Seven days later, Cyrus carried a bucket of oats to the stable as streams of golden light slipped past the mountain. An array of pinks, oranges, and purples painted the morning sky, and a crisp breeze nipped at his skin, sending goosebumps under his new tunic.
He rubbed his arms while hooking the stall gate with his boot, and pulling it open. Inside, the snow-white donkey brayed, and flicked its tail, swatting away a swarm of flies.
"Morning, Starvhost. Ready for your breakfast?" Cyrus asked. He barely had time to dump the oats into the trough, before the donkey pushed him aside, and shoved its head into the food. "I'll take that as a yes."
Hanging the bucket from a hook, he checked the tub of water, then made his way back outside. Across the clearing, Berrodin went about his morning ritual of cleaning the forge, polishing his tools, and restocking the charcoal.
Cyrus enjoyed the silence while it lasted, taking his time to walk the garden, and check for any ripe vegetables. As he did so, he noticed a few weeds, pushing through the soil. He knelt, reaching for the strands, when a whisper called out to him, soft as the summer breeze.
Though no words were spoken, he found himself drawn in, transfixed by what reminded him of a rustling forest, or a wind-swept field. He leaned forward, the world around growing blurry as the emerald stalks danced beneath his fingers.
'What? What is it?' Cyrus wondered. He strained his ears, trying to make sense of nature's melody.
"-rus? Cyrus, are you alright?"
Cyrus snapped out of his daze, and jerked back his hand. His palm tingled, but he ignored it as Berrodin approached.
"I'm alright," Cyrus said. He sheepishly smiled, and gestured towards the weeds. "I just found myself lost in thought while gardening."
Berrodin frowned. "If that's all, then stop wasting time, and come give me a hand. I need you to load the remainder of the crates, while I finish the last three sets of horseshoes. After that, we'll head to Withro."
Cyrus brushed his hands on his trousers, and stood. "How long will it take us to reach the village?"
"About half a day," Berrodin said, heading back to the hut. "Quicker if old Starvhost there keeps a steady pace."
"How much quicker?" Cyrus asked.
"No idea. The stubborn beast refuses to walk more than an hour without taking a break," Berrodin said.
"Sounds a bit like you, if I'm being honest," Cyrus said.
"Bah. What do you know?" Berrodin asked, waving his hand.
Cyrus grinned, but his smile faded as he glanced back at the weeds. The whispers had gone, and his hands no longer tingled, but the sensation remained, as though someone were watching him.
Shaking his head, he turned away from the garden. 'I must be mad. Whispering plants? As if there could ever be such a thing.'
…
Four hours later, Cyrus sat nestled between the rattling crates in the back of Berrodin's wagon. As the cottage faded in the distance, he turned his gaze to the surrounding forest, brimming with life.
Rabbits and beavers scampered away as they rode close, while the occasional deer trail cut across the dirt road, before disappearing back into the foliage. Overhead, the flock of flametail sparrows chased each other through the air, before a hawk appeared, scattering the birds back into the trees.
As he watched them, Cyrus wondered if the land he came from was as peaceful as this, and what might have happened to him for him to forget. Lost in thought, he didn't realize how much time had passed until the wagon broke free of the trees and entered a small valley dotted with hills cloaked in yellow grass. Specks of white washed over a distant knoll as a herd of sheep flocked away from a dog.
Cyrus shifted his gaze to the village of Withro, which rested in the center. Its cobblestone houses were topped by thatched roofs and wooden eaves, while short fences lined the sides and backs. A flash of pink drew his attention to the left, where a pig stuck its nose between the beams, and stared at him. Behind it, several chickens clucked, and pecked at the dirt.
A second, larger fence stretched around the outskirts of the village, forming a pasture for the cows and horses. Cyrus watched as a group of boys climbed the planks, and darted between the grazing cattle. A young boy with light brown hair ran at the front, dodging the others, and ducking out of their grasps.
Their game led them to the edge of a river, where they stripped their tunics, and launched into the water. Shouts of glee and laughter filled the air, louder than the pleas of nearby farmers, warning them to be careful.
"Those boys must run on a furnace. The water flows from the snow caps, and is freezing," Berrodin said. Shaking his head, the old man guided the wagon to the village center and stopped beside a wooden stall lined with shelves and hooks. A bit of dirt coated the top, while dry leaves collected around the base and sides.
"I'm going to sell what I can while we're here," Berrodin said. He twisted in his seat. "Would you mind taking Starvhost to the stables while I clean up? You'll find them near the east end of the village."
"I can do that." Cyrus unharnessed the donkey, and led it through the village. Along the way, people stopped to watch him, and muttered amongst themselves. He lowered his head to avoid eye contact, and quickened his pace.
When he reached the end of the village, he wrinkled his nose. The scent of horse manure permeated the air, thick enough to taste. The smell led him to the stables, a spacious building connected to the fenced pasture, with an open hall through the middle, lined by high stalls.
A boy cleaned the nearest stall with a sour expression, his clothes stained with dirt and hay. As Cyrus approached, he glanced up and frowned, his hazel eyes peering out suspiciously from beneath a mess of brown hair.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Cyrus. Berrodin told me to bring his donkey here."
"Berrodin, the blacksmith?" The boy asked, relaxing a bit. He studied the donkey, then gestured towards a freshly cleaned stall, stocked with a basin of water, and new hay. "Very well. You can place him there. I'll bring over some oats once I finish cleaning."
"Thank you," Cyrus said. He led Starvhost to the stall, and the donkey eagerly pulled to the hay.
After patting its mane, Cyrus latched the gate and returned to the boy.
"Do I need to do anything else?"
"No. My father usually tends to his accounts at the beginning of the year, but he's searching for a few missing cows right now, and won't be back until later. "
"I see. I'll let Berrodin know," Cyrus said. He waved farewell to the boy, then hurried back through the village.
By the time he returned, Berrodin had finished displaying his wares, and now stood haggling with a group of men over the prices.
As they spoke, Cyrus settled against the wagon, and studied the landscape. His gaze shifted from the river, to the mountains and the forest beyond. In the pasture, a herd of cows grazed on the long grass, while stomping their hooves to shake off the flies.
As Cyrus watched them, he heard a murmur on the wind, similar to the whispers in the garden. He glanced around with a furrowed brow, checking the streets and alleys for people passing. However, the mutters faded before he could pinpoint their source.
'What in the world is happening?' Cyrus wondered. Frowning, he glanced to the sky as heavy clouds darkened the valley.