The magical journey of a countryside boy

After a few minutes, John steered the wagon away from the roaring main avenue and down a smaller, narrower side street, mercifully cutting off the deafening noise of the crowds. The sudden dip into the shadows made William blink. He clung to the edge of the wooden seat, his wide eyes darting to the towering stone walls pressing in on either side. To his small frame, the buildings looked tall enough to swallow the sky.

​“Where are we going?” William asked, his voice sounding tiny against the high stone walls.

​“We’re heading to the inn I usually stay at,” John replied, his hand steady on the reins. “A quiet place away from the main chaos.”

​As the mules trotted onward, William watched the city change. They passed a grand, brightly lit tavern where the head merchant and his workers were already climbing down from their massive carriages. But as John drove deeper into the side streets, the grand stone buildings vanished. The walls grew darker, patched with graying wood and stained with soot, until the wagon finally shuddered to a halt in front of a sagging, two-story structure. It looked old, but the steps were swept clean. Even though it was small by city standards, it still looked like a mansion compared to the little thatched cabins back home in Ashbrook.

​John climbed down from the driver’s box and lifted William to the dirt, keeping a firm grip on the boy’s small hand as he led him inside the dim tavern.

​Inside, the air smelled heavily of stale ale, old pipe smoke, and wood wax. William shrank closer to John’s side, his eyes locking onto a frail, ancient man sitting behind a scarred wooden table. The man wore a dull, faded gray robe that looked older than William himself, though it was neatly patched at the elbows. He didn’t even look up when the door creaked open.

​John stepped up to the table, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim light. “I need a room with two beds, Master Bran. And a place to park my wagon and mules for two days—with feed, if you can spare it.”

​The old man slowly lifted his chin, his cloudy eyes drifting past John to peer through the open door at the mule team. He let out a slow, raspy breath. “Two coppers for the room,” he murmured lazily, “and one for the stable. Feed is included.”

​John reached into his pouch, the metallic clink of copper loud in the quiet room, and set five coins on the table. “Give us a bucket of warm water up there, too. And a hot meal for the two of us.”

​The old man gave a single, stiff nod. He swept the coins into a groaning wooden drawer, pulled out a heavy iron key, and slid it across the table into John’s calloused palm.

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​“First floor,” the old man muttered, pointing a crooked finger toward the back. “Third room from the stairs.”

​As they entered the small room, John collapsed onto one of the narrow beds with a heavy, rattling sigh that shook the wooden frame. He slumped forward, his broad shoulders drooping as he slowly dragged his thick leather boots off his swollen feet. William watched him from the doorway, silently tracking the deep, dust-caked lines of fatigue etched around John’s eyes. He looked nothing like the giant beating iron at the forge back home.

​Before William could even ask if he was alright, a sharp, sudden knock rattled the door. John pushed himself up with a low groan to unlock it, revealing a young man in his late teens balancing a heavy wooden bucket of steaming water.

​“Your warm water, sir,” the young man said, shifting the weight of the bucket. “I’ll return with your food shortly.”

​John took the wooden handle with a tired nod of thanks and set the bucket carefully in the center of the floor. He gestured with a calloused hand. “Come here, kid. Let’s get this road dirt off us.”

​William stepped forward, dipping a rough rag into the water. For the next ten minutes, the room was quiet save for the splashing of water. As William scrubbed his face and arms, he watched the clear water slowly turn into a murky, muddy brown sludge—the last remnants of their journey washing away. The warm water stung his wind-chapped cheeks, but it felt good to wipe away the gritty layer of dust that had coated his skin since they left the village.

​Just as William finished wringing out his rag, another knock sounded at the door. William rushed over and pulled it open. The same young man stepped inside, this time balancing a large earthenware bowl filled with a bubbling broth, alongside a small wicker basket holding thick loaves of bread. He set the meal down on the rickety table, snatched up the dirty wash bucket, and slipped back out into the hall.

​William stepped closer to the table, his stomach rumbling, but he stopped when he peered over the rim of the bowl. The stew looked like an unappetizing mishmash, overcooked vegetables floating in a thin, watery broth.

​John pulled up a stool, completely unbothered, and broke off a piece of bread. “Dig in, kid. It’s not every day you get to eat the everlasting stew.”

​William blinked, wrinkling his nose at the watery soup. “What’s that?”

​“Well,” John said, dipping his bread deep into the bowl, “they start a single pot of stew, and as the guests eat it, the kitchen just keeps throwing in more water, leftover vegetables, and salt to keep the pot full. It never actually empties, so it always lasts.”

​William hesitated, looking down at his own loaf of bread. He squeezed it, realizing it felt as hard and unyielding as a cobblestone in his small hand. Knowing his six-year-old teeth stood absolutely no chance against it on their own, he broke off a chunk and pushed it deep into the watery broth, holding it down and waiting for the soup to soak through the crust until it was finally soft enough to safely chew.

​After finishing the meal, William had trouble keeping his eyes open. The warmth of the food and the exhausting weight of his first day in the grand city finally caught up to him. He climbed onto his own bed, buried himself into the familiar scratch of the straw mattress, and gradually drifted off to sleep.