A long time ago, in the mossy village of Haven, a printer by the name of Totts operated an old press handed down to him by his father, and his father’s father, mainly printing poetry leaflets for enamored knights and prayer booklets for God-fearing folk. Totts had grown up as a wee lad in this shop, running about with ink smeared on his nose and ligaments, so that decades later he remained much the same, with ink spots where the age spots might normally be. On any given day, he operated the press by rote, changing out letters and pressing and sliding here and there until the press gave forth crisp, clean renditions of the written word and graven images. No print request was too difficult for Totts, not he; many moons had passed since his apprentice stage and now he was passing his knowledge to his only child, a daughter named Ella.
Ella did not care for printing, but she cared for books, and since Haven did not have a lending library, she feigned an interest in the printing craft so she could read every word as it spewed out of the press. Dull or brilliant, foolish or wise, her golden eyes hungrily ate up each word and then mulled them later as she drifted off to sleep each night. She thought perhaps someday she could trade those words as currency elsewhere in the world, in a place besides Haven, with folk other than Havenites, and maybe they might be of value.
One autumn afternoon, when the wind was stirring up leaves and musty memories, Ella stood upon a table, brushing away cobwebs from the rafters so that dust specks wouldn’t wander into the ink pots, when she spied a rickety gentleman riding on a dapple grey horse. His bony arms and legs poked beneath a green velvet suit with matching checkered cravat, and his chestnut leather boots were quite pointy. His hair was tied neatly back in a queue, and although she could not gauge his age, he seemed as worn and pockmarked as the graveled path.
Ella could not recall ever seeing him before, so she stared rather freely until he startled her by calling out, “Hey-o, young miss!”
She curtsied hastily beneath her dark blue pinafore, nearly falling over in this attempt to appear polite, then ruined it all by hoisting her skirt up and jumping off the table so the poor wooden floors squeaked mightily.
“Good day, sir!” said she, striding up to him and patting his horse tentatively on the nose. “May I be of assistance to you or your nag?” She sniffed and smelt a blend of cinnamon and cloves that lingered about the pair, alongside the usual scent of manure that drifted in waves from the surrounding farmland.
The man smiled down at her with a squint, then patted a long leather tube that was affixed to his saddle with thick golden-colored cords. “You are in the printing trade, are you not? Totts, is it?”