Penned in precise and evenly lined sentences, a blank page near the middle of a slightly scuffed, top-grain leather journal is newly inscribed. If one were to flip past the filled pages to the very beginning, one would find the first page titled with: Bernie Tweed, Bree-land followed by a series of odd symbols.
15 Mede
Home, Bree-land.
√ Spent the day clearing up the hives what needed it, and then sorting my papers that were running amok on pa’s old davenport.
→ Lot’s looking real gnarly of late, so need to get out there with my muckers and get that sorted.
→ Tucked the dues to you know who in an envelope, got to see about getting a carrier to take it over cause I got no time for it.
≡ Well if these past few days weren’t some of the more interesting times for yours truly. Weren’t even home for the main of em, but had an unexpected stay over at Miss Bryndis’ flat up in town on account of her keeping gimcrack furnishings in her place. Wound up smarting from a chair what just gave up the ghost while my hiney were atop it, for no reason at all, and so’s she insisted I stay til it were mended up some. Course she were worrying overly much on all that cause this hiney’s rugged as they come, but stay I did and I do believe she liked having the company such as it were.
Something I still don’t get bout that gal in particular though, and that’s why she don’t just hire up a cleaning doll to come in once or thrice a week to fix up the place. Got real fancy coloured walls and checkered flooring what looks like it cost her a dwarfen mint, but then just tosses round her cruddy plates and mugs in a pile like she were starting a game of jackstraws over her good maple counters. Now I were an obliging houseguest so’s I helped sort all that mess out for her while I were there. And she appreciated my help. Appreciated heartily.
But after a few days of all that, it were high time that yours truly got back round to minding my home and workstuff, for things go well when you sweat a little. Parted with Miss Bryndis and ambled on home in the half-light of the sleepy sun, slaphappy for the most part with how life were going now (cept for the silver-tinged dreams I still get, and also this whole debt-mess with Sanders never being smooth.) And that’s when I were beset upon by a matchstick-headed waif atop a coal-black gelding: Miss Kitowyn. Good gravy.
Asked her straight out if she’d taken that horse from my neighbours, for this girl were always coming up with barmy arsed ideas like that, which she denied. Not sure if that were true or nay, but if Ol’ Haywood from up the hill goes following them horse tracks he’ll show up round here soon nough looking.
Anyway, she toppled down off that carthorse and motioned up to my porch where there were now a tatty white sheet covering my wall. And this were where yours truly feared the worst, on account of being on the receiving end of a few of her previous ‘surprises.’ Did she burn down the wall? Knock out the masonry? Rub beastie dung all over it? High dread wrapped in a mucky linen is what this were.
But - it weren’t like that at all once I yanked the sheet down, and here I’ll say in truth that this one time Miss Kitowyn had done right by me --
She painted me up a nice sign, which has ‘Bernie’s Bees’ spellt out in some kind of fancy lettering, with my devilishly good-looking mug beaming down the lane to whoever goes apassing by. And it were done cleverly, no sloppiness anywhere on it, no wayward spots or patchy holes. Miss Kitowyn were an artist in hiding, and went on to make this whole thing up for me.
Gave her a squeeze, I were so happy at finding this, but that’s when she let me have the real scoop of things. Namely that she were leaving and not likely at all to be back round these parts again, so’s wanted to leave me that as a gift afore she went off. Remembering back to when… she… left, I asked Miss Kitowyn if she were planning to go warring too, but she said nay, she had places to be that weren’t here.
Set her up with a sack of vittles to take with her, and what extra coins I had laying on the counter, when I had the notion to send her off with something else too, case she ran into certain persons on that trail leading out of sanity. So’s she’s also off with a small message for her, from me, and though I hope it makes it to being said aloud, I reckon that’ll just be forgotten soon as Miss Kitowyn finds some shiny thing on the road.
[A small post script appears at the bottom corner of the page.]
Bears. Huh. Yeah right. Batty imp.
