Faithful Pebble

Part Ninety-Seven

"Father taught her everything like he did me. She knew how to dig a pit, knew how to hunt and set up the arrows. She even knew how to harvest the poison and dip them into it. And she knew, just like I did, to always be careful, to never get any of it in you. That's how the poison works. You have to ingest it or get it in a cut under the skin.

The wanderer nodded. The girl continued. "But she wasn't father, you know. Mother wasn't practiced like him, nor as sure footed in his trade." Pebble's head turned. It moved just enough that the wanderer could tell she was watching him, gaging his reaction. He wandered how much she could see through that hood of hers, how much she could read. "She dropped a vile of the poison and cut her finger. She was asleep in moments and I was alone for weeks while the poison coursed through her. It tore her hair out, blistered her skin, humped her back and soiled her pride. She was a different person when she finally woke up.

"In place of her tenderness, the poison painted harshness and selfishness; in place of her love, hate and despair; in place of her leadership and will to survive, depression, apathy and sloth. Because of this, our roles reversed. I cared for the house. I hunted and fed the traps. I cooked. I cleaned. I watched waiting for the town's officials to come and take us away. They never did.

"I don't think they cared about us as long as the forest was empty and the dragon guarded. Sometimes, it seemed that maybe they just forgot about us altogether. So eventually, we forgot about them.

"In time, the forest became my playground. It was my haven as life in my home deteriorated. My mother, she faded quickly," Pebble whispered. "I knew it and I didn't want to see it. It's my fault what happened."

From his place on the porch, the wanderer calmly watched the girl. He wanted to comfort her, but respecting the distance, acknowledging the fragility of the moment, he hesitated. Instead, he questioned. Instead, he whispered. "How old were you?"

"Thirteen," she answered.

"And you knew she would…"

"Yes," she replied. "I'd caught her trying a few times. At first, I yelled. And then, I scolded. And then, after a while, I grew tired. After a while, I stopped coming home. I was in the forest when it happened. She'd hung there for maybe half a day by the time I found her. I left her there. I didn't know what to do."

The wanderer nodded watching as Pebble crossed her arms and rubbed them quietly. She curled against the hut's tattered door looking small and tired. She appeared every bit as weathered beaten as the porch upon which she knelt, the steps she once climbed and the meadow she now eyed. Even as cloaked as she was, he could see her fatigue, her relief as each word unburdened her secret from her heart. He knew that feeling, knew it more intimately than he had the courage to admit. And so he pushed her, knowing how freeing the act was, how vital the telling. He waited, the wanderer. He hoped, prayed to hear the end of her tale. He wasn't disappointed. Her words came slowly. "What did you do next?" he asked. "When did you discover the well?"

Pebble shrugged. "I learned about it early on. You can see the town from there, but the town can't see you. I used to sit on its ledge and watch them. I'd imagine what it was like to live there, to be there with them, though I had no desire to join my life to theirs. That night as I wandered to the well, for the first time in my life, I contemplated that possibility. There was no reason to stay in the forest. It was clear that the town didn't care about my presence and because I regularly avoided the officials, I'd ensured that it stayed that way. Running was a tempting possibility. I could go anywhere and might have gotten away with it, or would have if I was alone that night. But I wasn't.

"Someone else came to the well. They sat where I did normally staring at each other, gazing into each other's eyes whispering softly. I had never seen the like and so I hid. I watched them, like I did the town. The man and the woman, the armored man and the well-dressed woman leaned into each other basked in the misty light of the moon. That night they did what I only heard about in stories, in tales whispered before our fireplace at night."

"What did they do?" the wanderer asked.

Pebble answered, her words soft and unsure. "They kissed."

- Calla