A call had come to them, that there were traders. Isabella remembered the visiting caravan that had hosted a month-long festival of sorts, and she remembered the wealth she found. This was more local but it would still prove valuable, surely. The horse's bags were packed with items. She took a good bag full of crumbling tobacco she had found in the garden's storage. At the storage shed, the woman sniffed out several jars of pitch. She knew that they had a small supply of it, so she only took five jars filled with the pine pitch. She carefully nestled the jars her packs, distributing them between the two saddle bags. Soft, old linen cloths were wrapped around them to keep the jars from shattering and ruining the leather bags. She even had two large glass containers holding about 350 milliliters of lavender and swamp rose oil. It had taken a lot of thinking to bring them, as her stock was not the best and she held her oils dear to her heart.
Ducky snorted, smelling the products in the bags on her back as she was laden with them. Isabella could smell the tobacco in the pouches, an earthy smell she could come to like. But the smell was hard to turn into incense and she did not feel the desire to mingle the heady earthy scent with her fragrant fruit odors. And if things were still not enough, she took a few of her lower quality shiny trinkets, knowing someone would be stupid enough to think they struck diamond in a coal mine.
Ducky did not protest once on the way to the trader's camp, the caller's scent faint but clearly present. It was easy to follow and the pace was light. But the problem came when she didn't know who to go to. Did they have a head trader? Or was everyone on their own? Isabella dismounted, her scent disguised faintly with the scent of the sweet swamp rose, only as a sample of what she brought. Her delicate hands lingered on her mare's reigns as she eyed the traders with a screwed look.
Photo courtesy of john curley. Table by Kitty.
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