He had run out of vegetables and nothing he had planted was even close to being ready for harvest which meant his only source of food was the stream. The stream in the forest. The stream in the forest currently occupied by a tribe of murderous goblins.

He had been avoiding going back, hoping some other source of food would present itself but none had.

Stumbling outside, Dakota searched for his hoe. He was becoming quite fond of it. He found it where last night’s fight had taken place. Two corpses were nearby. Dakota couldn’t remember how he had killed them, although one appeared to have a broken neck.

Dakota wasn’t certain how he felt about the killing. He had killed animals before but these creatures were far more intelligent than the chickens he had butchered as a kid. Did this count as murder? He had been defending himself… although he had gone on the offensive hadn’t he. The goblins had started it by trying to break into his house.

He…he didn’t know how to feel. He would defend himself again in the future. He would kill again if he had to. Dakota supposed he didn’t want to have to kill. He didn’t want to have to fight. He didn’t want to because a small part of him had relished the adrenaline of the battle. The feeling of his hoe connecting with a skull. The rush of strength as he barreled into the enemy. Dakota was scared of that almost more than the goblins themselves.

Snagging his hoe, Dakota walked up to the edge of the forest. Before he could lose his nerve, he stomped in. He had to eat. If the goblins wanted another go, well, Dakota would take his chances. He was up 2-0 on them.

Dakota made it to his fishing spot without incident. He thought he had heard something scuffling in the distance but after stopping and listening for ten minutes nothing materialized.

His trap was destroyed and, judging by the little clawed footprints, it wasn’t from natural causes. His rod had been thrown on the ground, line broken. Thankfully, Dakota found his nail hook nearby, attached to the other end of the broken weed braid.

Twenty minutes later, he dangled the hook into the stream on a new braided line. For some reason, he simply knew how low to dangle the hook.

The forest birds chirped as the stream gurgled in the background. Wait. The stream. How was it flowing? He was on a floating island, where did the water come from?

Jamming his rod in between two rocks, Dakota climbed a nearby tree. Once at the top, he was able to trace the stream’s wandering line to a hill a short distance away. The forest canopy had obscured it until now.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Dakota didn’t have the energy to discover where the water from the stream came from, at least right now. The stream flowed, that was what mattered.

His rod began bobbing as he climbed down the tree; however, as he was about to make the final jump, the distinct sound of a branch cracking sounded through the forest.

Dakota froze, clinging to the side of the tree. He supposed he shouldn’t feel so afraid, he had fought the goblin creatures twice but some primal fear kept him glued to the tree. Twenty minutes later, Dakota slowly slid to the ground. Hurrying to his rod, he yoinked up a decent-sized fish. Offering a short prayer of thanks the fish had stayed on the line, Dakota headed back to the farm.

Dakota managed to find an old cast iron pan in one of the kitchen cabinets. It was badly rusted but after a good clean-up at the well, it was serviceable. Dakota started a fire in the stove and then slapped the fish into the pan. The fish stuck but constant stirring with an improvised branch spatula kept it from burning.

The fish was heavenly. Dakota’s stomach unwound from the painful knot it had been in for the last two days. Well, more like a week but especially the last two days. Raw vegetables kept hunger at bay for a while but nothing beat a meal with some meat in it. Not that he was a huge fan of fish. Dakota wondered how hard it would be to catch a rabbit or squirrel. He bet those tasted amazing.

Picking fish bones from his teeth, Dakota settled on the steps of the back deck. He would appreciate a chair but the only chair in the house had two busted legs.

Hold on. Scooting back into the house, Dakota pointed at the chair.

[Minor Mundane Repair]

The chair legs snapped together, some material from the back support ripping off and fusing around the breakpoints. A few seconds later, Dakota had a chair. The material was still old but it looked like it would hold.

Dakota sat on his new-to-him chair on the deck. His eyelids drooped as a warm breeze brushed past him.

Dakota was at a crossroads regarding staying on the farm. On one hand, the farm provided a modicum of safety and the potential for growing vegetables. Judging by the speedy growth of the current plants, Dakota felt confident he would be able to sustainably feed himself in a few weeks. On the other hand, he was exposed here. The goblins knew exactly where he was and, based off last night, they weren’t afraid to attack in force. Dakota was lucky he had escaped as unharmed as he was.

The idea of abandoning the farm sent a pang through Dakota’s chest. He had grown attached to the old structures and swaying grass. Giving it up to hide in the forest felt like defeat. Not to mention that he couldn’t truly run away on a floating island, no matter how large. Sooner or later the goblins would find him. Dakota thought he would rather be here, on land he was familiar with and that the goblins seemed to be afraid of.

It was decided, he would stay. The next question was… what did he do in the meantime? Going back to clearing after last night felt criminal. He should be fashioning a better weapon or improving the defences of the house. Except he didn't know how to make a better weapon than his hoe and it wasn’t like he could drastically improve the defences of the farmhouse in a short amount of time. If he had a year, sure, building better defences would be a no-brainer. But something told Dakota he didn’t have a year to prepare for the next fight. For the time being, developing a robust garden was probably the best thing he could do.

Back to clearing it was.