Chương 67: Chapter 42: The Road Home - Part I

By the time Harold leads me back to the farmhouse, the last light of evening has begun settling across Highcrest. Word has already spread. Several farmers have gathered outside the yard, their conversations dying away the moment they see me emerge from the tree-line. Their eyes drift first toward the dried blood covering my cloak before settling on the Hollowmane cub padding faithfully at my side. No one speaks. For a long moment, they simply stare. Harold finally clears his throat.

"The attacks are over." The words seem almost too simple after everything that happened. Someone looks toward Northwood.

"You found what was doing it?"

"I did."

"What was it?"

"A Rask colony." Blank expressions meet the answer. Harold frowns.

"A... what?"

"They're distant relatives of goblins. Smaller colonies usually stay deep inside old forests, hunting whatever wildlife they can catch. This one had settled too close to your pastures."

"You killed them all? Another one asks.

"Yes, and I destroyed the nest." Silence settles over the yard once more. One of the older farmers removes his cap, slowly shaking his head.

"I've lived here fifty years." He glances toward the darkening forest.

"Never even knew such things existed."

"Most people don't."

"And now?"

"They won't trouble Greenhollow or your farm again." Relief spreads through the gathered villagers and farmers almost visibly. Shoulders that had remained tense for weeks finally begin relaxing while several exchange quiet smiles with one another. Someone murmurs a prayer beneath their breath. Another clasps Harold firmly upon the shoulder before disappearing into the path that leads home, no doubt eager to carry the news through the rest of the village before nightfall. Harold turns back toward me.

"Come inside." I don't argue. The warmth of the farmhouse feels almost overwhelming after the cool air beneath Northwood's canopy. Martha, Harold's wife, has already filled a large copper tub near the hearth, steam curling lazily upward while fresh bandages, clean linen and a neatly folded change of clothes wait upon a nearby chair.

"I wasn't certain how badly you were hurt," she says apologetically, "so I prepared everything."

"You've already done more than enough."

"Nonsense." She waves the concern away.

"You smell like you've been wrestling the forest."

"I more or less did." That earns the faintest smile before she disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the bath. The cub sniffs curiously around the edge of the tub before cautiously dipping one paw into the water. Its ears flatten immediately. I almost feel sorry for what comes next.

"You first." The cub looks up at me. Then back at the water. Then, with remarkable confidence, takes one careful step closer. The moment both front paws touch the warm water, it freezes. A heartbeat passes and then it explodes. It launches itself backward with surprising force, scattering water across half the room before scrambling frantically beneath the table. A low, offended rumble echoes from somewhere beneath the furniture as two golden eyes glare accusingly in my direction. I cannot help it.

I laugh out loud. A proper laugh. The first in longer than I can remember.

"So that's your opinion of bathing." The cub answers with another indignant huff.

"Unfortunately for you..." I reach beneath the table.

"... it's not negotiable." Several minutes later, after far more wrestling than any creature so small has a right to manage, the Hollowmane finally resigns itself to its fate. It sits miserably in the tub while I work handfuls of warm water through its thick fur, washing away layers of dried mud, soot and old blood until its natural tawny coat begins emerging beneath.

"There." I scratch gently behind one rounded ear.

"You almost resemble a respectable forest predator." The cub blinks. Then immediately shakes itself with enough enthusiasm to drench me from head to toe.

"... I deserved that." By the time it finishes, the floor has somehow become wetter than the bath itself. The cub seems immensely pleased with the result. It trots proudly across the room. Straight through the open doorway and, before I can stop it rolls enthusiastically through the loose dirt beside the herb garden. I stare after it for several long moments.

"... Naturally." When I finally lower myself into the cooling bath, every muscle seems to sigh in relief. Warm water quickly turns pink around the worst of my injuries before gradually clearing once more. Cuts across my shoulders prove shallower than they first appeared, though the bruising around my ribs has darkened considerably since the battle ended. I clean each wound carefully before wrapping fresh bandages where I can comfortably reach. The shoulder will ache for several days, the thigh perhaps a week.

I've survived worse. Supper is waiting by the time I emerge. Fresh bread, thick vegetable stew, roasted onions, a wedge of hard cheese. The cub receives its own generous portion in a shallow wooden bowl placed beside my chair. It attacks the meal with astonishing enthusiasm, pausing only once to glance toward my own bowl before apparently deciding mine looks equally interesting. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. I gently nudge its nose away.

"This one is mine." The cub lets out a disappointed chirp before returning to its own supper with exaggerated dignity. Harold chuckles.

"I think you've been adopted."

"So, it would seem." Conversation remains light after that. The villagers ask little about the battle itself, seeming content simply to know that it has ended. Instead, they speak of repaired fences, frightened cattle finally settling and children already arguing over who will be allowed to wander near the northern fields first now that the danger has passed. Ordinary concerns that sound strangely comforting.

By the time I finally climb the narrow staircase toward the spare room, exhaustion settles over me with a weight no battle ever could. The cub follows close behind. I pause at the doorway.

"You'll be more comfortable downstairs." The Hollowmane sits, looks up at me, begin wagging its tail and makes absolutely no attempt to leave.

"I suspected as much." The bed feels impossibly soft after the stretched-out battle. I barely manage to pull the blanket across myself before sleep begins claiming me. Sometime during the night, I wake only briefly. Moonlight spills quietly across the room. The cub has somehow climbed onto the bed without waking me and now lies curled tightly against my uninjured side, its steady breathing rising and falling with remarkable contentment. I smile faintly before closing my eyes once more.

Morning arrives with birdsong drifting through the open window. For the first time in years, I wake feeling rested. As I sit up, I instinctively rotate my injured shoulder. The familiar stab of pain never comes. Only a dull stiffness remains. The bruising along my ribs has already begun fading, while the deeper cuts across my arms have knitted far more than they should have after a single night's sleep. I close my eyes briefly. The Grove. Even from miles away, I can feel the faint thread connecting us.

Mana no longer gathers aimlessly within me as it once did. It flows, slowly and steadily. Like water returning to a river after heavy rain. My reserves remain far from full. Yesterday demanded too much of both Northwood and me but recovery has begun. Much faster than it ever would have before the Silverwood took root. The realization lingers quietly in my thoughts as I finish tightening the fresh bandages around my shoulder. Perhaps, becoming Grovekeeper has changed more than I realized.

The morning passes more pleasantly than I expected. The stiffness in my shoulder gradually eases as the hours slip by, while the steady rhythm of walking loosens muscles that had protested every movement when I first left Highcrest Farm. My reserves remain far from where they should be, yet I can feel mana flowing through me once more. Slow. Steady. Familiar. The Grove continues its quiet work somewhere beyond the horizon, its presence little more than a faint thread resting comfortably at the edge of my awareness.

The Hollowmane cub proves considerably less interested in such thoughts. Everything fascinates it. Every unfamiliar scent demands investigation. Every fluttering butterfly becomes worthy of pursuit. Twice it disappears into waist-high grass after field mice, only to emerge moments later with nothing but a thoroughly confused expression and several burrs clinging stubbornly to its fur.

"You'll have better luck when you're larger." The cub looks up at me as though considering the advice. Then immediately lunges after a grasshopper. It misses spectacularly. The insect escapes without the slightest difficulty while the cub tumbles headfirst through the grass before scrambling back onto all four paws with what I can only describe as wounded dignity. I pretend not to notice. Some lessons are kinder when left unacknowledged.

The road curves gently downhill until the familiar Brookmere Bridge come into view once more, spanning the deep ravine that divides Northwood from the southern farmlands. Morning sunlight spills across the weathered masonry while swallows dart effortlessly beneath the arches, their cries echoing faintly from the depths below. The same fisherman still occupies his favorite place near the eastern overlook. This time he notices me long before I reach the bridge.

"You made it back."

"I did." His gaze lingers briefly upon the fresh bandages crossing my shoulder before drifting toward the small creature trotting confidently beside my boots. His eyebrows rise.

"Didn't expect you to return with one of those."

"Neither did I." The fisherman chuckles.

"I've only ever seen Hollowmanes from a very great distance."

"So had I." The cub chooses that exact moment to wander toward the edge of the bridge. Its oversized paws carry it confidently enough for perhaps three strides before curiosity gets the better of caution. It peers over the low stone parapet into the ravine below. Then immediately leans back so quickly it almost sits down. I bite back another smile.

"Too high?" The cub glances at me. Then very deliberately walks closer until one side presses lightly against my leg before risking another look over the edge. Apparently, heights are considerably less concerning when shared. The fisherman laughs openly this time.

"I think it has decided you're responsible for everything frightening in the world." I nuzzle its hid, "A fortunate habit I would say."

"Yeah, it could be worse." He puts his rod over his shoulder, "Could've decided you were responsible for bathwater." I look toward the cub. The cub looks toward me. For reasons known only to itself, it suddenly sneezes. The fisherman bursts into another fit of laughter.

"I'll take that as agreement." After exchanging a few more pleasantries, I continue south once more, the steady sound of the river gradually fading behind us. The road beyond Brookmere feels strangely different now. Only days ago, I had travelled this same stretch wondering what waited ahead in Greenhollow. Now, the uncertainty lies behind me. Golden fields ripple gently beneath the summer breeze while scattered wildflowers brighten the roadside with patches of blue and yellow.

Bees drift lazily between blossoms, entirely unconcerned by-passing travelers and somewhere beyond the hedgerows I hear the distant laughter of children helping their parents gather early vegetables. The cub trots several paces ahead before abruptly stopping. Its ears twitch. Slowly, it lowers itself into the grass. Every muscle tense; its tail gives one tiny flick. I watch without interrupting. A butterfly floats lazily across the road. The cub launches itself with absolute conviction.

For one glorious heartbeat, it appears genuinely convinced victory is certain. The butterfly changes direction. The cub sails magnificently through empty air before landing in an untidy heap of dust and grass. It remains there for a moment, perfectly still. As though hoping no one witnessed the attempt. I eventually reach down and brush a few stray leaves from between its oversized ears.

"You'll learn." The cub answers by gently catching my fingers between its teeth, not biting, holding. Just enough to express what I suspect is profound disagreement. I carefully free my hand.

"So that's what you have decided." It chirps once before continuing down the road with considerably more confidence than success had earned. I follow at an easier pace, content to let the silence settle around us once more. The morning sun climbs steadily higher overhead while the road winds lazily toward Fallowspire, disappearing now and then behind gentle hills and scattered groves of oak. Home no longer feels far away, now it feels reachable.