Chronicles of Taeris: Bonsk

From the Chronicles of Taeris, set down by Master Odrin Pellanor

I came to Bonsk intending, as scholars so often do, to “stay a short while” and “take a few notes,” and in this manner I lost an entire year—mislaid it as neatly as a coin slipping through a hole in a pocket. Yet if time must be stolen, better it be by a town like that: a place that does not perform itself for strangers, but goes about its living with the quiet confidence of a hearth that has burned through many winters and expects to burn through many more.

Bonsk changes with the seasons in the way a working person changes coats: not for fashion, but because the world insists. In spring, the ground softens into a dark, honest mud that clings to boots as if pleading to be taken along for company. The grasses quicken, and the air carries that clean, green smell that makes a man believe—briefly, dangerously—that he might become younger if he merely inhales enough of it. Summer comes broad-shouldered and bright, and the days stretch out like a lazy dog by the doorstep; the town works anyway, because work is what keeps hunger polite. In autumn the wind learns sharper words, and the folk of Bonsk tighten their belts, not from fear, but from habit. Winter arrives without ceremony—no villain’s flourish, no warning trumpet—only a hardening of the world, and the quiet agreement of everyone to endure it together.

I ate as they ate, which is to say: plainly, thoroughly, and without apology. The meals of Bonsk are not built to impress, but to hold. A bowl is meant to warm the hands as much as the belly; a loaf is praised not for delicacy, but for loyalty—how it stands up to travel, to hunger, to teeth that have known worse. There was always something smoked, always something stewed, and often something that had once run faster than the cook (which is no insult; it is merely the honest order of things). If you desire dainty food, you go elsewhere; if you desire food that makes you willing to face tomorrow, you sit down in Bonsk and stop complaining.

Most evenings, when my ink had dried and my back had made its opinions known, I found my way to the Boar’s Deck. It is the sort of place where a man can watch a road without seeming to spy upon it, and where the rare traveler is noticed with the same calm attention one gives a sudden change in weather: not alarm, not excitement—just a subtle collective noting. Here I learned that Bonsk folk can talk for an hour without saying anything foolish, and can say something important in four words that a court would take four speeches to misunderstand. I made friends in the slow, dependable way—over shared salt, over borrowed tools, over laughter that arrived late but stayed longer once it had found its seat. They did not flatter me as “learned,” for learning is not a currency much used there; but they tolerated my questions, corrected my assumptions, and—when they felt charitable—offered me a story as one might offer a cup: not as a gift, but as a kindness.

By day I wandered the shops and sheds and narrow-fronted places of trade where hands are valued more than titles. I watched reed-weavers and stitchers and the patient sort of craft that makes a thing sturdy rather than splendid. I came to understand why Bonsk clothing is loose and practical, why hats are woven wide and floppy, why a scarf might be wrapped not only for warmth but for privacy: the land does not care for vanity, and the weather cares even less. The town’s little decorations—tassels, ribbons, trinkets—are not frivolous, but speech: they tell you who a person is, what they have done, and what they will not be mocked for. (I learned, after a gentle but firm warning, that wearing the wrong sign is rather like introducing yourself by another man’s name. It may be done by accident, but the apology must be swift.)

And when the walls of town began to feel too familiar—as walls will, even friendly ones—I went meandering in the surrounding hills. There are places near Bonsk where the wind seems older than memory, and where a man can hear his own thoughts marching in their boots. I found that the hills do not answer questions, which is among their better qualities; but they do, if you sit long enough, re-order a person. After such walks I returned to town quieter, kinder, and more willing to admit that the world is not obliged to make sense simply because I have brought paper.

So ended my year in Bonsk: not with fireworks, not with tragedy, but with the small, steady miracle of days well used. I left with a satchel heavier than when I arrived—partly with notes, partly with provisions pressed upon me by people who pretended it was “extra,” and partly with the weight of knowing I had been, for a time, allowed to belong. And if you think that is a sentimental way to describe a practical town, then you have not yet learned what practicality truly costs—and what it is worth.

Marginal note: If ever you wish to be cured of the belief that you are indispensable, attempt to miss a single communal meal in Bonsk. They will eat without you. They will also save you a bowl. Both lessons are important.