“An’ that’s why Mister Hengstacer says horses don’ eat their toes!”
“Well, I wouldn’ ‘ave known tha’. ‘Ere i though’ ta myself horses ‘ad no toes.”
“‘Orses ‘ave one toe! But four feets, so four toes!” A six-year old Tate chirped, swinging Bessa’s arm back and forth violently while matching her purposeful stride with his own. Tatton’s aunt towered next to him in a giant burgundy dress that seemed to swallow the whole street. But with her, Tatton never felt small. He felt just as tall as she was. She always listened to him with an attentiveness that made him feel bigger than the world sometimes.
“Baby goats ‘ave two tiny toes!”
She grinned, “Now, ain’t tha’ a marvel.”
Tatton held Bessa’s two fingers with a death grip. If it hurt she didn’t appear to be bothered. While they strolled through the crooked streets of Bree, Tatton skipped from cobblestone to cobblestone, avoiding cracks and the dirt and weeds jutting between them. The cream plaster of the buildings were stained with dirt and activity, but the streets themselves were swept and tidy. Bree, with all its cluttered cottages jammed together, carried the contradiction of feeling both heavily worn and yet always clean, giving it a kind of warmth and coziness unique to it. Today was a market day, which meant Tate and his aunt were on the way outside the Combe Gate to set up a small tent with wares.
Tatton was eager to set up, excitedly impaling the sticks in the dirt and stretching the canvas over them. He sat on the stool with his water skin hanging from his back, clicking his heels while Bessa peddled to passerby. The summer heat pelted her though her dress, yet despite the sweat collecting on her brow, her grin and cheer were tireless. Tate tilted his head and watched her.
Salespeople in Bree intimidated Tatton. Many were pushy, others had a bad air he didn’t trust. But his Aunt Bessa was, without bias, the best salesperson he could ever imagine. She knew everyone in Bree by name. If she didn’t know your name, she would soon enough. But it wasn’t intimidating because when you spoke with her, her care radiated off her like the warmth of the Sun. She never sold an item someone didn’t need and she never sold to anyone who didn’t want. The Wiltswoe Tannery was Bessa’s business and she took the greatest pride in the goods she sold. Because she sold to people, -for- people. Her business code was always: People over profit. Everything she did, she did to make sure others were happy, and she’d grind herself to the bone to do it.
Aunt Bessa reminded Tatton of a bear. She was aggressively warm and brash, outspoken and charming, but never excessively so. She never took slack or excuses from anyone, especially not herself. Eventually, her work ethic would engrave itself in Tatton and he would become more like her than any of his other family. Tatton could feel how big her heart was, how much she loved Bree and all its folk, how much she loved him. Tate, in turn, loved her back and felt safe around her.
After an hour, the Sun began to heat even the shade of the tent. Apart from Bessa’s, “Buy yer Wiltswoe leathers, ‘ere! Best in Breeland or I’ll kiss yer cow!” it was painfully quiet at the tent today. Boredom bored a hole in Tate’s skull while he pressed holes in the dirt with the heels of his small boots. After a few moments, Bessa felt an insistent tug on her dress.
“Yer sweatin’, Bessa. 'Ere's water.”
She took the water skin he held out with a grin, “Thank ye, Tate. Aye, it’s hot today.”
He watched her intently as she drank some water, only a small sip he noticed, and then carefully slung it around his back again. After a moment of his eyes boring into her back, she chuckled knowingly without needing to turn around
“Spit it out, Tate. What d’ye wan’?”
“This tunic’s itchy and hot. Can I take it off?”
“No, Tate, ye need to look nice.”
“Why? We’re not sellin’ itchy tunics.”
“Because ye need to be presentable when yer sellin’.”
“All the folks knows I’m naked under it, why can’t I jus’ run aroun’ naked?” His bottom lips stuck out in a pout, “It’s hot.”
“Tate… no.” She laughed and looked at him over her shoulder, still waving at passing folk,. “Listen ta me, boy. The way ye dress is how ye paint yer soul.”
“My soul isn’t sweaty.”
She paused, reflecting. “It’s less about ye than 'bout ‘ow folk see ye.”
That caught Tate’s attention. His head cocked to the side in confusion. “Whaddya mean?”
“Think o’ it like this: I could be the nicest lass ye ever met, but if I ran up ta ye looking like a spiky bear covered in mud, wha’ would ye think? Would ye be scared?”
“I’d ask ye why ye look like a spiky bear covered in mud.”
Bessa repressed a laugh, trying to look serious, “Aye, -ye- would. But mos’ people would judge me, even if it be unfair. If I look scary, they’d see me as a scary person.”
Tatton frowned, “But yer not scary, Bessa.”
“Strangers don’ know tha’. Dressin’ nice stops people from gettin’ a wrong idea ‘bout ye. It’s the first way ye greet a person without sayin’ a word.”
Tatton pouted, reflecting as best he could while clicking his heels on the stool. This interaction satisfied Tatton for about… an hour. Then, as she expected, Bessa felt another tug on her dress.
“What’dya need, Tate?”
“I’m bored, Bessa.”
The sweating woman grinned at a passerby then turned to Tate, “Ye want more papers to practice those swirlies Turner teaches ye?”
Tatton shook his head. “Why can’t I stay 'ome and play wit' Tura?"
“I wanna teach ye, boy. Every trip ye take, yer learnin’.”
“Only Timry bought somethin’. Mayhaps we could go earlies? No folk is showin’ today.”
“The townsfolk know I’m ‘ere till 2, so I keep my promise and we stay till 2. T'en we leave.”
“But I’m boredddddd…”
Bessa turned from the front of the tent and crouched in front of him, her dress billowing around her in the dirt. Her face was round and exhausted and wrinkled with laugh lines, her eyes the dark grey of a lake in early morning. “Listen, boy. This town, is a gian’ ol’ family. We all ‘ave our par’ to play. Us sellin’ leathers is ‘ow we help Bree.”
Tatton tucked his hands in his knees and frowned, only focused on how itchy his tunic felt. Bessa narrowed her eyes at him, “Now listen ‘ere, Tate: Timry jus’ bought a pair o’ boots fer his lit’tle girl. Ye know why?”
Tate’s hair fluttered on his head as he shook it.
“She’s been wan’in’ to ride ‘orses sin’ she was a wee babe. Us bein’ ‘ere jus’ made tha’ lit’tle girl’s dream come true. Yer makin’ dreams come tru’, boy, by sellin’ the leathers we do.”
“Tha’s… what a hador does.” Bessa frowned but gave him a nod as he continued, his eyes starting to sparkle, “Heroes make folk ‘appy. T'en folk love ‘em. It’s wha’ ye do for folk ye love, ye make ‘‘em ‘appy.”
“An’ the way we make folk ‘appy?”
“Sellin’ leathers!” He beamed, the lesson finally sinking in his brain.
‘Bree’s jus’ like our family. Ye each have somethin’ differen’ we do. All ‘gether, we make a magic place.”
“An’ me? Wha’ I do? Wha’s my job? I don’…” he fiddled his thumbs, “I don’t sell leathers like ye. Ferna’s good at pickin’ plants. 'Tura hunts and makes the leathers. Har makes the salts and ye sell what we make. Whadda I do good?“
Tate looked up at her as she took his small hands in her own calloused ones, grinning at him with a warmth that made his heart flutter,
“Ye make the w’ole world smile, Tate. Jus’ by bein’ ye. Ye don’ need to do anymore than tha’.”
Tatton might not have remembered all of Bessa’s words but the way they made him feel was like gold in his heart. They were words he’d treasure, words that made his love for her unbreakable. And yet… an hour later, she felt another insistent tug on her dress. The woman wiped the sweat from her brow with her arm and sighed dramatically,
“Aye, it‘a ‘otter than the Sun’s arse! We’ll be needin’ some goodies fer our labors.”
Tatton’s eyes glittered. “Ginger Brie Tarts?”
“Ye hate those, Tate!”
“Aye, but ye love ‘em.” He grinned with gap-teeth.
“‘Ow bouts fritters?” She hoisted him on her shoulders, and he giggled, hugging her face.
“Cherry fritters look like hearts. We can eat ‘em and pretend we’re wolves, rawrgh!” He growled with a giggle, pretending to claw the mass of auburn curls coiled on her head.
Her laugh was boisterous and heart-filled. “Aye! But don’ be givin’ them to ‘Tura!”
“I don’t thin’ I ever wanna see Tura holdin’ a ‘eart ever ‘gain..” Tate’s eyes grew wide and zoned out dramatically.
“Yea… it was the fac’ she was laughin’ that scared me. All covered in blood, runnin’ round the ‘ouse like some wight. Scared me too. Told ‘er no more scarin’ ye with deer ‘earts.”
“I weren’t scared! I means, I was ‘prised at firs’! T’en I though’ she was funny. Tura’s funny.”
“No’t scared? Ye jus’ looked like ye’d just remembered meetin’ a ghost.”
“I was bein’ funny, with my face! Did I make ye laugh?"
-------
Eventually 2pm arrived, blissfully, and after packing up Tatton clung to Bessa’s hand as they once again moarced through Bree's crooked, cobbled streets, this time towards the bakery.
“I think…” Tatton chirped, “Bree’s like… a big ‘eart!”
“‘Ow’s tha’, boy?”
“Well, Bree’s a ‘eart. An’ the streets are… w’as it called? Vines?”
“Veins, my boy.”
“Aye, vines! The ones ye pull from the musckles. And the folk, they’re li’e, blood drops! Tha’ keep the ‘eart ‘appy!”
Bessa nodded in thoughtful approval when they rounded the corner. There, in the alley stood Timry, the candlemaker, and his daughter standing in his shadow peddling candles to passerby. Pushy salespeople. This was the same girl that told Tatton he smelled like rotten ferns after Har finished showing him how to treat leather with that awful smelling brining solution. Tate frowned and shyly walked over to Bessa’s other side, clinging to her dress. She patted his head, “Don’t ye worry, Tate. I’ll talk to Timry, I know ye don’ like peddlers. But I’ll teach ye: Even if ye don' like folk, ye can always find a way ta be kind to 'em. People are people, jus' like ye. 'Ow would ye wish to be treated?"
"Wha' if I wanna say somethin's mean?"
"Well, d'ye wish to be mean?"
"Nah."
"Then ye don' say mean thin's. 'Owever, my boy, If ye have somethin’ to say, don't ye swallow yer words. Yer words ar' there to be said. Jus' always be kind to folk an' make sure yer motives stay kind.” Tatton hid in Bessa's dress’ enormous shadow while she greeted Timry cheerily. While they spoke, heavily engaged in conversation, Tatton eyed the girl. The girl, with her dark green eyes and wheat hair eyed him back, frowning.
"I 'ope yer sist'r likes them 'orses." He mumbled, trying to break the ice and let his desire to be nice overshadow her insult that still rung fresh in his mind. The girl simply stared him,
"Thank ye, fern boy."
That did it. "Well, yer hair smells of tallow!” He blurted out, his heart stinging again.
When the girls eyes flared in rage, Tatton flinched, thinking she’d hurl a candle at his head. But then, her rage just as quickly shifted to amusement. She laughed, a squeaking but funny laugh that made Tatton giggle. Tatton blushed to think he made her laugh and when the sting vanished, his shyness returned. “Yer funny, Tatton! Ye want a buttered muffin?”
“Nah, I’m gettin’ fritters! Did ye know ‘orses 'ave four toes?
“WHA, tha’ can’ be true!”
Thus began Tatton’s first brushes with friendship and his integration into the complicated, and oft very defining, social web of Breetown.
