Market-Month (first stop)

It is market-month. Mother and I have spent the last six crafting a fine selection of baskets and containers: grass, reed, vine, even oak; large, medium or small, dull or bright (I love working with dyes). Weaving is a skill handed down through the  countless generations of my family and although I am not yet a master of this art, I am proud of my work and excited to finally see it displayed on our market stall in Sidhe Village. Mother says it is good enough at last, for trade. A compliment to make me gush. Our home, split between the lofty boughs of three enormous trees and connected by rope and wicker bridges, has been crowded for weeks now. Baskets have been stacked high against every vertical surface, ready and waiting. We, my young brother helping the way only a tiny boy can, now, move them downstairs to the small cart readied below. The morning is warm and clear beyond the leafy canopy of The Wildwood and the cheerful atmosphere feeds a feeling of excitement. Only one stack left to fetch. Mother retrieves it and I climb slowly onto the old wooden cart to sit amongst our wares; it groans loudly and rocks as my weight adjusts across it. Jasper is less careful, embarking via running leap, and as the towering pillars sway precariously around me, my narrowed glare serves as fair reprimand: we haven’t the time to start packing again. Mother ties down a supply of raw food and the last of the load with rope (another of our crafts), and moves to prepare the old horned beetle (the largest kind, probably, in all of Caido) for travel. His harness rests between hard plates of armour so that it doesn’t hinder his movement and Mother stands to the left of his head, as she will for the whole of the journey. His back is barely level with her hip, though he can easily pull thrice his weight. Another one of his kind often aids us also, but he is best seasoned for this task. And so we set off while the hour is still early. -two days and one morning pass- Without issue, we arrive in the vicinity of the toll bridge in Stonesong.   Sea of Branches, the village half way to Sidhe, is alive and bustling beneath a baking Longheat sun and the ripple of its crystal-clear waters, cast winking lights against the walls of the curious little buildings (each perched upon stilts in the river itself). Though I love this place and its quite unique habits, the idea of living at the mercy of untameable currents is one I cannot fathom. We will not stay here long, perhaps only the night. Long enough to resupply and rest our beetle. After our midday meal, provided at cost by a local fishmonger (my serve is without ‘meat’ of course), I take leave and wander alone towards the riverbank where I hope to either catch glimpse of the Naiad, or, more likely, a shoal of  gleaming Goldfish swimming to sea, downstream. Perhaps I can add another to the wildlife section of my journal. The flavour of the air is quite brackish and I inhale it deeply.