Faithful Pebble
Part Forty-Three
Thus, the Headsman forbade it, entry into the woods, and his guardians ensured that the rule was kept—permanently.
Everyone knew this!
Anyone who was anyone knew who was on the guard. Most didn't have to wear the symbol. They hung about each other laughing and drinking and wearing their high rank on their sleeve like the armor wrapped about their chests. Everyone knew everyone, everyone except for one, the man who had originally imprisoned the beast. Nameless, he was given the honorary title of Chief Guardian and it was the village's consensus that he was the true guardian of the forest, in spite their flock of swarming warriors. It was said that he had died saving the village and that his ghost now haunted the woods killing any stragglers that their warriors might have missed. It was He, not the guardians, that villagers feared the most and that fear strictly ensured that the law was kept.
The boy squinted a moment looking beyond the well and towards the woods, at the yellow signs peaking here and there in the foliage. The boy knew what they said, knew it intimately. For like his hero had implied, curiosity had out won any sense of obedience in him. He entered the woods, stepped through its damp branches and flush velvet bushes nearly the very moment his hero's pendent was pressed purposely into his hands. The silver dragon made him feel brave and independent, shrewd and sharp and courageous like his Hero was, or least seemed to be. He wished he could be like him, the boy, the kitten, the tiniest pickpocket. "If just for a little while," he thought. "For a moment." And then he wouldn't be scared of anything…
But those signs.
The visible edge of that wild world, that damp and misty darkness, was as far as he dared. Thoughts of the ghost stayed his steps, caused jack o' lantern teeth to slice into purple plump lips, seize fat childish fingers and made them dance and play with the metal chain snaking between their delicate little limbs. A ghost might not trust the chain, where the other guardians knew from whence it came and why. They were the only ones who knew. Not even his mother and certainly not his grandfather knew. He didn't trust their reaction, the boy. Certainly, they would take it away, or worse punish his Hero for having gave it to him in the first place. He couldn't betray the man like that. Certainly not. He couldn't betray the other guardians like that. Definitely not. And worse, what would the ghost do? He didn't know.
The boy played with his hat and blinked away, looked quickly away from the signs just in case his green dipped irises accidentally triggered a sighting of the ghost, or worse, his murderous fingers and sure fired arrows. They always hit their mark according to the legends. Each time adding another corpse to the hypothetical pile that ghost was credited for felling. The Grave of the Unknown, the boy didn't want to join those ranks. The idea scared him. In fact, it scared him so much that as he watched, as per his Hero's instructions, the wanderer break away from the town, cross the bordering stream and ascend up the hill towards pebble's dried up well and ultimately the restricted forest beyond, the boy panicked. Wishing to warn and yet not knowing exactly how to do it, he did the first thing that came to mind.
- Calla