Laundry

      In a kingdom not so far away lived a girl who was not a princess. Her father held no title or riches, nor fame.  Her mother was the daughter of an inn keeper and not some distant lord.  Their country was peaceful and was neither ravaged by war nor famine and poverty.  The girl might have been called a beauty yet no one would argue that she was the fairest.  Her golden brown hair might have shown with care, yet it was always tied back in a single braid where it would not interfere with her daily chores.  She was slim from hard work and modest meals and her face was marked with freckles from long undisturbed days in the harsh sun. 

      Lyn, which was her name, was an only child and so she shared the burden of chores with no one.  Each day was filled with tasks that needed to be done, and with each completed task a new task was born.  On this day, which happened to be a Saturday, she did the laundry and her first task, after feeding the animals, was to carry the thirteen required buckets of water from the well to the wash tub.  She gathered all the garments and sheets and one by one soaked them in the water, which was slightly warmed from the morning sun.  The soap, which she made on Monday, was scented with lavender and lilacs from her garden, which she tended almost every night after supper.  She scrubbed all morning and then hung the laundry out to dry in the noontime sun.  Afterward she would return to help her mother with the midday meal.  Lunch was a quiet time, when everyone ate in peaceful silence, each tired from their morning chores and contemplative about all that was left still to do.  Lyn enjoyed the quiet time, when she shared her mind with no one.  She was not the type prone to indulge in foolish fantasy and so she thought about menial things, like what new plant to try in her garden or which print to add next to the diamond patterned quilt she was making for winter. 

      It wasn’t long until it was time to clear the table and collect the basket where she would put the now cleaned and dry laundry from the line.  But when she stepped outside the white sheets which had been blowing in the slight breeze were now trampled in the dirt, her Sunday gown was hanging from the twisted branches of a nearby tree and her father’s shirts had somehow been carried aloft to land in the animal pin where they were now being nibbled on by several goats.  She stood somewhat frozen and stared unseeing at the destruction that lay before her. She had neither heard nor spied any cause for why the laundry, that until this day had always awaited her arrival, would suddenly grow impatient to be off; thereby, undoing her morning labors. She stood transfixed until the bugle blast that had remained unobtrusively in the background of her thoughts began to grow louder and mingle with the thunder of hoof beats coming fast.  Lyn turned to see a rider wearing the king’s colors, golden yellow and dark green, come to a halt in the road just in front of the house.  She saw her father approach the rider with his slow and hobbled gait.  She could see that the rider was out of breath and slightly distraught as he held his bugle at his waist, his knuckles white against the reins. 

    “The King is murdered,” he proclaimed loud enough for her to hear, he waited and watched for realization to show on each of their faces.

    “The Prince has declared war with Soal, who has sent the assassins.”

His horse reared, kicking the air and sending sand flying from its hooves, when it landed the messenger spurred it to flight and she watched as they continued down the road, the bugle now growing fainter with each blast.

    The King was dead, and they were at war, but when she turned, the laundry was once again pristine on the line and blowing in the wind.