Faithful Pebble

Part One Hundred and Three

Pebble shrugged. "There was a time when I forgot to feed it and it came and found me," she admitted. "I was digging out those steps we climbed yesterday. You know, the stone boulders? And I was distracted. It came and found me. And then," she once more emphasized, quite stubbornly, quite pointedly. She said, "He saw what I was doing and then helped me. That dragon dug out all of those steps in one day! It's not evil!" she exclaimed. "I don't understand why you're so—"

"I didn't say it was," the wanderer interrupted. He stepped back. He stood up grimacing as his knees cracked, as his back ached. "Please," he said. "I'm sorry." He turned quickly grabbing the oil lamp he'd retrieved from his sac earlier that afternoon. He lit it with a stick he obtained from the hearth, then set it on the table near the armchair Pebble had yet to vacate. "Tell me," he said—

"I am not a child," Pebble growled.

The wanderer sighed. He watched her a second, a minute, a moment. This infuriated Pebble. She stormed to her feet. "I don't need you," she spat. "I lived fine on my own. Before you came into existence, I lived fine!"

She would have said more. She wanted to say more, but then, through her veil, the wanderer's knowing look bled her words dry. So instead, she huffed. Instead, she turned looking for the wanderer's sac, where he dropped it on her table—her dining table—hours earlier.

Pebble was cold.

She wanted a blanket.

She knew he had one.

So, she decided,

Quite pointedly,

Quite stubbornly,

To fetch one herself.

With a quiet anger, her coarse fingers, those black and clawed and dirt-crusted, sharply edged little creatures ripped through its careful knot. They callously and carelessly widened its neck until the sac sat gaping, gawking on her table like a dying fish. It revealed…

Nothing.

Nothing? Pebble thought.

She blinked.

There was nothing… nothing but darkness and the thick, fluffy traveler's blanket she was given earlier that morning. At this, Pebble paused. Her eyes widened, surprised to find nothing else was in the bag. But on the outside, it looked and appeared quite heavy, quite wide filled to the brim with many a variety of items. Almost too many, she thought.The seams are ripping, tearing in some places.

Pebble closed the mouth, the sac's gaping throat, and stepped back. She sized it up. The thing entire didn't change appearance when it was closed. She bit her lip satisfied for the moment, content for a time that it was still lumpy and brown and green and normal. It was full–pointedly full, wide and heavy with many a variety of items… almost too many, to the point of ripping the seams. Pebble itched closer and once more opened the sac. Curious, she widened its mouth, loosened its string and tipped it over only to screech. She screamed as she found the sac suddenly full—seethingly full—gluttonly full.

She dropped the opening and watched. Pebble gaped mortified as plates and knives and forks and lamps and glasses and tools and nails and screws and tents and cloth and two—no, three—no, four cooked geese tumbled out of its gaping trap. Everything imaginable, everything needful for one man travelling alone from "God-knows-where" spilled out onto her dirt-dusted floor. The blanket was the last thing that fell. Its grey fluff spread lazily until it covered the wanderers' suspect wares like a sheet of sullen, silky snow.

The girl couldn't speak. She stared standing still as stone while the wanderer moved to hesitantly pick up the blanket. His fingers, his hands calmly, steadily, nervously unfolded it. Those stout and strong and now slightly shaking digits moved slowly as he did this. They always moved slowly, she noticed. They were always careful, always simple. His gaze did not quite meet hers. Not that he would know, not with her veil. He licked his lips. He frowned while he wrapped the now dubious blanket about her shoulders.

Into her speechless silence, he whispered. "There weren't any bodies," he said. "In your story, you said nearly a third of the town's men died the day the dragon appeared." He took a breath. "You said, they were killed by the dragon, when the boy was changed and that the dragon was promptly sealed by your father. No one can get in or get out of the mines. Not even into the forest are the town's people allowed to wander."

The wanderer shook his head. Even with his gaze averted, she could see his thoughts wander in his wonder, see them wonder as they wandered.

"I know the dragon isn't evil," he explained, "or at least the culprit of that particular scheme because if he was, we should have seen at least one body in our venture through the mines yester eve. There were too many deaths not to, but we didn't see any. Not even a skull."

- Calla