[Primrose Bolger]

‘Come down, little one.’ He must think her a child. Though, he had called her a fellow traveler. Surely he did not think children would be about at night, alone. The tall ones were puzzling, a fact she had heard from her father, and learned on the road.

There was a certain kindness in his voice that made her listen to his words. She saw him fiddle with something at his belt and heard the clink of metal on metal as he bent beneath the tree. When his tall lean figure had disappeared into the belly of the Inn, she peered down, seeking what had interested him so much. Moving the leaves aside let the light filter down to the ground in larger splotches, and there, perched on the gnarled length of the root, were several rounded, silver objects.

‘Coins,’ she whispered with a certain surety to the leaves that pressed in against her. From somewhere in her mind Kiera pulled that word up. She rolled the word about in her mouth, tasting the sound of it. She had none of her own; her people did not use them. There was the small bow and arrows, or her sling with its pouch of thumb sized rocks for food. Tasty roots and berries when game was scarce, and always the sweet water of flowing rivers for drink. Still, they were a necessary thing in those parts of the world where people crowded together and dwelt in immovable structures.

This would be a chance for her to pay in kind what was expected at the Inn, she thought. Before times, at other Inns, she had brought in a stringer of quail or one of fish, trading for what she needed. Now there would be no need to haggle over a price. She would present her coins and none would look askance at her.

But they were not really her coins, she argued with herself. If she took them she would be a beggar, or worse yet a thief. Kiera pulled her knees up beneath her chin, encircled by her arms. Rocking back and forth she considered how to keep her honor clear. Perhaps he would trade for them. Though what of hers would one of the tall ones want from her? She fingered the necklace of small rough pebbles her brother had made for her. Precious it was to her, but not to the old man she supposed. Her weapons and hunting gear were minimal and she could not afford to lose one of them. Except for the water skin she carried and the clothes on her back, there was naught else she could think of.

Then, from her belt she took the slender pouch that held her small number of personal items, and poured the contents out onto her now outstretched legs. A small carved wood tree frog; a stone, more crudely carved, in the shape of a lumpish seated man – ‘May the Old Ones look after you,’ her mother had said, pressing it into her hand when she left; the whorl of a river snail captured in a small piece of grey stone. A short, thin wooden bird whistle and a little clay pipe wrapped in cloth one of the bearded ones from beneath the ground had given her. None of these, it seemed to her, would carry interest for any other than herself. Last to roll out was a small green stone. She held it up between her thumb and forefinger, admiring the glint of moonlight through the glassy surface. Perhaps he would like this – she had seen such captured in metal bandings and worn as decoration by the tall ones.

Kiera scooped her treasures back into her pouch, and secured it at her waist. Quick as a wink she was down the tree, grabbing the coins in a single pass of her nimble fingers and scaling up the trunk once more.

Tomorrow she would visit the Inn and leave the old man her stone in payment.