Saddletown was a poor place to be, in every sense of things. No exports of consequence were sold from its farmers or craftsmen, and there was little cause for any large purse to travel there. Its singular road only penetrated its borders on one side, such that one could plainly see precisely where in town that wagons and carts of all sizes stopped bothering to extend their reach before turning southward again, opposite an open road that reached towards the outside world.

Seclusion was not the original purpose of the settlement's construction, but it was a welcome attribute among its occupants. The road out of town led to a junction after most of a day's ride that split into three other opposing roads whose relevance all usurped their own to any merchants or other less desirable riders who reached its sign. The sign had once bore four directionally pointed spokes which read each path's eventual destination. But Saddletown's section suspiciously was mostly torn away, such that only the last two letters were remaining. In an effort by either a disgruntled member of its populace or by the force of rot itself, to discourage anyone of curious eye who was not already familiar with its location and name to venture there.

Little grew within its ground, preventing its population from multiplying far beyond a hundred. Thus forcing most adolescents to eventually seek subsistence in places of greater warmth and broader opportunity. All the town's founders were too dead to question their reasoning for such a location, and their remaining grandchildren were too old to care about the nature of its origins. They knew only that their cabins had been built strong, sealed well, and possessed an attribute the people who were born in them could take pride in sharing: sturdiness. From drought, to hail, to a spreading sickness of their livestock, there was no force of inconvenience or disaster that could bring so much as a private glare against the sky out of any man or woman there old enough to command respect among their peers. 

Adversity of any form was seen as almost desirable, as a method of deterring wills too weak and minds too accustomed to pleasantness from staying too long and laying a claim to one of the many empty lots that served to its population as visible reminders of the long vacated families who found themselves unfit to remain within their fold.

One of the younger couples, relative to their elderly neighbors, were the Kallerds: Rane and Faleen. Whose marriage had been arranged farther back than either of them cared to recall. There was no surplus of viable singles in the town at any given time. So sensible pairings were usually decided by the town's elders unless an equitable alternative was argued for by those involved. But neither Rane nor Faleen had protested. Both had seen the few alternatives that were available, and neither were keen on them. And so it was that the two were wed into lifelong matrimony, by default. Adding the weight of their marriage to the ancient scale of those primarily bonded by proximal geography.

But the two fared well enough together, better than many in fact, at least for a while. It festered and stretched between them as would an unencumbered vine. For nearly one and twenty springs they had lived in quiet contentment, inescapably entangled with each other's lives by matching promises made to their parents at the end of their adolescence. It had been a struggle at first, for both of them, being so inexperienced in lying next to another breathing body each night, and the differing anatomies involved. There were the initial petty frustrations that come from cohabitating with a stranger, but eventually, she learned how to breathe when she slept so as not to overtly wake him with a startling snort, and he learned to reach lower on the occasions she compelled him for assistance. But after a season or two of their beginnings, each found their partnership to be unwaveringly tolerable. With their shared days passing by without significant cause for complaint from either of them.

Until, when their second decade had concluded, Rane found himself to be more interested in the assorted chores of their homestead than in sharing the stale presence of his wife. A change whose gradual nature did nothing to obscure it from her perception. There had been times, distant times, when she would wake up to a slight cough. Nothing warranting a call for medicine, just a couple of wheezes before her voice would meet her in mutual wakefulness. Times when Rane used to redress before her to contend against approaching darkness and pick pine needles in the chilled twilight, bind some together in a narrow stack, and sit them in a small pot of boiled water until their color started to bleed. Then he'd give her a cup of it to drink and warm whatever phlegm annoyed her lungs. Even at his most attentive, he hadn't done it often. And would still grunt audibly at the performance of each step involved in preparing the concoction, but as he handed her the steaming mug he always held it from the bottom, leaving the handle free for her to grasp so as not to be singed by its sides. This gesture of care, and many less measurable, had atrophied from his character thoroughly enough that she no longer bothered even attempting to incite any of them out of him, so sure was she of their absence. An absence whose resentment had brought in her a brand of atrophy all her own as it decayed into a bland resignation. Wherein she finally thought no better of him than he was, and now wished no more from him than nothing, so as not to risk rekindling her forgotten disappointment.

 Presently, the two sat upon their respective rocking chair's arms with their weapons of choice against the melancholy of an uneventful afternoon. Her with knitting tools and cloth, him with a narrow chisel and wood. Each of their chairs faced neither toward or away from the other's, to do so would be far too overt an action for either of them. Preferring instead to aim themselves towards a shared point at an angle, so that each was only in the other's periphery.

"Old Pyke is on his way to fading," Faleen muttered hesitantly.

"That's why we call him old," Rane replied.

"He'll only be another day or two."

"So?"

"He birthed my child," she affirmed.

"Hope his apprentice is better at it, then."

"We should visit him,"

"And say what? Thanks for nothing? You go, if you want to see him so badly."

"People will talk if you don't accompany me, it won't take long."

"If you ask me one more time, I'll go. But if he's not already cold when I get there he will be when I leave," he promised.

"I just thought it would be a posi–"

"A what?" he interrupted.

"A positive experience," she finished quietly.

"For who? That miser's eyes are even worse off than his ears."

"It would look better if we went together," she mumbled. "That's all I'll say."

"The last thing his house needs is to hear me cursing his incompetence. Which is the first thing I'd say at seeing him."

"I'll walk over this evening then, you don't have to go."

"I don't have to do anything, least of all listen to this nagging. And all for an old clutz who couldn't even handle–"

"I told you he didn't–"

"He did something, and don't be trying to tell me otherwise. The proof is plain enough."

"It wasn't his fault."

"Then it's sure not mine, is it?" Rane chided. "Go tend to him then, but leave me out of it. Let them talk if they please. They'll all be too busy minding their precious dying surgeon to care that you're unaccompanied in a house. And it's not like you'll be alone…" he mumbled. "I just… hate the man too much not to cause a bigger scene accompanying you than not," he admitted.

"Better for you to stay then," she considered.

"Yeah," he yawned uninterestedly. "Better."

*** *** ***

Inside the darkness of a mellowly weathered night, something resembling a man laid in a bed surrounded by relatives, mourners, and socialites who wanted to feel involved in that day's business. There was not a single person fully grown in Saddletown who had not at some point been tended to by Pyke Handel, a name even now only half remembered. His surname had died with his wife decades earlier, she's the one who insisted on using it. Before her illness she'd taken great pride in her association with the only surgeon around. Even if no one was injured at the moment, there was usually a horse somewhere who needed reshoeing, even though many households only had a donkey or two. So on any given day there was always somewhere for him to carry his tools. Those tools were everything to him, each specially made by the smith at his request, or purchased by a passing merchant who'd lost his way. According to Old Pyke, as he was now referred to by all too young to remember his past youth, the pillars to good health were: staying sharp, staying clean, and good quality cooking. Mottos that he extended not just to his recommendations to his patients, but also to his tools. Which he sharpened, cleaned, and even cooked, between every single patient, human or otherwise. He cared as little for insects as anyone, but any animal that met his gaze with unquestionable cognisance was worth equal efforts to him.

It bothered him more than he'd say when people wouldn't tend to their horses well enough to keep them standing, so eventually he stopped waiting for them to call, and just checked on them himself, only asking for payment at the end of the year once his value had been established. The cows and bulls even seemed to him similar in make and manner to many people he knew, and especially so for the steers and mules. Hogs though, he thought unfit to keep, even for their waste disposal and manure, foul as it was. He always found them to be menacing things. Smart as any dog, ravenous for everything, but loyal to nothing, even when clipped. Which he'd do, on request. But he'd cook his tools extra long afterward, fearing that something rotten might soak into them. 

He remembered what happened to Maylor's boy, back in the day. Though no one talked about it anymore. Maylor even had to take his whole lot and leave once spring came, couldn't face the shame of it. But Pyke still remembered, old as he was. He didn't remember all his patients, especially the early ones. But he remembered being shown the teeth, and asked by a couple in the deepest pit of denial what kind they were. There was no mistaking them, Maylor could have asked anyone else for the same answer. But a surgeon held a higher word than most, so Maylor and Enrica both took their bag to Pyke, to ask him personally for his verdict, if only so that they could free their minds from any unsensible hope. A verdict that had replayed within his memories each day since, including this last one, which otherwise skimmed over him like a flat stone over stillwater.

The whole passel was bled and burned that day, too tainted in mind and body to be of further use. No care was taken to harvest any hog's ashes or bones by anyone except the dirt and wind, who took their usual claim. And as the fleeting fuse of life burned away from Old Pyke's consciousness, his final perception, was the unmistakable stench of that smoke. One that had festered through every open window for many hours, and whose scent he welcomed both then and now, as a testament to the proper order of things.

*** *** ***

The room was silent for many minutes, rather out of awkwardness or reverence none could entirely discern. But the people in and around the now breathless bed moved without resistance at the gestured behest of a man who deemed it his place to speak.

"I am grateful to all of you," he said, projecting so that his voice reached each room of the house, and could also be heard by the majority of patrons whose presence would not fit inside the crowded room. "For sharing your company with Old Pyke up to his end. And also to those who came yesterday, not knowing when he would cease. You have all honored him greatly with your presence. I will leave to let any pay their respects in their own way momentarily. But first, as his last apprentice, I feel obliged to speak to his quality for at least a moment. He was the best of us. There's not one of us here who hasn't been tended to by his hand at some point or another. And tend to us he did, day or night, wet or dry, hot or cold, through mud, snow, and any manner of inconvenience. One pebble on his window was all it took, and his boots were always at the ready. He taught me to nail hooves, to sow skin, and countless other remedies of blood and bone. But what he taught me most, was readiness, to answer the call when it comes. Because there's just no telling when it will," he finished. His cadence didn't crescendo at his speech's conclusion. The apprentice was inexperienced in public speaking, and had simply run out of things to say. He was tempted to end it with something more fitting, but in the moment could only think of: so that's that then, as a closing line. So instead he just went silent altogether, and slouched back into the people around him, attempting to signal them to stop looking at him so he could rejoin them in mutual mourning.

"That was well put, lad," Dale affirmed as he patted the apprentice's shoulder with a heavy hand.

"I'm glad, I tried to…" the apprentice muttered.

"You did, you certainly did," Dale repeated. "May I help you bury it?" he asked.

"Shouldn't we wait until everyone's gone?"

"This your first?"

"I've seen death aplenty," the apprentice said defensively.

"Your first being the closest kin?" Dale asked again.

"Oh, then yes."

"It takes a lot longer than you're thinking, needs to be deep enough to stand in. We can do it behind the house a waze, while the mourners disperse. His bowels were already empty, no need to move him now, but he'll still start to fester by morning. Best to get him underground by then. " 

"I understand, you're right. Should I go fetch a spade then?"

"Spade won't do for a grave, would take us all night." Dale snorted. I got two sharp shovels and a pickaxe, all we'll need. Let us leave, give the guests more room to spread."

"Certainly, I appreciate your assistance, Dale, I'm not usually this involved in…"

"Pyke did more for me than everything you just said, the disposal is the least I can do," Dale's eyes drifted off as he spoke, briefly reminiscing on a memory too personal to share before connecting to the apprentice's gaze again and nodding towards the door, signaling them both to leave.

They dug together in a cooperative rhythm. Lifting the shovelfuls of soil into one large pile so as to ease them in refilling it. There were no graveyards in Saddletown, to them death was death and meat was meat. So its residents did not wait for a body to cool before paying their respects unless an unexpected tragedy left no alternative. They preferred to congregate while the dying were alive, and could see the sum of sorrow their imminent vacancies would soon induce. Tradition called for Lindow, Pyke's apprentice and therefore next of kin to dispose of the body in a timely manner to avoid spoiling the house unnecessarily. And as he did so, through the difficulties of emotional turmoil and hands that were unpracticed in such work, doubt began to infest his thoughts as the magnitude of his newly appointed responsibility became more apparent to him.

"Do you think," Lindow paused hesitantly. "Do you think I'll ever be the surgeon that he was?" he asked, feigning flippancy.

"Never," Dale grunted casually before sensing Lindow's dismay at his answer. "No one could," his tone switching from cold to comforting as he finished.

"True as it gets," Lindow agreed with a sigh, before continuing to dig with a slightly increased vigor brought on by the rekindled memory of his former master and mentor.

*** *** ***

An eerie listlessness coated the empty house and those neighboring it. The contrast against its recent fullness could be known only to those who had been there, since it already bore no visible sign of life. There was a time when each house was quickly reassigned whenever its last remaining occupant relinquished his need for its shelter, but that was long past. Presently, housing was more plentiful than people who could practically maintain them. A cursory sweep was performed routinely thrice a season, to inspect the vacancies for nesting animals or leaks in their weathering. But even that effort was largely purposeless, and only performed to humor those who had worked on any of their constructions or upgrades. The carpenters among them took poorly to watching one of their projects decay, even when its purpose already had.

Only recently had communal approval been granted to salvage materials from one house whose seals had been poor and was condemned to eventually rot entirely unless extensive repairs and upgrades were performed. A wasteful pursuit, since it had been empty for nearly a whole generation.

On the occasion that a newly grown adult desired his own domicile, he often preferred to build his own, to his own preferences. It was not just a point of pride but of practicality, the older homes were often unfashionable and had more rooms than most occupants cared to maintain.

The only element out of place would have been exclusively visible to nocturnal creatures. And that was a small mound of fresh dirt yet to be impacted in a short row behind Old Pyke's now empty house. A pile whose only visitor was a brief inspection by a wandering badger, whose hunt was temporarily interrupted when it traced an unfamiliar scent to the pile, before soon losing interest and resuming its pursuit of prey and fallen seeds.

*** *** ***

The primary concern of Mrs. Fay Nagel throughout most seasons was in maintaining the appearance of the flowerbeds she kept in front of her home. Each year at winter's thaw her first order of business was in clearing whatever debris may have fallen or blown into her ring of stacked stones, then cut away any stray stalks of dead plant matter that might inhibit the perennials from resurfacing.

Whenever it rained she spent a few minutes gathering worms for her collection, keeping them in a large clay vat, which she lidded dutifully whenever a storm thundered past. The bottom of the vat was slightly inclined on the inside and angled towards a small screened hole that directed drips of excess moisture to fall into a thickly brimmed saucer beside it. Each day she'd empty her kitchen scraps and a scoop of fresh dirt into the vat, and pour the dark contents of the saucer into a different spot along her flowerbeds before returning it to its proper position by the vat.

Her methods were no secret, others often employed similar practices to fertilize their edibles. But she was the only one who devoted so much fertilizer to the sole pursuit of color. Dyes were laborious and cumbersome to produce in quantity, so all their woven clothing was usually bland and similar from one person's linens to another's. But when the cold relinquished its constriction and they were free to venture outdoors for more than just the usage of latrines and bucketing water from the stream, she took much pleasure in differentiating her home and herself from her neighbors through the cultivation she fostered between each corner of her garden bed.

On convenient mornings, after she'd watered and checked her usual checks, she'd go for a walk. Not usually for long and not usually at all, but when she did her eyes looked not out in front of her, instead scanning all along the ground for a desirable flower or sapling she could replant into her flower bed.

This morning she violated her routine by venturing in a different direction than her usual search, frustrated as she was to have been unfruitful in her last few searches. Her feet carried her past the edge of town and towards a section of woods long unhindered by the harvesting of timber or tinder alike. Until she eventually reached a thin patch of purple lilies scattered between a group of fresh trees. Gleefully she proceeded to gently dig around and beneath the root of one of the stronger lilies, taking only one, as was her custom, and leaving the rest to flourish. But as she knelt down into the damp ground, a realization cascaded across her senses. Perhaps instigated by the omnidirectional cacophony of insects and birds that surrounded her, or perhaps by the shrunken sight of town she'd glanced at behind her. Fright poured through her as she wrapped her flower in a handkerchief, holding it sideways and loosely in both hands before turning around and trotting home as fast as her clothes would allow. And internally scolding herself for having gone so far out for such a small thing.

*** *** ***

Two small boys both equally unfamiliar as unconcerned with the upcoming touch of puberty raced from one end of town to the other. Cutting down the middle on the edge of the road, paying little heed to the possible dangers of colliding with anyone who might be crossing from around the corner of a building. But somehow their own instinctual agility combined with the townsfolk's reluctant avoidance of their antics were enough to have thus far avoided any injuries or destruction resulting from their repeated contest. Decker was slightly older than Sal, an attribute that he managed to bring up regularly, especially whenever Sal questioned his knowledge of grown-up matters. He was stronger and taller as well. But Sal was faster. And every time they raced Decker always ended up watching how the back of Sal's legs seemed to keep his body suspended in air as they moved under him with uncanny rapidity.

At each of their race's conclusions, Sal would look to Decker for approval to stop. While Decker, through heavily panting breath, would stubbornly insist that they go again. So they would go again, and again. Up to six times in a row on some days. Until Decker's own legs could no longer propel him beyond the speed of a soft shuffle.

"Just, wait a bit…" Decker gasped, leaning on his knees with both hands for support slightly before their usual finish line.

"Sure, yeah," Sal agreed, effortlessly winding down the cycle of his feet beneath him the way a wheel slows its spin against a source of friction. "You feelin—"

"I'm fine," Decker interrupted sharply. "Let's just rest though for a while. We can just walk it this time," he said. Sal slowed his pace even more until his friend caught up and they were walking at each other's side. "Don't ever let me win," he muttered angrily.

"You haven't, I mean, I haven't," Sal said nervously.

"I know. But when I do, it needs to count. If you let me it won't count. So don't let me. Not ever," Decker asserted.

"I'm not. I won't."

"Good."

*** *** ***

Beneath the boards of a small platform at the center of town, once constructed on a whim to aid in dispersing announcements, but whose function was long ago deemed to be unnecessary, lived a dog known as Tail. Her age and origin was unknown to all, even Cadi Stoppenhook, who had in years past drowned the rest of her litter for practical purposes and had somehow miscounted as she retrieved the pups two at a time to lessen her own strain. By Cadi's second trip, Tail had become keen to her owner's intentions, and sneaked out of a small hole in the side of the barn. Cats and Dogs were the most replenishable livestock in the community, and so were usually paid the least notice. Unlike Tail, who was by now renowned by all for her size, the shine of her thick coat, and her friendly demeanor, which broadly betrayed no memory of Cadi's past treatment of her. The exception being one time when Cadi was with three of her friends and happened by Tail passing perpendicularly. One of her friends gawked at the dog's beauty and offered her an apple from her basket in exchange for permission to pet Tail's mane, a deal which the dog eagerly accepted. But when Cadi knelt near to join in the activity, Tail hopped away at once without a growl or a glance, thinking the woman to be worthy of neither, and returned to the platform repurposed as her kennel. Which either due to her own uncanny aptitude for nesting or the anonymous aid of a well meaning human, was well insulated with hay and scraps of cloth to shield her from any chill too low for her fur to sufficiently resist.

Tail's breed was indecipherably mixed, with tranches of mutts on either side. So it could scarcely be decided if her instincts compelled her more fiercely to hunt rats, pull loads, or merely swim. Activities which she'd often dabble in, but to her were of far less import than sleeping, which she could be found doing deeply and often beneath the boards of her customized kennel. Perhaps to conserve her energy, perhaps to avoid unwanted attention, or perhaps just to commune with her lost siblings, in their only shared realm.

*** *** ***

There were no signs in the town, and no numbers or nameplates on the houses. Everyone there already knew where to find which tradesman or farmer one needed. The founders had brought with them much coin to facilitate exchanges, and there was no sense in hoarding any for one's later years, since it was ubiquitous that at least minimal care would be taken of you by your child or a sensibly appointer caretaker if you could no longer contribute in the usual gathering, crafting, maintaining, servicing, growing, harvesting, or other activity you would normally work towards. And at a man's twenty-fifth winter he would be allotted a boon equal to roughly two years of earnings to aid him in any project of his choosing, rather that be the betterment of himself, his family, or in advancing a venture that required more materials than he could have afforded by his own income. Stinginess was nonexistent among them. Anyone of any age could make a request from anyone else for some work if they had none presently, and it would be offered. A standard basic rate was expected for a day of generic chores and any tool usage as elementary as hammering. There were some allowances made for children due to their differential in strength and productivity, but mostly they too were paid proportionally for their efforts, being that their studies took half of their days, and barred them from participating in any other work on study days.

Lessons were usually taught by Miss Meri Trunket. An unattached woman at the conclusion of her familial possibilities. The children were sometimes curious as to why she would sometimes abruptly take off her coat and shawl at random and even especially cold times. But Meri never let a symptom so much as interrupt a word of any lecture she was giving. Cord Massy was also passed over, and he even occasionally shared in intimate company with Meri when the urge overcame his many aversions to her. On the fifth and final study day of each tenday, what children there were would be sent to him for instruction. Not in their usual lessons of language, arithmetic, and faith, but in the more tangible pursuits: farming, preserving, and bushcraft.

He took no joy in this part of his allotment, but it was the common thought that practical skills were also necessary to properly attune a child's education, and the rest of the men were too occupied by their own to attend to everyone else's with scheduled regularity or too productive to be pulled away from their work.

 The children did not share Cord's dislike of his lessons though. And instead thought them a welcome reprieve from the unrelenting barrage of Meri's voice. Which she used with great satisfaction to dominate the flimsily constructed wills of her young students.

When it wasn't his teaching day Cord would work on whatever happened to suit his inclinations; today he was foraging for berries. One for him, two for them. Counting had never been his strength, but when it came to food he had no difficulties at all. He was still tempted to short his basket, but his duty outweighed his hunger enough to keep his count true.

Two large curved rows of bushes were tended to just outside of town, among a few fruit trees and raised beds of potatoes that anyone was welcome to tend to or harvest from at will, which was not where Cord now knelt. He was at the edge of the bordering woodland, where the berries were far sweeter and more plentiful since the others preferred not to venture so close to the untamed beasts that lived behind the trees. And while there were occasional rumors of wolves, cats, or bears, none were frequent enough to warrant the legends told to the children to keep them out of trouble or from getting lost somewhere searching would be impossible. So he routinely feasted from its invasive breed of blackened berries, whose thorned branches did more to inhibit him than any cautionary tales from his childhood of young ones eaten by monsters behind the trees.

*** *** ***

Inside a bedroom sat a girl looking out her window. She wasn't tall enough to see much, so she piled a mound of sacks against the wall to stand on when she cared to peer past the borders of her room. As her eyes scanned beyond the open shutter and through the unbarred aperture, the door behind her slammed open without warning and startled the girl, causing her to fall backward onto the floor.

"What are we going to do with you…" Faleen mused confusedly, with crossed arms and tapping fingers. After a moment's hesitation she seized the girl's arm above her elbow and dragged her down the hall into the dining room, then placed her onto a seat with a bowl of boiled carrots and cabbage which the girl ate timidly with her hands.

"She's too big for the room now," Faleen asserted.

"She's not getting a bigger one, if that's what you're implying," Rane scoffed.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm telling you she needs to be taken outside now, before she climbs through the window and causes us problems."

"What do you want me to do with her?"

"Take her for walks."

"We already do that."

"Without the leash."

"Why?" he asked indignantly.

"If she climbs out on her own without us it'll be worse if she doesn't know how to handle herself."

"We can just start boarding the shutter," he reasoned.

"You can't keep putting this off. If people see boards over the shutters it won't be long before they start questioning if we can hold our own."

"I could board them from inside—"

"Rane!"

"Fine, we can stop using the leash, but she's just going to run off and get lost as soon as we do."

"Then you need to help me show her where she should run to and where she shouldn't," she said, her voice slowing for emphasis.

"Which?" he asked confusedly.

"Running to a neighbor's house, in town, would be bad," she whispered covertly.

"And good would be?"

"Everywhere else," she quietly clarified.

"Oh… yes. Yes we should, you're right," he said knowingly. "I just didn't want to be out chasing her."

"You won't have to chase her at all, if you just teach her where not to go," Faleen reasoned. "Then, who knows?" she mused. "Maybe the Red Ram finds her one day?"

"He might," Rane agreed quietly. "He certainly might."

Many common legends were shared by people across nations and religions. But a select few were exclusive to the populace of Saddletown. One was of a great snake that hunted the unholy while they slept, and upon waking would hypnotize its prey into leaving town so the snake could consume them in solitude and safety. 

The other was of a giant Ram with red fur that ate children who went exploring for too long and too deeply in the bordering woods. The stories of both monsters were older than any of the parents who told them. And were propagated indiscriminately to all children at each stage of development until adolescence had completed with their obedience established.

*** *** ***

Their town had no official designations for positions of authority. No one was appointed as Mayor, Sheriff, or even Preacher. Some individuals temporarily fulfilled these roles during instances of social upheaval such as a tragedy or unresolvable dispute, but it seldom came to that. Wilnum was a man whose oratory, strength, and communal approval allowed him to fulfill any of those roles interchangeably when others compelled him to. Roles that he took no satisfaction in occupying, and was always quick to discard at the earliest opportunity; which was the primary factor in his peers repeatedly reappointing him.

But interpersonal peace had been kept for many seasons now, so Wilnum was free to attend to his preferred tasks of tending to his farm. His plants, his goats, and the state of his home all meant far more to him than the petty squabbles and rivalries or his neighbors. Weeds could be pulled, soil could be fed, and uncooperative livestock could be retamed, but the problems that arose between people of relativistic status could never be completely rectified no matter how many times they returned to arbitration. An eventuality that he had become progressively more insistent in avoiding when speaking to aggrieved parties with recurring disagreements. As an additional measure to quiet roughened tempers he would sometimes intentionally broaden public awareness of a dispute in an effort to shame the people involved into quickening their efforts towards mutual resolution.

Presently, he was sawing logs into long boards of uniform thickness, the strokes of his hands guided by a rig he'd crafted for just this purpose. Wilnum had a rig for everything that warranted one, and even some tasks that didn't. To him, any rig that at least narrowly improved either the efficiency or quality of his output was worth building and rebuilding. A position that always induced his wife into rolling her eyes whenever she caught him constructing a new one in the backyard.

"What's this one do then?" she'd ask sarcastically whenever she noticed a new project of his. A question he used to answer literally, before eventually just ignoring when she'd continue to belittle his descriptive response. But next time she chided him, he wouldn't ignore her. He had it planned. When next inspiration struck him to optimize a task with even the smallest imaginable rig, once she repeated herself, he'd be ready and say: "More than you, I'd wager." The thought of this future rebuttal brought a narrow grin to his focused face, even though the appropriate time to employ its use had not yet arisen.

He repeatedly replayed his line in his mind as he worked. Each time with varying differences in emphasis and tonality, searching for the combination that would sound the most spontaneous while also being the most cutting. A matter to which he dedicated much serious thought, before eventually deciding upon a more measured and monotone delivery, which he determined allowed more space for the meaning of the words to resonate with greater effect.

*** *** ***

The weather was dim, damp, and rustling. Enough so that birds retreated to the shelter of their nests. Albern Fredon never liked this sort of weather. He never liked it at all. When the ground was too soft to safely trudge through and there was too little light to guide your step in any substantial work.

His brother Dav was thrilled by it, which angered Albern all the more; that Dav could not properly appreciate the delay or its consequence. Every idle afternoon was an entire day closer to privation. Rather that be a shortage of sustenance, an unrepaired tool, or an unmaintained piece of furniture. To Albern, all it took to get behind the tending of things was a few too many days of idleness before a real storm comes that reveals that the roof is leaking, the cellar is flooding, and the food in it isn't enough to last. It would be. It always was, he made sure of that, he made sure of everything. He had to. Because Dav had absolutely no qualms about letting things get away from him, even when Albern specifically reminded him not to. Sometimes he'd ask Albern just to fetch water for the basin in the morning only to find when the specified time had long passed, that the bucket carrier was unmoved, and that his brother was using the buckets as drums, tapping away at them with two thick sticks that he'd scraped the bark off of. And if Albern questioned him, asking him something like, "If those are the buckets, then where's the water?" Then Dav would pretend not to know, not to remember, or be obstinately literal.

"In the stream," Dav would say innocently. While still Prodding his brother's pressure points with intention.

"Is it too much to ask for just one thing? It was the smallest chore I could think of."

"There's more to life than just chores," Dav would retort.

"Is there more to life than being alive? Because that's what work does, it keeps us alive," Albern would argue. 

They'd had this argument before, many times from many angles, but it always led to the same place: to Dav finding a way to do exactly what his brother asked of him, while still infuriating Albern just as much as he had by not doing it in the first place. Between them it was a well practiced and tightly choreographed routine they could perform at a moment's notice on any given day, and on most days they did. It was an argument their mother used to resolve for them as children. One that throughout their youth, both subconsciously knew to initiate if she wasn't paying them a degree of attention that was sufficient to their liking. And although their mother had died many years previous, they each would still tirelessly replay the routine, if only as a hopeless outcry against the forces that govern mortality, for denying them from receiving their mother's attention ever again.

They still lived together, as decaying elders. Unchilded and unwed due to their all-consuming lockstep of conflict that remained each man's only connection to the one woman they had ever known whose touch was always tender, and whose words were always wise. An incomparable love the likes of which they both saw no appeal in trying to replace, or even replicate in another. And resenting everyone they knew who had ever once insinuated they should try.

*** *** ***

Two annual festivals were held in Saddletown, one in mid autumn, the other in late spring, where the town's sociable residents would gather and commune in whatever consumables they primarily produced. Those attending without goods, who had only services to share offered a small amount of coin in lieu of foods, rags, soaps, oils, hay, or the like. Coin that was pooled and would be dispersed to any providers who accepted their portion at the festival's conclusion.

The event served many functions, not just as a brief respite from productivity, but as a public advertisement of one's wares to the community so that lines of mutually beneficial trade could be formed and refreshed without rapping on every individual's door to ask which goods they had in excess.

A small choir also performed there, consisting of the few citizens whose vocal talent accompanied a willingness to share it. Their sets were short, usually two or three songs, a length carefully calibrated to satisfy the few eager listeners among the crowd without disturbing the many reluctant ones too egregiously.

What children there were would exploit the simultaneous distraction of their parents during these occasions to explore forbidden areas or play with objects deemed too dangerous for them. The object in this case was a freshly honed sickle commandeered from Teacher Massy's shed. Its shelved position within the shed was carefully noted so that when they were done borrowing it, no notice would be paid of its temporary absence. Normally only the adolescents were permitted to use it, so the novelty of its handling was a broadly appreciated treat for everyone present in its sharing. The children eagerly took turns tying small bundles of grass together, tossing them in the air, and swiftly cutting them in half as they fell down. Usually their swings would miss, either due to a mistimed swing or too strong a toss. So when one of them hit their mark, and two split tufts of grass exploded before sprinkling back to the ground, they all roared with hushed cheers at the successful attempt. There weren't more than ten of them there at the moment, and each child was allowed two attempts before losing his or her turn, so rounds were quick to repeat. Governing this process was a boy named Fil, who whilst not quite being the oldest, had much greater discernment than the rest of them. An attribute that was acknowledged not just by the children, but by most of their parents as well. Which meant that he would be primarily culpable if any single element of their antics went awry. So more than just insisting on the fairness of turns, he also compelled the others to maintain a safe distance between the cutter and the onlookers, even quietly reminding each child holding the sickle to grip it tightly, and to face away from everyone else so that if it was dropped mid-swing, it would not risk being accidentally thrown at anyone.

Whilst the sickle was sharper than any other tool the children would normally be entrusted to use, and was certainly capable of causing catastrophic injury with one false move, there was no carelessness in their play. Each boy and girl who handled it did so with absolute respect of the danger it posed to them, even the smallest among them was aware of the potential fatality of consequence that just one mistake could create. Which was also why Fil intentionally concluded this particular game after everyone of them had finished their third turn, so that apathy would not have time to set in. One girl who had missed her swing on all of her turns requested a fourth, and was quickly obliged before she succeeded on her final attempt to the excitement and congratulations of everyone else. 

A short groan of protest was uttered by the children when Fil declared that it was now officially time to play something else and put the tool back. But he quickly overruled their disappointment by reminding them that none of them wanted to risk Teacher Massy or anyone else finding out what they'd taken without permission and what they were doing with it. So Fil reclaimed the sickle and tucked it in his shirt under his arm before he approached its respective shed, just in case an adult's wandering eye happened to glance at him from afar, then they would not see him carrying anything of consequence.

*** *** ***

A girl lay flat on her stomach against the grass. Without the leash around her waist she found the position most comfortable and relished in its recent availability. She laid there silently and as motionless as moss while watching a group of other children from afar. Her parents had warned her of other children and their many dangers, but boredom and what she did not understand to be loneliness compelled her to see for herself. So sometimes, if conditions allowed, she'd covertly follow one of them and observe. This time the one she'd followed led her to a whole gathering of them, which she was careful to keep far enough away from to be undetectable from even a perfectly directed look. She'd seen two boys practice chasing the other day, and so knew to a certainty that they'd be more than fast enough to catch her if she was spotted.

As she watched the group congregate she observed to her horror that they were practicing their slashing in identically measured swings, and repeatedly screamed in unison before passing a weapon between them. Her body froze, stunned in fear at the possibility of being found. They'd cut off her arms first, she reasoned. So that she couldn't try to push them away. Then they'd cut off her legs, so she couldn't run. She thought they'd probably let her keep her head though, so they could hear how she cried and know how bad it hurt.

She'd crouched sneakily to get into this position, but now that she could see what they were training for, it was too risky to get up to leave. So this time she crawled and rolled. Through the grass and grime of the moist and itchy ground. She crawled for a long while, until she could not detect either sight or sound of the other children or their practiced violence. Once she'd escaped any risk of being hunted, her relief was not expressed in a sigh, but in exhaustion. As all the blood bequeathed to her limbs and abdomen returned to her chest in a rushing wave too heavy to brace for, she collapsed. For a full palm of the sun she laid there still and stiff, breathing heavily as her lungs gradually began to accept the notion that these breaths would not be their last, and that it was safer to go home now.

*** *** ***

Dale sighed gladly as the festival wound down to a close when the foretellings of night began to appear. All the presentational productivity and the cosmetic busying of people sharing their paltry portions of hoarded items with others who only accepted it as an excuse to push their own foods, crafts, or ornamental trash right back in return. One giant circular game of pass the potato. A senseless waste of day, he thought. A great deal of collective effort with nothing to show for it at the end.

His most hated part was the infernal singing that they insisted on performing each time. Six or seven men and women who had all long outgrown any remaining excuses for such childishness. Yet they could even be heard rehearsing on the edge of town some nights, if you happened to be on the same edge. An occurrence that would have been much more tolerable to endure if the singers possessed sufficient skill, or any inherent ability. But two of their group didn't have the voice for it, and none of them had the ear for it. An insufferable combination of incompetence that resulted in an almost tuneless cacophony of consonants interspersed with staggered layers of unsynchronized vowels.

He didn't understand how they could take so much practice and pride into such a painful performance. The nature of a choir is that the truest voices coalesce, and drown out the rest, resulting in a sound that is as pure as the best while being only minimally tainted by the worst. But this talentless handful of posturing vocalists were too small in number for that choral effect to occur. So twice a year on the festival, and even during their rehearsals a few days before, he would have to hear that infernal gang of voices manage to bellow their breath into songs that resembled nothing more than the enunciations of frantic tambourines.

As a child he had been the highest tenor in town, having no need of accompaniment, he could belt loud and far enough to instigate a gathering of everyone around whose hands were idle enough to spare a moment. An ability that had mutated into something else entirely once his height began to lengthen and his face was laced with stubble. With those notes lost to him, he had no desire to explore any deeper ones, and so stopped singing at all. But he could still parse the keys with clarity, and count a beat as well as any drummer. So the incalculable errors of the festival singers always stung him more deeply than they did to any passing listeners, who rarely even noticed a fraction of the incongruencies within the songs.

*** *** ***

Helin and her husband Loo sat across from each other as they ate. Neither spoke at first as they aggressively cut through the strips of smoked cow on their plates.

"I noticed you didn't speak to Cadalina at the festival yesterday," Helin remarked.

"Uh, should I have?" Loo asked confusedly.

"Not unless you wanted to."

"I don't think I saw her there."

"She saw you there, I can assure you of that."

"I haven't spoken with her since our youth."

"Then why was she too nervous to speak to you yesterday?"

"You'd have to ask her," he shrugged apathetically.

"I'll tell you who wasn't there, though," she said. After waiting a moment for him to guess she impatiently finished the thought. "The Dumb Girl."

"Wasn't she?" he mused.

"No, they didn't even bring her."

"Should they have?"

"If we had any I'd have brought them. Don't you think it's odd that they didn't bring theirs?"

"Maybe she was unwell."

"Obviously. Nothing well at all about that one. Something putrid in the pot, I said so at first sight of her."

"Or sour in the seed," he suggested between bites.

"Certainly an awful combination, there's no denying. First dumb child there's been since Rukut's son."

"He was dumb?"

"The whole time."

"Huh, I thought he was just timid."

"Dumb as it gets," she repeated.

"I knew it would go bad as soon as I heard they were together. Set and certain I was."

"You had it right," he agreed.

"And I'll say something else, I pity those poor Kallerds. At least Rukut had a boy, good for working. But who's ever going to pair their son with her."

"None I can think of."

"None to think of. Useless little thing. They'll be stuck with her until she trips on a tree or chokes on her spit, certain as it gets."

"Such a waste," he muttered.

"What do you mean?" she pressed sternly.

"Nothing, just that it seems wasteful."

"Waste of what?" she repeated. He paused and considered before answering.

"Since they can't have another one," he mumbled, looking away from her as he did.

"Oh, yes," she agreed, her scrutiny dissolving with his answer. "I'm no surgeon, but it should have come to no surprise that Faleen was never built to fit a head through her holster. Just looking at her… I almost blame her for trying."

"They won't be trying again, at least."

"A blessing for all," she concluded.

*** *** ***

Every tenday an open meeting was held under a shade shelter broad enough to cover nearly every resident. Half of which usually preferred to stay at home so there was room to spare. It was not formally structured. Just a quick opportunity for any concerned citizen to voice his or her mind, followed by a short recounting of recent events, and sometimes concluding with a brief encouraging word.

Wilnum reluctantly facilitated the meetings for no reason other than it was expected of him to. As per their law he would first ask all attending if anyone else would care to speak. Each time avoiding eye contact while still scanning through the crowd and silently hoping that someone would stand and free him from the task. But someone rarely did. So he kept things as curt and brief as possible. Speaking without flourish, description, or platitude, and merely recounted whatever simple facts of broadscale relevance had occurred since their last meeting.

He preferred the winter, when weather was most likely to cancel the meetings, often several in a row. When people stayed inside and subsisted from the contents of their cellars without feeling compelled to press him for asinine details of trite happenings. His wife's feelings were oppositional to his, as they usually were. Linia proudly put on her best clothes to each meeting, and sat almost directly in front of him, ready to inconspicuously mouth any events or talking points he might have missed. And at the conclusion of each meeting, she did not clap, but only because it would have been obtuse. Instead, she clenched both her fists excitedly and brought them close to her chest in muted celebration at how very important her husband was to their community.

*** *** ***

Among all the working age men who lived there, only one was not able bodied: Samil. His foot had been crushed by a collapsing woodpile years previously when he had only just concluded adolescence. An accident that would have been seen as more tragic, and garnered him much more sympathy, were the pile not of his own making.

From then on, not only was he physically incapable of bearing any weight beyond his crutches, but he was trusted by no one to contribute to anything of consequence. A communal judgment which relegated him to the binding and knitting of textiles, which he had no affinity or fondness for.

So he spent his days patching worn clothes that had already been crafted by hands more skilled at the task. And spent his nights cursing the influential men of town for refusing his participation in more important responsibilities. Having no place with anyone else, he pitched up his voice and feminized his mannerisms when included with the women in their circles of sowing, which he seldom was, less due to his outlying maleness than to his perpetual irritability and propensity to interrupt any anecdote that was not his own. A fault that had avoided correction from any peer due to their pity for his condition.

But despite all this, he still maintained one item of private valiance. Before bed, when his coverings were prepared and there was no shoe to hold the structure of his mangled foot together, he would stand at the side of his bed. He'd make no futile attempts to walk. Only to stand as still and tall as he could manage. With his crutches and shoes already set aside, all his weight relied on the balance of his good foot. But for a few fleeting breaths, when the pain of his prior attempt had just begun to subside, he'd slightly lean to his left with his bad foot pressed flatly against the floor. A motion that illuminated within his tired mind every edge of fused and crooked bone as they expanded against the floor. He bruised and swelled the first time he'd tried. Swelled so wide that he couldn't even fit it in a shoe for appearances, and had to tie rags around it to keep it warm when outside. He didn't bruise anymore though, calluses and capillaries had strengthened and oriented themselves such that his only remaining issue was the jagged and misshapen structure of the bones that would bear his weight. An insurmountable obstacle.

He could have the foot amputated, the risk would have been low if done by Pyke's hand. Then he could have had a peg fitted for him. Any of the carpenters would have done it for nearly nothing. Then he'd need only one crutch instead of two. Perhaps only a staff or a cane if the calf mended well. The reason he'd foregone that option then and every day since, was because regardless of how he was treated, and how he was injured, he never viewed himself as a cripple. But if he were to ever bite on the belt and fire the knife, a cripple is just what he'd be, with a wooden foot for all to see.

There was never any weighing of possible function, risk of amputation, or even the risk of inaction within his considerations. Only the unmovable resolution that he would die as whole as he was born, and not as some hindered hybrid of timber and flesh.

*** *** ***

A girl waited in her room to be let out for the morning, she didn't have to wait long today. Rane was quick to enter her room and carry her by her upper arm to the back facing door and tossed her out of it.

"Remember what I told you," he ordered before shutting the door behind him. Eagerly, she scampered towards the outhouse and relieved herself before hearing him. She did remember. She was permitted to play anywhere in the woods or along the stream, as long as she didn't bother any adults, or let other children catch her. And she couldn't come back before dinner. It was a freedom she had only ever imagined. At first she spent her days watching other people from afar, but quickly grew bored of that. She was much more interested in how her new environment felt. Ecstatically touching everything around her until she reached a bush with thorns under its leaves. She was fascinated by how many types of bark there were on trees. From a distance they all looked the same, but their textures and roughness varied in both aspects depending on the leaves. And noticed that trees of matching leaves also matched in bark as well. She'd seen annoying buzzing bugs before, and knew to avoid the ones with stingers, but here there were so many more. Some without wings, some without legs, some bright in color, and some were just black from end to end. It was so much to explore that she'd often miss dinner, which was no problem. Faleen would just leave a tray on the girl's bed to be eaten on her return, which they both preferred besides.

She also saw many other creatures of every size. From as small as her feet to many times larger than her, the only commonalities between them she could see were that they were completely covered in hair, had ears that moved and stretched far out of their heads, and could run incredibly fast at any instant they wanted. The only one she had managed to touch after attempting for many days was a smaller brown one with a long fluffy tail that lay dead and mostly covered in fallen brush. It was hard as stone to touch and left an unpleasant residue on her fingertips when she poked it, so she aggressively wiped her hand in the dirt out of disgust. And she wondered how its kind managed to run up trees and across branches with such a stiff and inflexible body.

*** *** ***

Miss Trunket glared at Tam for staring at a boy sitting in front of her until the room was siphoned into silence and Tam was the final child to notice why. Miss Trunket smirked as Tam shrunk embarrassingly in her chair.

"In conclusion," Miss Trunket said, "our success is determined by your success, and your success is dependent upon how well you fulfill your roles. Does anyone remember what success means?" she asked. No one raised their hands. "How about you, Tam? Were you paying attention this morning?"

"Yes, Miss Trunket…" Tam answered meekly.

"Then define success, for the class."

"Doing good things?"

"That's a good start, does anyone else have anything to add to Tam's answer?" she waited a moment in the vacuous quiet before continuing. "Success means obeying your betters and helping your lessers just-the-best-you-can," she grinned widely and clapped her hands together in unison with her last five words. "Which I'm sure all of you respectful children will be certain to do when you get home today, next season, and next year as you continue to grow. Yes Miss Trunket?" she asked lavishly.

"Yes Miss Trunket," her students answered in unenthused unison.

"Perfect, school is dismissed today, go play, frolic, and be blissful," she announced, raising her hand towards the schoolhouse door, which the children escaped through with unconcealed desperation.

*** *** ***

Tail mosied up and down the unpaved streets on an afternoon that was calm of weather and quiet of mood. Conspicuously weaving her way between the houses, shops, and meanderers until her presence was paid in notice and food. She wouldn't overtly beg, at least not often. Only imply by means of sideways glances and a temporarily limping gait that any edible donations would be eagerly accepted and rewarded with brief permission to also provide pets. A permission which she was sure to withdraw mid stroke with a sudden leap away, to emphasize her control over the exchange, before prancing back to resume the retrieval of additional scratches and rubs; which she learned from watching a housed cat with his owner on their porch and henceforth reenacted.

After extracting all she cared to from Mrs. Nagel and the friend she was with, Tale scampered away haughtily. Taking great pride in her recent harvest from people who required no more loyalty for their offerings than the none that she offered.

"You ever wonder where she came from? Originally?" Lora asked her friend.

"Probably just a stray," Mai shrugged indifferently.

"Out here?" Lora asked skeptically.

"Sure."

"From where?" she repeated.

"Could be Herrelef."

"That'd be four days of straight walking," Lora skeptically replied.

"Maybe for you," Mai teased.

"But why come all the way out here?"

"Probably same reason our parents did."

"Huh… yah probably."

*** *** ***

In a bout of uncharacteristic productivity, Rab worked beside his house and split wood against a stump to replenish his paltry drying pile. It was a task he had little affinity for, being scrawny of build and short of stature. So he would often find ways to justify avoiding it out of dislike for his own ineptitude. 

When, to his excitement, he noticed Samil walking past his house. At first Rab tried to catch his attention with exaggerated grunts and heavier swings, but when his window had nearly passed he finally resorted to standing as tall as he could and releasing a singular heavy whistle, which worked. Rab stopped for a moment against his better judgment and searched for the source of the sound, which he found upon seeing Rab smirking at him with a taunting nod. Samil quickly faced forward again towards his intended direction and continued walking.

Rab contributed much to his drying pile that day, satisfied at his obviously superior execution to Samil's, regardless of the elementary nature of the chore.

*** *** ***

A well seasoned man approached Saddletown on a wagon pulled by two oxen. The road there was poorly maintained and especially difficult for his animals to traverse. So he kept their pace leisurely and allowed them plenty of breaks to stop and feed on the plentiful forage and flowers on either side, which they did eagerly. If asked, he wasn't sure if they would have thought the abundance of overgrowth to be worth the trek, but it certainly was for him.

His wagon was fully loaded with mostly salts but also peppercorns. Commodities that he would be traded very favorably for in seasonal combinations of furs, dried fruits and meats, soaps, and sealed pottery. Unless they were lying, he was the only merchant their village allowed to deliver there. An odd restriction, considering more merchants meant lower prices and were universally welcomed across the province. But price was a small concern of theirs. The only inconvenient aspect to conducting business there was that they completely refused to trade with him in coin, insisting on barter. This had not always been the case, when their population was quintuple its present number, and the Kingdom's collectors still bothered to venture this far west, he hadn't needed to add an extra trip to a market on his way back just to liquidate more goods.

The arrangement was profitable, and an exceptionally reliable segment of his annual route. But each trip he would be sure to time his arrival in the morning, and leave before the sun had peeked, so he could be far beyond their sight before he had to leave the road to rest his animals. They had never threatened him, shorted him, or even spoken a single harsh word in the decades of their business. Yet, the place still brought him a relentless unease each time he arrived. More than ten men would remove and reload his wagon with purposeful efficiency, but not only did none of the loaders ever speak to him, they also refused to look at him. Shunning his presence and treating him like a tolerated but unwelcome element to the exchange. Only one voice would willingly communicate with him, it had changed a few times over the years, but a lone delegate would consistently be appointed as his sole contact to settle approximate scheduling and the details of price.

What struck the merchant as most unusual about the shrinking village, was that the monks within it made no mentions of religion, wore no sigils, and constructed no monoliths directed towards the heavens. Neither were their clothes uniform in nature, albeit uncolored, they were crafted in all manners of styles and techniques. Which implied they were made by many different hands. Although it was not especially odd that many men would occupy themselves with such things, the merchant reasoned; having never once seen a woman or child among them since his first delivery.

*** *** ***

A girl explored the woods behind her parent's house, basking in the copious forms of unfettered life that canvased every piece of it. She'd orient herself by driving two sticks into the ground diagonally into the top of a triangle to mark the ground, going further in, then doing it again once the previous one had just passed the edge of her vision.

Deeper and deeper she'd go as day progressed towards its end. She'd often stop to look at different bugs and birds she found along her way, which didn't seem to pay her much mind. But the body-haired ones were all extremely wary of her presence, and quick to run, jump, or climb away as soon as she approached, and wondered what it was about body-hair that made animals so frightened.

But their timidity did not dissuade her fascination. So she would sometimes hide behind a wide tree for a long while, peeking around it only slightly as she watched in patient devotion for other forms of life to disregard her presence enough to bring theirs closer. The effort was usually futile, but would rarely result in a passing deer or badger to wander past her. An event that she was diligent to suppress her excitement over during its occurrences, for fear of frightening the animal into fleeing.

What struck her most about the environment was that it was endless. The walls and ceilings of her room and the cellar were intimately known to her, so well that she could even visualize every board of either of them with closed eyes. But not in the woods, here there was more depth and complexity than she could ever attempt to memorize. Behind every branch, under every leaf, and around every trunk, there was an endless array of spectacle beyond her comprehension.

Eventually, as she was scampering across the crunching ground, searching for sticks of appropriate size to use as markers, she saw something in her periphery that insisted upon further inspection. A hill of boulders, dirt, and vines just a bit deeper than where she stood. After placing another mark she excitedly ran towards the hill, eager to climb up to its top and look down upon its surroundings. But her pace slowed steadily as hesitance burdened her legs. A hesitance induced by the sight of a formation too strange for her to recognize: the entrance to a cave.

As she approached it, lined with vines and naked rock, a quiet and unexpected sound beckoned her towards its gape. A beckoning that she slowly obliged up until the instant the sound evolved to a bestial grunt that echoed out from its depths.

She ran, faster and more frantically than she ever had. Until her thighs burned and her breath depleted beyond her ability to resist, and she risked the briefest pause so she could safely look back towards the creature from the cave that surely was on the brink of clawing the skin from her back. But to her confusion more than her relief, there was nothing. Only the indifferent whisper of a bone-chilling breeze.

*** *** ***

Continued...