A God's Dilemma

In the afternoon the mists crept across the moors, tendrils curling into every ditch and valley. Moisture dripped from every leaf, every blade of grass. Maggie shivered and drew her cloak around her shoulders as she lumbered along the lane, the basket seemed heavier today and she wondered which groceries the inn had ordered that day. Her breaths came short and sharp, the damp seeming to seep into her very lungs. “Well, it’ll be a quiet night I s’pose.” She muttered to no one in particular. Anyone out on the moors would be unlikely to reach the distant inn so far from Poltmore and if they did they’d not be the sort to want one of the little rooms. She reached the door and dragged it open, leaning her weight back against the dull creak of the swollen wood.

“Evening Maggie.” Said Grayson, the inn’s proprietor. He was tall and broad with skin roughened by the harsh moor weather, his mop of tangled brown hair even more unruly in the heat of the inn. “Gentleman in the corner needs seeing to.” He jerked his head to the back of the room where Maggie could make out a figure in the dingy light, she set down the basket and swung off her heavy cloak, smoothing down her hair into it’s knot, she walked briskly across the flags, her shoes clicking.

“Evening sir, what can I fetch for you?” She said brightly. The man turned his face slowly, regarding her through lowered lids.

“I’ll be wanting a tankard of fresh rain water.” He said in a voice like a rushing brook, it washed over her and made me take a step back. His eyes were almost black and sunk into his face, his cheeks sallow and pale. She nodded and turned to walk away. “Miss, has the mist reached us here?” He murmured, she glanced back, he had leant forward in his chair, hands gripping the arms, mouth set in an urgent line, brows pulled in and down.

“Yessir, it’s like walking through a laundry.” He nodded and sat back, brushing a hand over his face. Maggie walked quickly away puzzling over the odd request, she hooked down a tankard from behind the bar and went to the door. It screeched open and she stepped outside, the rain had started now and she hesitated, then dashed across the little yard to a trough, scooping up the icy water and scuttling back, trying not to spill. As she stepped inside a figure made it’s way up the track, small and squat with a jaunty step. 

Maggie leant on the bar, the room was steamy as the fire heated the wet inhabitants, her damp skirts were heavy and she shifted uncomfortably. “Grayson?” He looked up, his bulky frame looked out of place where he sat, high on a stool. “Have you heard from Poltmore today?” He shook his head.

“No Maggie, nothing from your father today, he’ll be delayed by the weather.” She felt the strange gentleman’s eyes on her and hers flicked to his, a thrill ran down her spine as she did and she looked quickly back to Grayson and nodded. “You look so like your mother.” He said with a smile, she smiled too. She was often told this, she had never known her mother, she died on the moor a few weeks after Maggie’s birth. Grayson’s wife Lucy had taken Maggie and her father in in return for their labours at the inn and it had been Maggie’s home for her whole life. She loved the uneven flags where she had played as a child, the yard where she kept her chickens, her tiny room under the eves where she slept at night, she sighed, lost in thought. Suddenly the door shot open with a crash, the whole building seemed to jump in shock, a portly gentleman stood in the door way, a large smile on his ruddy face, fingers hooked into the belt of his trousers. He rocked back on his heels and chuckled.

“Delightful!” He muttered, taking a step inside and briskly shutting the door. “A tankard of ale please good sir!” He bellowed, striding across the floor, his face seemed to glow and Maggie could have sworn that light seemed to flood whatever part of the floor he moved over. She leant further over the bar, pushing onto her toes to see where he went, he made straight for the dark form hunched in the corner and clapped him on the back.