The next night Fiona showed up at the camp right on schedule. "On schedule" was getting a bit earlier and the air a bit cooler as autumn made its way up the valley. "First things' first," Gretched said, "Gotta go get the fish." The two walked right back down the path to the plain, and turned north for a few miles.

They came to a marshy delta, where a small brook trickled down from the hill and then sunk through the sandy loam at the base of the hill. Gretched walked upstream to cross the brook on a few big rocks. "Don't cross in the marsh. Most of the time it's fine, but that soil is very sandy. That's why the water doesn't make it to the plain; it just filters down to an underground river. If there's just the right amount of rain, that sand will liquefy. You step in it and you'll never see your shoe again; maybe not even your leg,'' Gretched chortled.

They continued north perhaps a half mile, and reached the bank of a bigger stream. Laid out on the dry mud were a few hundred trout, each about the length of Fiona's broad handspan.

"Wow, you've been busy!" Fiona said.

"Yep, this creek is really on right now," Gretched replied. "I'd think you'd like to learn how to catch 'em, but for that you're really going to have to consider coming by in the daylight," she ribbed Fiona.

"I, uh, yeah." Fiona mumbled noncommittally.

"Well anyway," Gretched said, tossing Fiona a burlap sack and shaking open another. "Let's get 'em up to the fire."

"Why are they out here?" Fiona said, scooping up fish and dropping them into her sack.

"Oh, gotta dry 'em out," Gretched said. "I put 'em out here in the sun for a day to get most of the moisture out, and then tonight we'll string 'em up over the fire. I'll run the fire a little wet, and the smoke will finish drying them and cure them so they'll keep all year.

I wouldn't normally catch this many, but now you're here. Yer pretty useful; may as well keep you fat through the winter. They'll be done smoking in a couple days, and I'll send a sack home with you."

"oh, ah, thank you" Fiona gushed, not entirely sincerely.

Fiona pushed the bone needle through the trout's tail, and pulled the twine through behind it. She made the loop over the tail like Gretched showed her, and then picked up another fish.

She repeated the motion, fish, loop, fish. The fish left such a strong scent on her skin that she could smell the motion of her hands as they waltzed back and forth across her body.

"Oh! Ouch. Bummer." Fiona said.

"Hmm?" asked Gretched, looking up.

"Oh, I shoved the needle under my fingernail," Fiona said, wincing and squeezing the end of her finger with her other hand.

"That's not a bummer!" Gretched said.

"A bummer, now that's when you're out in the woods, pickin' mushrooms for your pa. Mam's making the supper, and pa's on the roof putting the thatch back after the storm."

"And then ten stalkers come walking down the path. And you think, uh oh, you'd better pick off a couple of these guys to even up the odds, maybe make some noise. But your pa he told you to keep quiet so you don't end up gittin killed, just leave the fightin' to mam and pa. 'Just watch how it's done,' he said.

The non-sequitur story tipped Fiona off balance. Gretched often talked about tough or violent events with an almost indifferent tone, and it made Fiona feel like she was expected to act equally tough. But … ma and pa?

"A bummer is when you follow these stinking leatherbound brutes and watch one of them put an arrow into your pa's backside, and watch him tumble off the roof and break his neck. It's when you watch them pour into your yard – your yard – and watch your mam bust out the door and start knocking heads and you cheer inside as two, three, four of the bastards fall on the dirt.

Fiona tried to keep her eyes from bulging at the carnage; she was still infected by the idea that she wasn't supposed to show weakness. But showing approval didn't make any sense either. She wanted to avoid eye contact, but the last thing she wanted to do was seem unappreciative that Gretched was telling it. She held her mouth in a firm line and stared at Gretched's ear.

A bummer is when one of those bastards drills a spear right into her back, and three more follow it up with pitchforks to the face and the belly before she can turn on the first guy. It's watching her collapse, and then watching three of the weak ones, the stragglers in the back, circle around to your pa and slice his neck right open.

Fiona's blood ran cold. She wanted to ask questions. This really happened? To YOU? Why would they even...? But every question she formed in her head just sounded insulting. Her lower lip rolled into her mouth a bit, and her gaze held fast to Gretched's ear.

It's when the cheers go up for killing your family and the leader, the one with the dumbest hat, pulls out a crappy blade he probably made in kindergarten and saws off yer mamma's ears, one at a time, and saws off yer pappy's ears, one at a time, and tucks those earflaps in the pocket of his filthy vest. And then the whole damn parade turns around and marches right back out of there, and you realize they're not even hunting, for Grimm's sake."

Gretched laughed, but it was pretty obviously forced. "A bummer. That's when ya get sent on your Leaving Day and it ain't even yer parents kickin' ya out. That's a bummer."

Gretched's tone concluded her story, and she turned her attention back to the work in her own hands. Fiona had no idea what to say, but she was vaguely aware that simply listening was worth something. She resumed her own tying, but had to work by feel as the tears blurred her vision. They worked three more hours that night without another word being spoken. When the half-moon was high in the sky, and the last string of fish suspended from the trees, Fiona put her needle back in Gretched's pouch, bit her lip, and walked quietly down the hill.

Another week passed with work in the woods. Drying mushrooms, practicing balance, trapping for rabbit, sharpening steel. At the close of one night's visit, Gretched announced "Ahm headed over the ridge for a few days, fer nuts. Maybe 'til the moon is full. You needn't hike up to the camp."

"Oh, that's good to know," Fiona answered.

Gretchen chortled. "Well, yah didn't have to hike up yesterday either!"

"No," Fiona said, eyes widening in apology, "I mean: It's good to know that you'll be coming back."