Ch. 1 – No. 2: Betula’s

On the outskirts of the forest, a traveling caravan has been hired to do repairs on an inn.

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Emerging from the forest into the scattered little village of Yonderwood, Clove wiped sweat from her brow as she pondered this evening’s meal. A creel filled with fish swung down from one hand while the other held a fishing rod. Wafting from the laden basket pack on her shoulders was the scent of fresh forage: spicy warblewort and sweet basil sat atop dandelion roots and blooms. Underneath the haul was a water skin and small tackle box.

Clove strode east along the worn path leading out of the Circadian Forest. Some distance ahead was a tall building known as Betula’s Vittles & Inn, beyond which a small pier reached into the waters of Crooning Lake. The lake was expansive, and though Clove had never seen the sea, she felt that the sense of infinity imparted by these waters’ magnitude must be, at the very least, a pale imitation of that experience. Tiny mountains were barely discernible on the eastern horizon, while the north and eastward stretch of the lake had no visible limits save for jutting bits of land.

With a dining area on the first floor and nine modest rooms on the upper three floors, the inn served as the primary reason why a non-resident might spend any appreciable amount of time here. The Forest Road, which was the largest and most direct course through the vast Circadian Forest, terminated here. Travelers often found refuge at Betula’s before they took to the lakeshore road running north and south, or otherwise boarded a ferry from the pier.

North of the inn was the heart of Yonderwood Village. With a hodgepodge of residential homes and a few very modest commerce hubs, Yonderwood was a quiet and eclectic collection of people. There were a number of fishers, a few merchants, some worked at Betula’s, and a few small gardens and farms sprang up at the northernmost extent of the village. Some boarded a ferry in the mornings, traveling to occupations elsewhere, while others offered a scant few specialized services in town.

Blips of chatter and the percussion of construction could be heard from the crew of workers who toiled on and around the inn. The proprietor had hired a traveling caravan of structural artisans to do repairs on the building, whose exterior’s weary visage had withstood the natural wear of any lakeside dwelling. Many of the village residents had also placed work orders for their own homes when the caravan’s scouts had arrived a month prior in search of the crew’s next stop.

Clove was a member of the caravan. As she approached the inn, she greeted her companions and set her creel outside the front door for the time being. But she halted as she did so, frozen in momentary puzzlement as she stared down at the woven vessel.

She specifically remembered catching one last large fish which exceeded the remaining space in the creel, its tail hanging out from beneath the lid as she departed from the pond. Now, the lid was seated perfectly on the woven rim. Lifting the lid, there was indeed a space where the fish had rested atop the few smaller ones contained within.

Whether her memory was awry or the fish was stolen by gravity — or other means — Clove dismissed it, having little desire to attend to anything other than the visceral excitement that buzzed through her small frame. She contrived visions of the abandoned house having been restored, daydreams of sipping tea while she leaned against the doorframe, surveying a humble yet robust garden, the sour scent of yeast mingling with herbed dough as that perfect hearth glowed dimly around her favorite bread pot.

She set her basket pack and fishing rod next to the creel before entering the inn. A bell above the door rang as she stepped into a large room encompassing the entirety of the ground floor. A number of thick columns were distributed throughout, stretching from floor to ceiling and adorned with oil lamps. The front door opened into a dining area on the right-hand side of the space which contained a number of small tables, a few larger ones, and two booths on the eastern wall where a large window overlooked the lakeshore. A small platform was built into the far right corner of the room, offering a modest stage. A ragged little piano stood in the center.

To the left of the entrance along the west wall was a lengthy bar counter which receded away to the far wall. The counter was L-shaped with a short perpendicular section connecting it to the west wall on the far side of the room. Inset shelves ran the length of the west wall behind the bar, stocked with bottles, jars, and boxes of every shape and size. An ascending stairway was built into the center of the north, far wall, and just before the stage was a side door on the east wall, leading outside. Two large windows on either side of the front door ushered in a flood of southern sunlight.

A medley of savory scents met Clove as she entered, and two women at the bar glanced over when the bell chimed. Betula, the owner, stood tall behind the counter and smiled when she saw Clove. A short figure stood across the counter from Betula, a tall walking stick in one hand, a stoic gaze cast toward the open door. Only one other person occupied the space; a villager in the corner booth was engrossed in a book.

“G’d afternoon Clove!” Betula propped a hand on her hip. “Thirsty?”

“Hi Betula,” Clove greeted. “Much obliged; a tenderling infusion would be lovely.” Betula nodded and got straight to work, while the other woman turned to Clove.

“Clove, is it? I am Agate,” she said, her words shaped by a heavy accent which Clove recognized as having far western origins. “My family has a sap farm within the forest. You are with the caravan, yes?”

“That’s right,” Clove nodded. “Pleasure.” She reciprocated a firm handshake.

“And what is it that you do?” Agate inquired.

“I’m the sustainer,” Clove said. “Securing and prepping food for us all, almost always from the given area’s resources.”

“That is impressive. Well-versed in the wilds at a rather young age,” Agate raised a brow. Intent on precision, Betula slowly poured liquid through a small strainer into a cup.

“Ah, well, it was my family’s trade. I grew up with it,” Clove replied, leaning against the bar countertop, running her fingers across a lightly textured knot in the wood’s surface.

“Could I bother you with a question about the area?” Clove asked.

“Indeed,” Agate nodded. “I have dwelt here for nearly sixty years.”

“That derelict house in the forest, off of the road a bit…” Clove gestured in the general direction. “Built from stone, in somewhat of a clearing…do you know the one?”

Nodding once more, Agate shifted her weight on her walking stick. “Yes,” she said. A pensive pause. “A very old woman lived there when I arrived here as a young child. One day, she simply left and did not return.

“The house began to break down. My siblings and I often sneaked in, though our parents warned against such things. There is something queer about that house…” she gazed into the distance, as though studying the structure through the walls of the inn through the dense forest beyond.

Betula placed a cup of glittering, steaming liquid onto the counter. “Here y’go, Clove.”

“Thanks,” Clove beamed up at her, grasping the warm stoneware.

“A number of different people have attempted to restore that house,” Agate went on. “None got far with the work before giving up…

“As if driven off.” Her eyes narrowed.

After a long, pensive sip, Clove nodded in understanding. “So it’s abandoned?” she asked, brows raised.

“Indeed,” Agate nodded. “If you have the heart and resources with which to restore it, I know of no one who would stop you.” She shrugged.

Gesturing her stick toward Clove, her expression grew solemn, her tone hushed. “Except for the house itself, perhaps.”

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