Faithful Pebble
Part Eighty-nine
"Papa had eyes like yours," she continued softly. "I always thought as kind as they were, everyone should have known the headsmen was lying. He was lying from the start and no one saw it.
"And what's more," Pebble murmured. "My papa, he'd never have kept that oath. He never intended to and he never did unless he had to. You could always tell when that happened, because his eyes would change, you know, when he came home… after it happened. Each time, his eyes would grow less and less kind, less and less sure, and filled more and more with fear and hate. Mother noticed it and so did I. After a while, it was hard not to."
"Your papa?" It took him a minute, the wanderer, to realize of whom she was speaking. But then, his thoughts caught up with her. But then, Pebble reminded him unaware.
"The hunter in my—in the village's story, he was my father. This? This was our house." Here, Pebble trailed off. Here, as if caught in a dream, she returned to her feet. The wanderer watched her. He tilted his head wondering if she was mindful of his stare, wondering if she noticed him at all. For a moment, he couldn't tell.
Pebble stood and as she did so, her black and clawed and blood-stained hands picked up the hammer lying at her feet. She exchanged the soap for nails, the towel for the tattered feel of the oaken handle. It slid between her fingers feeling heavy, feeling used, feeling treacherous, dangerous almost like its time-frayed edges might splinter her skin at the slightest touch. Still, she didn't care, Pebble. This felt good, she thought. It felt right, like all those things that race the heart and quicken the mind. Pebble stared up at the house. Her smile slid shyly in place. "Tell me how to fix it," she asked.
"Fix what?" The wanderer probed. He too rose to his feet his gaze steady, his stance unsure, his arms curiously crossed.
"The door. The house. My home." She turned back to him. "Please help me fix it. If you don't—"
"Do you want to help?" The wanderer smiled, his thoughts quickly going over what needed to be done… quickly calculating how to shift the topic back to her father. Working would help. Maybe a bath? He eyed the towel at his feet. Thoughtfully, he picked it up. Quietly, he sighed brushing its soft thickness with his hand. "First, let's get you washed. And then—" He eyed the sun. He could still see it. The slowly sinking lamp blared grinningly through the trees. They had time yet, he nodded. He—well… he swallowed a frown. "Then, we can work," he said. "At the least, we need to re-hinge this door and clear out the fireplace if you plan to stay tonight. It may get cold. We could use the heat." He looked back at her and humbly offered the towel.
Pebble watched him. From under her hood, basked in the sun's stark glare, she considered him one moment, a second, a third and then she nodded. She snatched the towel and lay sieged the hammer. She ambled to the back of the house; the hammer dancing between her fingers. The wanderer shook his head and grinningly followed.
- Calla