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001 ─── ∙ ⊰ ❀ ⊱ ∙ ──────── ∙ ⊰ ❀ ⊱ ∙ ───
Reaching the edge of the forest, Roman halted and dropped to one knee. Cradling his rifle, he gazed down at the scene spread below him, his expression calm and watchful.
From his elevated position, the ground sprawled away gently, gradually widening out into a swathe of rich green meadow grass speckled with blue violets, through which ran a simple stream fringed by stands of scarlet oak and white willow. Tree stumps dotted the incline, evidence of the labour that had gone into converting the land and raising the single-storey, timber-built cabin that nestled in the centre of the clearing.
A small cornfield and a well-stocked vegetable patch occupied one side of the dwelling. On the other, there was a paddock containing two horses and beyond that a fenced-in pasture where three dun-coloured milk cows grazed placidly, tails swishing to deter the summer flies. A pile of untrimmed branches lay nearby, next to a large oak stump. Driven into the stump were a hatchet and a long-handled woodman's axe.
There was no sign of the farm's occupants.
Looks quiet enough, Roman thought as he admired the stillness of the setting. Dawn had broken more than ten minutes earlier but across the surface of the meadow, dew drops shone like diamonds in the soft morning haze.
It was as Roman's gaze shifted to the plume of woodsmoke rising in a lazy spiral above the cabin's shingle roof, that a shadow moved within the trees on the far side of the clearing.
He tensed and then watched as a young female stepped out from behind a clump of silver birch. Holding nothing but merely a feather quill, her digits gently traced over the pattern before her.
Releasing his breath, Roman remained still. A tinge of curiosity thickened the air around him as he descried the material she had acquired.
A red pheasant quill; certainly not an expense a villager could easily bestow to a child, let alone grant for themselves.
Strange, yet ever-so fascinating. The kid looked as though she'd been jangled by invisible strings from above, only the puppeteer might've been drunk.
The one thing Roman could make out beneath her swaying dirty-blonde locks was this huge smile, able to light up day, no matter the darkness.
The warmth she emanated was genuine, assured.
Undoubtedly it was a fond surprise to her interest. But now that he'd thought of it, from whom did they owe such an extortionate gift?
As Roman continued to scrutinise in awe of the bustle the young girl carried, for a moment it looked as though she was scanning for something within the pasture.
