There was a woman, or a boy asleep on the bench at the bottom of the garden, curled up in a roll of blankets, cheek pressed against a pack that lay against the arm rest at one end. The bottom of the roll didn't even reach the the other end of the bench. Pastor Jeremiah looked at her, or him, trying to figure out if the sleeper was a boy or a woman. If a woman, her hair was scandalously short, if a boy, hadn't he family who'd give him shelter?
He looked around, for a companion, or someone waiting to spring the joke on him. There were those who thought making the shepherd of the flock look a fool was great fun. Nobody watching, not even Goodwife Rice, who'd a nose long enough to reach the next parish when it came to other people's business, and who'd long since forgotten youth and foolishness.
Well. Whoever this was, she, or he, couldn't stay there. It was an hour past dawn at the earliest, he should be starting firstmeal, working on his Lastday sermon, writing the letter he owed to the Chapter House with his winter report. He sighed, and walked to the foot of the armrest and sat down, pushing the end of the blanket roll up so he wouldn't sit on the feet of the sleeper, folding his hands as he lowered himself.
The sleeper woke suddenly, he could tell, though there was little change to breathing, and no movement to herald the change of state. "Hello," he said. "I always enjoy this part of the morning. The world seems new made, doesn't it?"
The sleeper grunted and tugged the blanket over his or her head. Pastor Jeremia smiled. He remembered not wanting to wake up in the morning. He was glad he'd learned better, there was something special about the first light of the morning, the way the sun painted the sky in vibrant swaths of color, and the way they faded into the fainly pink blue of sunlight. He'd been a pastor for a decade, and rising to greet the morning was part of his duties, but he still enjoyed it.
He sat and watched the morning sun chase some of the dew away at the edges of the bushes' shadows, but the sleeper was still pretending to be asleep. "You know," he said at last. "You can't stay there all day. For nothing else, I'm to have some of the parish council to an afternoon tea, and Goodwife Melton is too frail to sit on a folding stool on the grass, she might tip over, and break something. She likes to use this bench, It's sturdy, she says, but I think it's because her husband gifted it to the parsonage before he was called Home."
There was a suspicous stillness to the sleeper, then he or she sat up, revealing sleep rumpled brown hair, clothes even more scant the the hair, and a pair of pale blue eyes. "If I say 'good morning,' will you shut up?" There was a mystery gone, his garden guest was a woman, though she seemed to have on less than he wore when he went swimming. He could see the outline of high, small breasts through the thin shirt she wore, see the thrust of nipples reacting to the brisk morning air. A thin chain vanished between them, behind the cloth.
"No." he admitted, smiling to cover a sudden stab of unease, and a bit of lust. The Chapter House had warned that there'd been an influx of outlanders, immigrants come to Dinc from other worlds. Some, the Chapter House said, might not be Pachem, or might even be violent. "I am a pastor, a goodly part of what I do is talk."
She growled and covered her head, sinking down onto the bench again. "I'd meant to be gone by now, but I overslept."
"Did you travel far, or arrive here late at night. There is a guest house further into the village, they will take any who ask for shelter."
The woman sat up again. "Didn't want to spend the night indoors. The sky was -- " she shook her head. " -- so clear you'd have thought you could grab stars by the handful." Again he had a view of her breasts though the thin cloth, her nipples grown a bit more prominent. Oh dear, he really wasn't that attracted to small breasts and short hair, was he? Her nose was rather prominent too, even if her skin was an even shade and free of freckles. She reached under the bottom of her shirt, revealing a smooth, taut belly, and scratched the underside of her breast. It jiggled.
He stood. "Very well then, rest a while longer then." He clasped his hands before himself, hiding his reaction. "May the day be fair to you." Really, he was too old for teener reactions and blind lust.
She chuckled, her hand stilling. "Well, at least the Pachem don't geld their priests, like some faiths do." She leaned back against the pack she'd been using for a pillow, resting her elbow on it. The pose made the cloth tighter against her body, outlining more of her shape.
"Of course not. I'm expected to wed and build a family." He stopped as she tilted her head back, laughing. She'd a rather slender neck, given the compact build of what of her he could see. He was torn between embarassment at his body's base reaction to seeing a mostly unclothed female, and anger that she would treat him with such disrespect. A pastor shouldn't be laughed at.
The laughter ended, and she sat up, putting her feet to the ground, holding out a hand. "I'm told the Pachem are a hand clasp folk. I'm called Vinca."
He chose not to respond to the open hand, not trusting himself to step closer to her. He nodded to her instead in a half bow. "I am Pastor Mavi Jeremiah. This is Qızıl Dayanır Parish." He gestured to where the village was, just to the west of the parsonage.
Her hand fell, but she stood, yawning and stretching. The blankets fell away and she wore nothing more than a shirt barely covering her torso, and shorts that didn't reach a quarter of the way to her knee. She scratched her hair, looking half sideways up at him. She wouldn't even reach past his shoulder. "I'd kill for a cup of coffee."
"I have none." He took another step away. He wasn't sure if he was hoping or dreading that someone would come to the parsonage seeking advice or company.
"Oh well," she turned back to the bench, picking up some cloth that a quick shake turned into a shirt that she tugged on, covering her from wrist to neck to waist, although it was tighter than most Pachem women wore. "What's your guest house look like, I'll check there." She picked up her pack, but it was really pants, and she put them on, buttoning them closed. Unlike the shirt, they were bulky, pocket covered, and most of them, it appear, filled. The last of the pack was a pair of boots, and she put her feet in, lacing them on. She was fully clothed now, if dressed like an outlander. She turned away from him, rolling the blankets up and securing them with some kind of strap into a compact roll she shouldered across her back
"I do not think there will be anyone at the guest house this early." He found himself saying. "and I have tea."
The smile she gave him had none of her earlier flirtatiousness. "I'd like that. Thank you."
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