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This land is cursed. One need only look at its mud to understand. It slimes its frigid tendrils into every crevice it can reach and clings with hateful tenacity. Once dried and flaked off, its cruelty does not abate. It increases. For it leaves behind grit which rubs and scrapes and strips until one's feet are a bloody, aching mess trapped in coffins of leather and damp, dirty wool!
Its forests are worse. Not only are they home to the mud, but they are vast and trackless places by design. They are filled to the brim with tiny creatures that bite and sting, larger ones that claw and tear, and trees that looks identical to one another. Even the kindest of its dwellers, the majestic elk, delights in an impenetrably mysterious air.
All of those sins I can forgive, for it has one virtue over the waters. Beneath its endless canopies is not one eel. Not a single eel to be found anywhere. Eels are slimy, knobbly wretches with sunken eyes full of plots and mouths full of too many teeth. Their smell can only be described as wetly flatulent and their taste, no matter the method of preparation, is best left undescribed entirely! It is a betrayal of the lowest kind for them to possess the ability to create something so beautiful!
Eels are a curse on the world. I despise them, and not because of the scar on my calf or the sickness eating one gave me. So when Harlan tells me that one of them is the reason for that serpentine sway of blue-green glow beneath the black, rippling waters of the lake, I don't believe him. In fact, I narrow my eyes at him, accuse, “You're lying.” and expect him to admit it.
He does not. Instead he squints an eye in my direction. “Why?” he asks me. That grin of his, full of amusement at my expense, remains.
It is, unfortunately, a good question. “Well, because – I mean – I don't know, but you must be!” I splutter, swinging back around on my log to face him fully. I point at him over the fire and demand, “Why would one even do that, and how?!”
Harlan shrugs. He takes a stick from the edge of the fire, its end glowing merrily, and begins poking at the fire. The charred timbers pop and crackle in response. I wait for him to answer and, just when I think he already has, he says, “Just do.” Then he returns to poking at the fire. For all his appearing to give up, I can see the grin on his face.
“Well,” I huff, “I don't believe you.”
He snorts. “Sure.”
I roll my eyes and let the matter drop. He may one day earn my forgiveness. With our talk ended the softer sounds around us return to fill the space our voices once occupied. Below the promontory on which we've made camp, gentle waves lap against the rocky shore. The sigh of breeze over grass and the sway of the thick, tall wall of cattails that hide this place from the road. Out on the waters, the brassy clamor of a bell. I look over my shoulder and see not the vessel, but its lamps. Their golden glow shines far and clear. The bell rings again. “Are they in trouble?” I ask, looking back to Harlan, “Or calling for help?”
He shakes his head. “Lettin' other boats know where they're at.”
Curiosity sated, I hum and look back to the fire. Maybe those fishermen will do us all a favor and rid the lake of all eel-kind. Watching the fire die to quiet, glowing embers has fatigue draping itself gently over me. I lift my arms above my head and stretch into a spine-popping twist that leaves my limbs loose and heavy feeling. The yawn follows soon after, a real jaw-cracker. Time for sleep, I think. The distance between where I sit and the wagon with its cargo of cornmeal-stuffed sacks is too far to be worth suffering the journey. If I lay my cloak out just so, it'll do just fine over a bed of grass as thick as this.
I do just that as Harlan adds some more wood to the fire. Then I gracefully slide down to sprawl atop my makeshift bed in the lee of the log I was just sitting on. The fire's renewed heat washes over my side and I close my eyes. I hear Harlan shuffling around nearby and crack an eye open to see him settling down into the grass. He's leaning against the log with his head bowed, feet stretched out towards the fire. His hat is pulled low over his eyes. I close mine once more and find myself carried quickly off to sleep.
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- - -
Harlan snores. Cursed moonlight does he snore. Twice in the night he had gotten so obnoxiously loud with it that it woke me up. It was quite the performance, really, and made all the better for Harlan somehow waking himself alongside me.
His own snores. I should think it impossible if I hadn't seen it happen.
It's a chill wind that wakes me for good. It blows in off the lake and cuts right through my clothes, rippling goosebumps across my skin and making me shiver. The log did nothing to prevent it. I groan as I push myself up, muscles in my arms and back faintly protesting their disturbance. This only exposes me more to the chill, so I pull my cloak out from beneath me and wrap myself in it tightly. The thick cloth blunts the wind near-entirely, once again proving it worth more than its weight in gold.
Harlan grunts at me as he stumps past, dropping an apple in my lap on the way. My mouth waters as I sink my teeth in and tear a large piece free, the sour-sweet juice bursting flavor onto my tongue. I hum, pleased to be putting something in my stomach. It's been a while since those berries the elk found for me.
Watching Harlan break down camp is making me feel restless and a little guilty, like I should be offering to help. Even though he appears to have it well in hand, and truthfully there's not much to do, I feel as if I ought to be doing something. Besides eating, I mean. With another huge bite I reduce the apple to its core, which I save to offer to the donkey. As Harlan grumbles his way through harnessing the ornery beast, I wipe my chin and ask, “Is there anything I can help with?”
He fends off a more-spirited attempt at biting him, then gives the unrepentant donkey a glower before answering. “Feet okay?”
I roll my ankles and wiggle my toes. It's not good, but better than it was. “They're alright, I think!” I call over the wind. He grunts and starts leading the donkey over to the wagon.
“Fire,” is all he says in answer. I look at the charred, ashen remnants of what last night was a merrily burning hearth. There's a chance, however small, that a stubborn ember remains alive somewhere in there. Left unattended, it could be blown onto the grass or into the wall of cattails. Maybe they would be too wet to catch and all would be well, or maybe our negligence would be the reason half the Timberland burnt down. For all that it helps, fire isn't ever to be treated lightly.
So, after wincing my way to my feet, I kick the whole skeleton of it to pieces. In doing so I add some lovely soot stains to my already dirtied boots. Sunlight, but Valdenwood can't arrive soon enough. I'm beyond ready to have these off my feet. Once I've ensure there's nothing to fear from our fire I call out, “Done!” and look to see how Harlan's gotten on.
He sits, hat firmly jammed atop his head, in the driver's seat of the wagon. The donkey, with flattened ears and a look of utmost defeat, is harnessed to it. He nods in response to me and I go to mollify the saddened beast with the core of my apple. I hold it tentatively, ready to pull my hand back at the first sign, but he lips it from my palm without complaint and crunches it between his flat, yellowed teeth. I dare to scratch the spot of gray between his eyes before going to climb into the wagon.
Today I think I'll sit up front. If I'm invited, that is. I stand at the front of the wagon and give Harlan my most winsome smile, one that has nearly sometimes gotten me what I wanted from Mother and Father. He squints an eye at me. “What?” he asks flatly.
“I'd like to ride up front, if that's all right,” I answer.
He shrugs. “Sure.”
I take his offered hand and haul myself up to sit next to him. The wooden bench is without question less comfortable than the sacks of cornmeal in the back, but this way I can at least see where we're going. Today, if Harlan's estimate is correct, we'll reach Valdenwood. I'm ready to be there, so much so that it fills me with a rush of energy. He eyes me out of the corner of his eye. “Alright there?” he asks, cautious.
My most winsome smile that does, on occasion, work has become a grin. I nod, humming. He shrugs and, with a roll of his wrists, slaps the reins gently along the donkey's narrow back. With a squeaking sigh, the animal starts pulling us through the wall of cattails. Their brown, fuzzy tops tickle and itch as they brush against me. I scratch my cheek as we roll back out onto the earthen, rutted road.
As the morning rolls on the gray overhead peels back to a bright blue. The chill wind gentles to a cool breeze. The turning wheel lulls me into a state of mind where I'm content to do nothing more than watch the land roll by. Out on the lake the daytime fishermen are out in force, faint echoes of their shouts carried long ways by the open air. A huge, fat-shelled turtle sits on the lakeshore, still and sure beneath the warm sun. birds flock overhead and fill the air with wingbeats and song. Somewhere, deep in the trees, the high, fluting cry of an elk makes me smile and warms my heart.
Then, just after the sun reaches Her zenith, we round a hill and see it. Built right on the shoreline, with long wooden piers like fingers reaching out into the lake. Valdenwood. Even from our miles-distant view it's abuzz with activity. Harlan grunts beside me, I think in recognition. “What?” I ask, turning to him, “What is it?”
“Market Day,” he answers. “Big to-do ev'ry month.”
Anticipation makes my heart race and my limbs restless. I want to be there now. I muster my patience, as good things come to those who can wait. Besides, I'll be there before too long.
I must admit, when it's not raining hard enough to drown fish or being infested with pestilent eels, the Timberland isn't all that bad.