Faithful Pebble

Part Eighty-One

"So, the hunter guards the cave?" the wanderer asked. "He does this by killing anyone who enters the woods, anyone without the seal that is. Is that the punishment? Death? Is that the end of your story?"

Uncertain, Pebble shrugged. "It is," she said. "He spent the rest of his life in these woods forsaking his trade and sacrificing his morality. They say, he died here." Here, her voice wilted and here, the wanderer's suspicions peaked. A connection, he thought. He thought back to the well, to the hunter's pit she dug. Did she know him, this hunter? Did she love…

"They added a grave when he died," Pebble whispered. "One just for him. They placed it right next to the grave of his victims, like it was some great honor." She shook her head. "They teach that he killed them all. Not everyone believes that."

"But the sign," the wanderer wondered. "It says—"

"That is the village's rule, but it wasn't his. It's like when they teach that the dragon no longer knew himself, that he was nothing but a beast after his turning."

"Now I know that's a lie," the wanderer scoffed.

"How so?" Pebble came to an opening. Before the trees, she halted at a hill. The slight slope dipped and curved. It sashayed away from her feet like a fleeing insect, a bee a disturbed flower. Its overgrown foliage veiled its center which in turn taunted his curiosity. It quickly peaked. It hastily rose.

Pebble looked at him, the wanderer. She stared at him and unknowingly, he stared back. He met her gaze through her fabric, through her hood, through her dark and coarse and thickly veiled cloak. He licked his lips. There was a certain caution in her voice. It made the wanderer force the stillness of his thoughts. He quieted them, reluctantly, cautiously. He tucked them away, his suspicions and anger, his menace and growing accusations. Then, he looked down.

He stepped past her and when he looked over the crest, the wanderer was surprised to find a small hut. It was nestled in the center of a tiny meadow surrounded by ivory and violet, the flowers from the forest, the ones they strictly followed. Arranged in an intricate circle, the lonely years had ruffled them, tangled them. Still, he could see the curves and the angles, the white web pattern etched in a sea of violet. It was a child's drawing, a path leading to a center, a center leading to a house standing abandoned and broken. The front steps were rotten. The windows were shattered. The door tilted on half a hinge. It creaked in the wind from its rust and disuse, moaning and singing at the same time. Around this hobble, vibrant as the sun streaking through the leaves and the trees, the clouds and the sky were vibrant petals of blue. They were as striking as his eyes, the proud dancing stems of tall prancing brilliantly blossomed irises. They swayed in the sunlight, in the breeze as it wafted their poignant aroma throughout the slight valley. It was a picture, the thing entire, it was a portrait fit for a fairy tale, one he instantly remembered and one he instantly pondered. Snow white. Was this her cottage?

The man eyed the flowers choking the footsteps, the ones ringing the edge of the hut's little porch, the flowers whose name once belonged to a girl. He found her lost at the bottom of a well, the girl that stood lonely next to him. She was just as broken as the hut, just as forgotten and wild. He signed heavily, the wanderer. He licked his lips and tilted his head. "I know it's not true," he said softly. His voice filled with a slight disbelief, a slight unease. "It's a lie because of this fact. There are no such things as dragons."

Happy Thanksgiving - Calla