Text c: Fantasy

I’d left it, or leaning against the wall, or on the piles of a squash. My stomach clenched until I spotted it underneath some loose burlap sacking. I walked over to it and picked it up with shaking hands.

The older farmer grinned at me and held out a pair of knobby squash we’d been unloading. “How would your mother like it if you brought home a couple of the finest orange butter squash this side of the Eld?”

“No, I can’t,” I stammered, pushing away a memory of raw fingers digging in the mud and the smell of burning hair. “I m-mean, you’ve already… “ I trailed off, clutching my lute closer to my chest and moving a couple of steps away.

He looked at me more closely, as if seeing me for the first time. Suddenly self-conscious, I imagined how I must look: ragged, and half-starved. I hugged the lute and backed farther away. the farmer’s hands fell to his side and his smile faded. “Ah, lad,” he said softly.

He set the squash down, then turned back to me and spoke with a gentle seriousness. “Me and Jake will be here selling until round about sundown. If you find what you’re looking for by then, you’d be welcome back on the farm with us. The missus and me could sure use an extra hand some days. You’d be more than welcome. Wouldn’t he Jake?”

Jake was looking at me too, pity written across his honest face. “Sure enough, Pa. She said so right afore we left.”

The old farmer continued to look at me with serious eyes. “This is Seaward Square.” He said, pointing at his feet. “We’ll be here till dark, maybe a little after. You come back if’n you want a ride.” his eyes turned worried.

Rothfuss, Patrick. 2007. The Name of the Wind. The Kingkiller Chronicle: Day One. London: Orion.

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