Author's Note: My sincerest apologies for neglecting this story for so long. As I said before, it is more difficult than expected and I find I am strangely attached to it, so I have to make sure each chapter is exactly how I want before I upload it. Please forgive me and enjoy :)
|| Three ||
Somewhere, in the distance, are four brooding horsemen draped in swaddling black robes that sit upon their bulky charcoal steeds like Greek gods
There are a lot of secrets kept within the woods; hushed bits of knowledge that ride the wind like the spurs of a flower and travel from the timbered lips of one tree to the mossy ears of another.
The trees are known for their tales.
They see and hear what others miss and they keep record. Every secret is a line within their bark; every story is a knotted hole etched into their wooden flesh; every tale is a splinter that protrudes from their leafy downed limbs. If you wish to know a tree, you may only look at the markings on its skin. The older it is, the more its body scars with knowledge. The wisest of the timbers bear the most unsettling wounds.
There is one towering cherry tree with rough, brown skin and a long, peachy trail that runs from its highest branch to the lowest of its roots. It is a tree that has lived for many centuries and witnessed many horrors.
The Woodens have a saying, "If you wish to see Death, climb to the top of the Elder Cherry on the first day of each new season. Death will not harm you, but you will come to know him."
The tree is an ancient pole of wood symbolizing the crossover from light into darkness. For from the top of the Elder Cherry you can see the expanse of the woods. And if you choose to climb it when you witness the first leaf fall from a tawny branch, the first bit of frost kissing the yellowing blades of grass, the first bloom of a flowery bulb, or the first buzzing of a honey bee, you will see something you'll try your entire life to forget.
When the huntress' eyes rest on the creaking cherry tree a stone's throw away from where she crouches near the man, her blood goes as cool as the sleek frost that covers the branches on a chilly winter day. Somewhere, in the distance, are four brooding horsemen draped in swaddling black robes that sit upon their bulky charcoal steeds like Greek gods; leading a line of hollow-faced Cowries—men, women, even children—through this part of the forest like cattle being led to slaughter.
The Unfortunates, her father used to call them. They are the ones who have somehow displeased the tyrant whom resides in the great stone fortress far beyond the boundaries of the woods.
The horsemen steal into their towns to collect them. They brand them with a heated metal stamp that mars their flesh with the markings of the circular Capitol symbol, and tether them together with heavy metal shackles that clink and jangle with every leaden step that they take. It's a tedious journey, one that's filled with bloodshed and wails, grimaces and tear-streaked faces.
Where are they going? The question resurfaces from the back of the huntress' mind and she recalls a time she sat in a tree with her father, looking on as a line of battered souls made their way through this part of the forest.
"To die," was all the man with the stark black hair replied to his eldest daughter.
Either you died on the way to the hulking stone walls or you perished once you found yourself within them; those were the only two options for the Cowries collected by the horsemen.
"Or help from a Wooden," the wind whispers.
But that wasn't an option anymore.
The huntress crawls towards the Elder Cherry and places a shaky hand against its trunk, right on the chafed bark of its wound. Memories cascade from the splinters of the wood and burrow into her open pores.
She can feel the souls of the dead rising from the earth beneath and clawing at her back. There are voices, so many voices calling out to her in various degrees of pain, begging for mercy and being answered with a jab to the stomach or a clout to the head.
She can see the face of an unconscious boy in worn leather shoes being dragged along the rich tract of land by the metal chain that gashes his wrists; a woman being clubbed by the hilt of a dense sword for not being able to avoid the protruding tree roots. Her breath catches as she sees the image of a young girl with beautiful black curls reaching for her hand, begging the huntress to save her and crumpling to the floor with a spear protruding from her abdomen.
She pulls her hand away from the tree in fear.
Now there is no denying that the huntress cannot leave the man here.
Why would the wind bring her here? Save him? Save...him! The thought causes a ball of terror to fester in her womb and paralyzes her. To save him would mean to challenge the horsemen and then it would be her people feeling the sharpened silver of their swords.
She tentatively reaches for an arrow behind her back. Either by coincidence or fate, her hand selects the same one she used to subdue the wolf moments before. She can tell by the smell of blood that still lingers on the tip of the carved flint tip. Her intense silver eyes notice the beads of sweat that form along the man's hairline as he watches her with frightened wide eyes.
If she leaves him and one of the Collectors find him, and she is quite certain that they are searching for him, he will speak of the Wooden who saved his life. He will try to use the information to his benefit—an exchange. He will think that by revealing his encounter with the huntress perhaps the four horsemen will spare him.
And they will search for her.
There's an unspoken pact between the Woodens and the Collectors, made a few years ago. If the Woodens refrain from interfering in the dealings of the Collectors, then the Collectors do not waste their time trying to seek out the refuge of the Woodens. But now the huntress has interfered and it can only lead to trouble.
She places the curved-wood bow in her hand and secures the arrow to the thick sinew string. One shot to his heart. It would be a clean and painless kill; a service that would rid him of the horror that he would face later on. He would be free to walk the billowing plains of the afterlife without worry marking his brow with deep creases.
She pulls back on the string and feels the tremble of the arrow, shaking in her hand. Her body is so tense that her muscles begin to painfully strain against the resistance. Her eyes bore into him. She observes the way his bottom lip quivers when he lets his eyes drop to the pointed arrow aimed at his chest.
"Please..." his voice falters and then he stares right at her, locking his sapphire with her silver. He says nothing more. Just stares directly at her, reaching towards her soul with his beautiful, gemlike eyes. They are hypnotizing, his eyes, like a river current playing with a lily pad on a blissful summer day. And if she looks deep enough into them she can see her own reflection mirrored back at her, fiercely afraid, pointing an arrow at the chest of an innocent man.
In an instant, her bow falls from her hands as if it's scolded her skin and the arrow follows, dropping to the ground like neglected toys.
How could she kill him? She would never be able to live with herself if she were to take his life in vain. There is a reason why she found that wolf, why the wind pushed her forward, why the trees urged her to intervene. The stars have aligned to bring her here. She cannot be the one to take this man's life.
Once more she reaches for his hand and he makes no attempt to pull it away from her. She studies the bruise, trying to determine when he may have entered the forest by the amount of scar tissue that has formed along the sear. "How long?" she finally says. Her voice is low, like the mournful wail of a loon. There's a certain tranquil seduction hidden within the tone.
The man blinks in surprise at hearing her speak. He has heard many stories about the Woodens, but he never imagined that they shared the same dialect. He always envisioned them speaking some sort of foreign tongue composed of delicate clicks and harmonious garble.
The huntress raises an impatient eyebrow at him, letting her urgency spread towards her grip, which tightens around his wrist causing him to wince.
"What do you mean?" he grimaces.
"How long have you been away from them?" She doesn't mention the horsemen. She fears that if she utters the name than they will come.
"About an hour," the man replies.
His answer causes a throaty growl to emanate from the small frame of the huntress. The news is unsavory. An hour, she ponders. Why would the horsemen leave him alone for an hour? Could they be watching?
Her senses become keenly alert and she fights the thumping of her heart to listen to the voices of the woods.
"What do you hear," the wind howls.
Among the swishing of the long blades of grass, the hooting of the owls and the shuffling of the trees, the huntress hears footsteps. Heavy, clunking steps made by feet that are unsure of the terrain that they travel.
"Near...they are near," the Elder Cherry begins to shake. It's branches bend and whine, dipping low to shoo the huntress away.
The realization causes bile to rise from her stomach and tickle her throat. She has no time to waste. She reaches into her quiver and acquires a strip of dried hide that she carries with her to clean her weapons and begins to wrap the cloth around the man's wound. Round and round, securing the strip snuggly around his calve. She rips at her shirt and ties it around the makeshift bandage, pulling on the knotted halves to apply pressure to the wound.
The man looks on in disbelief, stuck within a trancelike state of awe and fear. If she wishes to kill him, why cater to his injury? Only moments before she was going to pierce his chest with an arrow and leave him crumpled in a heap like the wolf. He can only imagine that she's patching him up so that she can properly dismantle him later on, when the time is right.
Death by a Wooden, according to rumour, is agonizing torture; a mixture of bliss and stifling pain. You're mind frantically flits between both feelings, like a moth drawn to the light. Nothing would break your spirit more than to believe you are safe when really your death has only been prolonged for a little while longer.
"If you're here to kill me," the man sputters, mustering his courage. "Do it now."
Her eyes narrow and she tilts her head, like a cat would when noticing something curious.
His elders were right, the Woodens are enchantingly bewitching. He notices how the huntress' hair tumbles in dark waves past her shoulders and tickles her ribs. Her eyes are large and intrusive, they seem to see everything. She resembles the nymphs that he's seen decorating the boarders of his favourite childhood books; an agile woodland fairy that you may find flitting around the trees at night.
Is this how he will die? Gazing into the beautiful silvery eyes of this wild child?
She stiffens as the wind brushes by her cheek, lifting up a tendril and pushing it behind her ear in a vehement gust. "Hide!" it squeals against her ear.
The huntress looks at the man with wide, frantic eyes. "They are coming," she whispers to him in a hollow voice and his eyes bulge at the news. She can hear them clearly now. She can make out their steady footsteps and the deep haunting voices of two men. They are about five minutes away from where she stands with the reason for their search. Her jaw goes taught as she searches her brain for a plan. How is she to hide this broken man!?
"Climb!" The trees stir, restlessly. How she wishes they could scramble up a tree and camouflage themselves within the soft foliage!
But it cannot be! She doesn't even know if the man can walk let alone climb.
Her eyes plead with him, begging him to show her some way to hide him, to protect him from the horsemen that loom near.
"Lie me by the elm, near the bushes" he whispers, motioning towards the husky elm tree that stands a few feet behind them. She wastes no time steadying him on his feet and hustling him towards the elm tree a few paces off. He awkwardly hobbles beside her, using her shoulders as a crutch and hissing between clenched teeth every time his right leg touches the ground. She sets him down nearest the wild Thornberry bushes and looks on in bewilderment as he starts to pile dirt and leaves on top of his clothing.
"Bury me!" he says with urgency.
Her small hands work miraculously fast, scooping up munched soil to pile on top of him. He blackens his face with the mud, vigorously rubbing it through his hair to quiet its beautiful golden sheen. She pulls from the bushes and reaches for discarded tree branches around her to place on him, causing him to disappear into his surroundings.
"Go now!" he whispers from somewhere under the earth.
"You must climb!" The trees warn her with an eerie shuffle of their limbs.
The huntress has no time to head back to collect the dead wolf, only to leap from the ground to grab the lowest branch on the elm tree and swing herself into its welcoming arms that shield her from sight.
Through the crisscrossed limbs of her shelter, she sees the glint of a silver blade tracing a crooked line on the forest bed. The sharpened steel digs menacingly into the soil, marring the earth like it would the flesh of a human. The figure steps into the clearing and the trees shutter in apprehension.
A few feet from where the cowry lies concealed by the dirt and the huntress sits soundly in a tree, stands the horseman; a tall brutish man in a deep hooded cloak with a ghoulish, hoary mask that conforms to his face.
Author's Note: I am quite happy with how this turned out. I hope it made you feel something.