It hurt. By that point in my life, of course, I was no stranger to pain and bruises. I understood the pain, both physical and emotional, to an extent that most others would not. But it had been so long since I had had any particular need to feel it. In the mountain village, even when they had yet to figure out what to do with me, even when caught in throes of rage at some injustice that had happened elsewhere in the day, it didn’t occur to any of them to attack. That wasn’t in their blood. And then, when they did decide that I was but a harmless fixture on the bench, they began to idolize me. Who would punch their idol?
No, I wouldn’t call it a fall from glory. That would assume that glory was ever achieved. This was more… a forceful awaking. A remembering. People do this to things that are different, to things that scare them. There is a certain way that life and society and those that reside within it are supposed to be. I blatantly and unapologetically stepped to one side of that code. Even if I wasn’t a threat to their safety, I was a threat to their normalcy, and that was enough to justify whatever types of force they wanted to employ against me, be it a jail cell or solid fists.
I thought about this as I crunched down the path that swung away into the trees. A sign at the gate had marked this as the Merchants’ Trail. It was curious how that side of town was gated and guarded, but the other side was not. They didn’t expect any issue to come from the mountains. But this way…?
Alone and between worlds once more, I walked until sunup --or the barest approximation of it with the clouds seeping in overhead-- then took a break to forage for my breakfast. Berries, usually, with some edible greens and roots. There were mushrooms scattered about as well, and I’m sure many of those were edible, but I knew better than to take my chances in unfamiliar territory.
As I tucked into my meal, I could watch the world brighten with the rising sun, and then slowly darken again as the clouds began to seal over and thicken. Rubbing two fingertips together, the leather slid over a thin layer of moisture. Rain was coming, and I hadn’t a clue how far it would be to the next town. This did not bode well to me.
It had occurred to me once or twice that borrowing a horse fo myself would be much to my favor, if only I’d had the funds for it or for the food the beast would require. Now, I was stuck on my own two feet cantering down the road at a nervous clip with many glances up at the clouds and then to either side of the path in search of any sort of shelter. On this side of Mitissilva, the nice rocky outcroppings that came with mountainous territory had smoothed out into plain, open forest. There was thicker undergrowth and there was thinner undergrowth, but no signs of caves or outcroppings to duck under.
It grew dark enough that I lost track of the time of day. The dampness in the air began to soak into my vestments. I could feel that subtle but inevitable shift in weight, in texture. The mist that clung to the air would be manifesting into droplets any moment now. If I got wet now, I would be soaked through and miserable for days to come. I couldn’t let it happen.
I picked up my feet and broke into a jog, straining to take in every detail of the world around me. Over there was a swath of ferns that would at least lighten the impact of rain, but that wouldn’t be enough. A tree that had fallen over and begun to decay might shelter for an hour, but who knows how long this rainfall would last? Ahead, I only saw mist and trees and tress and the Merchants’ Trail curving off into it.
The first droplets began to fall. They pattered audibly as they struck the face of my mask, the leaves, the ground that swept along under my feet. I admit, I panicked. I broke into a full-on sprint, boots crashing over the worn gravel. It felt ridiculous to be scared of a little water, but I kicked up my heels as if a whole legion of phantoms was nipping at my back. In my haste, I couldn’t tell the difference between the wind rushing, the gravel crunching, my breath raking, and the rain hissing.
The more the rain fell, the shorter my field of view became. Urgency reduced me to tunnel vision, squinting through the rainfall with a futile sort of desperation. My limbs grew damp and heavy --was the sloshing sound my imagination?
And then a silhouette loomed into view down the path. Tall and square: manmade. A building. Target locked. I didn’t care. I didn’t care. I didn’t care.
Like a fired bullet, I plunged toward the promise of shelter, turned a shoulder, and fully slammed through the door. I was vaguely aware of something splintering --thin shards flew across my field of view. A voice screamed. No-- Two voices.
A shout.
Shuffling feet.
I made it a single step before crumpling to my knees. I held up a hand in the general direction of the voices, reassuring, pleading --honestly, I’m not quite sure which-- but I couldn’t muster the energy to look up at them. Weighed down by water, I hung my head and drew in ragged breaths, watched the lights of panic dance across my vision and dissolve into static fuzz and then slowly clear away, watched water dripping from my mask and arms and legs to form puddles all around me.
When I finally became cognizant enough to realize that my arm was quaking with the effort of being held aloft, I looked up. Three pairs of eyes stared back at me. The woman sheltered the child, pushed her back toward a doorway across the room from me. The man was a noncommittal distance between them and me, holding a butter knife like he was as afraid of the kitchen utensils as he was of the sopping wet beast that just burst through his door. Shards of wood had landed all around me, but the rest of the room looked cozy --a living room of sorts, with overstuffed couches that had been made by a hand slightly less skilled than that of a trained artisan, wilting flower arrangements, an impressive bookshelf, and plates of food overturned and abandoned on the floor.
I moved.
The man made a strange squawking sound that failed to be words and pushed the knife out further from himself.
I stopped.
What came next I am not wholly proud of, but my bruised cheekbone served as reminder enough of what people do when they are scared. Besides, I was soaked and exhausted and cared even less than usual for adhering to those arbitrary norms. Slowly, I lay down on my elbows, then turned over and sprawled on my back. I didn’t have a tail to tuck between my legs, but I hoped that was implied well enough.
A moment passed.
And another.
A young girl’s voice said, “Is he--” before being harshly shushed.
A floorboard near my head creaked.
The hand holding the butterknife crept into my field of view, followed shortly by the man’s face, features twisted into confusion. Nothing could have possibly prepared him for the likes of myself to come busting into his house. A foot nudged at my head.
Carefully, I lifted both hands from the floor and twitched my fingers a couple times to let them know I’m still alive, and awake. It was almost comedic to watch the jolt of panic flash over his features.
“H-h-hello?” he stammered, trying in vain to find a grip on the butterknife that felt right.
I raised one hand a little higher and twitched my fingers again.
He made an unflattering croaking sound as he gulped. “A-are you…? What are you doing here?”
I lolled my head back, chest heaving with the effort of breathing through waterlogged fabric, and flopped a hand forward to point through the open door at the downpour. I wasn’t sure what I would do if they decided to kick me back out into it, so I hoped that I had stumbled on a family with some shred of decency somewhere in their hearts.
The man looked out through the doorway and grimaced nervously. “C-come in out of the rain?”
I nodded.
He fiddled with the knife still, but couldn’t get it to sit right in his palm. Watching that, I knew I would be okay, at least for the night. No hand so uncomfortable about threatening with a butterknife could possibly turn me away if I just kept myself small and harmless enough.
“Um,” he croaked, and glanced back toward his family. The woman said something, but I couldn’t make out what. “Y’need… Y’need a place t’stay…?”
All of my limbs sagged with such relief that I couldn’t even reply right away. I clasped a hand to my chest with a soggy squelch and nodded as imploringly as I could manage. Please. Please.
He gnawed on his lip and lowered the knife to glance again toward the other two. Of course this wasn’t an easy decision for him, but he had morals, this man. So far, I hadn’t hurt anyone or anything except for the door, and I was wet, pathetic, helpless. A couple breaths raked in and out of his throat. “...Fine. But stay away from my wife and my daughter, you hear? We can set you up on the couch here. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
At this, I heard the woman softly say, “Grab yourself another plate and go eat in our room, dear.”
“But is he--”
“We’ll talk later, love.”
The man withdrew from my field of view, backpedaled until I couldn’t see him anymore, and I heard them moving about the room behind me. The man and woman murmured softly to one another as they cleaned up the fallen dishes. When the woman went into the other room to tend to them, I could feel the man lingering to watch me as I lay there in a soggy heap. Then he moved again, more footsteps pacing close, and then away again, and then past me to close the door and poke at the damage with a disappointed sound.
I still hadn’t moved by the time he draped a towel over the hole in the door and turned back to frown at me. After all, I’m fine with sleeping on the floor, and what’s more harmless than not moving at all?
“Are you… alright?” He frowned at me from the door, fiddling with his sleeve-cuff.
With immense effort, I held up a hand and gave him a thumbs-up. I couldn’t tell if it was my joints or the waterlogged fabric that creaked with the movement.
A beat.
He hesitated. Then extended a hand down to me. “C’mon. I should have some dry clothes that fit y--”
We both startled, because where I had started to take his hand and pull myself upright, I abruptly recoiled as if he had shocked me. I wasn’t sure yet what I was going to do about my drenched vestments, but there was no way I could wear anything different. No. No, I shook my head at him.
“Th-that’s alright. Sorry. Ah--” He gulped and looked at his hand, trying to figure out what he had done to upset me. “Soryya will get you a towel so you can, uh. dry off some. I’ll find you a pair of pajamas or something. The bathroom’s over there. Just, uh. Stay in here, please? Don’t go upstairs.”
I clutched at my chest and squeezed at the coat until water dribbled from it, and heaved my shoulders with a nod. Of course I intended to abide by the house rules. I knew better than to try anything sly. Being allowed on the couch was already far more than I had hoped for, let alone being provided with a blanket.
Soryya came down the stairs a couple minutes later with an armful of quilts and stuffed blankets. The colors had gone sepia with age, but they were otherwise in good condition. Still sitting on the floor, though I had scooted back to leaned against the wall, I accepted them with a fierce shiver. Having come from the mountains, I was not unfamiliar with the cold, but it’s an awful sensation indeed when it’s cause by being enveloped in wet fabric. So I drew the bundle of blankets onto my lap, curled around them, and shuddered miserably.
The woman watched this with a curious frown. She had gentle brown eyes that, for whatever reason, reminded me of pinecones, and soft features that couldn’t help but look maternal in their concern for me. It took just a moment for her to firm her lips and nod. “Come over to the fireplace, please. If you won’t change out of those clothes, then at least let yourself be warmed by the fire.” She added a couple more logs to the hearth, then stepped aside and gestured for me to come over.
I wasn’t about to protest. Feeling heavy and tired, I crawled over as close to the flames as I could safely get and curled up in a huddle around the blankets there. She was watching me still, but I no longer cared. I knew I would be okay here for the night. The fire would warm me up slowly but steadily. So I let myself fall into a fog of weary observation, listening to the footsteps and murmurs around the cottage before stillness finally fell.
Well, stillness save for the steady fall of rain outside.
Comments (1)
See all