2 – 5

We won't be reaching Valdenwood before moonrise. It remains a distant, blurry smudge on the horizon, given only a touch more definition by an afternoon's slow travel. Even though I'm now on the road and no longer alone, I'm not in favor of traveling by night. It's too easy to stumble right into some misfortune, or have it stumble into me. I've experienced enough in the past two days as it stands. I'm in no hurry for any more. The last crescent of the sun has just dipped below the horizon as I push myself up out of my little nest of cornmeal-stuffed sacks and say, “Harlan?”

“Hm?”

“Where do you usually camp? When you come this way, I mean.”

He shrugs, indifferent. Safe behind his back, I roll my eyes. I can't decide if the old man's taciturn nature is amusing or irritating. For now it manages to be both. “Side o' the road,” he says. Eventually. “sleep in the wagon. S'not great, but it works.” So he's said, and so I believe. I have the evidence of my nearly quietened aches and injuries to prove it. The wagon's wide enough, and there's enough sacks, that the two of us could camp down back here. Could even make a little wall of cornmeal to separate us.

The idea's not a terrible one, but I recoil from it all the same. The wrongness of it rings from somewhere deep. It's not that I fear he's going to rob or do worse to me in my sleep. If he does anything other than sleep, I'd be surprised. He's done a poor job of hiding some jaw-cracking yawns over the past hour. The only danger I'm likely to be in from him is being kept up by his snoring.

Harlan must snore. It's not possible he doesn't.

It's unfair and unkind to think he might be hiding something sinister beneath the kindness he's so far shown. It's possible that he's simply been waiting for the right moment, when I'm at my most vulnerable, to strike. I rather doubt it. He's a gruff old man, to the point of near muteness, but that doesn't make him a villain. What it makes him is difficult to converse with. That doesn't bother me. So what, then, does? What is it about this that puts my back up and stands the hairs of my nape on end? I lay in my little nest, alone and far from my family, and fail to puzzle it out.

It's not a lack of trust, I don't think. I had enough in him to climb into his wagon and take him at his word. Could it be that, while there is some small measure between us, it just isn't enough to conscience the idea of sharing such a confined sleeping space? It's not the confinement itself, either. I spent every night of my life – until recently – in a wagon. Although it was rather larger and wider than this one, that was made up for by having my entire family fill the empty space.

Realization strikes.

I'm vulnerable, in a way I've never been before. Always before there would be Mother or Father to protect me. Never would they shield me from the consequences of my choices, but would instead prevent them from becoming too severe. They're gone now, and that protection along with it. Whatever choice I make, I suffer the full brunt of the consequences. Harlan is too tired, too old, and too good to have any hidden designs on my or my money. I believe that. The worst that he'd do to me if we shared this wagon bed is keep me awake with his growling snores. But if I'm wrong, then there's no one to help me, to shield me.

I'm alone.

I have to protect myself. I have to choose for myself. All I have is my mind, my judgement, and the knife of Cobalt steel. Maybe that's enough. I have no way of knowing. Trust, or don't? Speak up, or don't? I know what I want to do. I want to tell Harlan that what he usually does isn't acceptable to me, that some other solution will have to be found. Is that the right decision, though?

When I speak, it's with an unsure voice that cracks halfway through. “I'd rather we find somewhere to camp,” I say, then fall into silence. Harlan, true to form, doesn't answer for half-a-minute or so.

Then he shrugs, not looking back. “'Course,” he agrees, “us two'd be a bit crowded.” I gape at him, not sure what exactly I'm feeling, as he scratches his chin. “Nice spot near,” he muses, “Three or so miles up.”

“Oh?” I manage.

He hums, dipping his head in a nod. “Right on lakeshore. Fire pit 'n everythin'.”

The old, graying donkey gusts out a sigh and rocks his harness side-to-side on his narrow shoulders. It's a ringing endorsement. “Oh,” I say, sinking back into my little nest. The dry, musty scent of cornmeal fills my nose, “Alright.”

There's a wry humor in his voice when he echoes, “Alright.”

- - -

The nice spot he mentioned turned out to be a promontory rising some dozen feet above a gravel shore. It's wide, flat nature offers little protection from the cold, fresh breeze puffing in off the lake. That selfsame wind brushes its fingers through the top of the tall, thick wall of cattails that separates the site from the road. The cattails sigh as they sway from the gentle touch, mixing with the lap of waves on the shore below. The rippling black waters of the lake reflect the silver starlight and soft glow of the moon. Further south is the golden gleam of Valdenwood at night, spilling out of its confines onto the water.

As promised, there's a firepit. Whoever last camped here was a generous sort to their fellow travelers and stacked a pile of wood next to it. Yesterday morning's rain must had wetted it, but it lights well enough under Harlan's grunting efforts. Like the one back in the clearing, this pit is sunken into the ground and ringed by soot-stained stone. Further back and flanking the pit to east and west are a pair of hollowed tree trunks. With his task done, Harlan takes the eastern trunk for his seat and settles in with a groan and sigh. The old, exhausted donkey has been freed from its harness and tied to a gnarled length of wood driven deep into the ground. It crops tiredly at the grass around it, head drooping.

With a day's rest, all of my body's aches have quieted to a stiff, sullen grumble. It becomes the usual chorus of complaints when I wiggle free of my nest and crawl on hand-and-knee to the wagon's tailgate. I swing my legs over and swing them freely for a moment as I contemplate standing. Truth be told, it's more that I contemplate dropping off of the wagon onto my knees and crawling to the unoccupied log. My feet have been comparatively quiet since I took weight off them this morning, and I have no doubt that putting them under duress once more will be an absolute curse of a time.

So I don't. Instead I turn my thoughts to earlier. It's looking like the choice to speak up had been the correct one. So far, anyway. I'm starting to grasp what I'd felt then, not half-an-hour past. At first, confused, and for a number of reasons. First and foremost I hadn't intended to speak at all. The words just bubbled up my throat and out. Then, because I hadn't expected him to outright agree. I don't know what I expected him to do instead. Argue, perhaps? Throw me from his wagon and leave, cursing my name? After the confusion came a feeling of warmth and solidity, something akin to pride in myself but gentler. Satisfaction, maybe.

“Gotta do it,” Harlan observes, gaining my attention. “won' get better if y'wait.”

It takes a bewildered moment, but I realize he's talking about leaving the wagon. Specifically, about standing. He's right, too. I take a breath and hold it. This won't be pleasant. Then, I slide off the wagon's tailgate and touch down on the grass, toes first. “Moonlit hell!” I gasp, clutching the gate for support. Harlan snorts. Had it always been this bad, and I'd just gotten used to it? Every sore and blister on my feet is screaming. Pain flies up my legs and weakens my knees, threatening to buckle them. I grit my teeth as my eyes burn and my breaths hiss through my nose.

From where he sits, bathed in warm firelight, Harlan looks distinctly amused. It's in the quirk of his mouth and the squint of his eye. Distinctly irritating, now. I have an urge to snap at him, what's so damned funny, carried along by the well of pain. “Alright, there?” he asks, like he doesn't damn well know.

“I should think,” I grit through my teeth, “it would be obvious.”

He hums, dipping his head to concede the point. My irritation fuels my short, halting steps to the unoccupied log and I drop onto it with a groan. I stretch my legs out and eye my dirty boots. I don't think I can wait until Valdenwood to take them off. That brief journey had lit my injuries aflame, the heat of them worsened by their confinement. My spine cracks as I bend to begin undoing the tight, gritty laces. Just that little bit of freedom is enough for the cool air of the autumn's night to seep in and bless my burning feet. I'm about to start the ginger process of removing my boots when I spot Harlan straighten from his slouch from the corner of my eye. “What?” I ask, sitting up. He juts his chin behind me, towards the lake, and says nothing. I roll my eyes and turn.

It's beautiful. It's huge, and it's beautiful. I forget what I'm annoyed about and what I've been doing. All I can do is marvel.

There's a gleaming light below the surface of the lake, some hundred or so feet from shore. A soft, blue-green glow that moves serpentine beneath the rippling water. Thick, vertical stripes of blue. Round spots of green. The brightness waxes and wanes from head to tail of whatever graceful creature is out there. It's at least twenty feet long and in no particular hurry. There's something ethereal and humbling in the way its light softens and blends with that of the stars and moon above. I turn on the log, swinging my legs over and turning my back to the fire so I can watch its slow journey north. I don't speak, don't dare to let a word escape my lips, for fear of chasing it away. Only after it fades into the northern waters of the lake do I ask, “What was that?”

My voice is hushed. There's awe in my tone. Harlan possesses neither when he grunts, “Eel.”

I twist to look over my shoulder. There's definitely amusement in the craggy lines of his face. “What?!”

For the first time ever, he grins. “Eel,” he repeats.