Chương 58: Chapter 36: Into the Wild - Part II

The lesson has served me well over the years. Most dangers rarely arrive without warning. They simply announce themselves in ways people learn to ignore. A quiet road; nervous livestock; birds abandoning familiar nesting grounds. None of them prove anything on their own, yet together they form a picture for anyone patient enough to look. The countryside continues changing with every passing mile. The farms grow smaller and farther apart while the stretches of woodland between them become steadily longer.

Several cottages stand-alone upon distant hills, each surrounded by a handful of sheep and little else. I notice more than one shepherd carrying a spear alongside the traditional crook. Wolves occasionally wander this far south, though they rarely trouble people unless winter proves particularly harsh or so I have always been told. The road rises gently through a series of low hills before leveling once more. From the highest point, I pause long enough to look back.

Fallowspire itself has long since disappeared beyond the southern horizon, hidden by distance and the folds of the land. Only the road remains, winding lazily across the countryside until it vanishes somewhere behind me. Strange how quickly a city can disappear once a person stops looking for it. Ahead, the northern forests have begun taking shape against the horizon. They remain distant, little more than a dark green line stretching across the landscape, yet they possess a presence all the same.

Even from here, they appear older than the scattered woods I have passed throughout the day, taller and denser. The sort of forest that has spent centuries growing exactly where it pleased without anyone proving particularly successful at persuading it otherwise. Northwood. The name alone carries remarkably little imagination. I approve. Simple names usually survive because they describe things honestly. By late afternoon, the shadows begin lengthening across the road.

I judge the remaining daylight by habit rather than by the position of the sun alone. There is enough time to continue another hour before searching for somewhere to make camp. No sense pressing farther. Reaching tomorrow's destination-tired serves no one, least of all myself. The road bends westward around a broad meadow where wildflowers sway gently beneath the breeze. A narrow stream cuts across the grass before disappearing beneath a weathered stone culvert carrying the road safely overhead.

I kneel beside the water long enough to refill the waterskin I have already begun using, taking a moment to study the clear current as it slips silently over rounded stones. I stopper the waterskin before rising once more and settling the satchel comfortably across my shoulder. The day's miles have begun making themselves known in the pleasant ache of familiar muscles, nothing more. After enough years upon the road, one learns the difference between honest fatigue and the sort that quietly invites mistakes.

Today belongs firmly to the first. Tomorrow the contract truly begins. The thought lingers with me for another mile before I finally leave the road. A narrow game trail branches westward through a stand of old pines before opening onto a small clearing overlooking a gentle stream. Travelers have camped here before. A circle of weathered stones still rests at the center of the clearing while several old logs, blackened by countless campfires, lie arranged around it.

The place carries no sense of abandonment rather only familiarity. The sort earned when enough strangers unknowingly choose the same patch of ground over enough years. It will serve. The routine begins almost immediately. My satchel comes off first, followed by the bedroll. Dry branches gathered from beneath the pines provide enough fuel for a modest fire without disturbing the healthier trees overhead.

By the time the last rays of sunlight slip beyond the western hills, a small flame crackles steadily within the stone ring while a pot of water hangs above it. The smell of pine resin mingles with wood smoke, carried lazily downstream by the evening breeze. Some habits ask for no thought. Vael used to insist that a campsite should be chosen before exhaustion made the decision for you. I had questioned the advice more than once during my younger years, usually while attempting to cover another mile before sunset.

Every single time, I regretted it. Darkness possesses an irritating talent for hiding loose stones, muddy ground and every other inconvenience capable of turning an ordinary evening into an unpleasant one. Experience eventually proved the old man right, again. Dinner remains as uncomplicated as lunch. Hard bread softened in hot water; smoked venison sliced into thinner pieces and a handful of dried apples afterward. Hardly exciting, but the road has never demanded exciting meals, only dependable ones.

I eat slowly while watching the fire settle into glowing embers, listening to the stream winding quietly through the trees beyond the clearing. Somewhere deeper within the forest an owl calls once before falling silent again. Apart from that, the night belongs almost entirely to the wind.

"Youuu'vvve bbecccoome preeeediiiiccctaaable." The voice slips into the silence as naturally as the breeze itself. I continue chewing.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Nemain laughs softly.

"IIII asssssure yooouuu, iiitttt waaassssn't ooonnnnee." I tear another piece from the loaf before holding it briefly above the fire to warm it." You've been unusually quiet."

"III wassss cuuuuriiiiousssss."

"About?"

"Yyyyoooou." That earns the faintest frown.

"I've changed very little since yesterday."

"Nnnoooo." Its voice carries its usual amusement.

"You've chaaannnged remarrrkably ooovvver the paaassst fffeeew weeeksss." The bread crackles faintly as its crust warms above the coals. I turn it once before answering.

"I rebuilt a grove."

"Yooouuu diiid."

"I became its Grovekeeper."

"Yooouuu diiid."

"I accepted a contract."

"Yooouuu've acccceeeppted." I lower the bread.

"Then what exactly has changed?" For several moments, Nemain says nothing. When it finally speaks, much of the mockery has disappeared from its voice.

"Yooouuu paaaccked fffooorrr thhheee jooouuurrrnnney."

"I usually do."

"Yooouuu paaaccked tttooo cooommme bbbaccckk." The words settle more heavily than I expect. My hand pauses halfway toward the satchel. Nemain continues before I can answer.

"Yooouuu ccchhheecked yooouuur sssuupppliiieeesss bbbeccaaauuussse yooouuu iiinntended tttooo uuussse thhheeem aaagggaaain bbbeeennneaaath yooouuur Sssiiilllvvveeerrrwooood. Yooouuu cccooouuunnnted yooouuur rrratiiiooonnsss bbbeeccaaauuussse ssssooommmeooonnne eeexxxpppects yooouuu tttooo rrreeetuuurrrnn bbbefffooorrre ttthhheeey rrruuunn ooouuut." This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. It lets the observation hang for a moment.

"Even ttthhhe rrroooaaad yooouuu ccchhhooossseenn..." Its laughter is barely more than a whisper.

"Yooouuu'vvve aaalllrrreeaadddy plllaaannnned ttthhhe rrroooaaad hhhooommme." The fire pops quietly between us. I find myself staring into the flames longer than necessary. It isn't wrong. For years, every journey simply led to another destination. Villages came and went, roads changed, seasons passed. I rarely thought beyond the task in front of me because there was seldom any reason to. The fire pops quietly between us. I find myself staring into the flames longer than necessary. It isn't wrong.

Eventually, I break the silence.

"I hadn't noticed."

"Nnnoooo." His voice carries quiet amusement once more.

"Mooossst chaaannngggeeesss arrreee sssoo ssslllooowww thhaaat ttthhheeeyyy aaarrreee iiinnnvvviiisssiiibbbllleee tttooo ttthhheee pppeeerrrsssooonnn ccchhhaaannngggiiinnnggg." I turn another piece of wood with the end of a stick, sending a shower of sparks drifting lazily upward.

"You seem unusually interested."

"III aaammm." The answer comes without hesitation.

"BBBeeecccaaauuussseee ttthhhiiisss iiisss nnneeewww."

"What is?"

"HHHooopppeee." The word lingers unpleasantly in the air. I let out a quiet breath.

"I've always had hope."

"Nnnooottt llliiikkkeee ttthhhiiisss." The amusement fades from its voice, replaced by something quieter.

"BBBeeefffooorrreee... yyyooouuu wwwaaalllkkkeeeddd bbbeeecccaaauuussseee yyyoouuu hhhaaaddd nnnooottthhhiiinnnggg eeelllssseee tttooo dddooo." It pauses." NNNooowww... yyy ooouuu aaarrreee wwwaaalllkkkiiinnnggg bbbeeecccaaauuussseee yyyoouuu iiinnnttteeennnddd tttooo rrreeetttuuurrrnnn." The words linger long after the voice falls silent. I watch another piece of firewood surrender slowly to the flames, its surface blackening before collapsing inward beneath a shower of glowing embers.

The stream continues murmuring somewhere beyond the edge of the clearing while the pines sway gently overhead, their branches whispering to one another in the evening breeze.

For once, Nemain offers no further observation. Whether satisfied with the conversation or simply content to let the silence do the work, I cannot say. Eventually, I add another log to the fire before settling into the bedroll. Sleep comes more slowly than usual. Morning arrives with the quiet certainty only the wilderness seems capable of producing. The first sounds belong to birds hidden high among the pines while a pale mist drifts lazily above the stream beside my camp.

The fire has long since burned itself into a bed of warm ash, though enough embers remain beneath the grey to coax another small flame into life. I warm the last of yesterday's bread over the coals before washing it down with cool stream water. Hardly an impressive breakfast, yet experience has taught me that the road rarely rewards those who become particular about comfort. Breaking camp remains as familiar as making one.

The bedroll disappears beneath its leather straps while the cooking pot finds its usual place within the satchel. I carry several pots of water from the stream before pouring them carefully over the firepit. Steam rises briefly as the embers surrender their remaining warmth. A final stir with a stick reveals nothing but damp ash and blackened stone. Satisfied, I scatter a handful of fresh pine needles across the surrounding ground, disguising the few footprints still visible in the softer earth.

The next traveler deserves to find the clearing exactly as I did. The morning air carries the crisp scent of damp soil and pine resin as I return to the road. A fox darts across the road some distance ahead, disappearing into the undergrowth before I draw near. It never looks back. Wild creatures rarely waste energy worrying about things already moving away from them. The countryside has changed again by the time the sun begins climbing above the hills. Every field here appears earned rather than inherited.

Trees press close against rough stone walls while cottages stand-alone upon gentle rises, their gardens enclosed by sturdy fences built more for keeping something out than livestock in. One elderly farmer pauses from repairing a section of wall as I pass.

"Mornin'."

"Morning." His eyes drift briefly toward the staff resting across my shoulder before settling upon the leather wallet clipped to my belt.

"Guild?"

"As of yesterday." A rough chuckle escapes him.

"Picked an interesting time to join."

"So, I've been told." He rests both hands upon the top of his hammer.

"If you're heading north, keep your eyes open after dark."

"Have you seen whatever's been troubling the farms?"

"No." The answer comes without hesitation.

"But I've heard enough animals making a fuss in the middle of the night to know something's wrong."

"What sort of animal?" He shrugs.

"If I knew that, I'd probably be standing here with a spear instead of a hammer." Fair enough. I incline my head before continuing along the road. He offers no exaggerated tales of monsters lurking beneath every tree, nor does he pretend to know more than he has seen. I find myself trusting his uncertainty considerably more than another man's certainty. The road begins descending through a series of gentle hills before leveling unexpectedly. At first, nothing seems unusual.

The woodland continues much as it has throughout the morning while the packed earth beneath my boots shows no sign that the landscape ahead differs from the miles already behind me. Then the trees gradually thin, revealing open sky beyond them. Then the land simply ends. A broad gorge splits the countryside from east to west, its rocky walls dropping sharply into shadow far below.

Time and countless seasons have carved the stone into steep cliffs layered with weathered rock, hardy shrubs clinging stubbornly wherever they find enough soil to survive. The bottom lies hidden from where I stand, swallowed by distance and darkness, though the occasional cry of unseen birds' drifts upward from somewhere below. Spanning the chasm stands Brookmere Bridge.

The bridge rises in three graceful stone arches that leap effortlessly from one cliff to the other, every block fitted so precisely that centuries of wind, rain and changing seasons have failed to shift them by so much as the width of a finger. Moss has claimed portions of the lower masonry while ivy trails lazily across sections of the parapet, softening the hard lines without diminishing the quiet strength beneath them.

It is the sort of structure people stop noticing only because it has always been there, so thoroughly woven into the landscape that the cliffs themselves seem incomplete without it. I slow almost unconsciously as I step onto the stonework. The bridge carries no sense of fragility despite the empty space yawning beneath it. Each footstep produces nothing more than a muted echo that disappears into the depths below. I rest one hand briefly upon the weathered parapet and glance over the edge.

Far beneath the bridge, broken rock and clusters of ancient pines fill much of the gorge floor, their crowns appearing surprisingly small from this height. Whatever stream or river had once carved the chasm has long since retreated or vanished from sight, leaving only the immense scar it cut across the land. Whoever built this understood more than masonry. They understood patience. Some obstacles are conquered by force; others simply require building something that lasts.

The stone beneath my boots has been worn smooth by generations of travelers, merchants, pilgrims, farmers, soldiers and adventurers. Countless journeys have crossed this bridge long before mine and countless more will continue long after I am gone. There is something oddly reassuring about that thought. Halfway across, I rest one hand upon the cool stone parapet and glance over the edge once more. The gorge swallows sound almost as readily as light.

Wind drifts lazily upward from somewhere below, carrying with it the earthy scent of moss and damp stone before disappearing into the open sky above. Standing here, it becomes remarkably easy to appreciate why the bridge still commands respect after so many years. A steady scraping sound draws my attention farther ahead. An elderly man works patiently along the northern parapet, replacing loose patches of moss with a stiff brush and small iron scraper.

A weathered cart stands nearby carrying buckets of mortar, spare stone blocks and a collection of well-used tools whose handles have long since been polished smooth by decades of work. He looks up as I approach, wiping a dust-covered hand against his apron before offering an easy nod. The old man studies me for another moment before returning to his work.

"I imagine you're heading for Greenhollow."

"I am." The scraper pauses against the stone.

"You'll reach it before sunset."

"I've heard the village has had trouble."

"So have the farms." He says it matter-of-factly, as though repeating a fact everyone north of the bridge already knows.

"Used to be this road stayed busy until well after dark." He gestures vaguely toward the northern hills with the scraper still in hand.

"These days, folks try to cross before the sun begins setting. Makes for quieter evenings."

"Have you seen whatever's been causing it?"

"No." The answer comes without hesitation.

"But I've watched enough wagons turn around earlier than they used to." He shrugs lightly before returning to the parapet.

"People don't change old habits without a reason." I thank him before continuing toward the northern end. Just beyond the bridge, a weathered milestone leans slightly beneath a patch of climbing ivy, its carved letters softened by generations of rain but still easy enough to read.

'Greenhollow - Three Miles.' I pause only long enough to read the distance before continuing north. The village is close now. By this evening, the journey will end and the contract will finally begin.