64th Day of Autumn 218
Docks District in Galoring
It was a cool late summer morning in the city. Dewdrops beaded on the blades of grass, and the leaves clung to the branches in the treetops as if fighting to hold onto the brilliant green of the season’s passing. Try as they might … fall was on its way, and the soft yellows had begun to infiltrate the verdant canopy. It was nearly the autumn’s turn, and it was time for a change.
Between the blades and the leaves small boots trod through a little garden in the docks district of the city of Galoring. It was the wee small hours of the morning, and every other step was punctuated by the tap of an old wooden cane. Birdsong danced alongside the flickering morning light, and the scent of fresh-baked flaky-buttery pastries wafted from the basket that Ringo Potts, who some folks called Warbler, was delivering as he made his first stop of the day.
A wide grin spread across the halfling’s face as he approached the center of the garden dotted with park benches and tables. The massive hulking frame of Hock sat scrunched between the bench and a table top as the man picked up a comically small teapot and filled a much more appropriately sized large mug. Hock took a big gulp, as he stared down at a wooden board.
“I brought crow’s aunts,” Ringo said merrily as he approached, “and we seem to have a cheering section today as well,” he chuckled as he waved his hand towards the treetops and another chorus of warbles, chirps and fluttering wings filtered through the morning light.
“Tea?” Hock stated flatly, his expression unreadable as usual. He held the teapot aloft in one hand and a small cup between his thumb and index finger in the other.
“Yes please,” Ringo said as he hopped up onto the bench to study the board. He stretched his arms high above his head and tilted his neck from side to side releasing a series of cracks and pops, and for the briefest moment little Ringo and humongous Hock were the same height.
Ringo paced back and forth on the bench as he took his first sip of morning tea, and nibbled on one of the pastries. Hock ate one of the crow’s aunts in a single bite.
“What’s our record at this point? Six wins for you, and zero for me?” Ringo said in a lower tone as he plopped down into his seat.
“Yup,” Hock said.
“I think today’s my day,” Ringo said with a big grin as he picked up a stone and replaced it with a seed along one of the intersecting splits in the wooden rings of the board.
Hock placed a stone along one of the crossings, and took another gulp from his mug.
“Galoring is nothing at all like I expected,” Ringo said as he considered his next move.
“Frankly, I’m starting to like the place. Heh, I might actually miss it,” he muttered wistfully as he placed another seed.
“You know … the job I’m here for is almost done. This, um … this might be our last game for a while,” Ringo said without looking up.
Hock didn’t say a word, but simply rested his hand on Ringo’s for the briefest moment before removing a seed and replacing it with a stone.
“I’ll miss you too buddy,” Ringo said as he placed his hand on Hock’s then refilled his tea and took his turn.
Hock put down another stone, and looked up at Ringo, a wry grin on his normally blank face.
Ringo stood up and looked at the board. He studied the crossings of the seeds and stones, their intersections across the rings and splits, and the joined and broken paths of the wooden junction board.
“Seven to zero,” Ringo said with a dry laugh. “It’s hard to believe you only just learned to play junction.”
Hock shrugged.
Ringo reached into his pack and pulled out a rolled up piece of paper tied with a bit of vine and an evergreen sapling in a cracked clay pot. He handed the rolled paper to Hock. “For Miriam,” he said and then slid the potted tree across the table, “and this is for you.”
Hock stood up, nearly taking the furniture with him as he unwedged himself from between the bench and the tabletop. He held the parcel and the pot, and pivoted to begin walking away without looking up, but stopped …
Hock was more than two meters tall and nearly just as wide, but as he stood there … just a shadow blocking the rising sun, with a roll of paper and a plant cradled in his arms one couldn’t help but see him as small.
“Thanks,” Hock said as he lumbered off into the distance.
Ringo smiled as he watched Hock leave, and thought to himself, There’s just not enough time …
Off in other districts in Galoring, somewhere between the cracks in the stone streets, around the corners of alleyways, and growing through the edges of old foundations little leaves grew, reaching up for the day’s new light.
Warbler tapped the junction board with his knuckles. The rings and cracks groaned and twisted as the board shifted. New patterns formed, lines curving into new crossings.
There’s never enough time, but times always change … Warbler thought as he headed towards his next stop.
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