Dawn broke and the inhabitants emerged from the cluster of roundhouses that formed their village. They traipsed across the dew to reinvigorate the central fire. Elder Mildred clucked about from one home to the next demanding any treats they had tucked away.

“Herbs, dried fruit, any eggs. Come on, winter’s over and we’ll make a feast to welcome them. Pieces of honeycomb? Don’t hide ‘em away.”

Winilind passed Mildred a small wheel of cheese and kicked Oli’s ankle to forestall his protest. She had been saving it for Maralon’s Ascent in a fortnight’s time, but Mildred was an elder, after all. One of only three among three hundred people.

Despite sympathising with her son’s chagrin, Winilind’s mouth watered when the pots over the fire began bubbling and Oslef’s nephew hauled out his uncle’s big clay oven. Oslef, another of the elders, rarely cooked these days but his gift for conjuring magic out of even the simplest ingredients had never been forgotten.

Families gathered near the watchtower or around the fire, whispering encouragement to one another and watching the preparations for what was becoming an impromptu feast day. Winilind overheard snippets of anecdotes about similar frights in the past as she wended her way through the groups to join those waiting by the tower.

“...When they pulled him down from the tree, he had enough honey for the supper of Descent! You remember don’t you, Aimar?”

“...She never walked the same after they lifted the rocks off, but she learned her lesson about pilfering from hoarders!”

“...They’re tough, Hallin children. They’ve survived worse than brushing up against a ghoul circle...”

The village had worked itself into an optimism so determined it bordered on delusional when Lien, atop the watchtower, gave a shout. Those who had been cooking, or making suggestions to the cooks, ran to the picket wall and peered past one another into the woods, each vying for the honour of being first to greet the victorious return party.

The party returned slowly, walking in single file down a narrow path. None of them spoke as they passed the boundary, and few lifted their eyes from the ground to look at those waiting in the crowd. The clansfolk watching blinked and shook their heads, as though waking themselves for a second time that morning. Could so many have failed? Had the hoarders really killed a child?

The delightful smells wafting from the fire now taunted rather than tantalised. Winilind knew this celebration had been foolish. If Elder Joturn had not been with the search party, he would have stamped the idea out. She looked for her husband in the crowd and, from the back of the line, Luthold peeled off and came to where she waited. Only when he stepped passed her to first greet the children did she notice that Ada and Oli had followed her out of the house. He prised them away and looked her in the eye.

Winilind picked something more than exhaustion out of her husband’s expression. A deep well of anger, rarely tapped, swelled close to the surface. And she read a warning in the lines of his forehead. She looked to Heridan, who had flung his sword beside the fire and seated himself, head in hands, on an upturned log. The blade was clean. None of the party were injured. As though sensing her gaze he raised his head and met it coldly, then stared at her son. Oli attempted what Winilind knew to be a sympathetic smile, but Heridan spat and turned sharply away. She ushered Oli quickly back to their roundhouse, coughing loudly when she heard someone mutter about his ‘smirking.’ She realised, as they crossed the threshold, how tightly she gripped his shoulder and relaxed her hand. She could hardly punish him when he had tried to be nice. What her son wanted to say, or show, always came out wrong.

Once inside, Luthold sat with his back against the wall. His open, blistered hands rested by his side and the spear, prized heirloom of the family, lay discarded near the entrance. Adalina reached down for it, then hesitated and went to her father’s side instead. Winilind dragged over a pail of water and the two of them began cleaning Luthold’s cuts.

“Bramble and rock cuts.” Said Oli flatly.

“No fighting.” Despite his exhaustion, Luthold nodded appreciatively at his son’s observation. “Climbing. Lots of climbing. Futile, endless climbing, farther than was reasonable.” He closed his eyes and forcibly changed his tone. “But if it were my son, I wouldn’t have listened to reason either.”

“You would have,” said Winilind quietly. “What happened? Did you find any tracks? Clothes? He cannot just have vanished.”

“We found tracks, but not his. Something happened out there, at base of the mountain where they pile up their pickings. The ground was churned up. It looked like at least ten people were there, walking all over the place, coming and going without using the paths. The only tracks we could follow were the hoarders. We followed those into the mountains. High up, into the caves.”

Winilind gasped, forgetting the wet cloth in her hands.

“We didn’t find them.”

Luthold pushed the cloth gently over the bucket and she looked down at the ring of dark earth where it had dripped onto the ground.

“The hoarders, Win. We went into their home and didn’t see a trace of them.”

She looked up and saw his confused expression. He was trying to make sense of this as much as she was.

“You should not have gone inside the caves.” She chided in a low voice. “You’re lucky. Perhaps they were frightened – because there were so many of you.”

Luthold shook his head slowly.

“Maybe,” he mused, “but you know how jealously they guard their territory. We kept going, deeper and deeper. He insisted. Every step I thought we’d be ambushed. You wouldn’t have heard us, if they’d attacked us down there. The tunnels go on and on...”

Luthold trailed off and shivered.

“You all just let him lead you along?” Winilind demanded. Her sympathy faded and anger grew that one man had led almost fifty people’s loved ones on so foolish an expedition. How did Heridan always get his way? Did the other clansfolk think the size of his head made space for better thoughts?

“He would have gone alone if we hadn’t kept him company. His son’s missing, Win. We couldn’t let him charge off by himself and start a war with them. Besides, I think some of them were glad of the excuse. I heard more whispers than I’d have expected about getting one over on them, showing the hoarders who the forest belongs to.”

Winilind shook her head and muttered, “Hallin should know better. The forest belongs to no one.”

Luthold coughed and attempted a smile. “Anyway, Joturn stopped us when the torches burned half. By then even Heridan had to admit defeat and we’re all back safely now.”

For a moment they were silent. Winilind’s thoughts turned to Ingo. If only the boy would just turn up. She glanced at her daughter, staring at the wall. Did she miss him? Was she worried? Not so long ago, Ingo never went anywhere without Ada. She almost said something to that effect but checked herself. It wasn’t the time. Whatever happened next, their first thought had to be dislodging any idea that Oli was involved. They had to kill that notion before it grew into something ugly. The problem was, they had to know first that he truly wasn’t. As though following her thoughts, Oli spoke up.

“You said there were people’s tracks going into the forest. Were there any going to the river? Isn’t that where Ingo said he was off to?”

They all looked at Luthold, who breathed out slowly and stared into Oli’s eyes.

“We need to talk about this stranger.” He said in a tone that warned each of them not to interrupt, “But you need to understand something first. Heridan thinks you’re lying. That’s serious, Oli, because right now he’s angry and scared. Do you understand?”

Oli nodded. Winilind glanced at Adalina, who shifted and opened her mouth, then closed it with a frown.

“He thinks I know where Ingo is.” Stated Oli.

“He does.” Her husband loosened a bit, perhaps relieved to hear their son cooperating. “He thinks you’re hiding something to protect yourself, because you don’t realise what’s at stake.”

“We’re not friends. He never comes to help me anymore. Why would he come today? And they all know I never go with him to spy on the hoarders.”

“I know, Oli. But Ingo told Heridan he was going to meet you today. It sounds believable. He wanted to talk about...to ask you about...”

Luthold glanced briefly at Adalina, who finished the sentence for him and then looked away.

“He wanted to talk about me.”

Luthold gave the slightest nod, and Oli turned his mouth up in mock disgust. Luthold continued. “It’d be different if you’d returned with a basket of fish and said you hadn’t seen him. But this story about a lone hunter attacking a child. Someone who can swim under the river... but somehow you got away?”

“Well, he didn’t really attack me,” Admitted Oli sheepishly. “He just looked like he might. He looked crazy!”

Luthold nodded and asked in his gentlest voice,

“What else can you tell us?”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“I was fishing. Earlier a barge passed. The men on it spoke to me.” Oli paused, looking from his father to his mother. Neither Winilind nor her husband reprimanded him. They needed to hear the whole story. Oli leaned forward and continued.

“They asked to trade, but I made the sign of the Lost Daughter and they carried on. Then a bit later I pulled up a sturgeon and someone spoke to me. They spoke, but I couldn’t see them. I looked at where the voice came from and then I saw someone right in front of me. Someone who’d been there all along but looked different, like part of the bushes.”

A short gasp escaped Winilind before she could master herself. She looked away from Oli and stared at the wall, hoping she had not put him off. He showed no sign of having noticed. She would rather have heard the story was made up and he knew where Ingo had gone after all than think about the shadow and memory she forced out of her mind.

“He told me I was cruel for catching fish, but his own coat was made of hides. He wanted to know what we called the mountains. I didn’t understand. I told him we call them mountains too and he laughed at me. He had a spear, I think, but it looked wrong. I got scared then. I tried to get away. I tried to get to the bank, and he just walked right into the water and...”

Oli began to cry.

“He’s white as a cloud!” Winilind exclaimed and drew him inside her own cloak, caressing his soft brown hair and cupping his pointed chin in her hand. His body shivered beside hers.

“I think he really saw something.” Whispered Adalina.

“They’ll take me for a fool if I bring this to the elders,” said Luthold, shaking his head. “I must know more, Oli. What did he do in the water?”

“He swam like a snake, through the current, right to the other side. When he took his robe off, he had a colourful shirt on, better than anything from town. It had purple and silver on it. He looked about as old as Algar. And he kept asking about the mountains... He asked if that’s where the... something-backs lived.”

“Beyobacks?” Asked Luthold, looking up, his eyes glinting with interest.

Oli nodded vigorously.

“Beyobacks... purple shirt... young man.” Luthold repeated, as though chewing over words that tasted good. He looked at Winilind and announced with a smile of relief.

“He’s a Westerner.”

There was a hint of a question about his tone though. He needed her agreement to bury those thoughts, the same that had troubled her.

“A Westerner.” She agreed, convincing herself of the theory. “Beyobacks is what the rich ones call the hoarders. They have a lot of silly notions about them, don’t they? He was probably a young adventurer from a wealthy family.”

As she spoke, Luthold nodded along, his own conviction evidently growing. The shadow of fear flitted away, and Winilind felt foolish for having entertained it at all. This made sense.

“Maybe there’s a few of them. That would explain all the mixed-up tracks. A gaggle of clumsy Westerners traipsing through the forest. Of course, you said they ignored the paths!”

“Come to gawk at the savages of Saltleaf and their feral neighbours.” Added her husband. “Perhaps Ingo got mixed up with them. Perhaps he got talking to them? Yes, I’ll take this to the elders. Joturn will track them in no time.”

Luthold squeezed Oli’s shoulder as he rose, and Winilind began disentangling her son’s gangly arms and legs from her body.

“What about appearing from thin air and swimming under water?” Adalina chimed in, stony faced. “Do Westerners do that?”

Winilind winced. Her daughter’s words punctured the relief, but she did not allow any room for doubt. The implications were too great for a possibility so small. If something about this did not fit their theory, if some details reminded her of forbidden stories and buried memories, she pushed them aside. After all, her son had a vivid imagination, and there was no place in those stories for Western words or colourful shirts, or for people who did not follow the paths.

----------------------------------------

Winilind listened while Luthold relayed Oli’s story to Elder Oslef, and the embarrassed cooks shared out the extravagant meal. She could not read anything from Oslef’s expression, save that he did not feel the same relief as she and Luthold had. She waited until as late as possible before she roused Luthold and watched him prepare to leave with the next search party. She watched him approach Elder Joturn by the fire and turned to her children.

“We need to clean and pack our winter clothes. There’s talk of moving the village this year.”

“We’re not going to move.” Adalina replied with tired certainty.

“If the gods invite us to, we will.”

“Pasha says the gods don’t answer the oracle anymore,” quipped Oli, “She says the elders have forgotten how to ask them -”

“Nonsense.” Winilind cut him off. “Elder Oslef is reading this year. He read the stones last time we moved, before the river flooded the old village site. He read them years ago and brought us South of the ridge, right before the Sullin started raiding again. Oslef knows how to read the stones – he knows how to get the gods’ attention.”

Her voice softened and she looked up from the basket of summer clothes that she had brought out to sort.

“It’s exciting, moving the village. A fresh start. We’ve lingered here too long. We need new paths to learn and new places to name.” Her voice turned wistful, and she spoke to herself as much as to her children. “It could be this year, with Oslef reading.”

“Maybe it will be this year,” said Adalina, flashing her an emollient smile.

“Some of these need stitching,” Winilind threw a pile of clothes their way and Oli groaned as she produced needles and thread.

“Get to it.”

She disappeared inside the hut and busied herself cutting and sorting some parchment Aimar had made. She worked and kept an ear tuned to her children’s conversation. She hoped to catch Oli talking as he sometimes did with Ada, relaxed and unguarded. Perhaps they sensed her attention because they barely spoke at all as they worked the thread, fixing the lighter clothes for the months ahead.

The time came for the next groups to depart, but Luthold returned to the house, entered and deposited the spear on the ground at the back. Winilind shot him a quizzical look. He ignored it and pulled the knife from inside his shirt, leaving that as well. She reached for his arm as he passed her, but he intercepted it, squeezed her hand gently and left without meeting her eyes. Joturn has always been cautious, she told herself, it is a good thing. But she remembered the elders’ impassive looks when Luthold had relayed Oli’s story. She prayed for her husband to make a swift return.

“Look!” Winilind heard Oli exclaim as Luthold walked away, “Father is going with Elder Joturn and Torvald. Good job he’s not with Heridan.”

“Heridan’s ok,” Adalina responded, a hint of hurt in her voice. “Elder Joturn should be getting some rest though.”

“Why?”

“He’s quite old you know, Oli. He should be looking after himself.” Her daughter’s attempt at a mature tone brought a smile to Winilind’s lips.

“Joturn’s not old.” Oli replied

“He’s older than grandfather was, when he died.”

“Yes, but he’s not old old.”

Winilind heard Adalina chuckle. She knew what Oli meant. Elder Joturn had the vitality of a cat.

Before noon, Winlind found the summer clothes piled and folded by the doorway. She was about to step outside when she heard Oli whisper. She pressed herself against the wall beside the entrance and strained to hear.

“What are you doing here?” Her son hissed at someone.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

Winilind recognised the high voice. Pasha, the daughter of Otmer and Beresa, was the closest thing Oli had to a friend. A couple of years his senior, she had never quite been herself after a summer of sickness left her housebound. The two of them had bonded, in their odd way, shortly after. Oli called her the most annoying girl in the clan, but she was the only child he played with.

Oli replied hesitantly. “I’m not sure.”

“I knew it! You saw what happened to Ingo, didn’t you?”

Winlind’s body stiffened, and she shut her eyes. When Oli answered, though, relief flooded her.

“I don’t know anything about Ingo.” He insisted, adding “And I’m not in trouble!”

She stepped outside and feigned surprise at the sight of her friend’s daughter. Pasha was always a little wilder than you remembered her. The unkempt straw-coloured hair seemed to point in every direction and those black eyes darted around as she fidgeted and shuffled.

“Oh, hello there, Pasha. Why don’t you play with Oli this afternoon? He’s just finished his jobs.”

The girl inched out from the side of the house, eyeing him suspiciously.

“You mean he’s not in trouble? Everyone says he’s in trouble.” She sounded disappointed.

“You’d like to play with Pasha, wouldn’t you?” Winlind addressed her son, who nodded. “The two of you can play in the house.” Oli’s face screwed up into a scowl and Pasha’s erupted into a triumphant grin.

“I knew it!” She declared to Oli, “You are in trouble.”

“He’s not in trouble at all,” Adalina interjected, “Mother, they can play in the fields, can’t they?” In a lower voice she added, “People will only be suspicious if he’s cooped up in the house all day.”

Winlind frowned. She wanted Oli where she could see him until Ingo was found but knew her daughter was right. Besides, it would leave her alone with Adalina. They needed a talk that was overdue. One they probably should have had before Ingo went missing.

“Alright, but-” she started. Instantly, Pasha scampered away toward the sheep paddock, taunting Oli to catch up with her.

“Stay out of the forest today!” She called after them as they both ran away.

“I will.” Oli yelled back as he disappeared.

Winilind watched them race out of view and sat outside beside her daughter. Adalina picked up a folded shirt that Oli had stitched, inspected it closely and re-folded it. Winilind watched as she picked up another.

“Ada.” She said gently.

“What?” Came the sharp retort. Then she looked up with an apologetic smile and added, “You could get some rest if you like, Mother. I’ll let you know when Father returns.”

“Ada,” Winilind said, “If Ingo...when Ingo turns up... are you two still...?”

“No.” Adalina returned her attention to the mended clothes. “I hope they find him soon and I hope he’s ok. But no, we’re not.”

“What happened?”

For years her daughter and Heridan’s prodigal son had been inseparable. She and Luthold had resigned themselves to becoming family with the thick-headed leader of the clan’s warriors, a man who differed in interests and temperament as much from them as he did from his son. Despite their differences, their rivalry even, the match did not displease them. Ingo would make a fine son-in-law.

Yet, from the night the clan accepted her as an adult, Adalina had refused to see him. Neither she nor Luthold had been able to learn what happened. When Adalina did not answer, she persisted.

“Was Ingo disappointing? Was he too shy? Was it embarrassing when you were alone? You know, it’s often awkward in the beginning. With your father and I -”

“I know. You’ve already told me more than I want to know. We didn’t spend any time alone.”

“Why not?” Winlind was nonplussed. “Didn’t you want to be married?”

“I didn’t want. I don’t want...” Adalina mumbled and glanced in the direction Oli had run.

“You didn’t want what?” Winilind leaned forward.

Adalina put down the clothes and stared into the distance.

“I didn’t want what comes after. It's my earliest memory, you know. Listening to Oli coming. I never heard anything like it since. I didn’t think you would survive. Nobody thought you would survive. I only wanted to put it off, but he got upset and kept asking me why and what it meant. He thought I led him on for all those years. And now maybe I put it off forever.”

Winlind shuddered at the memory her daughter had summoned. She recalled the sound of her own cries, heard as though being made by someone else, and the certainty she was losing both her own life and the child. She remembered holding Ada’s hands afterwards, as the blood congealed around her and her vision faded and telling her that she must look after the child if it had survived. But she could not let her daughter live in fear of so unusual a birth. She moved round to look in Adalina’s eyes.

“Oli’s birth was not ordinary, Ada. Listen to me. You were there when Lien delivered. You helped Oslef to snip Beresa when Pasha’s little brother came. Even that wasn’t as bad, was it? Oli came out sideways and all tangled up. He got lost on the way out, the way he’s got lost ever since. That's not what it’s like for every mother. I don’t remember any birth being as hard as that.”

“What if it runs in the family?”

“If it ran in the family, it would have been the same for you. But go and ask Elder Mildred how your birthday went. I was on my feet the very same evening.”

“Is that true?”

“Ask Mildred. You know she’ll turn anything into a horror story if she can.”

They sat in silence for a while, and Winilind watched her daughter’s face change to relief, and then back to anxiousness.

“He’ll turn up, won’t he?”

Winilind smiled.

“He’ll turn up. He’s a smart boy. Whatever pickle he’s got himself into, he’ll get himself out of it. And when he does, you put these fears out of your mind.”