Riven Isles

3 | A Fine Smell

The Oswald family owns two-thirds of the land in Amity, which earns them a fair share of proceeds from many of the businesses. The arrangement was initially set up by Sir Archibald Oswald in the fourteen-hundreds, as is known, but the community relations have never been better than they have been with our Cornelius, and to me, that means all the world. He is a wise man, and a good man, rolled into one.

Every time I visit his estate, one of the oldest and grandest buildings in town, I swear it gets better. This time of year, the flowers are bright and colorful. The sweet smell of them is nearly enough to cover up the stink of my strange companions.

In the orchard, which runs up the left side of the hill, I spy the red of apples in season. A gardener emerges from the trees with a bulging sack over his shoulder and starts up the path to the kitchen, a building separate to the main manor. With any luck, the bulge would be from a ripe harvest of juicy fruit.

Greedy as I am, and I'll scold myself for it later, worry not, my mouth waters. Perhaps I could expect some apple crumble, or apple dumplings. Apple fritters, apple pies.

"Oh, you pig," chide I to I. Yesterday, I ate nothing at all. Could you blame me for being hungry? Not rightfully, I'll say.

Thenshie blinks her gaping eyes at me. "Pig, who?"

"Nothing. No one. Never mind."

She returns her attention to Rootwig and carries on rattling her foreign tongue. Thank Laod.

I dangle my feet over the back of the cart and place a hand on my rumbly tummy. If I think about it, I reckon I wouldn't have eaten yesterday, even if I'd been given the chance. I'd had a lot of things on my mind. Things that left me reeling.

My mother didn't have eyelids. My mother didn't have eyes.

My stomach churns violently, and my interest in dessert washes away. I must discipline myself not to think of it, else how will I ever eat again? As a man, I need to eat.

"Master Avery! Dear boy, the doctor will be so relieved to see you."

I sit up straight and search for he who hailed me. Mr. Jeffreys, I think, is his name. Although, I'm not sure, so I don't address him properly. I wave. "I'll be even more so to see him, sir."

The stableman smiles and strokes the muzzle of the Aquian's horse. He releases her from the cart's burden, and peers back at me with a sad look about his features. I feel something unpleasant come over me right away.

"We've all heard what happened."

It's like one moment I was in the sun, and the next, beneath a stormcloud—in the bad kind of shade. It's a feeling like the light and warmth of the world is taken away, out of my control. It's just... cold. And I don't know why, and it must be in my head, but it is real.

"I'm... very sorry."

"Yes..." I'm not sure what to say, and I don't think he is, either. It's puzzling. "Thank you."

It seems right. I lower my eyes. I catch his solemn nod in my peripheral, and awkwardly return it. He doesn't say anything more to me but mumbles a gentle praise to the horse. With a slow gait, he leads her towards the stables.

"You may leave your cart here," he grunts to Rootwig, our driver.

Thenshie translates, and I lower myself to the cobbled stone driveway. The warmth of the surface feels good on my battered feet. I wiggle my toes, and let it calm me. The eerie coldness lifts with the heat, and I'm thankful for it. With a deep breath, I tuck my rusty safe under my arm and clear my throat.