping from the same jug.

What are we celebrating again?

The baker asked.

Unity,

Said the priest,

Squinting into the sun.

Or chaos.

Maybe both.

It's not a real holiday,

Is it?

Is any of them?

The priest shrugged.

People remembered joy.

That seems worth ringing a bell over.

They clinked cups.

Somewhere,

The goat fell off the hay cart.

By nightfall,

Torches flickered,

Songs stumbled,

And the air grew thick with contented confusion.

No one remembered who rang the bell.

No one knew if it would happen again.

But for one odd,

Inexplicable day,

The village had celebrated something no one could name.

And that,

Somehow,

Felt sacred.

The village was asleep.

Or at least pretending to be.

The hearths had burned low.

The bread had hardened.

The last dog had given up barking at shadows.

But out in the meadow beyond the last fence post,

The one that leaned like it had given up trying,

Something was happening.

It always started the same.

A whisper passed from mouth to mouth after supper,

Slipped between bites of stew and sips of weak ale.

They're going to the meadow tonight.

No one said who.

No one needed to.

The meadow,

Flat and moon-soaked,

Was where young villagers went when they had things to say that couldn't survive the daylight.

Things like,

I think I love you.

Or,

We shouldn't have done that.

Or,

What if we just ran away and became candle merchants?

The moon tonight was full and nosy,

Hanging fat over the treetops like it wanted a front row seat.

Crickets chirped with gossiping rhythm.

The air smelled of grass,

Wood smoke,

And nerves.

Marigold was the first to arrive.

Her hair braided so tightly it gave away how long she'd spent preparing.

She stood near the old oak,

Pretending to admire the view while counting her breaths.

Beside her,

Tucked under her sleeve,

Was a wilted posy.

Not fresh,

But intentional.

A token.

A maybe.

Soon came Tom.

Boots muddy,

Shirt clean.

Unusual.

Which meant something was afoot.

He paced three steps to the left,

Then two to the right,

Then started over.

The moon watched him.

So did Marigold.

Though she didn't say a word.

Elsewhere,

Behind the blackberry bushes,

Elsie and Marta whispered like they were planning a heist.

He's going to ask her tonight.

No,

He's not.

He told Joran.

Joran lies.

He was crying when he said it.

Could be allergies.

The two girls paused to watch a pair stumbling over the hilltop,

Hands clasped awkwardly like they hadn't decided if it was romantic or a negotiation.

Down by the riverbank,

Someone was singing.

Badly.

Someone else hushed them.

A third person started clapping to the beat.

The village knight was alive with potential disasters.

Then came the first proposal.

It wasn't dramatic.

Just a boy kneeling in a puddle,

Offering a bent ring in a shaky sentence.

I know I've got nothing,

But maybe we could have nothing together.

The girl blinked,

Said nothing,

Then kissed him hard enough to startle a nearby owl.

He forgot how to stand.

She forgot how to breathe.

Not far off,

Someone else tried the same,

But fumbled.

Will you?

Do you want to?

If I built a hut,

Would.

.

.

She stared at him.

That's your pitch?

He wilted.

There'd be goats.

I'm allergic to goats.

The moon did not blink.

It merely listened.

Under its watch,

A dozen almost lovers stumbled through half-confessions,

Whispered dreams,

And impulsive handholds.

Someone sang again,

Louder this time.

Someone sobbed beside a log.

Another person offered a bracelet made of twine and regret.

At least two proposals were accepted.

One was sealed with a promise to not be as annoying next year.

The other was sealed with a pinky swear and a spit handshake.

But not everyone left glowing.

Lena waited an hour under the hawthorn tree,

Clutching a note in her sleeve.

He never came.

She burned the note with a flint and walked home barefoot,

Wiping her eyes like they were just adjusting to the moonlight.

Gareth proposed to the wrong girl by mistake.

In the dark,

Cloaks look awfully similar.

She laughed until she cried.

He cried until he laughed.

They both agreed to pretend it never happened.

Two boys stood side by side in silence for twenty minutes.

One eventually said,

Well,

Good night.

The other nodded.

Both stayed five more minutes,

Just in case.

The priest's daughter,

Who wasn't supposed to be there at all,

Kissed someone behind the old millstone and immediately whispered,

I think I've made a terrible mistake.

He replied,

I think I've made a great one.

The goat was there,

Too,

Somehow,

Wearing a garland,

Possibly betrothed.

By the time the stars began to fade and the horizon hinted at gray,

The meadow looked like the aftermath of a very emotional harvest.

Bits of ribbon,

Forgotten shoes,

A crushed flower crown.

The kind of mess you only get when too many hearts are left slightly open.

One couple walked home in silence,

Fingers brushing occasionally,

Not quite ready to hold hands but too hopeful not to try again tomorrow.

One boy ran,

Just ran,

For no reason except that he'd said something stupid,

And the only way to outpace shame was with feet.

And somewhere,

Alone beneath the tree,

Marigold still stood.

Tom had never come over.

She waited until the sky turned pale,

Then dropped the posy,

Turned around,

And walked home with a dignity that cracked only once when she tripped on a root.

By morning no one would speak of it,

Not directly,

But glances would linger,

Smiles would mean more,

And two people would avoid each other until next week,

When the awkwardness wore off or blossomed into something worse.

Midnight had been kind to some,

Cruel to others,

But it had been honest.

And in the year of our Lord,

Honesty under the moon was as close to magic as most villagers ever got.

Evening vespers had just begun,

And the chapel smelled like wax and wet wool.

The priest had cleared his throat precisely twice.

The exact number needed to signal divine readiness.

And the villagers had settled into their usual formation,

Solemn,

Mildly damp,

And trying not to sneeze.

Candles flickered like they,

Too,

Were trying to stay awake.

Rain tapped gently on the chapel roof,

And the choir boys were humming the pre-hymn hum,

Which was not official but had become a tradition in the way that all things done repeatedly tend to become sacred.

Then came the chicken.

It entered like a ghost,

With no fanfare and no apology,

Slipping through the open side door left ajar by a latecomer named Ellis,

Who would later deny everything.

At first,

No one noticed.

The chicken moved with the kind of stealth usually reserved for sinners and tax collectors.

It was a modest chicken,

Brown-feathered,

Beady-eyed,

Possibly sentient.

It strutted halfway down the aisle before anyone made a sound.

It was the blacksmith's daughter who saw it first.

There's a chicken,

She whispered.

Her brother shushed her.

No,

Look,

It's under the third bench.

The priest paused mid-sentence.

He who sows in sorrow shall reap in.

Cluck.

The sound echoed louder than it should have.

The villagers,

Trained in the sacred art of ignoring awkward things in sacred places,

Remained frozen.

Except the chicken,

Who had now perched itself near the altar and was pecking curiously at a discarded bit of wax.

The priest closed his book.

Did anyone bring that?

The silence said no.

The silence also said,

Let's all agree to pretend it's not happening.

Then the chicken flapped.

One mighty burst of feathers and indignation,

And suddenly it was in the air,

Briefly,

Before landing squarely in the lap of old Hilda,

Who had not been sat on by a living creature in over three decades.

She let out a yelp that turned into a cough,

That turned into a blasphemous mutter,

Which was enough to wake even the snorers in the back pew.

Chaos bloomed.

Children shrieked.

Grown men ducked.

Someone threw a hymnal,

Not at the chicken,

But in its general direction,

As if the spirit of psalmody might banish poultry.

The priest attempted a prayer,

But what came out was,

Lord deliver us from,

Cluck.

The chicken leapt again,

Landed on the pulpit,

And stared at the congregation like a visiting dignitary from the realm of farmyard heresy.

Then it began to preen.

That is not a holy bird,

Muttered the apothecary.

The priest,

Sweating now,

Raised his arms as if to summon angels.

This is the work of the devil.

The devil's name is Margaret,

Shouted one of the children,

Pointing with glee.

And just like that,

The chicken had a name.

Margaret.

Strutted to the edge of the pulpit,

Clucked once,

Then hopped down and made for the baptismal font.

She's going for the water,

Someone cried.

She seeks redemption,

Someone else offered.

At this point,

The chapel was split into three factions.

Those trying to catch Margaret,

Those trying not to laugh,

And those who had accepted this as part of the liturgy and were humming softly to themselves.

The priest was not among the amused.

He chased Margaret with a ceremonial candle,

Shouting something about unclean spirits and poultry in sacred spaces.

The candle went out.

Margaret escaped.

The children cheered.

The baker's wife tried to trap her using her shawl.

The shawl got torn.

Margaret escaped again.

Eventually,

It was the youngest choir boy,

Small,

Quiet,

And mostly ignored,

Who simply crouched and held out a piece of bread.

Margaret approached,

Slowly,

Suspiciously,

Then took the bread.

He scooped her up,

Arms full of feathers and triumph,

And held her like a relic.

The congregation applauded.

The priest tried to restore order.

Ahem,

Let us return to prayer,

He said,

Adjusting his robes in pride.

Margaret was carried out with great ceremony,

As if she were a visiting saint being respectfully exiled.

Evening prayers resumed,

Shakier than before.

Every few minutes someone would stifle a giggle.

The blacksmith's wife wiped tears from her cheeks.

The reeve swore he'd seen a sign.

The priest pretended not to see the feather,

Still floating gently near the altar.

After the final amen,

People filed out quietly,

As if nothing unusual had occurred.

Except for the children.

They clustered near the steps,

Whispering to each other.

She's our chicken now,

One declared.

She's chosen.

Margaret the holy.

Margaret the terrible.

They couldn't agree on her title,

But they did agree she should live in the shed behind the chapel and be fed every Wednesday.

No one asked the priest's permission.

That night,

The village slept with the vague,

Amused satisfaction of people who had witnessed something both ridiculous and vaguely divine.

The stars above twinkled like candlelight,

And somewhere behind the chapel,

Margaret nestled into a pile of straw,

Unaware that she had achieved accidental sainthood.

And in the village's collective memory,

Long after the candles had burned out and the hymnals had been repaired,

This night would be known simply as the time Margaret invaded the chapel,

And everything got just a little more holy.

By the time the last chores were done,

And the wind had curled its fingers through the thatched rooftops,

The villagers began to gather,

Not by invitation,

Never that formal,

But by instinct,

As if the crackling hearth sent out a silent summons to all souls within earshot.

One by one,

They slipped inside the great hall beside the tavern,

Where the fire burned steady,

And the benches were just soft enough to tolerate for an hour or two.

The flames danced against soot-darkened stone,

Painting shadows on the walls that looked like giants one moment and chickens the next.

The room smelled of smoke,

Damp wool,

Old onions,

And the faintest trace of mead.

A pot hung over the fire,

Bubbling something that claimed to be soup,

Though it was mostly memories and a single carrot floating like a survivor.

Children curled in corners,

Chewing bread crusts,

And pretending not to fall asleep.

Elders leaned on elbows.

Middle-aged men stretched out their legs in exaggerated comfort,

Even as they quietly rubbed their knees.

Women passed around a cloth of boiled chestnuts,

And made quiet bets about how long it would take before someone mentioned dragons.

Then came the stories.

It always started with Tolan,

The miller's cousin.

No one knew what exactly he did,

Somewhere between brewing,

Borrowing,

And bothering,

But he had a voice like gravel and a gift for exaggeration.

Did I ever tell you about the time I met the ghost in the barley fields?

A chorus of groans,

A few grins.

Yes,

Shouted the children.

No,

Shouted Tolan,

Ignoring them.

That was his brother.

This was the older ghost,

Meaner,

Drunker,

Smelled like turnips.

The story spiraled quickly.

Barley that whispered,

A ghost with one boot,

And a fondness for whistling at sheep.

A chase that ended with Tolan locked in a grain bin overnight.

You just passed out in there,

Muttered someone.

Semantics,

He replied.

Next came Maud,

Who claimed she once knew a man who wrestled a bear for romantic reasons.

No one believed her,

Especially since the bear was later revealed to be a very large dog,

And the romance ended in a splintered fence and two missing teeth.

Still,

She told it well,

And her voice rose and fell like a fiddle tune,

Making even the nonsense feel noble.

Then there was Wilfred,

Who always told the same story,

About a chicken that laid an egg shaped like a perfect cube.

Every time,

The details changed slightly.

Tonight,

The chicken's name was Judith,

And the egg was mistaken for a dice and used in a game that ended a marriage.

Between stories,

Mugs clinked,

Logs shifted,

And someone threw another stick on the fire.

Sparks jumped like they had somewhere to be.

A hush fell when old Bram spoke up.

He rarely did.

He was missing two fingers and all of his patience,

But he told stories like he'd This one's true,

He said,

Which was how you knew it absolutely wasn't.

He told of a knight,

Who had no horse,

Only a very determined goat named Cyril.

The knight rode Cyril into battle,

Or tried to,

And the goat responded by eating part of his armor.

They never made it past the gate.

But somehow,

Bram spun it into a tale of destiny,

Betrayal,

And goat-based prophecy.

By the end,

People were wiping tears from their eyes,

Some from laughter,

Others from sheer confusion.

The fire snapped louder,

As if laughing,

Too.

Children now dozed,

Heads on laps,

Breaths slow and deep.

One boy dreamed with his eyes open,

Staring into the flames like they might tell a story back.

Outside,

The wind howled just once,

A reminder that the world beyond the hearth was wide and cold and uncaring.

But in here,

The walls held steady,

The laughter held longer.

Rilla told a tale of a man who sneezed so hard,

It dislodged a tooth and changed the outcome of a local election.

Someone else added a bit about a woman who claimed to hear bees in her bread,

Which turned out to be true,

And the bread had to be exercised.

I once saw a duck walk into the tavern,

Quack three times,

And leave.

Was it a real duck?

Define real.

The stories blurred into one another,

Like watercolors left in the rain.

Impossible to separate truth from jest,

Or memory from invention.

And that was the point.

Stories weren't for record-keeping.

They were for warmth.

For distraction.

For stretching a single evening into something that felt longer,

Fuller,

And less ordinary.

Eventually,

The yawns came in waves.

Boots scraped the floor.

Cloaks were pulled tight.

One by one,

The villagers stood,

Nodded goodnights,

And slipped back into the night.

Only the fire remained awake,

Low and glowing,

Whispering to the last embers about goats and ghosts and the strange things people believe when the stars are out and the stew's been shared.

Tomorrow,

There would be fences to mend,

Cows to milk,

Pies to burn.

But tonight,

There had been dragons,

And square eggs,

And the memory of laughter echoing in the smoke.

Night fell slowly,

As if it,

Too,

Was reluctant to lie down in this particular village.

The last embers of daylight slipped behind the hills,

And one by one,

Candles were snuffed out,

Shutters creaked closed,

And people climbed into beds that could generously be described as wooden excuses for comfort.

Inside the cottages,

The world narrowed.

The clatter and chatter of day faded into the soft rustle of blankets stuffed with straw,

The occasional clink of a chamber pot lid,

And the heavy sighs of bodies surrendering to sleep,

Or trying to.

It was not a peaceful process.

Snoring began,

Almost immediately.

Not a soft,

Dignified snore,

But a full-throated,

Furniture-rattling declaration of unconsciousness,

The sort of sound that suggested the sleeper was in a wrestling match with his own throat and winning decisively.

It started in the blacksmith's hut.

Always him.

And then,

As if in reply,

Another snore erupted from three doors down,

Slightly higher in pitch,

Like a duet no one had asked for.

A dog whimpered in its sleep.

A baby coughed once,

And then decided against waking.

The wind tapped a loose shutter.

Somewhere,

Someone muttered,

Turn over,

You old donkey,

And received a grunt in response,

Followed by a loud,

Wet-sounding fart.

That,

Too,

Was the nightly symphony.

Flatulence had no shame in this village.

It was considered a sign of health,

Vigor,

And,

Occasionally,

Victory.

The baker's wife had once claimed her husband farted so loudly,

It scared the rats out of the grain store.

Whether this was true or not,

The rats were gone,

And the baker was proud.

Tonight,

The gas was especially sociable.

A rhythmic series echoed from the tailor's cottage,

Followed by laughter.

He and his wife made a game of guessing what animal each one sounded like.

That was definitely a goose,

She whispered.

In another hut,

Two teenage boys lay on opposite ends of a lumpy mattress,

Giggling like fools.

Did you hear that?

No.

That was you.

Was not.

Felt the draft.

They dissolved into giggles again,

Muffling the sound with pillows that had once been sacks of grain.

And through it all,

The fleas partied.

They were the true insomniacs of the village,

Tiny tyrants of the mattress realm.

As soon as human skin made contact with straw,

The fleas leapt into action like it was opening night at the theater.

Bites were delivered with precision.

Itches bloomed like unwanted flowers.

People scratched in their sleep.

Some moaned softly.

One woman,

Half awake,

Slapped her leg and whispered,

Got you,

You little demon,

Before rolling over triumphantly.

The apothecary claimed to have a flea-repelling salve made of garlic,

Mint,

And hopeless optimism.

It worked for exactly one night.

Then the fleas came back with reinforcements.

Dreams stirred,

Strange and slippery.

The blacksmith dreamt of a dancing cow that judged him harshly.

A young girl imagined her chicken could talk,

And accused her of theft.

The reeve,

Noble even in slumber,

Muttered official-sounding things about fences and cabbage law.

He would deny it all come morning.

In the manor house,

The steward snored so rhythmically,

It was mistaken for drumming.

The housemaid dreamt of a feast where all the spoons had legs and ran away just before the soup was served.

In one cottage,

A widow dreamed of her husband.

Not how he was,

But how she wished he had been.

He didn't snore in the dream.

He smelled of rosemary and knew how to dance.

Down in the common house,

The last fire sputtered in the hearth.

One man sat upright in his sleep,

Eyes fluttering,

Muttering about taxes and trousers.

His bunkmate nudged him flat again.

Even the animals had joined the chorus.

A pig snorted in its pen,

Chasing something in its sleep,

Perhaps a runaway apple,

Perhaps a grudge.

The goats murmured softly,

And one sneezed with such force it scared the other into tipping over a bucket.

The night deepened.

The stars blinked,

Distant and unimpressed.

The moon crept across the sky,

Peering through thin windows,

Lighting up crooked noses and open mouths,

Tattered quilts and dangling feet.

Outside,

The wind sang its own lullaby through the trees.

A barn door creaked.

A frog chirped once,

Decided against it,

And went back to doing nothing.

And in the village,

Sleep held most in its arms.

Not tenderly,

Not gently,

But effectively.

Despite the snores and farts,

The scratching and the muttering,

The dreams and itches,

The people slept.

Because this was life.

Loud,

Itchy,

Slightly embarrassing.

And tomorrow would come soon.

With roosters,

Burnt porridge,

And someone pretending they hadn't talked in their sleep about marrying a goat.

But for now,

The village breathed,

Huffed,

Snored,

And shuffled under the patchy quilt of night.

And in the darkness,

A single flea paused,

Wiped its tiny face,

And got back to work.

The fire had gone out in most homes now.

Just a thin ribbon of smoke trailed from a few chimneys,

Curling up into the star-choked sky like a final sigh.

The village had quieted,

Not silenced,

Never that,

But hushed,

As if the earth itself had pulled up a woolen blanket and settled in.

But there was always one last task.

Tomlin pulled on his boots by feel,

Not sight.

They were still damp from the stream,

And one had a bit of straw lodged inside.

But he didn't complain.

He was used to it.

He lifted the lantern with a grunt,

Its light dim but warm,

And stepped out into the cool breath of night.

His wife mumbled something from the bed.

Probably,

Don't forget the latch,

Or maybe just turnip soup.

But he nodded anyway.

Out in the yard,

The ground was soft and forgiving,

Still holding the day's warmth in its belly.

He made his way past the lean-to,

Past the rain barrel,

Past the patch of stubborn weeds that had resisted three seasons of insults.

The barn loomed ahead,

More shadow than structure now,

Its roof sagging slightly like an old man bowing to the moon.

He pushed the door open with a creak that felt louder than it should have,

As if the wood were complaining about being disturbed so late.

Inside,

The barn was alive in the way night-time barns always are.

A soft rustle here,

A gentle snort there,

Straw shifting like it had secrets.

The smell hit him,

Familiar and oddly comforting.

A mixture of hay,

Manure,

Damp wood,

And the unexplainable scent that only animals seem to make.

All right,

Tomlin whispered.

Just one last look.

He walked past the chickens first.

Most were huddled in clumps,

Dreaming of worms and dominance.

One lifted its head,

Blinked at him with reptilian judgment,

And tucked itself back into feathered sleep.

The goat-pen came next.

The twins,

Mumble and Crick,

Were tangled together in a way that defied logic and physics.

One of them chewed something in its sleep.

Tomlin didn't ask what.

Then came the main event.

Gertrude.

She was the largest animal in the village,

Possibly the oldest,

Definitely the loudest.

She had opinions about everything,

And wasn't shy about expressing them.

If the world wasn't to her liking,

She'd let you know,

With a kick,

A bellow,

Or a long pointed stare that seemed to pass judgment on your entire lineage.

But tonight,

Gertrude was quiet.

She lay curled in the straw like a great hairy boulder.

Her breathing was slow and steady.

Her eyes,

Half-lidded,

Tracked Tomlin's approach with the weary tolerance of someone who has lived too long to be surprised by anything anymore.

He knelt beside her.

You all right,

Girl?

He asked softly.

She blinked once,

Then closed her eyes.

That's what I thought.

He reached out and gently scratched the patch behind her ear she liked,

The one that made her twitch her nose and groan like a spoiled baroness.

She didn't twitch tonight,

Just a long exhale,

Warm and damp,

And the faintest shuffle of hooves against straw.

Tomlin stayed there for a while,

Not doing anything,

Not thinking about anything either,

Just breathing with her,

Listening to the creaks of the barn,

Feeling the weight of day loosen its grip.

In the loft above,

A mouse rustled.

Probably the same one that had been stealing from the grain sack all week.

Tomlin didn't care tonight.

Let it have its crumbs.

He stood,

Bones creaking louder than the barn door.

Good night,

Gertrude,

He whispered.

She didn't reply.

Outside,

The stars were still watching.

Thousands of them,

Scattered across the sky like forgotten seeds,

Some bright,

Some faint,

All ancient.

He paused and looked up,

Just for a second.

No prayers,

No thoughts,

Just a glance,

Just enough to feel small in the right way.

Back inside,

The village was deep in its dreams.

The baker rolled over and muttered about burnt crusts.

The priest mumbled an unfinished sermon.

A child somewhere whispered dragon,

Then snored like one.

Even the dogs were still,

Their tails twitching at memories of rabbits that had gotten away.

Tomlin slipped back into the house,

Careful not to let the door squeal.

He set the lantern down,

Pulled off his boots,

Slid beneath the blanket beside his wife,

Who reached out without waking and placed a hand on his chest like she was counting the beats.

Outside,

The barn stood watch.

Inside,

Gertrude sighed,

Rolled once,

And finally settled.

And above it all,

The stars blinked slow and silent,

Keeping secrets only the night could understand.