23 – 2
A shape coalesces within the curtains of falling snow, a figure gaining form and distinction as Peanut's sure, steady strides carry me closer. It's late morning, I think, or just after noon when I come upon them: an old man leading an old donkey down the road to Valdenwood, a sled laden with tarp-draped firewood pulled along behind, rails hissing over fresh powder and crackling through icy ruts. The old man pulls down his woolen scarf to cough once, twice, and again. He spits the offending phlegm into the snow and grumbles, wordlessly, to his donkey, getting a whistle-whine groan in return.
Confusion comes first to me, for why would two old men go out to gather firewood when younger, stronger folk could go in their stead?
Because they're stubborn, I realize, the kind of stubborn that makes them work a well's bucket rope while an inferno rained ash down them; the kind of stubborn who'd be up the next day, coughing and spitting, to keep helping; the kind of stubborn who'd insist on giving his cart to a girl he barely knew, never knowing if he'd see it again.
They're the kind of stubborn who answers to the name of Harlan, and to see him again is a thing of pure delight. I smile for the first time since the Port and call out to him, “Y'alright, there?”
Harlan turns. He's gotten whiskery since we parted, a thick white beard and mustache twitching as he smiles. Squints an eye at me, as is his way. “Just about,” he answers, his voice the same deep, smooth rumble I remember. He looks Peanut over. Lifts a bushy brow. “That enough horse for yah?”
“Just about,” I say, leaning to run a gloved hand along Peanut's snow-studded neck. “This is Peanut.”
His second brow joins the first. “That's a name.”
“My friend named him,” I say, instead of everything else. “He was a lot smaller then.”
“Must've been,” Harlan nods. Then, “S'good to see yah, kid. Y'headed my way?”
“Valdenwood?” I ask. He nods again. “I am.”
His whiskers twitch; by unspoken agreement, we set off together, traveling for a time in that wordless quiet. Beastly breaths fill the air, snorts and squeals and plumes of mist. Snow crunches beneath many hooves, ice squeaks and cracks under the sled's laden rails. It's a different breed of quiet to the one I'd traveled in since the Port.
That had been a quiet of solitude, a lonely and oppressive silence that would not leave nor break, not even when I spoke aloud. Peanut may be tireless and steadfast, loyal and brave, but he cannot answer. In those long hours, answers are what I wanted most. I wanted to be heard, to be distracted, so that I would not have to think about anything. I wouldn't have to think about how, with Merigold dead and Pike gone, that glacial pit of hatred in the depths of my heart had begun to fracture. It had begun to crack, venting doubts and regrets like great plumes of steam:
I should not have left Clarke so easily, nor treated Milo and his family so callously. They were – they are – very dear to me, and I had been awful to them.
I should not have gone to Jeremiah, not for shelter or aid. I don't know what he needed in his grief, but it was surely not what I asked of him.
I should not have been so quick to kill the Windrunners in Amberdusk. There were other ways to rid the town of them – fear, bait, or bribery – that I hadn't bothered to think of. They were vile people, but they didn't deserve that.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Or did they? They may not have gotten up to much in Amberdusk before I killed them, but surely, they had done worse elsewhere? Furthermore, if I had not gone to Jeremiah, I would likely be dead; and if I had not left Clarke or pushed Milo away, they probably would've stopped me. It followed sense that I leave them.
Didn't it?
On it went, round and round and round, until today, when I came across an old, stubborn man leading his old, stubborn donkey down the road. Yes, it's quiet; but it's a companionable silence, something easily broken at any time, for any reason, by either one of us.
Oddly, it's Harlan. He looks up at me from the corner of his squinted eye and asks, gently, “Somethin' on y'mind?”
Startled, I can only say, “What?”
He shrugs. “Thinkin' pretty hard up there, is all.”
Here I thought I hadn't been. “I suppose so,” I look at my hands. Twist Peanuts reins around them. How do I put this? Should I, even? “A lot's happened since we left.”
Harlan hums, thoughtful. Then, “Got at least an hour's walk 'til we're back. Wanna start with where m'damned cart is?”
I laugh; short, sharp, and surprised. I'd forgotten about the cart. “It's as good a place to start as any, I suppose,” I say, pulling in a deep, cold-sharp breath, “So – ”
- - -
When I began, I meant to keep some stretches of my long road to myself. He doesn't get the whole story, I had thought, there are parts of it he doesn't need to hear; but as I started and kept talking, I couldn't decide what they were. I couldn't decide if I wanted to keep those parts to myself because they were too raw, too touch-tender to voice aloud, or because they would make him think poorly of me and all that I've done.
In the end, he walked the entirety of my recollected road with me, listening intently at every step. I dared only look at him once, when recounting my first kill, and otherwise kept my eyes forward. I found a profound sadness in the lines of his face, the folds of age around his eyes and mouth. He didn't say anything, then.
He waited until I was done, until the air had cleared of falling snow and Valdenwood rose in the distance, to whistle lowly and observe, “Damn.”
I laugh again; just as sharp and short, but bitter instead of surprised. “I felt it, sometimes,” I say, rocking sideways as Peanut nosed at me for snacks I'd already fed him. “that surely, I – I must have done – something – to deserve it. Why else would it be happening to me?” Breathe in deep. Let it out, slow. “Bad luck, I suppose; really, – really – bad luck.”
He hums, does old, stubborn Harlan. He hums thoughtfully and asks, “So, what now?”
I peek over at him trudging alongside me. He scratches his whiskers and pays heed to not slipping in an icy rut, so I have to ask, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, 'what are y'gonna do now?' Seems t'me like yah've done what y'set out to, so...” He shrugs, squints as is his way, “What now?”
What, indeed. “I haven't thought about it,” I confess, “I've been...preoccupied with – with – ”
“Revenge,” Harlan says, softly and without judgment.
Yes. Revenge. “...there hasn't been time, or – or space for anything else.”
“An' now?”
For a long stretch, I don't have an answer. Then, “I want to see how Valdenwood's doing. If there's anything left to rebuild, I want to help with that. I want a bath, and cooked food, and I want to sleep. On a bed, Harlan, a real one, but that's not...”
I don't know what it's not. Enough, maybe. Right.
“Maybe it ain't,” Harlan dips his chin, shades his eyes against the sun-brilliant snow, “but it's enough t'be goin' on with. Y'can decide th'rest as it comes t'yah.” He reaches out, bumps my elbow with gnarled, cold-red fingers. “Yah've got time, kid. All th'time in th'world.”
Even if I did, even if he's right, there's still one thing he's said nothing about. “I killed five people,” We're almost there. If I don't do this now, I won't do it at all. “I didn't – I didn't try to convince them to leave, or – or change their ways. I didn't give them a chance, I just – killed – them!”
“Mm-hm,” he says, and it's all he says.
I'm part shock, part disbelief. “That's it?!”
He stops. Squints as is his way. “Want me t'yell at yah? Tell yah y'did wrong?”
“Yes!” Maybe if someone else did, my own mind would stop.
“Y'already know that, though,” He says. Shrugs. “Y'knew it from th'start an' went an' did it anyway, so...” Shrugs again. Pauses. Considers. “S'pose there is somethin' I'd like t'know.”
“What?”
“Did it help?”
I stare, fragile. I consider the glacial pit, that cold hatred buried deep. I think on its breaking, on when it broke and why. I find tears in my eyes when I realize, “I think I might be damned after all, Harlan.” I sniff. “I think it did. I think...I think it did.”
There it is again. That profound sadness. He says, “That's what I was afraid of,” and I shatter.