Goods for the Festival of Silence

The mud on this road is finally starting to feel like our own. Left Licca three days ago. Good riddance. Couldn't bear to stay for one more day there with those merchants. The wagon is heavy with goods for the festival—spices from their port, bolts of silk Mother will haggle over, and enough salt to preserve a bear. The horses are pulling strong, but they feel the weight. I feel it too.
 
The old man’s been quiet for the last stretch, which is worse than his usual grumbling. He hates the cities. Says they’re unnatural. I think he just hates being anywhere he can’t see the trees.
 
Earlier, he spat on the road and said, “This ‘Festival of Silence.’ A joke now.” He remembers the old way, under Mislav. When everyone wore a mask and you kept your mouth shut and your head down. “A cruel bastard, Mislav was, but there was an order to it,” he said. “Now Marko invites the whole world to our door for a party.” He worries about what kind of trouble will ride in with all the guests. He’s not wrong to worry, no one knows what will happen after all.
 
I just nodded. The festival is good for the ledgers. That’s what matters. More coin means a better winter, maybe a new axle for the second wagon. But I get what he means. It feels strange.
 
Mother will be happy to see us. She’ll have a hot meal ready and a list of chores a mile long to prepare the stables. My brother will want to hear stories from the road, but there’s not much to tell. Just mud, and shit, and greedy men. The usual.
 
Home. Just a few more hours of this goddamn rocking and I can finally get out of the saddle. The work is just beginning, but at least it will be our work, on our own ground. For now, that’s enough.