Faithful Pebble
Part Fifty-Two
Removing black clawed hands, purposely avoiding her coarse draped hood, the wanderer lifted the girl. He nestled her on her side in the grass, then rose to his knees quickly retrieving the blanket from his long forgotten sac. He draped it over her. Softly, silently, skillfully, his brown and stout and gentle green hands tucked its tattered worn corners about her shoulders before he finally stood. Those glistening cyan eyes immediately took in the early morning sunrise. He could see the silver glimmer of the town over the hill as well as the silken shadow of the forest cloaking his back. It choked him from behind, the shadow, the forest's menacing presence. He turned towards it, the wanderer. He turned and glared.
The forest's entrance stared back at him. One hundred feet from the well, its mouth was like the gaping eye of a slaughtered dead man. It rubbed him the wrong way, like the ticking of a backwards stopwatch, like the gleam of a silver second hand etched harshly in the light of the moon, like the stale dark flutter of a midnight cloak worn only by the man who'd first gave—
It erupted…
No. It purred, the sound...
A soft thrumming stirred from the bushes. It skated the edge of the clearing, curled along the bordering crest of the hill, and teetered down the path towards the town.
Curious, the wanderer turned away from the woods and tiptoed towards a shaking bush. Half way there, an idea struck. It slivered into a smile, softened a silent step and shook a teetered head as a brown and stout and strong gentle hand pushed back a prickly blur of blue and green branches.
The wanderer sighed.
Thank you for the encouragement - Calla