Excerpt: The Mourning Traveler

The mourning traveler was a troubled and ruddy man, and his cart was heavier than an ox. Calloused hands held the wooden tongue up on his left sunburned shoulder. Between him and the midden were two too-heavy boots which sank him each step. His cart at least hadn’t made it into the pile of matter, and he was lucky so. He groaned with tire as he switched shoulders and began turning the cart back to the dirt road he’d veered from. The sun threatened the man, dipping below the horizon. After 4 weeks traveling from town to town with his cart of strange tinctures and trinkets, he had begun to fear the roads past dark. City folk weren’t too kind to outsiders once the sun set and he had found himself twice fending off thieving men and their liquor-ridden breath on his journey. 

The first peek of shingled roofs and purple walls over the wood horizon excited the man. Soon the dirt road turned to plated stone and the cart shook after each step. From the road the mourning traveler saw Mrs. Swanson on the hilltop, elegant and deep in thought, sitting cross-legged on the porch stairs. A line of smoke came from her shaking hands. The mourning traveler began his haul up the hill to the stake in the yard where he would tie his cart and greet Mrs. Swanson. A gorgeous woman, he’d thought, still looked young in her sparkling gown and fur shawl. Her eyes followed him in an empty manner. It disillusioned him.

“Brandy,” the mourning traveler hollered, “is everything alright with you this evening?”

He saw her hundreds of nights before but never this dull. Not since she lost her daughter, really. Mrs. Swanson got up slowly and flipped the stray sequins on her dress. He watched her with an angled neck as her smile slowly grew. He wondered how long it’d take her to recognize him again. She smelled of tobacco and lavender, not too different from the streets of the city. She took his hands in her own and structured herself beside the cart.

“Good afternoon,” she smiled.

He ducked to her eye level, holding her hands close to his lips. This was meant to be a moment of joy, but she instead stayed indifferent. Her eyes rolled to the cart behind him, and her lips pursed. She slipped out of his hold and looked inside the cart. She babbled to herself about the beauty of his collection and all the while he just stared at the house, wondering how it had changed so much since he last came to town. He wondered what had come to her. Perhaps it was too late, or the tan and grime put her off. She reached into the cart and dragged out a dolphin-shaped bottle filled with a purple liquid. He sighed, staring at the bottle. 

“A gift.”

Mrs. Swanson nodded, “Emily loves purple, I know.”

He stepped back from her. It wasn’t just her body language, she spoke weird, too. Her usual sugary humming was overtaken by a grainy, sick voice. 

“It’s for you, Brandy. I picked it up on the way here. It cost me nothing but my pinky.”

He joked and wiggled the knuckle at her, watching the skin shift awkwardly around. Her lips wrinkled into a frown. He quickly laid his hand back at his side. His pinky was pinched off years ago when the two weren’t so acquainted. He was a more active salesman, and his wheel had broken under the weight of his items. When he lifted the box to change it, his knee slipped out from under him and the whole cart crushed his hand. He was lucky to keep the rest of it. 

“Emily is going to adore this, thank you.”

He stammered, “Emily?”

She nodded dazedly and began up the stairs to the porch. He stared blankly at the road, recalling the last time he’d come home. He didn’t stay long that night. Mrs Swanson didn’t want him to. Now she acted so cruel to him, pretending he was what, a stranger? He kicked his boots off by the door and followed her in. She sniffed the air and shook her head, peeking over her dressed shoulder. He took down a hall and began undressing in the restroom. How he missed the hot water. How he missed running water.