A Bowl of Soup

Loisa glanced up from her furious assault on the carrots and onions destined for tonight’s soup pot, and thought she saw a bit of colored cloth between two sweet gum trees at the end of the front path. She waited and watched.

Tarmed must have noticed the silence, as he pushed a needle and cord through one hole after another in the calfskin vest he wished he had finished last fall. He looked up, and Loisa glanced his way.

“Someone’s there, hiding.” She looked down the path.

Tarmed returned to his needle. “Not for long. One trace of your soup’s aroma drifting down the breeze to the end of the path will bring them running! Better set another plate.”

She glanced back at him and smiled. He was right. No one could resist her soup. She bent to the chopboard, and began singing a gardener’s song about carrots and potatoes planted in rows, and the sun and rain bringing them up, and and the sweet smell of dinner on the table. A light, careless melody, sung just loud enough to be heard at the end of the path.

Once more she thought she saw a glimpse of red cotton, and maybe a dark brown fur pulled over a pale face. But she went about her business until the sun faded and Tarmed came with a hungry look squinting at the soup pot.

“Supper’s on!” she called, standing at the window, a bit louder than needed. “We have plenty!” Turning to the open window, she leaned on the sill. “Sure wish we had someone to eat with us, Tarmed, or my name’s not Loisa Summerwood!”

Turning back into the room, she carried the pot to the table, and noisily dished it into three bowls. Tarmed looked up at her from his place at the end of the table, smiling.

“Wonder if we’ll have time to speak our thanks before they knock on the …”

Knock, knock. Twice, softly.

“I’ll go.” Tarmed stood, picked up a stout cane, and strode to the door. Cane in the right hand, he pulled the door open with his left, and stared. Loisa came up behind him. “Who is …”

Lia stood shivering in the early dusk, clothes torn by brambles and soiled from several falls. Her hair was brushed back, but as with a hand, not a proper brush. She bled from a scrape on the temple. Loisa rushed past Tarmed and gathered her into her arms. Standing there, being held, with the fragrance of potato soup wrapping around her, Lia began to cry.

In minutes she was in fresh clothes, hair combed, wounds cleaned and oiled, and a spoon in her hand. She looked around the room, and at her hosts, but said nothing as she ate eagerly.

“I may need to go back to the window and un-invite all those others that may have heard me!” laughed Loisa. “We’ll have naught to offer them by the time they get seated!”

Lia flushed, and put down her spoon. She looked down, still not speaking.

“Oh, darling, I was just a-teasing! You gather up that spoon and do your business. Serious, now, you keep going with that soup!”

Lia looked up and studied her face for a moment, then picked up the spoon and began eating again, more slowly.

“You’re most welcome here, young lady, for as long as you need,” said Tarmed. We’d be interested to know who you are, of course.”

“When you’ve eaten your fill,” he quickly added.

Lia set the spoon down, the bowl empty for the second time.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, looking at them each in turn. “I had not eaten since yesterday noon.”

“And come a long way in a hurry, it would seem.”

She nodded. “I’d best go now.”

“What?” they both exclaimed. “I think not!” said Loisa. “A hot tub is about to be ready, and a good night’s sleep on a fine, soft mattress that several geese paid dearly for!”

“But… they’re looking for me. I can’t stay!”

Loisa looked at Tarmed with a question in her eyes.

“I think,” he mused, “the bed behind that oak door will be the safest, warmest place in five days’ walk. And if anyone comes, I’ll tell them my daughter’s in the tub, and I’ll beat their heads into oatmeal before I let anyone disturb her!”

Lia visibly relaxed. “Thank you, sir, you are far more than kind, and it will be repaid… if that be possible.” She rose, and braced herself on the table.

“You are exhausted. Come.” Loisa led her into the next room, closing the door behind them and leaving Tarmed in charge of the front door and any who might choose to enter it.

“Hmm,” Tarmed said to himself. “Hmm, hmm, hmm.”

She’s alone. Frightened. Fleeing something.

Good clothes, not traveling clothes.

Very good clothes, he thought, picking up the head wrap left on the chair. Not farming or shopkeeper cloth. Castle cloth.

Hmm.

He moved to the bedroom door, and listened. The sounds of a young woman sobbing, and his wife comforting her.

Tarmed went to the front door, opened it just enough to slip out, letting no more light spill out into the early evening than necessary. He stepped to the side of the door, motionless against the outside wall, and waited.

Nothing moved that he could see or hear. Scurryings in the woods, but no more than any summer night would bring. His eyes slowly adjusted, and he could see by the starlight all he needed to see. Moving across the yard and into the woods, he drifted along parallel to the path in the direction by which she must have come, watching, listening.

No one pursued her. Yet.

Returning to the house, he brought blankets and an axe out, and made a bed in the corner of the low stone wall that circled the yard. From there he could see anyone who approached, and not be seen until he wanted to be.

Let them come.