Issime
06-14-12, 01:58 PM
Flocculent white clouds in suspiciously even ranks and files threw a checkerboard-like pattern of shadows and sunlight on the ground below. Ancient olives, their thick trunks twisted and gnarled, sighed and waved in the pleasant breeze. Behind each bough trailed a thin, streaming cloud of feathery white petals, their purposes finished with the arrival of summer. Up on this hilltop was peace and quiet, save for a pair of chipmunks currently engaging in a noisy, amorous bout of tag.
There came a growing creaking noise accompanied by clattering and rumbling. The chipmunks scattered like a pair of teenagers hearing the front door opening early. A mule-pulled wagon crested the last rise and started down the top of this poor excuse for a hill. It was filled to the brim with cargo: bags of millet, baskets of cherries, pails of fresh butter, and one small woman.
Issime was dozing contently in the wagon, her head pillowed by a sack of millet, her face covered by her hat, and her mind consumed by happy reflections. Bradbury was a rich and pleasant land to travel through and ply her trade. There were always friendly people to be found and willing eyes and ears for her lessons, though the geometry lessons were suspiciously popular. In the last village, there had been a rather dividing issue between three brothers who had all inherited pieces of the family orchard from their late father. An argument ensued over the fairness of dividing the oddly-shaped territory, which was wrapped between two streams and a bit of commons, that polarized neighbors and friends against each other.
It took all morning for her to finish a rough surveying of the fields with ruler, protractor, and shoes at the request of all three brothers. This resulted in some new tension and harsh words when the magnitude of imbalance was realized. The two elder brothers were on the verge of simply kicking out the third for the sake of having a clean boundary line when Issime intervened once again and sung them a song of caring, compassion, and harmony.
She giggled to herself, there was no sound. That was the problem with resorting to enchanted means of persuasion: she stole her own voice for hours afterwards. The entire village was absurdly cheerful and friendly afterwards. The impromptu all-hands potluck luncheon was delicious. There were still a few choice pieces that she was keeping in her engorged luggages. All the offers of hospitality were tempting, but Issime had an appointment to keep in a few days elsewhere. So she hitched a free ride on this wagon to town instead.
A plump plum plopped onto her hat, shattering the nap into a dozen confused pieces. It rolled along the brim, dropped off the bottom, and came to a rest against the base of her neck. Issime reached up and lifted her hat in time to notice the wagon starting to move again. There were a few cherry baskets missing and a few plum baskets added.
"Though you'd like one. Good and sweet for an early-season plum." Derrick, the driver, was talking between mouthfuls of his own plum. The man had tried to strike up a conversation when the trip first started but was foiled by his passenger's general silence. She got him to understand that she didn't dislike him and it was just a peculiar condition of hers. He got her to understand that he was going to make up for the quiet by humming possibly rowdy tunes the entire time.
Issime sat up and bit into the plum. They were coming down the hill now and just about to enter Barolon, where Derrick was going to meet some buyers. Hopefully, she'll be able to find a place to set up for lessons here, then eventually find a ride to the next town.
There came a growing creaking noise accompanied by clattering and rumbling. The chipmunks scattered like a pair of teenagers hearing the front door opening early. A mule-pulled wagon crested the last rise and started down the top of this poor excuse for a hill. It was filled to the brim with cargo: bags of millet, baskets of cherries, pails of fresh butter, and one small woman.
Issime was dozing contently in the wagon, her head pillowed by a sack of millet, her face covered by her hat, and her mind consumed by happy reflections. Bradbury was a rich and pleasant land to travel through and ply her trade. There were always friendly people to be found and willing eyes and ears for her lessons, though the geometry lessons were suspiciously popular. In the last village, there had been a rather dividing issue between three brothers who had all inherited pieces of the family orchard from their late father. An argument ensued over the fairness of dividing the oddly-shaped territory, which was wrapped between two streams and a bit of commons, that polarized neighbors and friends against each other.
It took all morning for her to finish a rough surveying of the fields with ruler, protractor, and shoes at the request of all three brothers. This resulted in some new tension and harsh words when the magnitude of imbalance was realized. The two elder brothers were on the verge of simply kicking out the third for the sake of having a clean boundary line when Issime intervened once again and sung them a song of caring, compassion, and harmony.
She giggled to herself, there was no sound. That was the problem with resorting to enchanted means of persuasion: she stole her own voice for hours afterwards. The entire village was absurdly cheerful and friendly afterwards. The impromptu all-hands potluck luncheon was delicious. There were still a few choice pieces that she was keeping in her engorged luggages. All the offers of hospitality were tempting, but Issime had an appointment to keep in a few days elsewhere. So she hitched a free ride on this wagon to town instead.
A plump plum plopped onto her hat, shattering the nap into a dozen confused pieces. It rolled along the brim, dropped off the bottom, and came to a rest against the base of her neck. Issime reached up and lifted her hat in time to notice the wagon starting to move again. There were a few cherry baskets missing and a few plum baskets added.
"Though you'd like one. Good and sweet for an early-season plum." Derrick, the driver, was talking between mouthfuls of his own plum. The man had tried to strike up a conversation when the trip first started but was foiled by his passenger's general silence. She got him to understand that she didn't dislike him and it was just a peculiar condition of hers. He got her to understand that he was going to make up for the quiet by humming possibly rowdy tunes the entire time.
Issime sat up and bit into the plum. They were coming down the hill now and just about to enter Barolon, where Derrick was going to meet some buyers. Hopefully, she'll be able to find a place to set up for lessons here, then eventually find a ride to the next town.