The rest of the trip was spent in silence. Oslan stared up at the sky, listening to the soft rumbling of the wheels, the hoof beats of the buck, and quiet footsteps of the druid. The sun was setting, leaving the sky a pale pink in its wake. The clouds reflected dark grays and fiery oranges. Oslan's hand twitched as he soaked in the details, a reflex from the previous night. It would've made a good story in Arda's book—watching the sunset from the back of a druid's cart. For now, he'd save the story for Kozin and Andryk when they met back at the school. He was finally confident that he'd see them again.
Jannik offered him another drink. This one had a sweet, honeyed flavor that Oslan didn't mind. It tasted a bit like mead but without the tang of alcohol. A shame; however, this drink sent a pleasant cooling feeling down his gullet. The cooling effect traveled down to his wound and his leg and dulled their pain. Oslan glanced down at the small vial in his hand. He surmised it was a healing potion like Swallow, though it was milder in effect and tasted much, much better.
Oslan heard the soft shush of the wheels as they rolled from gravel onto grass. Gripping the edge of the cart, he raised himself and looked towards the front. From between the buck's antlers, he saw a massive plot of dense forest. It was a beautiful place—the trees were lush and green, their canopy speckled with budding fruit and garlanded with flowering vines. The grass grew in thin, soft blades and rose tall enough to cover a man's ankles entirely. Oslan looked up as they entered the grove. He couldn't identify many of the fruits that hung over his head. There was a particularly strange one on a nearby tree. The fruit looked like a small, upside down, elongated apple with a gray bean growing out of its bottom.
When he felt small claws scurrying up his sleeve, Oslan looked down. Piko was racing up his arm, over his shoulder, and onto the top of his head where it launched itself onto one of the branches of the strange apple-bean tree.
The cart slowed. Oslan turned to the front. Before them in their path, vines hung heavy from a branch like curtains. When they drew near, the vines pulled apart on their own accord. The buck passed through without so much as grazing an antler against them.
They'd arrived at the druids' camp within the grove. Dotting the grass were a handful of small cabins made of… wood? As Oslan passed one, he realized that the hut was made entirely out of tree roots. They sprouted out of the very ground and intricately wove together to form sealed walls and roofs. A head poked out from the vines that hung in the hut's doorway. Oslan spied the curious face of a young woman peering at him before she disappeared back into the cabin.
They finally stopped at a cabin that sat on the edge of the encampment. Jannik patted the buck, whispering gentle words to it, and undid the harness. The buck took a step forward and shook out its coat. It turned to give Jannik an appreciative huff of air through its slick nose before bounding noiselessly into the trees.
"When have you last eaten?" the druid asked as he walked around to the back of the cart. He held out his hands to help the witcher out.
"Yesterday," Oslan answered, scooting forward. With Jannik's help, he was back on the ground. He stood on one leg while the druid supported him on his weak side.
"So it's been a while," Jannik noted. "I'll see to it that a meal is provided to you. We've currently no meat, but we can hunt it for you if you'd be willing to wait."
It didn't seem to Oslan that they normally hunted at all. Perhaps they were willing to make an exception this time to accommodate him. He thought back to the large buck that had pulled him here. "I think I'll be fine with whatever you have," he said.
"Very well. I don't mean to be brash, but you could use a bath."
Oslan laughed. "Nay, you're right. After what I've been through, I'm absolute filth."
"I'll take you to the creek." Slowly, Jannik led him out of the camp towards where the buck had disappeared. Oslan observed their surroundings as they walked. Leafy plants climbed up the drunks of trees and flowery shrubs lined their path. Birds chirped overhead and bees zoomed lazily past. The air was perfumed by the scent of hundreds of blossoms and ripe fruit.
"This place is beautiful," Oslan blurted aloud. He felt like a ninny for saying that.
"I'm glad you appreciate it," was the druid's reply. "I wish the rest of the islanders shared in your sentiment." The bubbly sounds of running water came to Oslan's ears. The trees parted to reveal a lively creek flanked by soft, grassy banks. A relieved sigh escaped the witcher's lips at the sight. Beside him, Jannik had an amused smile.
Oslan was lowered on the bank. A soft shush came from beside him as a fluffy towel and a change of clothes landed on the grass. "Don't submerge your wounds. I'll leave you to it, then." The druid took a few steps back, and then raised his arms. Oslan nearly jumped out of his skin when a wall of roots rose around him in a semicircle.
"I'm not that shy," Oslan mumbled.
"It's not for you," said the druid's voice from behind the wall. As Oslan listened to his retreating footsteps, he couldn't help but wonder what that meant. No matter. The witcher began unbuckling the straps of his hide armor and cast the plates aside. He unbuttoned his tunic, which used to be white but was now stained with old blood, mud, and grass. He flung that aside too, feeling the relief as his skin became free of the sticky clothes. He pulled off his boots to alleviate the weight on his legs and leaned down, dipping his arms into the cool water. His head sunk down, strands of blond hair brushing against the grass. Oslan took a moment to watch the bear head medallion dangle from his neck and enjoy the touch of water on his forearms.
The moment passed. Oslan raised his head. He cupped the water and ran them up his arms. Carefully, he pulled himself closer to the water and splashed his face and neck. He couldn't get into the water without wetting his wounds, so he soaked the towel and scrubbed himself down with it instead. He was careful not to graze the wound, which was already showing signs of healing. The pale towel grew darker, and Oslan silently apologized to any creature that might decide to take a drink downstream.
Sitting up, Oslan unbutton his trousers. He was in the process of ripping the pant leg off of his injured thigh when he heard light footsteps. The witcher froze, listening. Then, tentatively, he called out, "Jannik?" He knew it wasn't Jannik. It didn't sound like the druid's footsteps.
Whoever it was stopped. Then, Oslan heard the quick patter of someone racing away. Oslan hesitated, and then quickly pushed the matter aside. It'd probably been one of the other druids checking on him. He pulled the trousers off, wriggling the ripped leg out from underneath the bandages, and pushed them with the rest of the discarded clothes.
He'd finished with one leg when another visitor appeared. Oslan paused as Piko scurried up to the bank opposite from him. It its paws, it held one of those gray beans he'd seen earlier. The squirrel dipped the pod into the water and held it there. Oslan glared at it. "Do you mind?" he said.
Piko ignored him as it raised the bean to its face and gnawed at it. Oslan heard the clacking of its teeth on the hard shell. Then, it lowered its face to the water, sniffed at the surface, and dunked the pod back in. Oslan resumed his washing. He stared at the bandages around his thigh, fighting to urge to unravel them and peek at his wound. The last thing he needed was getting random gunk caught up in his open leg.
Finally, Oslan decided that he was as clean as he was going to get. Sure, he didn't smell like roses or anything, but at least the stench of death had been scrubbed off of his skin. As he reached back for the fresh clothes, he heard a crack come from across the creek. Piko had managed to gnaw through the gray pod. As it continued to break through the shell, a curved nut emerged from the fragments. Piko let out a delighted chirp and, in one single thrust, shoved the entire cashew into its mouth.
Oslan watched the squirrel with raised eyebrows. Piko returned his stare. "That's great," the witcher said. "Now will you go away?" Piko jabbered at him, the cashew bulging in its cheek. It grabbed the largest piece of shell and hurled it at him before leaping away. The shell hit his shoulder, and Oslan wondered how the squirrel had such impeccable aim.
A rumble in his stomach reminded him to hurry up. There was food waiting for him back at the encampment, and the sooner he dressed the sooner he could head back. Oslan stretched out a hand towards the clothes, and then quickly retracted it.
"Piko?" Oslan snapped at the creature sitting atop his clothes. "I thought I told you to get lost!" He'd barely finished his sentence and the squirrel had already run up the wall of roots. Oslan managed to catch a glimpse of its flame-red tail before it disappeared over the top of the wall.
By the time Jannik returned to retrieve Oslan from the river, it was dark. There was a lit fire pit in the druids' camp. Around the flickering flames, two other figures sat cross-legged. After Jannik helped Oslan settle by the fire, he introduced the others—both also druids. One was Jannik's peer, another acolyte. The other was their master.
Around the fire, they chatted over supper. The druids spoke of their progress on Spikeroog's forests to Oslan. He listened closely, fascinated to hear of a life that was so different from his own. In return, they had him tell about his wounds and Melusine. They asked for every detail, eager to hear the play-by-play recount of his fight with the dark goddess. Eventually, the conversation drifted to a close. The food was gone and the fire was shrinking into its pit. Jannik left to retrieve another healing concoction.
"It must be a lot of work for just the three of you to revive the forest," Oslan said to the others.
"Four," the master corrected as he added dry bramble to the dying fire. "But that doesn't make things any less challenging."
"Who's the fourth?"
"Cesna. Come to think of it, I haven't seen her all evening. She should have joined us." The master looked inquiringly at his acolyte, who only shrugged. "Curious. I bid you take no offense from her absence, Oslan. She is a rather discreet one."
"I'm sure she has her reasons," Oslan replied.
"Are you talking about Ces?" Jannik asked as he appeared next to Oslan. He handed the witcher the sweet-scented vial. "I thought it strange too. Knowing her, she should have been avid to join us, tonight more than ever."
"What do you mean?"
"Ces has a… thing for swordsmen. Men who look like they handle their weapons well. Witchers, especially," the other acolyte answered.
Oslan chuckled. "That's probably why she's avoiding me," he joked. "Beaten and battered that I am, she probably thinks I can't tell one end of a sword from the other." His remark was met with a couple of chortles.
"Still, I cannot condone this behavior," the master declared. "Cesna!"
Oslan's head snapped up at the master's booming shout. His voice seemed to come from the trees themselves.
Light footsteps approached. "Cool your knickers. I'm here!" a girl's voice grumbled. Oslan saw her emerge from the forest even before she neared the firelight. He recognized her—she had peeked at him from one of the huts when he'd first arrived.
Cesna plopped down next to the other acolyte with a huff. Judging by her similar robes, she was a pupil too. Her short hair was a brilliant red, and she was pretty—all sorceresses were. But her face still had a youthful roundness to it. Her gaze avoided Oslan as she stared intently into the fire.
"So where were you hiding, Ces?" the acolyte next to her teased. "Lurking around on treetops?"
"Watch it, Eyl, before I turn you into a toadstool."
"On treetops?" Oslan repeated. He had a hard time imagining this dainty young woman careening through branches.
"Aye, lots of time she'll stray off and—."
"I'm starving," Cesna interrupted quickly, throwing her arms up in a stretch. "When are we eating?"
"You could have joined us for supper had you come a little sooner," the master chided. Cesna threw a pouting face and turned away.
"Just go get cashews with Piko," Eyl said.
"You really want to be a toadstool."
The master looked away from the quarreling pair. To Oslan, he said, "Well, since it seems she is disinclined to introduce herself, this is Cesna. She has also come along to assist me." Oslan gave her a cordial nod, but the girl only looked at him for a second before flitting her eyes away.
Beside him, Jannik tapped the vial in Oslan's hand. "I didn't get that just for you to hold onto," he said.
"Oh, right." Oslan pulled off the top.
Jannik looked to Cesna. "You've been awfully distant tonight," he noted. Cesna shrugged.
"Nothing special," she said.
"No?" Oslan noticed a certain glimmer in the druid's eye. It seemed Jannik had realized something. The vial was just at the witcher's lips when Jannik turned to him and quietly murmured, "Oslan, can I ask you something?"
Oslan lowered the concoction. "Sure."
"When you were by the creek, did you happen to see a red squirrel?"
"Piko?"
"No, Piko is brown. Red."
Oslan suddenly remembered the one that had been sitting on his clothes. Unlike Piko, it had darted away the moment he saw it. "I did," he answered. "Why?" He raised the vial back to his lips and tipped it down.
"Well," Jannik said, his voice louder now. He glanced over at the young sorceress. "Cesna can shape shift."
A sharp inhale sent the honeyed liquid down the wrong way. Oslan reeled forward, spraying the concoction into the fire. After clearing his airways with a few rattling coughs, he glared at the sorceress. She looked absolutely appalled, her face matching the color of her hair.
He couldn't get them to understand why he had been so upset. "It was an invasion of my privacy!" Oslan cried.
"So? I'd let a lass invade my privacy any day!"
"What was wrong wi'ye, Os?" Andryk asked. "First the ones in the village, and then this one! Ye had lasses fallin' into yer lap, and ye just pushed them off!" Oslan looked at him with the expression of someone being betrayed.
"Must'a been the loss o'blood," another witcher piped up. "Poor lil'dobber wasn't right in the head." There were murmurs of agreement.
Oslan threw his hands up. "Fine, if that's what you want to think!" he snapped. "There, I've said my story. I'm going to sleep." He rose, snatched the cane that had been leaning against the bench, and hobbled off.
Addendum: Okay, Os, you've been hogging the spotlight for too long now. Shoo, boy, get out!