Just as Marla had predicted, the caravan rolled into a stockade with the sun directly overhead. Inside was a dusty yard obviously used expressly for housing the caravan while it conducted business on this end of its route. Each wagon had its place and there was a paddock for the animals, including a large barn full of feed. A much smaller gate led through the larger wall of the town’s palisade.
“Now what do we do?” Peter asked.
“When the gate opens, we walk through. I imagine we could stay in the wagon while we prepare for the next leg of our journey, but I would prefer to be out of their way. There are a few inns in town. I’ll secure us a room. Once we’re settled in, we go shopping.”
“More shopping?”
“You haven’t been shopping in weeks.”
“It hasn’t been long enough, as far as I’m concerned.”
“And here I thought you had a project you were working on.”
“What?”
“That sword you found. You’re trying to fix it up, aren’t you?”
“Oh, well, yeah. Why?”
“We’re in a frontier mining town. There is an entire street for shops related to that sort of work.”
“That’s not as persuasive as you think it is, but I didn’t say I wasn’t tagging along.”
Marla laughed and gestured at the gate swinging inward. Dozens of people were pushing their way into the stockade before Peter had a chance to escape, though, suggesting this was routine for them. He quietly stood to the side, waiting for enough to pass that he could go the other way without shoving.
Streets of packed dirt led off in either direction from where Peter stood, having just stepped out of the stone tunnel through the palisade. Timber-framed shops lined the street, with homes on the floors above. Each level was cantilevered out, and, given that some buildings were four or five stories tall, there were places the eaves nearly touched. From the smell, this town didn’t have the same sewer system as where he had arrived in this world. In fact, Peter eyed a mucky trench in the centre of the street suspiciously, making note not to step there. Smoke lingered in the open space, despite it being summer and a good breeze blew outside the walls.
“Are you sure we can’t be out of here today?”
“Eager to be moving on?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why, then?”
“I don’t know how much of this town I can stand. The smell makes it a bit hard to breathe.”
Marla laughed as if he had been joking and led the way to where she expected to find them a room.
Peter quickly figured out that not only was it rare for two streets to meet at even close to ninety degrees but none of them were as straight as they looked. And there were a lot of streets crammed into this town. He was lost within minutes.
“I hope you know where we’re going, because I don’t have a hope of getting us back to the caravan.”
“Really? It’s not that bad, is it?”
“How many times have you been here?”
“Twice, but one of those visits was for a few weeks.”
“You got to know the place fairly well, then?”
“Not as well as the locals, but the signs help.”
Peter looked around, not seeing many signs. Those he could see didn’t have writing on them. If anyone knew how long it took him to realize his mistake, he would be embarrassed. “I was looking for writing like I would see in my own world. The signs would help a lot if I could read them.”
Marla didn’t respond, as she was concentrating on getting a glimpse of the signs in an intersection through busy townsfolk taller than her. Peter looked around – without letting her out of his sight – and tried to guess what sort of shops he was walking past. Windows that could be seen through were rare here, though, so he was left with imagery and wares on display. While he didn’t see anything too out of place, it was still bizarre to him that these things weren’t antiques or props.
Peter was so focused on trying to puzzle out the baubles he could see on display across the street he nearly missed Marla ducking into what must be their destination. He needn’t have worried, though, as she reached back and grabbed his sleeve before the door could close.
It looked like the set of a fantasy movie. A balding man with an apron over his big belly standing behind a counter, a big stone fireplace, and several tables and benches. While Marla spoke to the innkeeper, Peter examined a post at one end of the bar. It was carved somewhat like a totem pole, but with far more realistic detail. Not that he recognized many of the animals. Since his arrival, he hadn’t seen a single animal that looked like anything he remembered seeing alive on Earth.
“Okay, back to the wagon now. I suppose we could have carried our things this trip, but I wasn’t sure we could get a room in the first place we tried.”
Peter turned from the carvings. “Makes sense, I guess. But if this is a mining town at the end of a long road, how many travellers could be here at one time?”
“The miners don’t live here in town; they live on their claims. Most of them come down to stay for the winter, though, as they can’t do much and it’s known that those who stay isolated too long tend to go a bit mad.”
“So the inns are geared toward a different clientele than I had assumed. Makes more sense. How much snow falls here? Back home people like downhill skiing, enough so that resorts are built for those that travel to do it.”
“Skiing down hills for fun? Isn’t it dangerous?”
“For some that’s the fun part. Others stick to carefully groomed trails. Helmets are easy enough to get for those still worried.”
“Helmets for skiing?”
“It’s not common, but yes. Many people won’t go ice skating without one.”
“Ice skating?”
“You don’t know that one? You strap blades to the bottom of your feet and glide across the ice. Modern skates are more of a boot with a much sturdier attachment for the blade.”
“Never heard of it. Sounds dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous, we just don’t think about that part. There are two dangers of skating. The first is venturing onto thin ice and breaking through, finding yourself in water over your head. The second is falling over and hitting your head on thick ice. It can be harder than rock.”
It seemed strange to be discussing winter sports in the middle of summer with someone who had never heard of sporting in the winter. It wasn’t the strangest conversation Peter had had with Marla, though, and it didn’t end until they were back at the wagon. Peter was surprised to find that they were leaving the wagon with more than they had arrived carrying. Marla had loaded some supplies ahead of time, and he just hadn’t realized they didn’t belong to the caravan. While he was standing there dreading trying to carry it all at once, a man trotted up with a wheelbarrow and started loading most of the things.
Slinging his own pack onto his back, pelt and wrapped sword strapped to it, Peter followed back to the inn. In his determination not to step in the trench that was the middle of the street, he accidentally bumped shoulders with a guard.
“Sorry,” he said immediately.
“I wouldn’t want to step in that either. Say, is that a sword?”
“Yes. Well, a blade with full tang. Found it when I fell in a pond. Needs a bit of work.” Peter glanced worriedly at the wheelbarrow getting further away.
“Strange. Well, we don’t usually allow folks to carry weapons, so best to leave it in your lodgings. You can get a proper scabbard made at …” Peter lost track of the conversation as the guard said things that didn’t translate well.
“Making friends, are we?” Marla was at his side, gripping his elbow. “You can go shopping after you carry our things upstairs.” She said something more to the guard that Peter didn’t catch, then they were on their way.
“I don’t suppose you heard the shops he was recommending?”
“I did, and I even know where some of them are. Why did you stop to talk?”
“I bumped into him, so I apologized. Luckily, he was friendly. He noticed the sword and I didn’t know how to walk away without being rude.”
Carrying everything from the wheelbarrow up the stairs was hard work, though thankfully quick. Their room was small, smaller than the wagon had been. There was a three-quarters bed and just enough space beside it to stand comfortably. It was raised up unusually high, which was fortunate as they had enough belongings to fill the space under the bed.
Peter flopped down and stretched out when the work was finally done, while Marla left for something. He assumed it was a toilet break, but she hadn’t said. He also hadn’t asked. Despite the noise from neighbouring rooms, he was thinking he might doze off and have a nap when he heard bells in the distance. Shouting started in the street, and there were raised voices down in the common room.
“Sorry, Peter, but you’re needed. A mine has caved in, trapping dozens of men.”
“And they need me, specifically?”
“Of course not. Just any able-bodied person, which the innkeeper noticed you are.”
“Couldn’t you explain that I am not actually of any use to them? I’ve never done any sort of work like this before. I’m probably a liability.”
“Don’t be foolish. You can carry a bucket. I’m going too, don’t worry.”
“I’m just a bit tired. Not looking forward to a crowd of people. Where I’m from, people who aren’t specifically trained are encouraged to stay far away from a disaster like this. I need a minute to adjust.” If he hadn’t spent so much of the last two weeks with just Marla for company, and not even her for a good chunk, he would have needed longer. To her credit, Marla was being very patient.
A deep breath in with his eyes closed, hold it, and out. Repeat two more times. Then Peter sighed and sat up, checking his boots before standing. “Let’s go, then. How far a walk is it?”
“It’s an emergency, Peter, and they’re looking for as much help as they can get. They need us rested, so wagon teams are waiting to cart us there.” As he stepped through the door, she closed and locked it. To his surprise, down in the common room she pointed at a bench and gestured for him to sit, carrying over a mug of ale. “Drink up. I’ve arranged for a basket of food.”
The ale wasn’t bad, he was getting used to it warm. Once the innkeeper produced the basket of food, Peter hoisted it up and followed Marla out into the street, where a cart pulled by something that looked like a donkey-sized sheep waited. They weren’t the first, and there was room for two or three more. The driver seemed to be waiting for the cart to be full. Two boys who didn’t even look like teenagers to Peter ran out and hopped in, a woman he assumed to be their mother waving a handkerchief from the door they had emerged from.
“You should have a bite to eat while you can,” Marla said quietly beside him. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
She was right, of course, so Peter looked in the basket he held between his feet. Hardly anything was familiar to him. “What, do they eat different food up here?”
“Not that different. Maybe not the quality you’ve had before, though.”
The sight of some cheese triggered Peter’s stomach rumbling. Crumbling off a chunk he stuffed it into his mouth and wasn’t disappointed.