The Long Journey (more or less), Part 2

I've decided to go with the Nancy Farmer Method of Writing: just keep writing the story until you get to the end, and THEN go back and fix things. I will be taking notes as I go along, of course, so suggestions would be appreciated.

The loading took a few hours – Gehnn’s arms ached badly by the time they were done. It wasn’t a bad sort of ache, though, she decided. It was rather refreshing, doing some heavy work after all that time she had spent doing nothing but walking.

During the loading, Gehnn found out that, besides herself, there were only five other workers – three men and two women. Out of everyone, she was the only one working for passage rather than pay. There wasn’t much chance for formal introductions while they worked, passing each other on the way to and from the caravan. Some glanced at her, maybe handed her another crate, but for the most part, they paid her no attention.

When the sun was starting to set, the last crate was put into the cart, and Mr. Tummett set up the camp stove beside the caravan. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he informed them, hauling out a couple of empty barrels to serve as seats around the stove. “A little after dawn, I’d say.”

“That’s over schedule, isn’t it?” one of the men said, seating himself on one of the barrels.”You said early on that it would be this evening.” He was about Mr. Tummett’s age (perhaps in his mid thirties), and he gave the impression of being more familiar with the caravan than the rest of the hired workers.

“Well, they can have speed or they can have whole goods.” Mr. Tummett said, sitting on the barrel beside him. “They can whine all they want about it, they’ll still pay for it.”

He turned to the rest of them, all standing silent at the edge of the camp. “We didn’t make a stove fire for gawking. Pull yourselves a seat, for Lord’s sake, we gotta get to know each other better if we’re going to be traveling all that way.”

Awkwardly, they seated themselves on the remaining barrels or sat on the ground. Gehnn sat a little away from the others, legs curled up and head bowed. Mr. Tummett raised his voice.

“All righty, then, since I hired all o’ you separate, we’ll have to go ‘round and tell our names. Just to get familiar with faces, you understand – gotta know names and faces if you’re going to work together over this week.”

Some of them rolled their eyes at this – they just came for work, not to make friends – but since there was some logic to this, and because he was the caravan master who determined their pay, they grudgingly complied.

They started with the man next to Mr. Tummett. “I’m Logan Flatts.” he said. “Come from Port Poskall. That’s about it.”

They all nodded, and went to the man next to him. He was younger than him, sort of short and weedy looking, with a surly sort of expression that didn’t look like it ever came off his face. “Hyram Felps.” he said shortly. “Port Poskall.”

Next - a stocky woman with dark hair and skin, who looked like she could take the head off of a boar without blinking. “My name is Lissan Zzirrissk,” she said, with a trilling, slithery accent. “I come from Samare.”

Gehnn stiffened, fingers closing protectively over her shoulders.

They went on to the last man – a middle-aged, burly sort with a thick mustache that he stroked as he talked. “Stephan Smith. I’m from Port Corsellis.”

“Oh, that’s me as well!” the woman sitting next exclaimed.

They all turned to her.

She was the youngest of the group, besides Gehnn, who thought that she was maybe only a few years older than herself. She was very tall, with long arms and legs that had muscles that rivaled Lissan Zzirrissk’s, and wore a sleeveless shirt that displayed the swirling black and blue tattoos that covered her arms and shoulders. It was hard to tell in the stove’s light, but they looked like designs of oceans and fish, the sort of which Gehnn had seen pictures. Her hair was dark blonde, and cut at neck-length, mostly covered with a striped maroon-and-navy kerchief. She wore dirt-stained pants and worn, heavy boots, and the way she held herself spoke of someone who did not care how people looked at her. Most noticeable, at least to Gehnn, were her piercings – thin silver rings spiraling through her ears, studs running down her earlobes, three rings in one eyebrow. Just seeing them made Gehnn’s face hurt.

“I’m Yul Blunt,” the young woman said, raising an arm. “I’m also from Port Corsellis. Born and raised. Unlike you, I’d say.” she eyed the man sitting next to her. “Where’re your silvers, man? Where’s your marks? Were you too wuss to get them or what?”

Stephan Smith looked quite startled by this affront, and no less angry. “What-“

“Moving on!” Mr. Tummett interjected. He looked at Gehnn. “All right, what’s your name, then?”

Feeling all eyes on her, Gehnn shifted uncomfortably. “Um….I’m Gehnn.” she said, quavering. “And…and I’m f-from….down south.”

There was a little silence after this, as they all looked at her curiously. She shrank back, pulling her hood lower over her face and staring at her legs.

“Well!” Mr. Tummett clapped his hands, making them all jump. “That’s all settled, then! So now - DINNER!”

And just like that, he whipped out a burlap sack and handed out bowls and spoons, which they took with some bemusement. He then took out a large can, cut it open, and set it on the stove, shoving a dipper in as well.

“The fare’s not so good tonight, I’m afraid, just some preserves, but that’s all I got time to feed you.” He said, spoon some of the now- steaming stew into his bowl.