Chapter 1: Mind My Wares

Reads: 2897

“Mind my wares,” the peddler says. He means, don’t jostle the contents of the basket I carry on my back. We’d practiced putting it on and taking it off, seating the bone frame on my back, always keeping it upright. “Now put it on, pesca.”

The peddler bends over me to swat the hood at my belt. I grab it, but it slips out of my fingers and falls to the ground. The right strap of my pack slips off my shoulder and I feel the contents shift.

“Mind my wares. Stand up straight. The goblins are on your face now. Look at me.”

The peddler grabs my chin to turn my face up at him.

“There’s no runes out here, pesca. When the dark comes, nothing protects you but that. Now, fix that strap.”

I fix the strap on my shoulder then start to bend to recover the hood, but the peddler chides me for meaning to bend over. I squat down, keeping the basket upright on my back and reach for the hood.

“If that’s hard, boy, don’t drop the hood. Up with you. No, fix the hood to your belt again. We’ll practice this right.”

When he says, I grab the hood from my belt and pull it over my head. The strap slips off my right shoulder and the pack shifts.

“You’ve got it wrong,” he says. “Look at you!”

I can’t look at me, of course. The hood is all cattywampus. My face is where my ear should be and as I try to turn it, the pack shifts. As I take a breath, the stench of the shark leather bites. I stop myself from wrenching.

I finally get the hood turned around so I can breathe through the patch of cloth.

“That was rank, pesca,” the peddler tells me. I realize that he’s holding one of the straps to steady the pack on my back. “Take it off,” he says. I pull it off over my head with my left hand while he reseats the pack over my shoulder.

“I -” I start to say.

He stomps around in front of me. “Hold it like this,” he says. This is the same as he told me when we left home. He puts the hood in both hands, putting my hands where he wants them. “Now, up and over all at once.”

“My strap slipped,” I say.

“And you almost dropped my wares,” the peddler says. He flicks me on the forehead with his finger. “You could have put it on by now,” he says. He moves in to flick me again, the first one still smarting.

I pull the hood on over my head, in one motion, and tighten the tie around my neck to hold it true.

The peddler’s voice comes muffled through the sharkskin. “You cannot smack away a goblin. Slap one aside and you won’t get the hood on in time. Take it off.”

He’s picking on me like the older boys do, but he’s a grown up and I can’t fight back.

“On again,” he says. He flicks my forehead before I can react. I want to punch him, but I know better.

I feel tears shame ooze up and the smell of the thing makes me -

“Take it off,” he says.

I pull it off and hold the hood by the collar, my thumbs at the seams, like he taught me.

“You tightened it too much,” he says. My eyes are on his hands, resting on his belt. Next to his hood. “If you choke yourself and fall down, the goblins peck their way through the leather. Put it on,” he says.

This time, it’s over my head before he can flick me. I’ll show him. I’ll get it on so fast -

And I’m standing there, hands at the collar, checking that I have room to breathe.

I feel the sweat on my skin - probably making the smell of the hood worse.

“What do I do?” I ask after a few harsh breaths.

“Do you think they’re going to go away?” he shouts - his voice still muffled by the hood. “What did we teach you?”

I hold my left hand over my face - the hood wouldn’t fool a goblin, not even a little. I shrug myself out of the right strap, then switch hands, my right over my face, I rest the pack on the ground.

“Step forward,” the peddler tells me. “Two steps, don’t fall down and don’t knock over my wares.”

I step forward, holding both hands by my temples, ready to slap away any goblins that come from this way or that.

I stand there, the cloth patch over my mouth getting wet, my whole head feeling hot, feeling flushed.

“Take it off,” he says.

I pull it off, holding like he taught me, thumbs on the seams.

He pops me in the face. I stagger back.

“That’s for being a blubberer,” he says. He grabs my shirt to help steady me - and to not fall back on his wares, where they sit on the ground behind him. “This is a man’s job,” he tells me. “Most walkers die in a circle. So if you’re a crybaby, cry right now and get it out and done with.”

I remember trying not cry even while I cried. I blubbered and sobbed and snot flowed and I shook.

“Don’t stop, pesca,” he derided me. “There’s lots of crybaby in there and you have to get it out.”

After forever, I stop crying. Still holding the hood - the right way, with my thumbs on the seams - I rubbed my face on my forearm.

“Don’t get it on your shirt,” he tells me. He’s behind me now. He wraps his hand around my face and holds one nostril shut. “Blow,” he says. “Blow!”

I blow out the snot and do the other side on my own.

He turns and walks away. “Get that pack on,” he calls without turning. “Catch up,” he says. “Mind my wares!”

Submitted: March 04, 2023

Fantasy sprite goblins bones