It sits heavy in my chest now, the memory of that night. Indeed I am a creature of observation, but that night etched itself into the fibers of my being with the sharp end of a stonemason’s knife. Every score still smarts when I probe it the way one does when examining something foreign and not altogether pleasant, be it wound or person or memory. For me, it was and always will remain two out of the three.

~*~

Leaf-Eyes tried not to fidget as he led me down the street accompanied by the curious stares of children, adolescents, and adults. His guilt was still apparent in the dip of his shoulders, but the lean of his head and the precise distance between us betrayed how uncomfortable he was to be walking alongside me. I thought it amusing, a man constructed all of muscle with hands that could crush stones --cowed by a mere mask. Except, of course, there was much more to it than that. To everyone else, I was the jigsaw piece that did not fit in to their humble way of life. To be seen in association with me was to become a part of that deviation in everyone else’s eyes, strangers or no. To touch the enigma, here, was to become a part of it. He was reluctant to be seen in such a way.

Certainly, I did not make it any easier for him. Liberated as I was, I took the chance to stoop and wave, to return curious stares for curious stares, to pat a child on the head who managed to get close enough to ask, “Are you a monster?” before his guardian made a startled sound and tugged him away with stern words under her breath.

When my guide pointed out the market to me, I immediately went in that direction, his protestations becoming so much water over finely-oiled feathers: “Ah-- Hey wait, Mister, uh, m-masked--person-- Shoot, what do I even call you?  --The inn’s this-- Aw come on now.”

I could feel the reluctance of his steps dragging along behind me as I drifted toward the sounds of voices bartering, coins changing hands, many footsteps padding to and fro over dusty grounds. The dust permeated the air in a way that was not unfamiliar to me, and the smell of woodshavings and baked goods --pies both sweet and savory, breads both herbed and plain, pastries of every shape and size-- tickled my nose in a way that made me unexpectedly reminiscent. It drew me onward until I found myself before a stall that sold meat pies encased in a thick hot-water crust. Just standing there, I could almost taste the freshness of the rosemary, the subtle tang of cooked wine. A family of six --the Arodels: the father a blacksmith, the mother a baker who set up shop in the downstairs of their home, three young boys, and one girl-- had served some variation of this while I graced their dinner table back in the mountain village.

“Can, uh… C-can I help you?” It was an apprentice who manned the stall, on the plumper side of thin with a well-used apron around his neck and eyes the color of pecans. His hands slid down from the pie he had just set on the table to grip the table’s edge.

I tilted my head at him.

He gulped.

I tilted my head the other way and started to reach for the pie, and startled when a hand clamped on my shoulder.

“He’s harmless. We think.” Leaf-Eyes squinted apologetically, giving my shoulder a squeeze that was gentle but still made me flinch. I preferred my shoulder in one piece, after all.

When the baker looked unconvinced, I drew up my shoulders, touched my fingertips together, and cradled my chin on top of them as innocently as I could manage. If a mere gesture could convey innocence, I’m certain that wouldn’t be it --it comes off as sarcastic in my mind’s eye-- but the young baker’s lips twitched at the corners, and he emitted a small bleat of a laugh. The poor man --still balanced on that thin line between youth and adulthood-- couldn’t decide whether to let imagination or practicality gauge my presence and found himself paralyzed by the stalemate.

Leaf-Eyes looked to me, the practicality in his eyes sorely struggling. “Do you want a meatpie? I’ll take it off of what we owe ya.”

It wasn’t a question I had to think about.  The smell of food combined with the thought of having it made my empty stomach twist in a way that very nearly rendered me out of commission, and the world pivoted for a moment on an axis belonging to some other plane than Earth. I must have stumbled, because the next thing I knew, I was propped up by a table in one hand and Leaf-Eyes’s solid grip on my shoulder. He was looking at me with palpable concern, and the poor pecan-eyed baker looked as though I had waved a gun at him.

“Hey, hey. Are you okay?”

My fingers tingled in my gloves and the ground felt fluid underfoot, but I nodded. Heavens forbid they try to take me to a medic. I dreaded to think how that would have gone. So I gathered my feet under myself and gave the man a reciprocal pat on the shoulder to communicate that I was alright.

He wasn’t convinced, and in retrospect I can’t blame him. He kept a hold on my shoulder as he dug out a wallet and passed it to the baker. “Count out what you need for two--” He gave me a sidelong look when I held up a hand. “...four meat pies.”

My hands shook when I tried to take the pies, and Leaf-Eyes frowned as he took them from me. “Come on. I’ll show you the inn. Do you need a medic?” He chuckled at how quickly I shook my head. “S’probably that mask, huh? I don’t imagine you get much air through that.” He reached over to tap a knuckle to the side of my head, and I reflexively flinched away from it. 

Frail. That’s how I felt at that moment. It is not an entirely pleasant experience to be reminded of one’s own mortality --for indeed, I assure you, I am quite mortal-- while in the midst of curious strangers. But the exhaustion hit all at once, and too much focus was going to the simple act of making my feet lift and land where they were supposed to. I found myself loosely drywashing my hands and staring at the dusty road just in front of my feet. We passed by other feet: boots, slippers, sandals. A part of my mind reflexively tried to pierce that particular curiosity: a lot can be learned about a person by their feet. The wealthy wear impractical colors and gaudy designs; the trade workers fashion shoes that suit their work; those that don’t see much toil wear slip… slippers-- and the bare feet can mean frivolity or… or destitution, and the condition of the feet that wear them, and the way they move… they way they…

“Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem. Y’know where to find us if there is.”

I look up from Leaf-Eyes’s immobile feet (sturdy leather boots with several years of wear on them) to the woman at the counter. She had a look about her as if all the vibrant colors were steadily draining away, her clothing all of muted colors, her eyes grey as an overcast day. I wanted to wonder if she bore some sort of tragedy on her shoulders, but couldn’t quite string the thoughts together for it. Instead, I wondered if she wondered whether I was some drunk and sought to remedy this by reaching for the key the moment she held it out.

“Room four is just down that hall, ….s-sir. We serve breakfast to guests free of charge until noon.

I failed to comprehend this nearly as much as I would have liked, and they must have realized that something was off, because I was just sort of tilting my head at the key in my hand. A moment passed. And another. Before Leaf-Eyes cleared his throat and set a hand on my shoulder. Against my better judgement, I jumped.

“This way.” He led me down the hall where floral paintings lined the walls. Of the eight doors I counted, seven were open just a crack with green vacancy tags hanging from the doorknobs. The one that was shut had a dustcatch rug outside of it and a little placard that read “Home Sweet Home” installed next to it. I wasn’t certain just how concerned I should be that the inn in such a large town was nearly empty.

Room number four was much smaller than I had anticipated. Of course I wasn’t so optimistic as to anticipate a full suite in my name, but this was a room barely large enough to pace in. The bed took up an entire corner, dressed with blankets that looked to be hand-me-downs from some elder generation based on the patterns and the fraying edges. At the foot of the bed was a massive wooden trunk that would make any treasure hunter salivate if he didn’t know it had come from an inn. Another corner was occupied with a desk with chips and nicks all along the edge as if someone had tried to use it to sharpen a knife. A painting of a dark-green forest loomed on the wall, which, admittedly, was actually quite pleasant. I might question the habit of hanging pictures of scenery on the wall that could just as easily be seen by going outside, but I suppose it’s the sentiment that counts.

Leaf-Eyes set the pies on the desk and eyed them dubiously, which transitioned seamlessly into him eyeing me dubiously as I crouched to test the blanket fabric between gloved fingertips. “You sure you’re alright? I can send a medic by…”

I waved off the offer before he even finished presenting it. Even if my fingertips were tingling and my head ready to tip off and float away, the last thing I wanted at that particular moment was someone else asking me questions. So I drew myself up to my feet, dusted myself off, and presented my hand to the man for a handshake. It was the closest to a dismissal I could manage without pushing him out the door.

He looked at it rubbed at the back of his neck. “Yeah, alright. I’ll, ah. I’ll send somebody by to check on you in the morning though, okay? I just gotta make sure you’re not, y’know, sick or something.”

There it was again. That compulsive need to play host. Perhaps he was repentant for locking me up simply because I was something strange and unusual to cross into the borders of the town, but I hadn’t a doubt in my mind that he would have done so for a regular stranger. Why? I wondered. Out of fear?

I pushed my hand closer, this time seizing his shoulder and pushing him toward the door. It may surprise you, but I had no patience for such compulsive niceties. After all, do they still count if they are done out habit or a sense of obligation? You could be trained from a young age to always feed the poor stranger who knocks on your door, but tell me-- does it really count if you don’t actually care about them? Habits are finicky like that. The emotion becomes strained away from the action. They lose meaning steadily and inevitably.

He laughed as I pushed him toward the door. It was a sorry, wry sort of laugh, as if self-conscious about falling into that particular rut. “Yeah okay, I can take a hint. You need anything, Ms. Reevin at the front desk can… can, ah, help you.”

He started to turn back toward me one more time from the hallway, but I closed the door on him and sloped my weight against it, panting. An afterthought locked the door, but I stayed there anyway until I heard his footsteps recede. Then I paced to the window to look out at the trees. I was a little disappointed that it looked out on trees. The irony of the sentiment did not escape me, but I’m an observer by nature and there was little to observe but for the mild sway of leaf and branch, a bird here, a fly there. It was altogether peaceful.

I pulled the curtains on it, sat down, and ate. The pies were more of a treat than I had anticipated. It was all I could do to keep myself from scarfing them down all at once, not that anyone would be looking on to judge me for it. They again reminded me of that mountain village in ways I found not entirely comfortable. I knew I couldn’t go back, but there was a peculiar… twinge, I suppose you might call it. Some might call it an ache --in retrospect I would call it an ache-- but at the time I saw it only as a peculiarity of having eaten so much after so long.

And I was exhausted. Truly exhausted. I paced my tiny room from wall to wall, perched on the edge of the cot, then stood and paced some more as the light through the window grew bright with noon then began to slant steadily toward evening. I was exhausted and bored, and couldn’t figure out why I felt a nagging obligation to stay in that strange little room.

So I left. A little wandering couldn't hurt, right?