A Cabin In The Woods

A path cut through the forest. Under canopied trees walked Duara and her father. Ahead of them lay Drethen, a town they’d decided to settle in after months of travel and running.

They had walked and talked, picking out small details to fill in the silence, but their conversation had now been reduced to slight groans and deliberate breaths.

Duara’s father, Gaul, was the first to break the silence. “Thoughts?” he asked.

“Not many,” said Duara. After more focused, even breaths, she spoke again, “It’s far enough, I suppose, Drethen, that is.”

“Mhm.”

Duara stopped. There were sores on her feet. There were aches in her muscles; aches that grew and grew—gathered during the march; they worsened as her last belongings clunked together. In her bag rattled dented pots, unwashed clothes, and a tarp she slept with—either underneath its covering during rainy nights, or above it on wetter grounds. The rattling quieted once her footsteps slowed. “Do you miss her?” she asked.

“I can’t,” said Gaul, slowing to a halt too. “We have to travel past the town. The Bramphian told us it was past the town.”

“I know.”

“We can’t keep stopping like this.”

“I know.”

“The last stretch—”

“Is always the worst, I know,” said Duara, as she took her first step. Then two, then three. It was the tenth that numbed the pain, but even then, a hint remained.

Gaul stayed behind her. While walking, he said, “I didn’t say we had to keep going.”

“Mhm.”

“I do,” said Gaul.

“Want to stop?” asked Duara with a groan and a whine.

“Miss her.”

They were quiet a trifle longer. “I do too,” muttered Duara.

The forest canopy opened. Upon its clearing grazed the sheep and swine, and farther beyond the animals were the beginnings of a moss-covered and crack-ridden cobble road. The sheep bleated as the pair passed, then the sheep moved in a flock to follow—all while the swine pointed their snouts to the air, snorting as they inspected, before they swung their snouts to the dirt, continuing their usual rooting.

“Docile,” said Duara.

Gaul grunted and said, “More than the ones we’ve seen.” He extended his hand to pet a sheep, who milled a patch of grass. It bleated again, and Gaul withdrew his hand.

Duara smiled. “Still getting used to ‘em?”

“They don’t look like the ones we’ve seen. Unnerving, I’d say.”

“One could say the same about us.”

“They haven’t.”

“They will,” said Duara.

“You haven’t given them the chance.”

“Not that I’d need to.” Duara pointed at the other side of the field, where wooden structures sat, and Drethen’s folk looked like sticks moving along the horizon. In the back of Duara’s head, a buzz. One she’d known very intimately, and it had kept her very safe. But for now—at least, it was only, merely a buzz.

“We’re strangers in a small town, that’s all,” Gaul said.

One of the sticks raised a hand and waved.

Duara instinctively wanted to wave back, but she kept her hand down and instead she let out the word, “Right,” and walked.

They walked even more, passing the fields, and onto where the road roughened into mere grass and dirt. Their ankles shook as they struck the ground, but they didn’t slow until a cabin appeared behind two trees. At this point, their once-even, deliberate breath grew ragged, because each step hindered their focus, and because each step was a hundred times worse than the one before.

They didn’t say a word. Gaul opened the door, and it creaked and it groaned, and it folded against the iron hinges, cracking.

Light filtered from the canopy above, and it entered timidly into the cabin. Gaul fumbled around the half-lit cabin and found a lamp, already oiled. And once it was lit, the ceiling grew and revealed hanging bundles of dried garlic, onions, peppers, beets, and on longer strings, rosemary, thyme, and sage.

Duara dropped her bag. “It feels like we’ve stumbled into someone else’s home.”

“They said they used it often.”

“I heard,” said Duara, “it still feels like someone else’s.” She picked out some sage and sniffed it. A painting bloomed in her mind: broad strokes of grasslands and open skies—a painting, a place, where she’d never been, but always felt she knew the lands like she knew home.

Gaul’s bag plopped to the ground. “There are yams, and I’ll make a fire.”

“I suppose they said it was fine to be here,” said Duara, “and I suppose they said we could eat here. But did they have to make it so hard to do so?”

Gaul said, “The yams were easy to find,” and paced around the cabin. He carried the lamp and the light painted the area into Duara’s mind, as scenes illuminated into view—paintings of open cabinets filled with wooden bowls and mugs, and of course, hung from the cabinets, metal pots and pans, leading to a brick chimney. “I see,” said Gaul.

“Really,” Duara sniffled, “It isn’t fair.” She sat on the floor near the fireplace.

Gaul set down kindling within the hearth. “It isn’t.” He struck a stone and tried the fire. As an ember flickered and stayed in the kindling, he blew it into a flame and added wood chips, and then a stick, and then a log until it was a proper fire. He put the yams within the hearth and settled on the floor next to Duara.

She sniffled again.

Crackling could be heard, as embers sparked, hissed, and flicked onto the hardpan floor.

“It might take some time,” said Gaul.

“It will.”

“It will be nighttime soon.”

“It will.”

“I’ll prepare your bed then.”

“There’s no need. I’ll sleep alright, father.”

“Will you?”

“I won’t.”

“Would you like a song?”

Duara wiped her face. “Would I like a song?” she asked. “Are you ill? Drunk?”

“A long walk will make you so.”

“Fine. I’ll hear it.”

Gaul cleared his throat, and Duara gave a slight grin when he did.

His voice echoed as he sang, his voice soft and dry.

“O’ have you dreamed beyond ev’ry light and day, where night won’t follow, and where it stays.

A land when Time lays still and lies with you.

I’ve not met a soul—”

Gaul coughed. “It sounds better when I’m with drink. And I’ve a better mind to remember it too.”

“You sound a few months out of practice.”

“Perhaps.”

Duara lay against her bag. “I’ll likely sleep here like this then.”

“Should I sing more to help you?”

“Would you?”

Gaul cleared his throat again, but when he tried his voice, a wheeze came out. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Must be the smoke.”

“It must be,” said Duara.

The yams sweetened the air, and Gaul used the fire iron to poke them and bring them out, placing both into a bowl of their own.

“Will you eat?” asked Gaul.

Duara stared at the yam as if it were a stone. After some time, she asked, “Was she saddened once you told her?”

Gaul had already sliced into his yam and had let it cool. He spent time blowing on it.

“Father? Father,” Duara said once more.

“I can’t be certain. It’s her feelings after all.”

“Then I can’t be certain of my hunger.”

“You’re not a child.”

“Not much older than one.”

“Would you rather be one?”

“I would.”

“Then I’ll—I’ll spoon feed you.”

“I’d like that.”

“Would you?”

“Wouldn’t I?” Duara sniffled. “Shouldn’t a mother feel saddened by her family’s absence? Wouldn’t she have to hold a tear for the nations we had to cross? A sigh for the home we had lost?”

“She may.”

“She won’t.”

“We can’t change the state of Haford’s affairs—”

“It isn’t fair!”

“No—but perhaps… it’ll change.”

“Do you believe that, father? Or do you need to?”

Gaul placed his bowl on the floor. “I fled, didn’t I?”

“Was it because of Haford? Or because of my mother?”

“It was because of you.”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” asked Gaul.

“Well—well, because it isn’t fair.”

“You bring up a very compelling argument.” Gaul sighed. “And a very true one. Once you eat and sleep, I’d like to hear more of it.”

Duara snatched her yam. The heat stung her fingers. She dropped it afterwards.

“Have mine,” said Gaul, moving his bowl in front of her. “It’s cool now.”

“But then you’ll have to wait.”

“I won’t mind. Eat, so that it won’t cool too much.”

After some time, hunger came and Duara ate, in a begrudging way, and then she slept soon after, much like a child would sleep.

Morning came and so did the sun. Through the cracks in the door and between the cabin’s logs and its clay filtered in the sun’s golden rays. Light settled on Duara. She’d been tucked. A soft cloth blanket settled on top of her, and Gaul had the same blanket.

But he still slept.

And snored—or fought the air, she could never be sure.

She rolled, undid her blanket, and snuck out the door. The pain was an undercurrent in her body, but she was able to ignore most of it. She strolled around the cabin, taking time to trace her fingers within clay divots, crevices and cracks. She handled some dirt, a loam that clumped rather nicely, and she stuck the dirt to the side of the cabin’s outer wall.

She knew that once winter fell, the cracks were like daggers and the holes like swords. There was nothing she could do now without water to soften and mold the dirt into a workable material. She’d need to find a creek nearby, not only for the dirt—but more so to soothe the scratchiness in her throat that itched ever since she’d left Haford. It was likely that her father felt the same way.

So then, she went off and used her nose to sniff out dampened earth. She felt like a swine as she did though. But as long as nobody saw, nobody could tell. Regardless, the scent of wet rocks, earth, and soil had a muskier aroma than most other things that were misted by the evening cool. Morning dew was like a winter squash, while a creek was like—like, a creek.

As she strayed from the path, her boots crushed layers upon layers of twigs and branches. This newly forged path on which she walked led her to the sound of trickling water—a neverending sound that drew in others, like the squeaks of the forest squirrel, and the loudest morning chirps. In the distance frolicked a family of deer; they would stop, presumably eye Duara, and travel down the creek in search of kindred, or perhaps kinder-looking animals. And when she squinted, she saw an upright stick that waved.

“Hello!” called the stick.

Duara didn’t hide or run. Although, she spent some time considering it. “Hello,” she said, way too quiet to be heard, however.

“Hello!” the stick called again.

Duara yelled this time. “I said, ‘Hello!’”

As the stick trotted closer, Duara could see its long hair that swung to its shoulders. And the stick was really a young woman, wearing a shift and a tunic, a set with stains that rather deeply ingrained in the hemp fabric.

“There’s no need for hostility,” the woman said.

“I wasn’t trying to be hostile. You didn’t hear me when I said it the first time.”

“That could be true. But it could also be that you didn’t say it loud enough.”

“It—it was loud enough,” said Duara.

“Anyways, I saw you walking this way yesterday afternoon. I usually come by this way, by this creek, and well—I suppose I shouldn’t knock on someone’s door uninvited. But I also suppose it’s hard finding one’s footing in a new town without a knock.”

“Isn’t it strange for you to go by yourself in the woods?” asked Duara.

“I suppose it’s strange for others. Well—others that aren’t me. But that’s me saying the same thing with different words.”

“One could argue that.”

The woman smiled. “I’m glad you think so. Where’s the other?” She looked behind Duara.

“Other?”

“I thought you walked with another.”

“I didn’t. You must’ve seen my bag. It’s long and tall. It’s got hardened supports to carry more things and all,” said Duara.

“That’s right,” the woman said, her eyes widened with a revelation, “I wanted to also ask where you came from.”

“The east.”

The woman frowned, as she hoped for a longer detail. But then the woman took a closer glance and gasped at scarring atop Duara’s ears. “I see,” she said, and then her chin dipped as she thought of it more. “ Oh, I see now. Yes, I see now.”

“Sorry,” said Duara, “it’s not something I’d like to talk more of. If that’s alright.”

“No—no, of course. If there’s anything you need. You’ll need to travel down and past the farms. Past the tanner, the treewright, and past the blacksmith—that’s my uncle, then you’ll find my home. It’s tall. Well, my dad’s the miller, and my mum’s the baker.” She spun to leave and then spun back around with her pointing finger upright near her ear. “If you smell the brewer, you’re near, but if it smells like fat, that’s the chandler and then you’re too far. Alright, I’m off. Don’t worry about knocking.” And she started back the way she came.

“What’s your name?” asked Duara. “In case I have trouble finding you.”

“Ashya,” said the woman, “although, I don’t have much to do today—uhm, really nothing to do today—that is, if you’d like to guide me through the town. I wouldn’t want to—I suppose you could say, take too much of your time settling in.”

“I don’t have much to settle in with.”

“That’s right.” Ashya made the same expression as earlier with another revelation. “You’re atop the hill, in the cabin up there.”

Duara didn’t respond.

“Oh, I—I didn’t mean to—well, I did say I wanted to knock, so I suppose you’d be aware that I knew of your living. I’ve stumbled upon the cabin a few summers ago. Walked around or stumbled around. And I gathered that it was a Bramphian safe house—well—evidenced by the Bramphians that would pass that way. And the town’s been knowing of the cabin too, they buy wares and goods, and sometimes ask for things from the tinkerer, which I’m apprenticing under right now—but, oh—I can see I’ve extended past your comfort, and I wouldn’t want to do that, or shouldn’t have done it.”

“No—no,” said Duara, “I’m not troubled. I haven’t talked to someone in some time.”

Ashya stood straight, as if the pressure of representing normalcy became a burdened responsibility. “I see now. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t allow you to talk to the other folk here in Drethen, they’re much better conversationalists, and I’m afraid, I, well—I thought I saw someone who looked quite like me. And, and…” Her voice trailed off.

“Perhaps not the town. But I’m not comfortable with these woods.”

“Of course,” said Ashya. She lowered her head, almost like a bow. Then she raised her hand, gesturing the upstream. “This leads to higher ground, and well, as you know—near the cabin.”

“I appreciate that.” Duara stepped closer to Ashya and allowed her to lead.

“Watch your step now,” said Ashya. “The rocks here are larger than you’d expect, and I’ve—well I’ve unfortunately made the mistake of that expectation.”

Duara chuckled and made sure to keep her step high. She’d find the courage to step on large rocks; though some were jagged, some were slippery, and smooth—still, she stepped bravely on those too. If there’d be two—or perhaps three—large rocks in a row, she’d happily jump from one to the other, and perhaps the next if the forest offered the third. Her chuckles turned to laughter, as the two hopped, jumped, then skipped along.

“Is the forest different here than Haford?” asked Ashya. “I’ve heard the trees there stretch up beyond the sky and touch the stars. Although, that wouldn’t make much sense, but I still see it in my mind when I think much on it.”

“I’d say they touch the sky. They’ve built homes and houses in them, and sometimes the clouds would come through our homes.”

“That sounds lovely. Watch your head here. I’d love to see it one day, or well—if they’d allow me.”

“I don’t think they’d allow you. They’re really reserved, and don’t quite like strangers. Much less than their own half-offspring.”

Ashya slowed and Duara didn’t notice—since she’d stared at the ground on the lookout for larger stones to jump from. Mid-step, she bumped into Ashya.

“I’m sorry,” said Ashya. “Well that sounds awful. Absolutely awful when I hear it—oh, when I hear it from you that is. And now I’ve realized, I’ve pried and now—now, and—”

“It’s alright. Hearing it aloud, it doesn’t seem as if you’re prying. And, the people like me, we stick together. Usually in small towns like Drethen. I miss it sometimes.” Duara smiled, and she looked off towards the trees. “I think it’s alright to miss it.”

“I’d say so,” said Ashya as she continued up the stream. “I tell the tinkerer that I’d miss Drethen if I were to leave. And I want to some days. But then, I wouldn’t be able to hear the tinkerer’s misfortunes about his fancies—like the tanner, Aleuwin; Vellay the barmaid; and Grielle, her sister, who’s apprenticing as the cooper. Oh, that’s why he smells of over-proofed bread. He’s off trying his best, I’d hope.”

“I figured that’s why you wanted to be a tinkerer. That’s presuming you enjoy putting things together.” The pain that encumbered Duara had drained into the heels of her feet. When she’d spoken earlier, it subsided some. Speaking in regards to Ashya’s affairs, it subsided some more.

“Oh, I’ve never thought of it that way. Truthfully, it was my parents that pushed me to be a tinkerer. Ouch! Watch your step here.”

“Right. Perhaps they thought that you’d enjoy it. My dad wanted me to work with enchantments in Haford, and I wanted to—but not a lot of Laerians work as enchanters, and I’d be alone. But, I think he thought I’d like it, and that I’d like using my hands and aptitude. ”

“No,” said Ashya, “I wouldn’t believe that for myself.” She quieted as the rocks cleared and the steps became easier. The forest floor ramped up to form a hill. Out of the hill sprawled a spring, one that crisped the air with freshly dampened soil and grass perfume. Rocks, much like the ones they stepped on, led the water from one side, and to the other, then down where they came. Ashya then climbed the hill and she pointed off towards the cabin. “I can view the cabin from here. This is how I saw the Bramphians the first time, it’s almost like they’re here now. It was pleasant when they had their hearth lit like you do now.”

In the distance, smoke puffed and curled above the cabin and as it went up, it disappeared into the sky.

Duara climbed up to join Ashya. “My dad—my father—I’m sorry, I told you I was the only one, and now I feel that I’ve done a disservice to your kindness, Ashya, but both my father and I traveled here.”

“Oh it isn’t an issue,” said Ashya, placing her hands firm on her hip. “I deduced it, once I saw the hearth, and when you told me that story. I would like to say I would have done the same if I were in a strange place, albeit—a very pleasant strange place, and I was hoping that you would sooner say so.”

“I would say so. I imagine Drethen would be pleasant, especially so, after meeting you.”

Duara sat on the hill, looking off towards the cabin. She imagined what kind of herb would smell like the spring and the rocks and the moss. Sage, likely, but also thyme for the moss, and a whole onion for the soaked rocks. She then wondered if her dad thought the same.