Chapter One: The Lonely Bard's Inn

“Jenny! Jenny!” Papa yelled around confused. His deep voice bellowed out to where I sat behind the gnarled grey tree. Its branches protruded out allowing just enough light through the bright leaves, jade in color. “Jenny, wherever you are, get your nose out of that book and come here!”

I threw my head back against the tree closing my eyes. Leather binding felt soft on my fingers as I gently snapped the book shut. “Coming, Papa!” I called, tucking the story under my arm. The green fields sprawled in front of me. The sweet scent of summer filled my nose. The gentle breeze tousled my hair. Bright nearly orange locks of hair obstructed my vision.

“Jenny, hurry up! Come on!” He shooed me along; I swear, I saw his eyes roll from across the field.

I hiked up my dress in my haste. Of course, holding my skirts to run in such a way was frowned upon, but between my sarcasm, my lack of grace, and the thick sturdy boots Papa had given me, I was no more a lady than the pond toads.

As I approached Papa, I saw his solid tall figure. His face contorted in attempted disdain, but there was amusement in his charcoal eyes. Grey pieces streaked his mostly rusty hair while rusty hairs speckled the grey of his whiskers. A smile creased the working lines of his face. “What am I to do with you?”

I grinned up at him. “You must offer a huge dowry to any suitor if you are to rid yourself of me.” I dropped the bottom of my dress so that my legs were concealed.

Papa chortled a deep rumble. “There are professors here. They convene every year at an inn. This year, they’ve chosen here, Jenny!”

I smiled for him. The inn, which stood lopsided before me was my father’s pride. Built from his and his brother’s hands before I was born, the inn was minuscule and tucked in a scenic highly uninhabited area. The peculiar travelers we encountered kept my father and I around the ever-lively embers in the main hall for hours listening to whatever tales they may spin. “You’ve earned this, Papa.”

“We’ve earned this, Jenny. You and I.” He ruffled my already mussed hair. “Should we show them the library?” His giddiness resembled that of a small child; the library was the jewel in his crown. We’d accumulated mysterious tomes and ancient scrolls from the stranger travelers that passed through.

I calmed him, “Perhaps tomorrow. I’m sure they’re all weary from the day’s travel. Would you like me to show each to his room?”

“And I’ll put on a stew for the eve.” The door creaked as he held it for me. The wood was faded and ashy with age. The glass was colored in a mosaic I’d admired from the time I was small.

“Thank you,” I responded politely slipping through the open doorway. Overwhelming noise and chatter filled the lobby’s air as I stepped in.

Men of all variations jumbled together in a sea of professors and their students. This convention encompassed all scholars of the region. It was their shining glory where they may boast to others about all they’ve accomplished and, though they may enjoy it less, colleagues welcomed them to listen to their swanks and discoveries.

“Excuse me,” I stated. When my normal tone of voice harbored no settling of noise, I repeated vociferously, “Excuse me!”

The men settled. Many adjusted their spectacles.

I sighed, “Welcome to the Lonely Bard’s Inn. My name is Jenny. Are there any questions before you all settle into your rooms?”

A tall one with round spectacles, many years, and very little white hair queried, “Is that your full name? I am taking an analytical study of popular names of females in different geographic-”

Another short and rotund man with a formal beard interrupted him. “Might I have a sample of your hair? I’ve never seen such an exquisite color.”

The rest fired questions at me mainly, ridiculous requests and difficult tasks. Once more, I had to subdue the garrulous noise picking at my ears. “Hey! Just follow me to your room if you want one!” I traipsed up the winding creaky stairs.

“What century architecture do you think this is modeled after? The woodwork is remarkable.” One admired the mahogany handrail lining the stairs. It was my father’s woodwork, a hobby he’d sacrificed for his inn.

I held my hand out for the first room in an over exaggerated grand motion. “Supper is when dusk arrives. It’s a simple stew, but no one can make it better than my father.”

The man grabbed his briefcase and carpetbag as he gabbed, “I should wonder what type of beef he uses. My research proves that certain cattle-”

“Enjoy your stay,” I stated flatly, closing the door behind the several professors that clambered in.

The more professors that met their rooms, the more silence engulfed the hallway. Soon, one professor remained, something I wasn’t expecting.

“This is the last vacant room,” I said. “It’s all yours…” I turned to face her. “Ma’am. Enjoy your stay.”

She smiled, “Surprised, are you? Happens more often than I’d like. Many students refuse to learn from me. A few though, they open up their heads. I’m Professor Mary Lester.”

I grinned back. “It’s nice to meet you, Professor Lester. My name is Jenny. I’m almost certain no one heard me say so earlier.”

Professor Lester had her dark brown hair pulled into a tight bun. The wrinkles on her face showed merely where smiles had been. The strangest part was that she wore tan trousers and a fitted cream button-down shirt like a man’s attire but tailored to the elegant curves of a woman. “I like your boots.”

“Thank you. My father insists that I wear them. He says they’re better than some flimsy slippers. I’ve grown fond of them.” The worn brown leather was warm and comfortable on my feet and up my calves.

“Your father is a smart man. I’m sure your mother detests them though.”

My face grew solemn. “I would not know.” I stared at the wood of the floor, still shining yet scuffed as it had always been.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” The professor laid a hand on my shoulder. There was delicate comfort in her simple gesture. “When did you say supper was?”

I shrugged, “About dusk. I hope you enjoy your gathering.” When she plucked up her bags and shut the door, painted white to make it less dingy, I clopped downstairs behind the bar and into the kitchen. “Papa?” My voice rang out.

His head poked out from behind the giant stew pot. “Are they settled in? Do they know when dinner is?”

I nodded. “Papa, have you ever seen a woman wear britches?” I questioned cocking my head to one side.

Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “Have you?” He sampled the meal he prepared and added a bit more spice.

“One of the professors is a woman. She wears a shirt and trousers like a man though.”

“Eh, one more strange visitor to add to the list,” He joked. “I’m sure you’ve seen enough in your sixteen years to get that some people are plain weird.”

That much was true. “Do you remember the man who collected toenails?”

My father shuddered. “Do not remind me of that before supper,” He teased.

“The woman professor also asked about my mother. I’ve been a bit cur-”

His face turned cold, a stone. “Genevieve, go wipe down the tables and the bar. And when the meal concludes, you’ll wipe the tables again…and the floor.”

Cringing at my full name, I sighed. “Every time…” I murmured hopelessly. Why couldn’t he just tell me already? I wasn’t a little girl anymore. Surely, I could know about my mother. Maybe it’s not me, I thought, maybe Papa isn’t ready. From a pot of tepid water, I removed a soaking cloth and scrubbed the tables.

Slowly the professors wandered down for food, filling each table and the air with their incessant prattle. The noise steadily increased. Once all of the tables had no vacancy, they filled the bar. I noted that not one of them asked for ale or alcohol, only water or even milk.

My father himself enjoyed a tankard of ale and a bit of conversation with Professor Lester.

I sat off to the side at the bar, lapping at the stew in front of me. When I finished and cleaned up after myself, I returned to my spot.

“Ah, Jenny,” said one of the professors. He had thick spectacles and silver hair cleanly trimmed. “I can think of only one other woman I know of to have such a lovely color of hair. Unfortunately for me, she is of stories and you are too young.”

“Stories, huh?” I asked politely, not really curious. Frankly, I was bit creeped.

“Have you ever heard of Greek mythology?”

Uncomprehendingly, I shook my head. “I cannot say that I have.”

“How odd, I thought surely it was taught in every school.”

I shook my head, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but the inn is a bit isolated. I have never been to school.”

“Really? Can you read? Can you do arithmetic? What do you know of?” He unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket and pulled out a quill and ink. After dipping the quill in ink, he poised it at the paper.

“Of course I can. I’m not an idiot. My father simply wanted me to help him at the inn during the day. I taught myself to read and do arithmetic at night. It’s easier with our large library-”

“A library? Might I see your collection after dinner?” He asked eagerly. “How did we get on this topic? Ah, yes! Greek mythology! How peculiar you’ve never heard of the most famous redhead of stories, a goddess, Artemis.” He pulled a tome from his satchel beside him. “I teach mythology at the University of Glennan in the east, about a day’s journey by carriage, of course.”

“What is this mythology thing?” I inquired impatiently.

“Stories and legends of gods from a strange ancient nation, Greece. This is an original from long ago, very rare. I was lucky enough to notice its value at a small auction.” He flipped it open to reveal beautiful yet worn yellow pages. They were thick and smooth. Delicately, he thumbed through it until he found the page he wanted. “See there, Artemis, the redheaded huntress?” With a stubby finger, he pointed to the illustration of a lithe woman with the similarity of the bright red hair. “She vowed never to marry. Her sole love was the chase and the hunt, strong and lovely. I dream her moon chariot rides through my window on some eves.” He mused wistfully.

“Okay,” I replied. I scanned the page. “Beside the hair, I feel we have no other similarities.” The goddess seemed vicious to say the least, something I was not.

“That is for you to decide. Would you care to borrow this?”

I’d been aching for a new book for some time as I’d already been through all the books in my father’s library several times. “Could I please?”

“Of course! I’ve several more if you’d care to read them before I depart.”

I smiled gratefully. “Thank you.” My fingers stroked the leather cover gently.

“Jenny,” My father held my shoulder. “It’s a bit late, don’t you think?” He pointed to the hearth, the only source of light at the hour. “You should go to bed.”

“I thought you wanted me to wipe the floor,” I responded.

He scratched his beard in thought. “These scholars stay up later than I thought. I’ll take care of it myself. You just get to bed.”

“Papa, do you think I could read in bed for a while? Just a short while, I promise.” With his nod, I hugged him goodnight and brought the book down to the cellar, a space Papa and I shared as a small apartment. It was cool and damp down there, enjoyable in hot summer nights like this one, but freezing in the winter with only the small stove to heat us. I changed into my thin cotton nightgown. By the light of the oil lantern above my bed, I started to read. The professor’s brief description that made little sense before began to unravel with each word I read in the book. The stories were entrancing. I fell asleep over the book with the lamp still on. Faintly, I remember my father removing the book, extinguishing the lantern, and tucking me under my covers.

Screaming. Loud yells pierced through my ears.

I bolted out of bed and scrambled over to my father. I fumbled with the light. “Papa, wake up.” I said calmly as possible trying to free him from his frequent night terrors.

Roughly he grabbed my arm and threw me against the wood backed dirt wall. “Get away!” He roared in his delirium.

I stood again, shaking him awake as he batted at me. When he awoke, I panted from the struggle. “Are you alright?” I wondered, my voice shaking with worry.

“I’m fine,” He exhaled. “You’re bleeding.” Gingerly, he rubbed my cheek and even in the dark, I could see the dark crimson of blood on his thumb.

“It doesn’t matter.” We sat in silence for a few moments. When I could stand it no longer, I asked, “What are these dreams about?”

With the furrow of his brow, he replied somberly, “Your mother.”

Author's Note

This is the first chapter of Sleepwalker. I just kind of got this idea thinking one day. It doesn't make much sense now, but it will. Thanks for reading. Tell me any thoughts you might have.