Chapter 8: Credit

Despite Joan’s deliberate effort to move quietly, Conti sensed his presence at once and sprang up from the bed, her agile movements betraying an instinctive alertness. Seeing Joan bring food, gratitude flickered in the girl’s eyes. She fought off her headache, forced a faint smile, and thanked him.

Joan handed her a slip of paper with a single line: “Headache?”

“Ever since I picked up a strange glowing crystal near Beaver Village yesterday morning, I’ve been having bouts of pain,” Conti replied, rubbing her forehead, her expression both disheartened and bewildered. She still had no idea what ill luck had befallen her, nor did she know that the mysterious crystal responsible for her headache was now in Joan’s possession.

Joan gazed at Conti’s delicate, slightly wan face and guessed that she had likely been affected by the energy surge from the “Tear of the Divine,” her spirit jolted by its force. He sympathized with her plight, but sadly, he was powerless to help—after all, he knew nothing of medicine and was no practitioner of divine arts.

“I visited Mr. Tyre just now. The old gentleman was very kind and said I could stay here until I’m well enough to go home… I hope I’m not imposing.” Conti watched Joan’s face anxiously, her bright eyes shining faintly in the dusk.

Joan shook his head. He almost spoke but thought there was nothing worth saying, so he turned away in silence and went back to his room.

The next morning, Joan got up before dawn. There was nothing to eat at home. He stood before the empty cupboard, clutching his equally empty purse, his mood as gloomy as the wintry sky outside.

Survival demanded food, and Joan now faced two choices: ask his grandfather for money or buy food on credit at the grocery. He disliked both options, for they required him to ask for help.

Most people, when facing hardship, first think to turn to friends and family for help. Indeed, human society is built upon such networks of kinship and mutual aid. But Joan, withdrawn to his core, thought differently—if he must beg for help, he would rather turn to a stranger than owe a favor to a friend or relative. Given the choice between seeking aid from his only family in this world or from Barbara the grocer, a woman with no ties to him, Joan would sooner go to Barbara for credit.

By six o’clock, the wind and snow outside were fierce. Joan donned his cloak and left home alone. The footprints he left behind were quickly swallowed by the falling snow.

Trudging through snow up to his knees for half an hour, Joan arrived at the grocery just as it opened. He found Barbara, the owner, and handed her a note.

Barbara was a plump woman in her forties, her figure as round as a barrel. Her broad, cheerful smile never faded, and she was known throughout the town for her helpfulness and busybody ways. No wedding, funeral, or festival went without her bustling presence and enthusiastic assistance.

Barbara was not highly educated, but Joan had considered this and wrote his request for credit as simply as possible, pledging in writing to repay the debt, with interest, by the end of the month.

Barbara squinted at the note, moving to the window to catch the weak morning light, guessing at the words as best she could. Her mouth stretched wider and wider in amusement until she finally burst out laughing.

Joan clenched his fists uneasily, unsure what she found so funny.

“What a peculiar child!” Barbara tossed the note aside, then, with surprising nimbleness for her size, dashed to the food counter. She filled a basket with piping hot bread, then, on second thought, added a jar of honey.

“Here, take it!” she said, handing the brimming basket to Joan and ruffling his hair with her plump hand. “My poor dear, eat your fill. Don’t let yourself go hungry!”

Joan bowed gratefully, promising again and again to repay her on time.

Barbara laughed once more and reassured Joan that she ran her business for neighbors and friends—there wasn’t a day she didn’t extend a dozen lines of credit. There was nothing shameful about it.

“My good child, you’re the smartest in town. One day you’ll be a great mage. Why worry about a little money? Consider the bread a gift from me—you can’t have a future wizard going hungry!”

Barbara’s warmth left Joan both touched and embarrassed. He bowed again in thanks, grabbed the basket, and fled the store like a fugitive, running all the way home without stopping. The bread was still warm when he arrived.

After a glass of water and a brief rest, Joan wolfed down a piece of bread and longed for a second, but forced himself to refrain. He was determined not to ask Barbara for credit again until he’d paid his debt. The more generous she was, the less Joan wished to owe her.

He divided the remaining bread and honey into three portions—one for the kitchen pantry, and the others for his grandfather and for Conti.

He delivered one share to his grandfather’s cabin, slipping in and out quietly so as not to disturb the old man’s sleep. As for Conti’s portion, he hadn’t yet delivered it when the Asa girl, already up and washed, greeted him with a bright good morning.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen,” Joan said simply, then whistled for Jamie the hound.

He polished his hatchet, wrapped it in cloth, and slipped it into his belt, then set out with the dog.

He hadn’t gone far when hurried footsteps sounded behind him. Joan stopped and looked back to see Conti, a slice of bread clamped in her mouth, dashing toward him. She ran like a carefree fawn, her flaxen braids streaming in the wind.

“Joan, Joan! Where are you off to?” Conti asked, chewing her bread, her wide eyes brimming with curiosity.

“Hunting,” Joan replied, pointing toward the distant woods. He hoped to bring back enough game to pay off the bread and honey.

“Hunting? Then you must take me!” Conti said eagerly. “Let me help you hunt, and we’ll call it even for my meals, all right?”

Joan could tell that, though only thirteen or fourteen, Conti was no frail young lady. She moved with remarkable agility. Knowing that among the Asa, both girls and boys lived by fishing and hunting, Conti had surely trained for the hunt. She would be useful, but Joan still worried about her health. He pointed to his own temple.

“My headache isn’t as bad as yesterday,” Conti said with a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t slow you down.”

As if to prove her point, Conti suddenly reached out. Before Joan could react, the hatchet at his waist was already in her hand.

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