The sun light cast her feathers into brilliant hue; what seemed abyssal black one moment was transformed into gorgeous azure with a shift of a cloud.
The chicken pecked away at the soil, headless of her appearance, one of many black or gold feathered fowl of a robust local variety. Their yard was fenced in with a patchwork of re-used cabinetry and industrial wire, but the flat open spot at the edge of the forest was always cheery with clucks and warbles.
An explosion of feathers and squawks shattered the still morning as a figure suddenly lurched through the fence, splintering wood and drawing down stretches of hexagonal wire. The birds scattered in all directions, cowering in little lumps in the corners of the yard. The figure collapsed in a heap, and lay still.
It wasn’t long before the chickens began creeping out from their corners, cautiously pecking here and there, heads tilted this way and that. Soon they were headed towards the figure, pecking their way closer and closer.
The door to the farmhouse slammed shut, and the chickens scattered again, though without the prior sense of explosive panic. A young woman came running over, quickly counted her flock, then moved on to see what had broken in.
As she got closer, she nearly vomited. It was a man, around fifty, his clothes filthy and torn, and his body- his body was the same. Filthy and torn. Was he alive? She leaned closer. Alive. Barely.
After quickly ensuring the chickens were secure, she ran to the stables, took up a swift mount and galloped off towards the town.
Days later, the man was in her bed. He was bandaged nearly head to toe. He could barely eat, and then only a thin gruel. Hour upon hour he slept.
She slept on the couch downstairs. It was strange having a man in the house, even a helpless one. She wondered what he would look like, once he was healed and she could see him. How old was he really? What was he like? Where was he from?
Several of the villagers together had decided, by committee, that he should stay here to recover. The healer had declared the man unsafe to move far, and the closest shelter by far was her own farmhouse. Since she had cared for so many animals in all stages of life and health, no one had any doubt she could care for the man until he recovered. There was some concern that when he was healed, he may be dangerous. No one knew the man’s story, or how he came to his condition. He may be some vagabond, or worse; in that case they could move him elsewhere- the dungeon if necessary- take him to the castle by the shore. Her life was so slow and peaceful, her imagination was quick to run wild with tales of the world beyond.
She lay there one afternoon after her chores were done, daydreaming about what adventures might have brought him here, what daring epic tale he might have just barely escaped from.
A ragged cry from the floor above startled her from her reverie. The man was speaking! Or at least making a noise. Was he ok? She leaped from the couch and rushed up the stairs.
He still could barely move. His healing seemed hardly to have begun. At least he could speak apparently though, so that was improvement. He asked her to come closer.
Leaning in, she came near so he could speak with less effort.
“I…can’t…explain. I have…a letter…,” a fit of hoarse coughing broke the sentence, “and it MUST………get…to…”
He was drifting off again. The effort of summoning the word “must” had been too much. She looked around. There had been a letter, hadn’t there? It was in his inner coat pocket. Of course she’d gone through his things while he slept. She hadn’t read the letter, though. It was sealed with a curious imprint on a dollop of saffron wax.
Several more days passed before the man was able to communicate effectively enough to talk about the letter. Enough, that is, to say that she would have to go herself to deliver the letter. He was not healing enough, his wounds were too severe. He may never fully heal, and there simply wasn’t that kind of time. He’d risked his life to get the letter this far. The hard part had been finding the recipient.
The sender had refused to write the address on the front, saying only that it needed to be delivered to the most powerful wizard living in the world.
