2 – 3

There are a number of things about my situation upon waking that make little sense. The least of which is the sun's light pressing against my closed lids. I had slept through the night without waking, and I should not have. The unfamiliarity of my location should have, on its own, been enough to keep me from doing so. What follows in its improbability is that I am comfortable, if not downright cozy. My choice of bedding should have made that impossible. I should be aching and sore from sleeping upright and curled so tightly, and I am not. In fact, I feel rather good.

I feel warm.

The source of my warmth lies next to me. I've rather draped myself over it; chest, head, and arms rising and falling in time with the animal's breaths. Twitches run down the solid wall of muscle beneath the hairy hide I've pressed my face against. The smell of it fills my nose and reminds me of home, of brushing down the mules after a day of them in our wagon's traces.

Longing runs through me, thrumming and quickly buried. I rise and fall as the beast breathes and the forest wakes around me. Squirrel and chipmunk chatter and scurry along the ground and among the trees. Birds chirp and flit from perch to perch. Above it all is the sound of the little stream from which I drank last night. Through it all, the elk breathes, and I with it.

It is the elk. Even before I open my eyes, I know it. It can be nothing else. I meet its huge, dark eyes with my own and see that strange, impossible wisdom within them. My hand slides up its flank to tangle in thicker, darker fur around its neck, which it allows with a flick of its ear. After a moment it looks away, turning its regard to the forest around us. Is it looking for something in particular, or did it simply grow tired of looking at me?

More to the point, what is it? Though it's beyond obvious, the only thing I know for certain is that it's no ordinary elk. It's frustrating that I can only guess at everything else. Whatever it's nature, it seems to have taken a liking to me. Or at least taken pity on me. I must have been quite the sorry sight for it to come across, huddling in the dark and cold. I find that I'm fond of it as well, for the help and distraction it's given me. “Thank you,” I murmur into the thick, soft fur of its neck. After that, I push myself up to sit and feel the absence of its warmth shiver through me.

In return I am given a flicked ear and a rumbling snort that rises from its barrel chest. Now that I'm no longer draped over it, the elk rolls its legs beneath itself and rises in a long, graceful motion. It takes a few steps away from me and I wonder if it's going to leave again. I wonder if the trees will help it vanish this time, since it can't rely on the dark of night. Instead it stops and swivels its majestically antlered head to and fro.

For the moment I move my thoughts away from the puzzle of the elk. Whether it's a spirit or some other fey creature can be puzzled out on the day's walk. My mouth is dry, and so I crawl to the banks of the stream to sup handfuls of its achingly cold, crystalline clear flow. As my thirst fades, my hunger makes itself known with a growl. I don't think it'll be as easy to sate. As I look around I see a fair few bushes, most stripped of leaves by grazing animals or winter's coming. I don't recognize the ones remaining, those that do have brightly colored berries on their stems.

Hunger growls again in my gut, more insistent somehow, and I try to ignore it. Better to go hungry than risk my health or life on something I don't know is safe.

Maybe I'll find something on the way, something that I know I can eat without risk. If I'm lucky, that'll be the case. If I'm very lucky the nearest town won't be too far once I find the road, and I'll be able to eat my fill of hot food and sleep in an actual bed tonight. I dare not think of bathing. I don't want to give myself too much hope.

So instead, I think about standing. I won't get anywhere on my knees, after all. As I do, everything from my knees down protests in a throb of sore, stiffened misery. Some of that, I know comes from having slept. I'll walk that much off. The rest of it, that comes from the trial I put myself through yesterday, will only worsen. I'm not eager to learn how my feet feel about being stood on. Nor am I in any hurry to worsen the blisters that have doubtlessly been scraped into life across them.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Maybe the elk would deign to let me ride it if I whined pitifully enough. It's still there, with its broad hindquarters facing me, that dragging scar gleaming in the morning sun. As if it knows I'm thinking about it, one of those dark eyes fixes on me. Suddenly, I feel very childish. This is a problem that I caused myself. I need to be the one to deal with it. That might be part of what it means to be grown.

So I stand up.

- - -

I cast a reproachful look from the corner of my eye. My traveling companion, pacing silently at my side, ignores it. “It wasn't that funny,” I grumble, “There was no need to laugh.” There's no other name to give the sound, high and fluting, that the elk made when it saw me trying to walk. They were pitiful, hobbling steps, each one punctuated by whimpers escaping through tightly pressed lips. Small wonder it laughed.

As a result of its mockery, I'm revising my good regard downwards until it apologizes to me or offers its back for me to ride. So we walk in silence among the boring, endless trees. I might be more inclined to recognize the sheer size and age of them, to wonder at all the seasons they've survived, if I didn't hiss a pained breath out through my nose every third step. At least their endless campaign to get me lost has been curbed. Despite or in ignorance of how I currently feel about it, the elk is taking it upon itself to act as my guide. Whenever I threaten to lose my way it leads me back with careful bumps of its broad antlers into my shoulders.

I suppose that, in the face of this kindness without which I would be horribly lost, I can look past it finding my coltish stumbling funny. For now. If it led me to some food or medicine for my bleeding feet, I'll forgive and forget altogether.

That's the other thing. I had been wrong about the blisters. They are so much worse than I had predicted yesterday evening. Large and numerous and already burst, they're raw and oozing into my socks. Each scraping step I take is one that worsens the pain they send shooting up my legs. A particularly awful jolt sends tears stinging to my eyes and I have to stop. I have to stop. I can't bear one more step.

This is my fault. I did this to myself, practically halting my journey before it can even begin, and I hate that I was so stupid. If I had been smarter, or more aware, or just better than I was, then none of this would be happening. I wouldn't be hungry and hurting and lost, relying on the charity of some creature I don't at all understand. Would they be disappointed in me, if they knew? Mother and Father, I mean? I think they might be. They'd see that I may have learned what they had to teach but not understood it well enough to apply it when and where it was needed.

Leaves crunch beneath the narrow weight of cloven hooves. A snort brushes warm breath across my face and tousles strands of my hair. I open my eyes and give a little squeak at how close the elk's snout is. I can see up its nose. “I'm sorry,” I tell it. “I needed...I needed to rest.” It turns its mighty head just enough that it can fix me with one of those huge, wise eyes. “I hurt my feet,” I explain. The elk's flank twitches, ear turning in my direction, as though it was listening. “They're bleeding,” I go on, “and it's getting worse.”

After another minute or so under its eye, the elk turns away. I think it means to leave me and my heart sinks, dread beginning to pool inside, before it stops. The broad width of its withers are level with my face. I grasp its intent and sling my arm across them, sagging into its support. The elk seems to barely notice my weight. I must be as light as a bird to such a creature.

Under its watchful eye, and with great care, we move onward. I at a limp and the elk keeping pace. The pain still sings strongly with each step, but it's enough. I can keep going. “Thank you,” I say again, murmuring the words into its thick fur. Being the stoic converser that it is, the elk does not reply.

We go on. Traversing the gentle rise and fall of hills, circling wide around dens and deadfalls. We ford little streams and the cold water feels heavenly on my bloodied feet. Sometime after the sun's zenith I close my eyes and rest my head on the elk's shoulder, trusting it fully to guide me. It leads me to a blueberry bush that I gorge myself at, eating a blue stain into my fingers and lips. We pass a waterfall that thunders over smooth stones down into a rippling pond. A turtle suns itself on the bank, drawing into itself as we approach and emerging only after we've gone.

I tell the elk about my family. For the first time since I left, speaking of or thinking about them doesn't hurt. Only fond memories or ones that draw a chuckle from me. I tell it about what I'm doing and why, as well as the places I want to see and the experiences I want to have. By the time we halt my throat is dry and my voice hoarse from all that I've confessed.

A cool breeze brushes against my sweat-dappled skin. I breathe it in deeply and smell the water in it. I ask, “Have you brought me to water?” without opening my eyes. The elk snorts and rolls its barrel-thick body, jarring me to look.

We stand at the edge of the forest. A vast expanse of water stretches to and beyond the horizon. That gentle breeze blows cheerful little waves across its surface. Boats out in the depths, fishermen and merchants plying their trade between towns. Puffy white clouds bustle innocently across the clear sky. Tall, green grass at the shoreline rustles and sighs and sways. I press a dirt and berry stained hand to my mouth, feeling the smile against my grimy skin. Disbelieving laughter bubbles up my chest and escapes the wall of my fingers.

I can't believe it. I thought I would never leave that forest, that I'd die a lost and forgotten crone. I realize I'm standing on my own, leaning on nothing, and I look for my companion and guide. I find it further back, where the trees begin to thicken and their shadows grow long. It surprises me when tears spill forth and I realize that I'm actually going to miss it. I take my hand away from my mouth and touch my palm my heart. “Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely, a third and final time, and the elk bows its proud head to me. It turns and is swallowed up by its forest.

I swallow the knot in my throat and turn back to the road. A little cart, pulled by an old, graying mule and driven by an old, graying man, comes from the north.