Chapter Three: The Sleepwalker

It was dark out. The temperature was mild. Only a few loose strands of hair had escaped my braid. The laundry hung to the left of me, a vague reminder to finish it. Even though everything seemed in place, I checked that the lake was not frozen and more importantly that the inn was still behind me. So it was. The inn was there in its entirety. Not that there was much of it. The light breeze startled me. Nervously, I wiped the film of perspiration from my forehead. After I folded the dry laundry, I carried it inside by the vague light of the moon and the lights from inside the inn. I returned it to each respective room, even taking the time to make the beds and hang the clothing. Finally, I scurried into the kitchen to help Papa.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “You fell asleep.” Then carelessly, he focused on his chopping. “Jenny…” He started. “I know we may joke often, but I worry that your tendencies will appeal little to suitors. You are intelligent, which will only intimidate men. You are dreadful and, I mean terribly dreadful, with all domestic chores. And you’ve got a dreamer’s head. Jenny, you need to learn to settle. There isn’t always going to be some great adventure like in those novels you read.”

Ashamed, I hung my head. “Of course, Papa. I’ll start on the bread,” I said somberly reaching for the flour. As I kneaded it, I begged some unknown force that for once, it would bake decently. I knew Papa was right, of course. As a little girl, I would jabber about the changes I would make to this world; he would humor me with a laugh or a smile. It all seemed so stupid. Through the kitchen window, I watched the professors chatting and awaiting dinner.

Professor Lester sat alone. Reading spectacles rested on her nose as her eyes scanned the page before her. She did not seem angry or lonely. The words before her stole most of her attention. In that moment, I wanted so desperately to be a professor. To be able to travel and study and listen and read would’ve brought me no greater pleasure.

Instead, my father tethered me to his dream, to his hard work with the knowledge that it would’ve crushed me to allow it to die. Soon, he’ll bind me to a husband too, I thought glumly. With that thought, came others, dreadful ones of deceit and dishonesty. Before I could control myself, tears rolled down my cheeks.

It didn’t take long for Papa to spot my sadness. “Jenny, I did not mean to upset you,” Papa cooed tenderly. “I needed to inform you of reality. It is not always perfect.”

Silently, I sliced the dough and shaped it. I dropped the little mounds into the oven. Then I set myself on the wooden chair by the stove to watch them roast.

“Jenny, talk to me, please.” His voice strained in desperation. “I love you, sweet. I know you want more from life, but Jenny, you have to understand. Look around. This inn belongs to you.” When I didn’t react, he sighed heavily. “Talk when you’re ready.”

Soon after, I pulled out the bread. Cautiously, I ripped off a small piece. I munched it and shrugged. “Not bad,” I murmured.

Papa tested the meat he cooked, then his assorted vegetables. “Jenny, grab the herb jar,” He ordered. His voice was emotionless and icy.

On my toes, I reached up for the jar full of green flakes. Without meeting his gaze, I placed the jar in his hands. I sawed through the bread. In my rage, I wasn’t very alert. There was the shock and sting of pain. Blood gushed from my fingertip. Providing heavy pressure with a dishcloth, I searched around for the cloth we kept around for treating wounds. When they were no where to be found, I spoke, “Papa, could you…please?” Unsurely, I displayed my bleeding finger.

Papa cursed. He fumbled around for the cloth. When he had it in his hand, he tightly wrapped my finger. Gingerly, he sealed it a pin. Towering a foot over me, he grinned down on me. After tilting up my chin, he lightly kissed my forehead. He spoke words he once did when I hurt myself as a little girl. “All better.”

“Thanks, Papa,” I whispered timidly. “I’m sorry for acting so immaturely earlier.”

“There was no harm done from it.” He whiffed the meal inside the wrought iron pan. “What do you think? Decent, enough for these intellectuals?”

“Fit for the king himself.” I began to portion the meal to send it out to the professors and other travelers that wandered in for a short dinner. I handed two plates to Papa with a small smile and a wink. “Good luck,” I chimed, teasing.

He waggled a finger at me from under the plates. His eyes narrowed playfully. “What am I to do to with you?”

The words didn’t hold the humor that they once did after his speech. I couldn’t bring myself to retort. Instead, I finished serving and scoured the dishes. “Best get used it,” I supposed, melancholy.

The night grew later until the only sound that reached my ears was my father laughing with Professor Lester.

“Would you like to move out to the porch?” Papa asked her. Hesitance and sincerity jumbled into his tone; I could picture his nervous smile.

After an hour or so, the heat and stench of the kitchen became too much. I retreated outside for some fresh air. Of course, I used the back door to give Papa and Professor Lester some privacy. It didn’t quite work out that way as I rounded the inn to listen to their conversation. Quietly, I slipped down to sit with my back against the wall.

The start of her sentence was sliced off by the wind. “-The best thing to do would be to think of yourself at her age,” The professor concluded thoughtfully.

“Well, that’s not a good judge. I ran away from home when I was her age.”

“Why did you run away?”

I heard Papa’s gruff sigh. “My father wanted me to be a cobbler. Neither my elder brother nor I wanted such a thing so we ran. We ran so far that we stumbled here. Together we built this.”

“How is that different from what you’re doing to Jenny?” Professor Lester asked.

I could hear words begin to form on Papa’s lips only to fade out.

In one breath, I heard all of his guilt. “Jenny wouldn’t run away. She’d get used to it. She would be silent in her misery. I cannot do that to her. What am I to do, Mary?”

“Let her run free, Eric, even if it is only for a short while. Send her away.”

Away? To where? What would I do? I wondered with her suggestion. Another part of me desperately hoped for Papa to agree with her, to allow me to leave the inn.

“What purpose would that serve? She wouldn’t know what to do with herself! All she does now is read… and she’s clumsy. I will not send a girl who cannot cut bread without slicing her finger into the world! I might as well murder her if I do that. Mary, I cannot send her off,” Papa decided, much to my disappointment.

“So you will try to change her? Perfect her into something she is not? I thought you were better than that, Eric.” Disdain rang out in Professor Lester’s voice.

He huffed. “Perhaps you can talk to her? I do not know what to say to her. She is a young woman now. There is only so much I can do for her. I simply wish- her mother.”

“I know. I can try, but my experience is as slim as yours. She reminds me of myself at her age. Maybe you could send her to study?” The professor suggested.

He groaned, “I’ve not the money to hire someone or to send her to school. Do you think maybe, while you are here…you could teach her?”

My frustration eased when he mentioned it. Please say yes. Please. I pleaded silently in my head. Fretfully, I bit my thumbnail.

“I would like nothing more, but…” She faltered. “Do you want her to get so attached if I have to go after the convocation?”

I yawned. I blinked rapidly several times to try to stimulate myself. It did not work. Finally, I stood and crept into the inn. The stairs whined with each step I took closer to bed. I collapsed into it.

The hearth crackled. The cloaked figure sat on a thick leather chair in front of it. His back was toward me. “Solitaire is a stupid game, Genevieve.” He cursed the cards.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? How do you know my mother? Why is that-” Questions flowed faster than my brain could process.

“All in good time, Genevieve. Let’s talk about you first. You’re much more interesting than little old me.” He cackled. With a flick of his wrist, he spun the chair toward me. “So, you wanted to leave this charming little inn, did you?”

“Are you even real or are you just some twisted thing that I made up?”

“Only one of us can ask questions and it’s not your turn!” He roared. A dusty burst of wind swept me violently toward his armchair.

I landed face first with a plop. “Ow! What is wrong with you?” I sat up.

He flipped his hand through the air again, only this time to thwarp me with a chuck of gravely bits.

It nipped at my eyes, which watered in protest. “Stop it! Yes! I did want to leave. I don’t want to stay here forever, but I can’t leave my father. I won’t.”

“It’s all about your father, isn’t it? What if you left this place to find your mother? How would you feel then?” He wondered, a harsh corrosive edge in his voice.

I responded with what I had heard that morning. “My mother didn’t want me.”

Laughing, he rose from the chair. He towered feet over me. “Oh, how she regrets her mistake! She did not realize what a child she gave up! Only to have it grow up to be…an innkeeper!” He chuckled harder, a stale wheezing sound.

My eyes widened with his words. “You don’t joke, do you? Does s-she want to meet me? Where can I find her? Tell me, oh please! That is, if you are real. What if you are some delusion created by my mind to haunt me at night with promises of my mother? There is no way to know this for sure. Do you have a name? I may find a book on you.”

“Genevieve Stone, for the love of sleep, will you calm yourself?” He snapped.

It was not often that I heard my surname; most of the time, I forgot that it was even there. “I apologize, sir.” I quieted. “Could you please, tell me your name?”

He paused for a moment, thoughtful. “You may call me Sleepwalker.”

I furrowed my brow. “Sleepwalker? That is not a proper name. Surely, it’s a pseudonym for another name.” I reasoned further in my head.

“Take your breaks where you can get them.” He shrugged.

Nervously I stuttered, “Wh-What are-”

He interrupted, “Where are your manners? I am your elder and I shall ask you the questions. Tell me, Genevieve, how much of your family have you actually known?”

“My father and my uncle. My father thought it best that I not meet the rest.”

He nodded. “Interesting, interesting. Perhaps in your father’s dreams I could convince him to allow you to search for your mother.”

“It does not matter. I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for her. Wait- you control my father’s dreams? You’ve been tormenting him! You hurt my father and then ask my trust? You are but a figment of my dreams, little more than a shameful fantasy.”

Roughly, he snatched my arm. Tightly he gripped it harder and harder. “Can a mere delusion hurt you? Bruise you? Hmm? Answer, you stupid girl!” He yanked the arm behind me after pinning me to the wall. Forcefully, he thrust my arm upward.

The pressure immediately assaulted my shoulder. “Stop! Stop it!”

His hand clasped my arm tighter, removing the blood flow to my hand. “See if this doesn’t bruise! Then tell me if I am real!” He roared fiercely. Then he swung me to the ground. His screechy malevolent cackle was the last thing I heard before pure and silent darkness; I was not sure how long I stayed in the abyss.

As my eyes creaked open, I saw Papa over me, pacing. “Papa, are you okay?”

“You woke up! Oh, dear Lord, you woke up. Mary, Mary, she’s awake.” Papa hugged me so tightly. “I told you never to scare me again. Was the dream awful?” His voice was muffled into my shoulder. “I thought-oh, I thought you weren’t going to wake. I tried so many times. It’s near sunset. You need to eat. I will get you something.”

My head pounded. “I don’t feel well,” I moaned. The room shifted and multiplied.

The professor gave me a grim smile. “I can imagine you wouldn’t. So what was the dream about?” Her voice picked up, interested. She sat up, swinging her legs over.

“I was having a conversation in the lobby with a figure, not quite a man. He told me cryptic answers that made me want to keep talking and he…” My voice trailed off when my eyes landed on my arm. Deep purple bruises coated my forearm.

“Jenny, what is that?” She hopped off Papa’s bed to inspect the wound. Delicately, her fingers grazed the length of my forearm. “These must have been…you screamed this morning. Then nothing. You seemed lifeless. Your father was a wreck.”

“I was being hurt in the dream. Sand buffeted my face. Then this man told me his name was Sleepwalker before he did this.” I gestured to my arm. My bandaged finger still ached. This pain shot up my arm to the bruises that lay past it to my shoulder, hurt by swift yank from behind. Truthfully, I grew afraid of the dream; I finally understood Papa’s terror while he slept. “Did I imagine it? If not, was I trying to make logic of the pain I experienced in real life? Did I do it to myself?”

Professor Lester stroked my cheek. “Hush, Jenny. We have been watching since last night. You fretted and writhed, but you didn’t harm yourself. What did you say the man’s name was again?” Her expression was perplexed as she examined the bruises.

“Sleepwalker and he wasn’t quite a man. He was too tall and he had no face, only a smile. He bled sand. He controlled wind. He knew my surname! It is all too strange for me to handle. What am I to do?” I wondered, asking the question to both of us.

She mused on it. “We’ll talk during our first session tomorrow. It’s been some while since I’ve had the pleasure to teach a girl, especially one as bright as you.”

I grinned with a blush. “Thank you. Where do you teach?” I wondered suddenly.

“Glennan in the east usually, sometimes, Dunver for the beautiful public library. For your lessons though, your father’s library will be well suited. You must know, Jenny, I am not an easy keeper. Be prepared to work. For now, get better.”

Author's Note

So this is Chapter Three. I'm hoping the title makes a bit more sense now. Thanks for reading.