Fortune was smiling upon me. For the next morning, as Myth and I walked along the road, we chanced upon a man dressed in naught but his undergarments and a cowl…
Why are you laughing, Buster? Was it some…
Oh, I see. The way I said that—it sounded as if fortune smiled upon me because we ran into a half-naked man, didn’t it? That certainly came out wrong. Okay, I deserve to be laughed at for that blunder. So go on, Buster. Laugh away…
Are you done laughing? Good. Shall we continue? Or do you need a moment to compose yourself?
Now, let me correct myself before we move on: You will soon understand how fortune smiled upon me. It was not because we met a man wearing just his undergarments. Well, the man was important, but his lack of clothes was not.
Anyway…
Myth pointed at the man and said, “There’s something you don’t see every day—fortunately.”
“That’s… a lot of hair,” I observed.
The man marched over to us, looked at me, and asked, “Are you Izzy MacDonald?”
Having a hairy, half-naked man say my name unsettled me. I took a step back. Then I shuffled sideways a couple steps, positioning myself behind Myth.
“Y-yes,” I said timidly. “I’m Izzy MacDonald.”
“’Bout bloody time,” grumbled the man. He patted a satchel that was hanging off his shoulder. “I’ve a package for you.”
“A package?” I said. “Wait. Are you a courier?”
“Yep,” said the man as he rummaged inside his satchel. “Worse bleedin’ job there is. There I was—up in Dusk, a-mindin’ my own business, when up walks this woman, a Julie MacDonald. An’ what does she want? Why, she needs me to trek to the middle of nowhere an’ deliver a package to you. Lucky me, right?”
The courier pulled a package out of his satchel. “An’ look how it’s addressed.” He held the package at eyelevel and read aloud, “To: Izzy MacDonald. Location: Someplace else, most likely the Holding Moonlit.”
He lowered the package and glared at me. “Someplace else!” he spat out. “All I had to go on was a description: a petite woman, seventeen years of age, with curly red hair. I’ve been askin’ every woman with curly red hair from here to Dusk if they was Izzy MacDonald. That’s a lot of women, let me tell you.”
“Well, thank you for your dedication,” I said as I took my package. “You deserve a tip. Oh, and I have a parcel that needs to be delivered to Dusk.”
I took off my knapsack. Rummaging inside it, I pulled out my coin purse and a parcel. Inside this parcel were the letters I had written the night before.
The courier, meanwhile, removed a pipe from his satchel and lit it.
“Wait a second,” said Myth. “So, we’re just going to ignore the obvious issue?”
“What do you mean?” I asked her.
Turning to the courier, Myth asked, “Sir, why are wearing nothing but your smallclothes and a cowl?”
The courier puffed on his pipe. Removing it from his mouth, he pointed the pipe at Myth. “There are lots of nasty things out there—bandits, bards, bears, et cetera. Bears are the worst—bunch of jerks. There you are—walkin’ along, a-botherin’ no one, when some bleedin’ bear charges at you. An’ he’s a-roarin’ up a storm like you’d just kicked ’im in the happy spot.” The courier paused and spat. Then he muttered, “Bears.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re walking around in your smallclothes,” said Myth.
“No one messes with a man wearin’ just his skivvies,” replied the courier, “not even bears. You see a man in just his skivvies, you’re gonna reckon he’s off his head. Best self-defense there is, walkin’ around in your skivvies.”
Myth shrugged. “Well, I can’t argue with that.”
“Ahem,” I cut in. “Here you are,” I said to the courier as I handed him some coins. “That’s for bringing the package to me.”
The courier glanced at the coins and muttered, “At least you’re a good tipper.”
“And here is the parcel I want you to deliver,” I said.
Before I handed the parcel to him, I glanced at Myth. Please don’t hate me for doing this, I begged her in my mind.
But Myth needed to hear from her parents. Giving her that simple pleasure was more important than having to deal with the consequences.
Sighing, I gave the parcel to the courier.
The courier glanced at the address on the parcel. Then he glared at me again. “To: Auntie Julie MacDonald. Auntie? Really? How old are you?”
Shaking his head, the courier grumbled, “At least you put a proper address, not someplace else.”
“How much will it cost to deliver that parcel?” I asked him, ignoring the remark about my age.
After we had settled on a price and I had paid him, the courier stowed my parcel in his satchel.
“Back to Dusk I go,” he moaned as he turned and started to march away. “I hate my life.”
Myth and I watched him until he was a speck in the distance.
“What a strange man,” said Myth. Shaking her head, she went on, “We should get moving, too.”
And off we went. But I was unusually quiet for the rest of the day. My thoughts dwelled on that parcel. With every step that surly, half-naked courier took, the moment when I would have to tell Myth about what I had done drew nearer. I could only hope that she would forgive me for endangering her loved ones.