“Stay close.” Mother said.
The forest around us slowly and steadily darkened.
There were eight of us in this group. Two weeks earlier there had been twelve. Before that I can recall maybe twenty at its largest number.
I speak for 'us' but these were not my people. They discovered me, as they tell it, in the woods. I had been wilder, lengths of corded hair and a fawn’s gangly limbs. Young enough then to warrant their sympathy and care, but not anymore.
I was perhaps twenty six? Twenty seven? As old as thirty, maybe? I didn’t mind not knowing. It was one less thing to count down to.
We were always counting down. Count down to dusk. Count down to dawn. Count down our rations. Count down our members. Count the steps to the next safe place to hide.
“I said stay close, Stray.” Mother yanked on my arm and I took a few stumbling steps to keep pace.
Mother was not my real mother. Mother was what everyone in our group called her. She acted as mother, lawman and punisher. She had eyes that sliced through lies and false hopes alike. She was practical and knowledgeable. Her hair was always cut short around her ears, and her eyes were dark and her skin was very dark, and her voice was dark. She was second in charge only to Wizened.
Wizened was like a Father, though no one called him that. He was older and taller than mother, and lean from years of running and hiding. His hair was white as snow, and covered by a ragged cap that hung like an empty pouch to his shoulders. He led the group across the land from safe haven to safe haven.
I remember Wizened mentioned that there used to be fifty people in our group. How hard it must have been, I wondered, to move unseen?
I also imagined that was why they were gone.
My insides shout warnings at me. They have for as long as I can remember. At first, I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid they would think that I am a Dark Thing and cast me out. But after there were twenty, there became seventeen. And after seventeen there were sixteen. And after sixteen there were only the twelve of us.
The last time my insides screamed at me, I had nightmares. I tossed and turned and woke Mother, who scolded me for the noise, saying I would draw Dark Things. So I told her about the screaming warnings that echoed inside me, and she shushed me back to sleep with a dark glare.
Then of course, they came.
Despite the distrust the survivors showed me after that, I did have a friend. His name was Atta Boy, and he was good at staying out of danger. He liked me a great deal. Kissed me once or twice. (It was warm and sweet at the time, but I didn’t know any better.) He was dark like Mother and had light eyes like Wizened, a matching shade of morning blue.
Perhaps that was why I only half liked him.
“Pay attention to your steps, Stray.” Mother hissed at me.
I turned my attention back to the beaten road. It was always flat, wide enough for our aged wagon and the lone, emotionless beast that pulled it. (The Horse was old, and had trouble sometimes, but they never spooked. We called him Husk.)
The sun was still just above the tree line, turning everything just past it’s reach golden and gray. The tension that came with twilight gripped the group, and as it usually happened, dark looks flitted in my direction.
Mother kept her hand on my arm to lead me onward.
Always at the front of our group, Wizened held his hand up and gestured for the pair of men just behind him. They were called Rusty and Copper, a pair of twins they always sent as scouts. The two of them darted ahead, down a side trail that Wizened pointed out. Their slinking shapes could just be discerned ahead, if one squinted.
The group held their breath. Eight left, including myself. Two off to check the safety of a trail. All of them clung to the hope that it was clear at the other end and a good place to hide, because darkness was coming.
This path led off of the flat, mossy road and down a slight hill. It curved up a distant embankment and into a darkened structure that was backed up against a curtain of dense wood and stone that reached well up over the roof.
We six that remained held our breath. Even I felt the pounding of blood in my head with my effort to remain still and silent. Wizened stood straight and tall, gazing out over that clearing as a beacon for the others, as if his will alone could bid them to return.
When Copper and Rusty returned with smiles, the group let out a collective sigh.
“It is safe. There is another inside, but he means us no ill. He’s a trader.” Rusty reported in an excited whisper.
“A Trader? What does he trade?” I asked.
Rusty shrugged. “I don’t know. But he had a great big pack on that made him look like a huge turtle. I heard clanking when he took it off.”
I settled with that clue.
Atta Boy came up behind me as Mother released her grip to help Husk down towards our evening reprieve.
“Haven’t seen a trader in a while. I wonder how he’s survived on his own?” Atta Boy chirped quietly at my elbow. He always sounded like he was chirping.
I shrugged.
“Hey, I asked Mother about marrying you. She said it would be all right!” He grinned.
I sighed. “Sure thing, Atta boy.”
“Hey you could be happier about it.” He scowled.
I remember how I put a smile on my face to please him as he drifted off towards the others.
I slowed to remain behind the group. My own pack was light in comparison to theirs. I received less from the times we went out to hunt or scavenge.
I was not ‘theirs’ and thus was not as valued.
Rusty and Copper helped the others set up the portable firepit we had stashed in the cart. Atta Boy and Mother took care of Husk. Wizened and Pala handled rations. Gully set out the sleeping bags and blankets in a tight circle. The entire process was quick - perfected, regardless of the loss of life over the past months. Everyone had their tasks except for me.
I was lean, like Wizened, but not old. I was not blessed with his gift of navigation, nor was I commanding like Mother. I was not as strong as Atta Boy, nor was I as quiet or quick as Rusty and Copper.
I was never given the opportunity, then, to prove otherwise.
My insides screamed when danger was near, but to admit that it was useful would make them admit that I was useful. And if I was useful it meant that such a feeling was not an ill omen. And everything that could not be explained away was an ill omen in those days.
The enclosure had a roof overgrown with vine and moss, but was otherwise open, save the back side which pressed against the trees and stone of the ledge. The wagon had rolled easily in, and it and Husk were tucked against the safety of the cliff wall.
Everyone began to lay down their burdens and relax. Save for me.
My blood ran quickly through my veins that night. I could not seem to unwind from our day of walking. I could feel that something was coming. I felt the undeniable urge to run, and squashed it. (No one would listen to me, so what was the point?)
The sight of the Trader did nothing to ease my mind.
He was incredibly large. Like a bear on his hind legs, but an extra man’s width across the shoulders. His hands were giant, likely able to palm someone’s face and lift them off of the ground with no effort at all. What I thought had been a hood turned out to be a full mane of curly, ink-black hair. His face was dark, but not as dark as Mother’s. This was the dark of a man who spent days in the sun, with his face turned skyward. His eyes were deep set, and his brow was broad and creased with worry.
He sat on a log that had been pulled into the enclosure who-knows-when. Even seated, he still looked enormous, as if this place was too small and frail to hold him. Beside him was his mountainous pack, nearly the same height as his hunched form.
His eyes peered over each and every one of us before they rested on me.
I waved.
I am not certain, even now, why I waved at him.
He didn’t wave back. But he did watch me walk by, with those deep, dark eyes.
He looked familiar, somehow. Like from a dream.
I didn’t realize the significance of that. Not yet.
The giant man had a can before him, and a fire had been started within it. It was small, just enough to warm his fingers, not nearly enough to warm the entire enclosure. It let off very little light, but what it did reveal as light descended were the unsettled shadows on everyone's faces.
I claimed a small edge of cement for my own pack and blanket. I was not invited to join the group's tight circle of sleeping bags. I never was.
It was as if they were hoping I would get picked off. After my screaming nightmares, I did not blame them.
Perhaps that is unkind to say. They did their best. They could have left me where they found me. I am alive today because of Wizened’s kindness and Mother’s administrations.
Everyone spoke quietly among themselves, for the first time during the daily trek. Once camp was made, it was as if there was safety and everyone dared make some noise.
Never a lot of noise.
No one spoke to me if they didn’t have to except for Atta boy. Which was fine.
They never listened when I spoke anyway.
“Hey. You. Girl.”
The voice was exceptionally deep; deep enough to startle me into thinking that it was a growl. I turned to regard the Trader, mouth dropped open and eyes wide with what must have been comical surprise.
I think he laughed then. It was hard to tell between laughing and grunting and coughing with the Trader, to be honest. He beckoned me over; a slow sweeping gesture that seemed like he was moving a great weight with it.
Atta Boy, somewhere behind me, hissed a warning as I stood to walk over to the Trader, but it was fleeting. I felt the heat of his scant fire in a few steps.
It was dense around him, like the air was thicker, as if I walked into a wall of fog. I felt myself taking a deep breath in an attempt to get past it. The air felt humid, but no less chilled by the evening breeze.
“Do I know you?” The Trader asked me.
I shook my head.
“You look like someone I know.” He continued.
I looked down at myself, trying to imagine who he must have met before me. A skinny girl? Easy enough out here to find. Worn poncho, dirty shoes, cap with holes in it? Also common wear for a traveler. Pants with patched knees, gloves with some fingers missing, a many-times-mended pack, an old length of rope for a belt. I looked like every other traveler in the group.
“Them eyes. It’s the eyes I’ve seen before.” The Trader murmured.
I looked pointedly at the ground then. I’d seen my own reflection before in tarnished metal, in water or glass we pass by. I don’t have a memorable sort of face, but my eyes were different. It seemed like everyone else had dark eyes like Mother or blue eyes like Wizened.
Mine are green.
I never used to like them. I thought they were too bright and too noticeable.
The Trader watched me for a minute in silence. I could feel his eyes on my face as I scrutinized the cracked cement at my feet. I thought about how there was a hole in the toe of my right sock, and how the sole on my left shoe would need to be replaced soon. I thought about marrying Atta Boy, and how that might be nice, anything but how the giant Trader was staring at me.
“Must have been someone else.” He grunted.
His gaze passed.
I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“I’m sorry.” I managed to mutter before scooting back to my pack.
“No problem.” The Trader rumbled back at me.
At a safe distance, parted from the weight of his presence, I felt I the air thin again and sat down on the cool floor.
Then I realized that the squirming in my blood had returned; which meant that in the Trader's presence I hadn't felt it at all.
