Faithful Pebble
Part Forty-Four
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 the 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 so that as he watched, 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.
He threw the cheese.
Digging into his pockets, the kitten's searching fingers found something soft and sticky and squishy and spongy rolling around between their meager piles of scattered coins and missing buttons. He pulled it out, and in his haste, he was surprised to remember what it was and from whom he had pilfered it. In seconds, a well satisfied smile smeared across his dirt-stained face. His fingers squelched the cheese. His hand, now freed from his pockets' constraints, reared back and launched unapologetically the stinky wad of rotting curdled milk hitting the wanderer square in the back.
It stuck…
Then slid…
And then plopped abruptly to the ground stopping the strange journeyman mid-step in the middle of the road, just before Pebble's hill and ultimately the forest beyond.
The boy bit his lip.
The wanderer paused then stilled. His sac swayed in the wind in such a way that for a moment, the boy held his breath wondering if he might have angered the man, wondered if perhaps, he was a man that should be feared instead of welcomed. There was something there, a warning, a feeling, a—
And then it was gone.
The man adjusted his sac, the one that was now dilapidated and warped from the Hero's rough handling moments prior, before turning around to meet the stubborn stare of the boy, the kitten, the tiniest pickpocket of that monstrous gang. He was standing by himself at the edge of town with his arms folded and chest puffed up, trying to hide his fear behind dirt and a scowl. Perhaps the mask wasn't as effective as the boy thought for almost immediately the wanderer simply smiled then playfully mirrored his stance.
He looked down at the ground, the wanderer, spied the cheese and then broke into rather boisterous laughter. It was hearty and healthy and whole, a sound you hear once in a lifetime and remember for twice that long. It clashed heavily with his mood moments prior.
It put the boy on his toes. He frowned and then yelled. "And where do you think you're going?!"
Who is the wanderer? If you questioning this, then you are on good ground. It matters later on. - Calla