The Next of Many

The Next of Many

We sat down in the snow and looked at the garland above the inn's doorway. They weren't going to let us in anyhow, so why shouldn't we sit in the snow?

"What do you reckon it's made of?"

"It's the same sort of weaving as on those crowns made by young people who pick clover flowers, Licho." replied Tymek.

"Clover flowers? This time of year?" yelled I. "Not likely. Probably hemp, if ever I was a woman of knowledge."

"Hemp," pondered Tymek. "Yes. Makes sense. That young one, Rol, started a harvest of it down near where old Lesnik put down roots."

"Lesnik? Haven't thought of him in a century," said I, remembering. "Mighty, that oak, he is."

We shifted our seats in the snow. They weren't going to let us in anyhow, so why shouldn't we shift?

"Why do you suppose they put 'Happy New Year' over their doorways?" asked I.

Tymek turned towards the road leading into the darkening woods and wondered, "Maybe it is to protect themselves from you, Licho."

"From me?" laughed I, bemused. "Misfortune I bring into their lives. True. But they call for me. I am at their service, even if I am not invited inside like a proper houseguest. They have called for me for many years, Tymek. They are misery. I am their bidding."

"Maybe a joke then, Licho" said Tymek. "A joke to break up the bite of winter."

The candles inside flickered orange. We stood up. "Let us go, Tymek. Many more visits this eve. Touch the garland, I will, Tymek. Let it rot. A joke for the inn's master."

We left, down the road and towards the forest. Inside, the inn's master toasted to a new year. The next of many, of the rotted sort that had come before.