A bird.
She meant to take the phoenix herself and leave Sy, his usefulness spent, to the trees. He found he couldn’t blame her. She was only behaving how he planned to when the time came. How he had prodded her to by insulting her, begging her in the only way he could to leave him behind and spare him making the decision himself, spare him these ceaseless contradictions. To free him from her debt. Let him find his future on his own, whatever fate may bring.
Then, feeling the metal in his hands, remembering the danger of the tool he held, his mind caught up to him. She left him her shotgun. Gave it to him. Showed him, her hips against his, how it worked. All her supplies, including her waterskin, were still there, unguarded.
She meant to return. He relaxed, a bit; she would return.
Then he tensed all over again when he remembered he would have to be rid of her, somehow, eventually.
And again when he heard someone speak his name.
He spun around. “Anya?”
But it wasn’t her voice. He couldn’t pinpoint its source or direction. Its tone, or its volume. It wasn’t a voice at all, he realized. And yet, it had spoken.
Blood loss was affecting him more than he’d anticipated, that was all. His behavior that morning was proof enough of that. The berries Anya had given him had helped him immensely, but their efforts had long been expended. Though he had no hint of an appetite, he reached for his bag to find something to force down his throat.
Then he heard it again. His name. Not heard; felt. An urge. A voice from both within and without. From nowhere. It could almost be the wind, but judging by the leaves, the wind did not stir. Even the breaking clouds sat heavy above.
“Promising,” he mumbled, stepping away from the pine. His chest tightened as he scanned the dense trees for…anything. Anya, bears, squirrels, even another scribe. Something solid. Something real.
A noise, definitely real, definitely from outside of him. A rustling, in the brush. He turned toward it.
“Hello?” The gun felt heavy in his hands. “Anya?”
Nothing answered.
“Anya,” he called again, louder. “If you don’t answer me, I’ll have no choice but to come after you!”
It was then that he realized the birds had gone silent.
Wait here, she had said, but what if something happened to her? What if she was injured and couldn’t call out? If someone had blinded her, taken her tongue? Was that not why she had agreed to work with him in the first place? Sabina had already hurt her, frightened her, prank or no. She might do worse. Any of them might. He certainly hadn’t cared for the way Aquila had threatened Anya, or the look he gave her when they parted.
Here was a chance. If he could prove himself worthy of their agreement, sham that it was – if he could repay the debt he already owed her – perhaps the shredding of it would come easier to him.
She hadn’t been gone half an hour. He could go after her. He would. Make up for his cruelty, past and future. He strapped Anya’s ammunition pouch to his belt and carried the gun ashe had seen her do, slung over his shoulder with the barrel open. It was heavier than it looked, but he was weaker than he had been when they set out yesterday morning. Much weaker, in fact. Though David had done an admirable job healing his back, he could still feel phantom claws tearing his flesh, phantom blood dripping down his back. Whatever had drawn Anya away, he desperately hoped it was not another bear.
He took a quick inventory. Satchel, all his supplies clean and ready. Shotgun, slugs for the big shit, food. Knowing the value of bandages, no matter how unkempt, he had kept the tattered, bloodstained shirt, stuffed it in his rucksack. He tucked the rowan branch Anya had given him into the flap. The leaves and flowers peeked out the top like a flag.
Then, prodded by a voice he knew was his but wished was not, he turned and rummaged through Anya’s bag. She hadn’t needed to use it. If he got lost looking for her, he would need it more than she did. With one last prick of remorse, he plucked the map free.
Everything else – both their bedrolls, Anya’s messenger bag and waterskin – he left untouched. Though this was the only rowan tree he could see, he reasoned it would be easy enough to mistake it for another, and easier to mark the spot on his return with these signs of humanity – and if Anya returned while he was gone, she would know he hadn’t betrayed her.
Yet.
Probably.
With a noise somewhere between growl and sigh, he plucked a scrap of paper from his dwindling supply and hastily scrawled a penciled note.Gone too long. Off to find you.He secured it by puncturing the parchment on the end of one of the rowan’s branches. Then, gripping the shotgun like a torch in the night, set off in the direction he had seen Anya disappear.
Behind him, an errant and violent gust of wind shook the leaves of the rowan tree. Intent on his path, he did not notice. If he had, he may have marked it strange that only the rowan tree, and no other, shook. His note ripped free of its fastening, and the gust left the tree behind, carrying the note whirlingbeneath the pines and between the beech leaves, soaring above asps and adders, tumbling over sticks and stones and pink writhing worms, until it was snatched from the air by a deep flowing stream, where his words were slowly steeped in smothering wetness before a carp, mistaking the missive for something to eat, swallowed it whole.
As he walked, though it slowed him even further, he made great effort to mark his way. He slipped the flowering branch from his bag and left a trail of plucked blossoms, counting them as he went, one every ten steps. Trepidation pushed him forward as surely as it called him back.
But as the clouds dissipated and the mist lifted with the rising sun’s heat, as the rowan, his beacon of vigilant white in a sea of shrouding green, vanished from sight behind him and he saw no signs of Anya, nor any other life, his trepidation morphed into something far meaner. Desperation.
There were no signs of her anywhere, no indication of which way she had gone. He didn’t hear the strange cry, or any other sound, or – whatever it was that had felt like his name. He didn’t know what had possessed him to think he could find her. The spirit of a nobler, stupider man. No; a whispered urge of madness – from hunger, from blood loss, from the claustrophobic presence of the ever-watchful trees.
Now, his rational self prevailed. He should have remained where he was and left Anya to her fate, be it crusade or prank or folly. He should march onward, alone.
