((neatly penned in Lumi-kieli))
This marks the start of a new diary! It is not as fine nor as sturdy as the one I left behind in the lavvu on the slopes of Itä-mâ, though. That diary was a gift from my father; its pages of thinly beaten hides, cured in salt-brine, with a cover of wyrm-hide, which had been dyed in bright hues in swirls, sunny yellow and the green of the sky-ribbons and pale indigo, and the whole bound by cord of kita-gut. A string that was meant for a harp but proved too thick even for the deepest note, so he sewed the pages with it instead, with the big bone needle that mother used for thick hides. Mother railed at him! Said such work would dull the tip, and where would he be getting another kita-tusk to carve into a needle of its like, with Juvven away at Kuru-leiri? When I heard this argument I did not know the book he was stitching would be for me. He apologized when he gave it to me that the surprise was ruined, though it was not, I thought it was to be a book for his own use for writing his stories in; and he called me his vähän-laulu. He meant that book for me to write songs and tales in, but I mostly used it as a diary. I did write some songs, which are now lost to me with that book. Even if this book is mostly my diary, I should record those songs I remember, that they not be forgotten!
Many of the etelä-väki are very generous and kind, and as Biddy had said, I get many tips, though I do not know if it is because of being pretty. In fact I do not know if I am pretty in the eyes of the people of Bree; many of the girls are prettier and I look very different from them, with my jumble of curly hair, so few of them here have curls except the lyhyt-väki, and brown skin. I do not look like them at all. But some of the people here give me a silver coin for myself when buying beer that only costs a few copper pennies. It is hard not to feel wealthy and start buying things, even fine things. Even whimsical things that I do not need, like another nice dress. But I do not know how my fortunes will turn, or what else I will find myself needing, so I save my pennies as thrifty as a squirrel in a Kauppu-kohta autumn. This diary is the sole exception, and just because it cost only one silver penny. There were much prettier ones, including one with a teal cover that Mister Dem had, very like the color of the dyes of banners at the kantâ-vilkku over Sûri-kylä, that reminded me of home, but they cost many pennies. Maybe there will be a day when I am sure enough of how much is in my pouch that I will buy one, and a harp, though it will never be as fine as the beautiful harps my father makes (they make them so plain here, no bead-work or even color).
Reminder: I must try to learn how much is worth the gold coin that I was given by the wanted murderer for the prank she had me play on that man called Furley. Mister Dem thinks it was only a prank.
There is much more that I should write down, as father told me. Who can know what will be part of a song one day? Today I put a scarf over my head -- not the golden one from the song, as that would be far too warm for this land, and is in my bag with my furs I shall scarcely ever use; today I bought a thin and sheer one for keeping off the rain, of a color like ice-wine, and it made me think of the song that the gold scarf made me write, and the sight of the fisher at the bay. I should write it here while I am remembering it.
I was walking by the bay, all bundled in my coat,
untangling the scarf of gold tied around my throat
And then my eyes found you, my smile grew wide and bright,
Afraid to speak a word of my quiet, secret delight.
Sliding on the ice on the path out past the bay
Racing past the sleds and laughing all the way
Your eyes so full of joy, your smile so bright and grand
We ran back to the lodge, together, hand in hand.
I think with eager anticipation of when I will have a harp. Though I do not know if I will be permitted to play. There are sometimes harpers who play in the inn of the dancing horse, but I do not know if I would be able to, since I do not know songs in the southern-tongue, and because I am working here. Maybe I should ask Ruizir, or Mister Dem. If I can hope to make any friends here in Bree, they are the ones that seem most likely. Ruizir is a Dwarf-woman who is very kind and patient and interested in me; she was the first to whom I told the tale of how I come to be in Bree six-and-sixty-and-six-hundred leagues from home. I also told Mister Dem. He has told me if I need a home, he and his love Egfor are making an inn and I can stay there. I do not know if I will be needing one, or if it could be closer to the inn where I am working. It never gets cold, and even the rain is not unpleasant; I spend as many nights under the stars with Koira as I do in the room that Bright-Eye lets me use.
Reminder: When I get a harp, I must try to play and sing to the smoke-hued crystal that the man called Vulphe gave me, to see if it will sing back, like ice and some crystals sometimes do if you play just the right note to them. He said the stone was just a stone and had no magic about it, but maybe they do not know of singing stones in Bree.
I had thought perhaps I might make friends with Leodys, a young and very shy lad from a place nearby called Combe, which he once promised to show me, but I have seen him very little since. When I do, he is mooning over the pretty Watcher called Essie, and I have tried to encourage him to speak to her. He is baffling! He says he is not brave or strong enough for her, and I tried to explain to him that that is her choice, not his, but he does not believe me. Perhaps to earn a love in Bree one has to be strong, but what then for those who are not strong? Must they live without love? Surely that will be my fate if so.
Reminder: I must try to speak to Essie about whether there is some way I can obtain permission for Koira to come into the city with me, for the dog will scarcely keep away. I have been able to keep her out of the inn, barely, but I cannot keep her from joining me when I go to market, and I worry that the other watcher will attack her.
Though Mister Baraque maybe thinks I am not so weak. When he saw the murderer, Deorla she was called by those she was with, and wanted to apprehend her, I knew I could not be of help, but I hid a butcher knife and went to stand guard over the young lad called Dav at the north table, then later when a girl called Tammy came, she thought it was me who was threatening him, not protecting him, so I watched both of them as they left, which got them to safety. He said it was brave. I do not know if he was just being kind. Sometimes it seems almost as if he likes me the way Leodys likes Essie, but other times he is as far away as winter stars. Maybe he speaks to me only because we look more alike than all the milk-white people of Bree.
Reminder: I must ask him why he calls me "Tina" and if the name has some meaning.
There is one other thing I must use this diary for, and that is to write a letter to my family. Mister Dem and Egfor mean to go for trade to Lumi-mâ in summer, and they will bring my letter there. If they only bring it to Kauppu-kohta (few of the etelä-vieras go farther than that, and hardly any past Pynti-peldot) there will be lumi-väki who will bring it the rest of the way. My heart sings to think I will be able to tell them that I am alive and well, but then it sinks when I wonder how I will tell them why I send a letter with the men rather than going myself. It is something I do not know that I understand myself. The fear of how broken-hearted I felt when I made everyone dislike me the harder I tried to make friends with them, or when I hurt them, like the fisher, and the healer, and, well, everyone, that is certainly part of it. But is it all of it? I do not know. I fear that they will feel hurt, maybe worse, that I could come home and do not. I do not want to hurt them. But will they be hurt more to know that I choose to stay in this strange southern-land, than they already are hurt, thinking that I died in the blizzard?
Reminder: I must save a few pennies for buying some of the sweet cakes that the kivi-vaki in purple makes from the pitch of southern trees. I have never tasted anything like them. I wonder why the pitch in these trees is so unlike that in our pines.
