Saved 81138

This post is a little...okay, A LOT...delayed but no less important than it was when we first got the news.

81138 has survived through another threat of closure.  That's right, this wasn't our first rodeo and we know - thank you for all the warnings in advance all the same - that this won't be the last time our small office comes under the hammer.  We have been prepared before, now, and I have faith we will be just as prepared the next time our office comes up.

We had the meeting with representatives from the county office, the senators offices, the newspaper, and the postal representatives on November the 9th.  It was a week later that we got word our office was removed from the list.  Our little town had made the headlines before this week - those efforts of our tenacity did not go without notice - but the publicity after the meeting made the humble writer of this blog teary eyed.  It was the very next day our names and town was mentioned on the radio.  The article mentioning our efforts to save the office hit the paper on the following Friday - front page by the way.  To say we made a positive impression was an understatement.  Or...so I've heard it said.  I think it's because we had cookies :)

By their coming down to our isolated part of the world I think they realized just how vital the post office is.  It is our connection to civilization - as I believe I've mentioned a few times.  It was quite a drive from their comforts of convenience stores, public restrooms, and consistent cell service.  I'm almost positive they were warned to fill up their gas tanks before making the trip.  One representative said he had not received a text message since 2:00 that afternoon.  The meeting was held at 5:00 so it would be another 3-4 hours before he returned to an area where the phone could receive messages and internet once again.   

Did I mention the positive impression our town gave?  Despite the 'coming to the middle of nowhere' there was a feeling of safety when they arrived.  I call it the feeling of 'coming home'.  They were impressed with just how community our post office was - the local artwork on display.  They were impressed with just how traditional the office was - the historic boxes to the historic counter left here when the bank closed.  They were impressed with the number of community members that showed up to the meeting and how organized the community was in preparation for this meeting.  They were impressed with the team effort shown by community and how prepared we were to fight this closure to the very end.  Also impressive was the concern community members had - not only for the loss of the post office but also for the post mistress's employment status should the post office close.  And...we had cookies and coffee for them - knowing just how long a day and drive they'd had in getting to Jaroso. 

So what was it that kept us alive?

It could have been the realization of  distance between our town and the next closest post office that saved us - a 76 mile round trip.  It could have been the lack of technological advancement that has yet to reach the middle of nowhere with consistent accuracy - smart phones here for aesthetic purposes only. It could have been the intelligence, tenacity, and teamwork shown by the community (a rare find, I've been told).  It could have been the sense of family this community held with it - something ALL communities should have.  It could have been a combination of all the above.

So it might not just have been the cookies - but they certainly did help.  :)

A big hand of congratulations to all those served by the 81138 office and those that served to prove our worth.  Yeah...THIS is my town!!!!

Continuing Efforts to Save 81138

Dear readers I have returned.  It's been some time since posting about our beloved community post office but I am back and with news.

Last night we held a town meeting in which representatives from the United States Postal Service were present to inform the community of what's happening, what's being done, and what needs to be done in order to make a good battle for our post office.

Also present at this meeting were representatives from the county commissioners office, Congressman Scott Tipton's office, Senator Michael F. Bennet's office, and Senator Udall's office, as well as a reporter for the ValleyCourier.  Before the meeting everyone was given a tour of the facility considered for closure, pictures were taken, notes were jotted down, you know - all that good stuff.  During the meeting residents of the community - JAROSO - were given the information we'd need in order to continue our fight to keep our post office.  Once the information was given the community was given the floor to offer their questions and opinions.  If the tour of the post office wasn't impressive enough the way in which members of my home town - that's right!  THIS IS MY TOWN!!! - voiced their opinions, asked their questions, and supported what is theirs to support certainly took the cake.

We were told to write more letters to those making the decisions.  Do as much as possible to make people aware that we want it to remain open. It was suggested that we point out what makes our post office unique and special.  We were to list stats, percentages, distance from civilization, road conditions, demographics, etc.  Sell the place, so to speak.  We are to prove that this post office is worth keeping.

Unique eh?

Yeah, I'd say the post office in Jaroso is pretty unique.  Walking in the front door should leave all doubts that it's conformed aside.  However, just in case the public display of local artists ALL over the walls, the antique mail boxes - still in use, the antique counter brought from the bank in Jaroso years and years ago, the bench where people can sit and visit while they wait for their mail to be sorted,  the old Conoco sign outside the door, the warmth that is found even on the coldest of days because of the homelike feel of the place ... yeah, just in case all of the a fore mentioned didn't make it known this office is not replicable (though it wouldn't hurt if it were copied - once or twice) the people that filled the room to support the office reminded us of a few more unique qualities that this rural office holds for its patrons.

Patrons - people.  PEOPLE, living breathing people.  The reason we need a post office here in the first place.  It's the way people connect.  People are gregarious - we must see other people no matter how much a hermit we claim to be.  In this modern day and age so many of us communicate less and less in person.  In our small post office we communicate with the post master if with no one else.  Excuse me, I should say post mistress.  She knows everyone in the town and she's a voice when no one else can be heard.  She's an ear when no one else is there to listen. 

Last night the concerns were mentioned.  Among those was the distance to the nearest post office, the inconvenience of cluster boxes, the risk of perishables in the mail (many of the businesses here in Jaroso deliver such products around the world), the fact that FedEx hates this part of the world because most of us aren't locatable with their GPS.  However, there was something else mentioned last night, something that makes us not just a town (a dot on the map) but a community (a family).  One community member stated that should the post office close we'd lose a limb, a vital component to the community.  And it wasn't the post office that member was speaking of but the post mistress.  Patrons were concerned about her job, her well being, and her position in our chain of communication.

Another patron mentioned how valuable the post mistress was, how she protected the people more than anyone could imagine.  Did you know that patient/doctor confidentiality thing goes also between post master/mistress and postal patron?  I'm sure I knew it but just took that valuable little tidbit of information for granted all this time.

So unique?  Yeah, I'd say the Jaroso post office was unique.  It's one of a kind in its museum like quality.  It's one of a kind in that walking into our post office is like walking into our own home - each is welcome there.  It's one of a kind because it's located in the heart of a community, a community that cares for each other, a community that is filled with people not related to each other but coming together as a family to protect and serve that which is ours. 

Yeah, that's MY TOWN!!!  er...COMMUNITY!!!

In Saving 81138

I mentioned in the last post that 81138 aka Jaroso, Colorado is my home town.  I've spent the majority of my life here and I've spent hours listening to stories about her past.  Strangely, those stories I recall didn't have much to do with the post office.

Sure, I knew the post office was in the corner of the store building.  That was something that had never been otherwise for me.  As a small child I remember hamburgers grilling while people came in for their mail.  I remember leaning against the counter and listening to the 'old' people get lost in their conversations - the post office was then and still is now the only place of social gathering in the small town.  There are no coffee shops here, no gas stations either.  The closest station is six miles east and then south, across the state line so as good as the news is there it's just not the same.

And sure, I knew the postal position was kind of an inherited position around here.  I say kind of because I remember my Grandpa sitting at the post office desk and when he retired my mom took over the position.  What I didn't know and only recently found out - was rather surprised at myself for not knowing - was that it went one generation more.  I also discovered there was more history in that one little office than I ever thought to know.  I guess we tend to take for granted parts of the past that are still here.  They're not as interesting, I suppose, when they're still here.  Stories of the train filled my imagination.  Stories of the Academy, the bank, the hotels, the drag racing down main street and the trees the town planted to prevent it, the elevator - which still stands as a land mark to this day but does not have the lines and lines of harvesters sitting in front of its doors.  All of those historical places captivated and held my imagination but the post office? 

Yes, the post office.

Other than discovering that 81138 didn't come into the identification process until the late 60's I discovered some interesting facts about our little hub of rural society.  In saving 81138, I learned my roots are more deeply planted in that little office than I ever could have imagined.  And really...who would have thought...the post office? 

I mentioned in the last blog that the post office took up one corner of the Anderson home, across the street from the train depot.  What I didn't mention was that Fred Anderson was the very first post master of Jaroso.  I said that the mail was delivered by train in those first years of postal delivery.  What I didn't know when I wrote that article was how much the office traveled.  Of course that travel was within the same block so finding it through each move was not too hard to do. 

From the Anderson home it moved to the store building, took up a small corner of the establishment, and then was moved to a building just steps to the west known as the Pool Hall.  From there it was once again moved to the Anderson home, made another stop back in the Store building, hit the Pool Hall once again then found its way back to the store building where it remained all the years after.  Of course, I might have missed a move or two back to the Pool Hall somewhere in the telling.

There were mail boxes back then but what I didn't know until recently was that the USPS did not provide the mail boxes. In fact, the USPS provided very little in the way of support back then.  Fred Anderson purchased those, buying them from a small town at the north western side of the valley, Creede, when their post office boxes were replaced.  Those boxes still remain in use in the Jaroso post office.  They are not key operated like most across the nation.  Patrons who come in to get their mail use a three digit combination to unlock their daily treasures - okay, I know bills can not be considered 'treasure' but with every diamond discovered there must also be a lump or two of coal collected.

When the train was pulled from the southbound track, mail was delivered by truck.  It was collected by the local patrons via foot, car, and sometimes horseback.  I'd like to have said plane, too, but that particular pilot usually just came to pick up groceries from the store.  Occasionally,however, that patron did drop a letter to be delivered into the office while he visited.

Little by little more of the town drifted away.  The bank business died, the Academy closed, the implement dealer slipped into the past, but the post office remained.  Farming continued to cling to the area - remaining as the farming industry will do when all else is gone.  Through an inborn tenacity, the post office remained.  Maybe it was because it was a farmer holding it down.  Farmers, like St. Jude, don't ever quit a cause.  You remember my blog about the duck?  The 'intelligent' among us might say the same about the farmer but like the duck, the farmer will turn into a storm rather than hide from it.

Fred retired and his son, my grandpa, took over the office.  There were times I don't think he was too thrilled about it but with the same tenacity as his father before him he stood firm and held it together.  It was a necessary part of life in this rural community. There was talk about shutting it down even back then but Grandpa and the people fought to keep it open.  So open it stayed. The store and the restaurant closed but still the eagle spread its wings behind the postal emblem and people gathered beneath that emblem as often as daily to collect word from the world.

The post office was only open for two hours a day six days a week.  Grandpa gathered the mail from a locked safe outside at 7:30 in the morning, placed the mail into the boxes then opened and kept the counter open for delivery and collection of mail from 8 until 10.  He was a farmer too, so those hours worked well for him.   81138 went from a 2 hour office to that of a 4 and even though there wasn't a hamburger to be had while collecting the mail there was plenty of coffee and conversation.  The 30 below days of winter were made warmer when overall clad farmers gathered for a daily cup of joe and their newspaper before going off to feed their cattle and pull calves from the snow.

The challenges Grandpa faced as a post master might not be considered worth the pay of a two hour or four hour government post but Grandpa faced them.  When he retired, my mom took over the office and through grit and grind has remained post mistress of our little home town office.  There's been more than one challenge faced since then. Those challenges have been met and conquered like the ones before them.  Yeah, she's a farmer too. 

Backing the efforts to keep the post office open today are more than just the farmers of the area.  We have 16 businesses, and a host of individuals, working together to see this fight fought.  As valuable as discovering my own past, learning about those surrounding me has been just as priceless. Educators, photographers, bakers, potters, craftsmen, compost combiners (couldn't remember the correct name of that profession), technicians, artists, and yes, the ever present farmers have come together in the joint effort to see 81138 remain the numerical identity of our town.

And THAT's something to be proud of. 

Save 81138

Normally I don't refer to people, places, or things by their numbers.  I detest the reference of people by their birth date or social security number.  Oh sure, like the majority of the population I've come to some sort of...shall we say acceptance...of the requirement of numbers instead of names.  I have my social memorized and I definitely have my birth date remembered - though there are times I forget it as I get older.  I have APHA and AQHA number identified horses - not memorized by the way but still there for identification purposes.  However, I've never felt comfortable with the use of a number as an identification.  I've always felt it cold, callus, and impersonal. A name will always carry with it more power than any number...so I thought.

Today, I realized just how important 81138 is to me and not just to me but to others who have relied on the number since the number was assigned.  In fact, I realized that if no other number meant anything, this one was - as someone classified it - a cornerstone to my very existence.

"It will fade and eventually become nonexistent," a voice to my  left said and I felt the breath leave my chest, my heart clench, and my throat tighten.  The words were spoken at a town meeting, a meeting in which we discussed the possible closure of our rural post office.

81138 is the zip code for my home town - Jaroso, Colorado.  It's a small town but no less rich in history than the bigger ones whose postal codes are not -yet- in danger of fading into nonexistence.   

Over the years we've watched as smaller post offices - like lambs to the slaughter - surrendered their codes and fell into the categorization of the larger towns closest to them.  We've watched as not only their postal code was absorbed so was their very existence.  Oh sure...you can still get a letter to individuals and businesses from these towns but it's not their home town, it's not their post office that places it in their box.  There is no longer the personal contact between a friendly face and the letter.  It is a dreary site to see, those lonely stands holding boxes that may or may not have the letters hoped for.  It's as dreary a site as the dust blown pictures of abandoned towns having lost their identities in the Great Depression.

Speaking of the Great Depression 81138 was around then and even before this countryside knew the possibility of such a devastating era.  It wasn't classified yet as 81138.  That form of government identification came along sometime around 1967 when the cartoon character Mr. Zip made his advertising debut in the USPS.  Mail came during the Great Depression and before, the better years too by train.  From there it was delivered to the Jaroso post office and delivered in person when patrons visited the - even then - centrally located building. It was then, as it is now, the hub of our rural community.

81138, the town I refer to as Jaroso, survived not only the Great Depression but the drought that hit this valley hard in the mid 50's.  It's one most often referred to in the drought ridden days we've seen of late.  It was then the train no longer followed the laid track to Jaroso. No longer was mail delivered via that route.  The post office was a corner section of the Anderson home and mail was delivered by truck.  Later, the boxes were moved into a corner of the Anderson store building, a building that housed a restaurant and store as well.  Rural patrons could come for their groceries, mail, and a meal without having to make more than one stop when they came into town.

Jaroso has survived wars, rumors of wars, depression and recession.  It's had its day, it's lost its way, and found it once again through the determined hearts of those remaining - decedents of the first generation who needed not the 81138 for use of hometown identification and those newcomers who've discovered her jewels and pushed her to thrive by laying down their roots and spreading their wings, drawing others into the community with them.

A town such as this, such as Jaroso - identified as postal code 81138 - should not have lived and fought for so long, remained alive despite nature and politics, rose like the Phoenix from the ashes of every force which struck both community and country should not simply fade into nonexistence.  Such an action can hardly be considered noble.  81138 deserves much better than that. 

We see too much of our culture swallowed piece by piece, more and more of our individuality removed...nay, stripped from us until we know not who we are or were.  The culture I speak of is that of home and heart and home is where the heart is.  Home is our community and the heart of every community is the building that has the zip code on the outside wall.  It is the hub of an area, it is the cornerstone of a community.  It is the one place where we can honestly believe the United States of America claims us - gave us that identification tag and therefore acknowledges our existence.  Without that zip code, that 81138, we are merely a suburb of some distant town that can't honestly even claim to know we're here.

We CANNOT allow that to happen.  We CANNOT simply fade.  We CANNOT be forgotten.  

So with all my heart I declare "SAVE 81138!"  Save my home town, save my roots and the roots of others whose lives have stretched to the sky and blossomed here.    

Quip from "Heart's Armor"

This is a piece from the book I've sent to publishers.  I think it needs polishing still.

“You are returned,” he heard his father say.

“Sire,” it was Lane that answered.  “I have.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing, sire.  They have vanished.  It is as though the world swallowed them.”

He heard his father heave a huge sigh.  “Airik?”

“He still searches,” Came Lane’s heavy reply.  “He will not be called back from the search.”

A humph from his father and then another heavy sigh.

“I do not know how he is still alive, Sire.”  It was the surgeon’s voice breaking through this time.   

 “The blade should have ripped through his heart or even pierced his lung.  It missed all things vital.”

“The prince,” Lane’s voice was louder as he started to approach only to be called back by the surgeon.

“He is not out of the fire yet,” the surgeon said.  “The wound is deep and may still have touched his heart.  For now,”  there was a pause as he guessed the surgeon to be weighing his words, “he lives.”

“Do what you must to bring my son back to me,” his father commanded.  Then his voice changed as he turned to Lane.  “Find her.  Find her before he wakes.”

He woke with a start, sucking in a deep breath that made him wince. He was alone.  He could tell that much by the silence that surrounded him.  He blinked away the sleep and the dream from his eyes.  He hated that dream, hated it more because it had been no dream at all but a memory instead.  It was that memory that had him here in the first place, deep the enemy lands searching for peace.  He thought to find that peace when his blade at last found the heart and his hands ripped that heart from the chest of one man

Quip #2 from Raven's Shadow

With the last post I sort of introduced you to Brenna - the Raven in Raven's Shadow.  With this quip I'll introduce you to Ailen - the Shadow in Raven's Shadow.

He woke to the sound of voices, voices without faces.  He blinked his eyes and blinked them again but still saw nothing but black.  He raised his hand but it would not move.  He tried his other arm to the same result.  He tried to turn his head and still nothing.  He went into a panic, and struggled against whatever it was holding him down.  He tried to scream but his lips did not move either.  His heart seemed the only thing in motion and it thundered painfully inside his chest bouncing off the cage of ribs that held it in check.  From further out in the darkness he felt something and his heart quickened. The presence drew closer until he felt the pressure of someone holding him and the voices, distant before, now were right next to his ears.

“Calm, boy,” a strong masculine voice called through the darkness.  A lady’s voice softly broke into the painful darkness surrounding him. “Easy lad,” her voice came to his other ear.  He thought he felt gentle cool hands on some part of him but everything was dark and blank and dull feeling.  In his panic he struggled with them, or he thought he struggled with them, he must have struggled and gotten free from them for he felt himself falling.  Then he hit the floor with a thud and fell into a painful unconsciousness again, one that felt all too familiar.  There was someone waiting for him in that black, someone who reached out to him with small hands, looked up at him with bright emerald eyes, freckled cheeks, and lips that smiled up at him.  There was no voice that came from those lips but when he reached out and touched her hand he felt at peace despite the pain coursing through his entire body.  There was peace so long as he held her.

When he awoke once more he did it with more calm than before, already expecting the darkness and the stinging sensation which plagued every inch of his body, though more so to his face.  He felt someone close to him and concentrated on reaching his hand out toward the feeling, thinking it would be the green eyed girl, knowing to touch her would take his pain away.  He took a deep breath as the sound of the lady’s voice returned to him.  He could not reach out.

“Easy, lad,” she said softly and he felt her move closer to him.  “I am here for you and will be here beside you.”  There was a pause in her voice and he thought she might be looking at him.  “I can not touch you just yet, lad,” she said with remorse.  “But, know I am here and will not leave you as long as you are with us.”

He tried to speak but could not move his mouth, his jaw, or his neck nor any other part of him.  He felt her raise her hand up to his shoulder though she didn’t touch him, he didn’t think.  “I know it’s difficult but try to remain calm.  You were in an accident and were brought to us to heal.  The only way that can happen is if you stay still.  Should you even squirm we will have to redress the wounds yet again.” The calm in her voice kept him from panicking again and he’d come to realize he no longer had any choice but to comply.  He tried to nod but couldn’t do that either so he just hoped the fact that he didn’t move told her he would comply.  And soon he fell back into the familiar unconsciousness with naught but green eyes to guide him into a peaceful sleep.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed only that time had indeed passed.  He quickly grew accustomed to the voice that called to him in the darkness; each time he stirred it was there again.  Her voice and soon her touch…not the feeling that perhaps she might have wanted to touch him but her actual touch which came to his cheek, his shoulders, his chest.  Green eyes and her touch found him wondering if they would be the same.  Part of him thought as much but there was a part of him that knew it could not be.  The green eyes were somewhere else, somewhere beyond his conscious reach, remaining behind the veil of his dreams.

He stirred into the dark of wakefulness and felt his heart skip a beat as he really stirred; his head had moved, he could tell by the stinging through his neck and shoulders that he had really moved.  And his lips formed a small smile, one that nearly cracked the scarred flesh surrounding them.  He felt the woman’s smile and knew this time he felt her fingers touch his face.  “There now lad,” her voice called to him.  “It is time.”  A breath left him and he felt his chest move.  It was time.  Her gentle fingers continued to touch his face, and each time he felt the cool soft of her fingertips getting closer to him, pressing through the layers of gauze and dressing. Light began to penetrate through the darkness and he winced at the sharpness.  Then it was all around him, the white of light, so bright it nearly burned his soul and he welcomed it, hated to close his eyes lest it be gone again.  But, when he could no longer take the intensity and did blink the light returned when he opened them again. 

There was a sigh of relief and it wasn’t from him. 

“Good, you will see,” the woman’s voice spoke.  “We worried you would not.” 

Quip from Raven's Shadow

The following is a piece of one of my stories ;)  Hope you all enjoy!!!!

Cathal saw the smoke rising into the blue of the sky and knew without a doubt that there was no way he could get to the village in time to save it.  The smoke drifted to the nostrils of his horse filling the battle-hardened charger with anxiety.  He pranced and chomped at the bit, tugging at Cathal’s firm hand.  The smell spoke of war and the horse was always battle ready.

“Easy Toby,” the man said placing his large strong hand on the horse’s mane.  He dropped his fingers through the thick hair and soothingly stroked the horse’s neck.  The stallion eased a little bit and Cathal nodded in approval relaxing in the saddle and looking back up towards the thick stream of smoke climbing up into the sky, dissipating into the clouds.  “We will get there soon enough to aide the survivors and find out who is responsible.  There is nothing we can do for them now.” The guilt could not be hidden from his voice.  Though he had no idea of what had happened in the village and no way of preventing it had he been aware trouble was in the area, it was still the way of most to feel the guilt as they came upon the destruction.

He let loose the rein and let Toby go, riding at an easy lope through the forest, keeping to the shadows and keeping his eyes and ears open to all that surrounded him aware of every little creature that called this place home and those that might be trespassing as well.  He trusted Toby’s instincts, watching the dark horse’s ears flick back and forth to each and every sound that filtered into them.  They came upon no one, enemy or friend, giving Cathal the hint that survivors would be few and whatever enemy the village had was not traveling this way if indeed they had moved on.  Or, he mused, it could be a simple village fire caused by a milk cow tipping over a lantern.  His instincts told him otherwise and one reason he was still alive was because of those instincts.  Preparing himself for the worst he topped a final hill and slowed Toby to a trot to see the village, or what was left of the village.  There was hardly enough to call it a village now.  Not one house remained standing, nor one barn, not a single building.  He could see where the buildings had been by the charred squares on the ground.  At the edge of the village he pulled back on the reins asking the horse to wait.  Toby snorted in his protest and pawed at the ground.

 “We must wait,” he explained soothingly.  Toby snorted again.  Cathal chuckled.  “Just like a woman, you are Toby,” he said.  “Have to have the last word.”  When satisfied that the enemy had left he gave Toby his head and they walked to the first pile of rubble.  Here he dismounted and began sifting through the ashes to find clues and by some miracle any survivors.  Despite his talents in investigation he found no clues as to the culprit and was halfway through the village before he found any sign that there had even been life in the village.

He stopped in the road, resting his hands on his hips and looking from one side of the village to the other.  “Strangest thing,” he commented and kicked his toe at what remained of a blanket.  To his surprise there came a whimper from beneath the blanket.  He looked over his shoulder at Toby and then knelt down and picked up the blanket uncovering a young girl.  When their eyes met, her large soft brown locking with his deep blue, the girl sprang to her feet and sprinted away from him only to collapse in a heap of bones and flesh a few yards from him.  The knight rubbed his chin and looked up at his equine companion.  Toby’s head lifted, his neck arched, nostrils flared, and his eyes stared at the interesting little creature. 

“Well, well,” he said as he stood.  He walked to the girl and scooped her crumpled body into his strong arms.  She fit like a ragged doll in his hold and though he could carry her with one arm he held her in both, ever so gently lest he break her scrawny body with his hold.  “She’s but a runt, Toby, and barely that.”  He held his find up for the horse to investigate.  Toby sniffed her body and shook his head pinning his ears back and barring his teeth at the smells the girl carried with her. 

“Magic then is it, Toby?” Cathal mused having seen this expression on Toby before.  Toby bore the taint of magic before and lived to hate it and those that wielded it.  This girl was not a wielder of such but had been touched by one who did.  “Well, that would explain such a scene, wouldn’t it now?  How it is completely gone.” he turned his body again taking in the mess of what used to be a village before them.  “Only such as a wizard’s battle could make such a site.  Even bandits leave something of their handy work.”  Cathal held the scrap of a girl close to his chest as he continued his search for survivors.  When they had reached the end of the village he looked down at her. “Only you,” he whispered.  “And I’m not even sure you were part of this village.” Her pale skin told him she was not part of this region and her scrawniness told him she’d not been fed well.  He looked around him and sighed.  Caring for her would greatly delay him.  Yet, not for a second did he consider leaving her to the wolves.

“What are we to do?” he asked aloud and in response she mumbled something completely incoherent and snuggled closer to his chest.  “Yes,” he said with a nod though he had not understood a bit of it, “rest would do us both good.”  He turned his head to his horse and motioned with his chin to the forest.  “Come Toby,” and he and the horse walked together to the trees surrounding what remained of the once civilized village.  Just inside the tree line a small creek made its way through the forest growth.  Here he lay the girl down and began setting up camp.  He started a small fire, unsaddled Toby, gave him a good rubdown and let him loose to graze then he turned his full attention to the girl.  “You child,” he said as though she could hear him, “are a mess.  But then what else could we expect eh?” Taking some water from the creak an the rag he used to polish his saddle he set to work cleaning the ash, soot, and mud from her. 

“What have we under this mud pie?” he asked in a soothing voice as he wiped her face clean.  “Well, if I must say I do believe I’ve found a child beneath all this dirt.  And, a lass to boot.  Well, well,” he clicked his tongue.  “A pretty little lass too.  It has me wondering what such a girl is doing in such a place as this.”  He brushed her chestnut hair back behind her head and tested for any knots that may be on her skull.  He nodded when he’d found none.  “A good head you’ve on your shoulders, lass.”