The Waystation

The wooden shack leaned to one side, supported by a great old elm. It was one small room, the whitewash peeling, small stove, box of supplies, and lumpy bed the only furnishings. Drafts wafted through cracks; the waystation was rarely used, ill maintained. Casting his cloak onto the unmade bed, he opened the storebox. The grain was well kept, if old. Taking some oats, he fed his mount, tethered to a post outside, and pumped water from the well. The moldy odor of the shack seeped into his pores as carried the water within to make a porridge for himself.