Ten

 

After an hour's journey up the road, with no signs of the palace or even a break in the woods, Vasco was ready to curse the shoemaker into oblivion for his poor directions. But, he reasoned, his steps were slower than most, what with his limp and all, so perhaps the shoemaker's directions were for a fitter man than he. Or the palace was as well hidden as the village. Neither would have surprised him, so he trudged wearily on.

This time, when he saw a cottage, he paused to scan the woods for the rest of the village. However, this cottage truly did stand alone. From its falling down state, he doubted anyone lived there now. But an empty cottage that no one lived in was a place he could happily spend the night. Nevertheless, the door to this cottage stood shut, so he knocked tentatively on it instead of barging inside.

To his surprise, a querulous elderly voice said, "Who is it?"

Vasco wet his lips, suddenly nervous. "My name is Vasco," he said. "I am a wounded soldier, recently returned from war. I seek a meal, and perhaps a bed for the night, and, in exchange, I offer my services." He eyed the holes in the roof. "For instance, I could fix your roof so that the next time it rains, it no longer leaks."

The door creaked open and a wrinkled face peered out. "Fixing my roof is no small job," she said. "You would need a place to sleep for more than one night, and you'd more than earn your meals between."

Vasco smiled at the old woman. "Honoured grandmother, we have a deal."

She eyed him suspiciously. "I'm not your grandmother, boy. I'd remember a strapping soldier like you. You can call me Kun." She gave him another hard look before she added, "And you can sleep in the barn with the goats." She cackled. "For I've no use for a handsome soldier in my bed. Not at my age."

Vasco smiled wistfully, for now, she reminded him of his own grandmother. She had not lived to see her village slaughtered. "You must have few visitors, if you think me handsome. And I have better luck with goats than women, so the barn is a good place for me." After all, three goats had survived the massacre of his village. Three goats and one man, but no women. Goats' milk had kept him alive long enough to join the army, when he traded them for the price of his weapons and armour. None of them had been his family's goats, but he had reasoned that the spirits of the slain would have happily handed over their last livestock in order to exact vengeance from their murderers. Perhaps it would help their spirits rest. For Vasco knew it would be a long time before he would know a good night's rest.

"Come in, then," Kun said, stepping back and holding the door wide open. "There is soup in the pot, and fresh straw in the barn. It will be dark soon, and repairs can wait until morning."

Gratefully, Vasco stepped into the dark cottage, his stomach rumbling so loudly at the first whiff of soup that he hardly heard the door slam shut behind him.