On that day the sun did not rise. Gathering clouds raged the skies as the deep, grayish blue of the storm roamed unimpeded through from east to west. The spell of the Rains was about us and soon the waters would wash over all, without relief.
I stood up from where I slept and saw to my morning ablutions. My spear had fallen on the floor during the night and I hadn't noticed. A bad omen.
When I opened the door, I was greeted by the faint announcement of the waterdome come. I remember blinking a few times, as if taken aback by how fast time had seemed to pass. On that morning, I had woken up and I hadn't realized it marked ten months ever since I was sent there to guard the Esperite Pass. With nothing but my spear, my shield, my armor. Some coin. Some duty.
I drank from the last of the milk I was given after the last passage of the milkmaid through these parts. Her coming and going through the Pass was always a personal reason for joy. Thus I avoided the cobwebs of silence that tried to weave themselves into my throat, an unavoidable consequence of forced solitude.
On that day, not only the sun did not rise, but the milkmaid had also failed to make her crossing. I started wondering why and looked over the thin crack that was the Pass, trying to devise whatever went beyond the bright, white desert.
Nothing, as usual. I spent the remaining of my day over-polishing my belongings of war, to the point of obsession. At some point in the late afternoon I stopped, hearing steps that approached my door.
"Yes?", I suggested from within, holding onto my spear.
"It's me, boy", she said. Her voice sounded weary.
I left to the door, quicker than I should have, noticing then sweat marks feverishly populating her tunic. Her gray, homely hat was askew, her eyes betraying unusual affliction.
"Milk?", she asked, before collapsing on the weathered ground. Her keg was empty.
* * *
I cared for the milkmaid for many days, and, by the end, to my own expense. I spent hours just looking at her dormant self, as if, by wishing very hard to understand, understanding would come to me.
By the end of the tenth day she asked for me, and I was already there.
"What happened down there?", I asked. The rains had been bashing against the walls of the cottage for a couple hours, maybe more.
She remained silent. "Had you had any milk?"
"No?"
"Why not?"
"You hadn't any."
"Right", she replied. She stared at her hands. "I'm sorry I didn't bring any milk."
"It's alright. How are you?"
"Better. I... I don't think I'll be bringing any more milk."
I waited. She said, "The farms were abandoned."
I kept waiting, though I noticed she felt no comfort in my silent expectation.
"They were not there. The farmers, the dogs, the cows. Even the gardens were gone."
"What do you mean, gone? Burned? Razed? Pillaged?"
"No, not exactly. It was as if they had just left. There was still food in the cellar. I peeked, I hope they don't mind."
"No, they won't. Any guess?"
"I think... They fled? I'm sorry, I don't know what to say. I wish I had my milk."
I stood up and let her regather her thoughts. Whatever had happened down there in Imelgar was serious enough to call for a letter to the Representative.
With my gear on me and a crumpled piece of parchment well protected inside my waterproof pocket, I walked up to the highest point of the Pass and sang a song in the rain to call the birds. I knew it was poor weather for communication, but I kept singing until an old, battered night-jar came to me and stood on my shoulder, looking puzzled.
"Hello, friend. Care to send a letter?", I asked, already setting the piece of paper up his right foot. I never learned how to write, but the Representative would know what I meant.
When I went back to the cottage, the storm was strong enough to make the earth shake and the trees dance under the tune of its violence.
The milkmaid was gone. I looked around and tried to retrace her footsteps on the muddy dirt but the rains kept pounding over any vestiges she could possibly have left behind.
I was intrigued. Being told tales of farmers vanishing, and now seeing it happen right before me, this couldn't be a coincidence. Something was afoot.
That evening, I triple-locked the door and boarded the windows. Water had been already dripping by the corners of the frame and I brushed over another layer of waterproofer. I spent the remaining of the night tending to the fire and recounting the experiences of the day in my head, trying to go through memories as if they were a jigsaw waiting for me to give birth to sense.
By the next day, the rain was gone. A knock on my door.
Much alike eleven days before, I held fast to my spear and hailed. "Yes?"
"Piric Olbar, I suppose? Open up, this is Adamond."
I put the spear against the wall and ran up to open the locks. It took me some time, but after a few seconds I was staring at the face of the Representative herself. She seemed annoyed under her breath, her monocle strangely held on her blotched face.
"So, tell me what happened", she said, making herself comfortable and seeing if there was hot water in the pot. "Shall I?"
"Y-yes, of course", I stammered, as I started retelling what had happened and doing my best to keep it simple. The Representative despised details she deemed unnecessary in a story.
"I see", she replied, sipping chamomile tea she had just helped herself with. "And you are sure she wasn't an Endeavor?"
"Absolutely, ma'am. She was corporeal and her eyes looked right into mine."
"Could it be that she was simply embarrassed of inconveniencing you in your duty and left?"
I hadn't thought about that. "Sure, it could be the case, Representative"
"Her account of the Imelgian farms, however, is problematic. As you might have noticed. And I supposed I know what you should do next."
Perhaps I shivered a bit at her tone, I don't remember. "I don't have orders to leave the Pass, ma'am."
"Well, now you do. And please don't use night-jars next time, they're bad luck. You know how to draw, I suppose?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"So, draw. Don't be fancy, just practical. Something I'd understand quickly and readily."
"Sure, ma'am."
She glared at me, a hard look. "Anything else?"
"No, ma'am."
"Very well, then". And without further notice, she stood up, handed me the cup and left through the door.
"A new Gatekeeper is on her way", she mentioned, as she crossed the threshold. "You may leave after her arrival."
And then, she disappeared. Astonished, I looked at the cup she just gave me. It was still full, and the tea still felt warm.
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