It took until just after noon for Birch to complete the stretcher. Made from thin, straight lengths of willow and ash bound together with strips of cloth cut from one of Buckthorn’s spare tunics, it had two handles that would allow Birch to lift one end of it off the ground. The other end would drag against the ground as he hauled the body behind him. Along the stretcher’s bottom edge, he’d lashed in place a thicker piece of branch to prevent Buckthorn from slipping off. Just before he was ready to get going, he’d tie the body to the wooden frame as well.
He wasn’t much of a builder, but he was quite pleased with what he’d managed to create. And the panels appeared to agree with him. During the building process, he received several rewards of +0.01 in a skill called Woodcraft.
Birch gave the stretcher’s bindings a final tug and then rubbed his face with what was left of the spare tunic. He’d been working without pause since sunrise, and now that he’d stopped, his limbs ached and his stomach growled.
He fetched some jerky from Buckthorn’s bag and boiled some water for tea in one of the old man’s pots.
As he chewed his food he went through all of the things he still had to do before he could leave the camp. First, he’d need to sort through the packs. He could only take one, so he’d have to decide what to keep and what to leave. Then, he’d have to securely wrap Buckthorn’s body. The blanket that was currently covering him was probably large enough to get the job done, but he might have to use some other clothes as well. And he’d have to produce enough strips of fabric so that he could bind him to the stretcher in several different places. Finally, he’d have to clear a path back to the road so that he’d be able to drag the body out of the forest. He had a feeling the stretcher would work reasonably well on the packed earth of the track, but he wasn’t looking forward to moving through the edge of the forest with its undergrowth, exposed tree roots, and uneven ground. But there was no alternative. He’d just have to go slowly.
Birch sipped his tea. So much had happened in the last few days. It was as if he was living the life of a character in one of the tales the traveling storytellers might have told to the children gathered around them on the day of the Marking Ceremony.
He made quick work of sorting through the two bags. He decided to keep Buckthorn’s writing box and his books, pushing them down to the bottom of his pack. He placed the new letters in his tunic pocket and tossed the torn ones onto the fire. He put all of the items he wasn’t going to be able to take into his old bag and stowed it in a gap between the trunks of two trees that were growing close together. He wasn’t intending to come back for it, but he made a mental note of its location just in case.
As he suspected, Buckthorn’s blanket was plenty big enough to serve as a shroud, and with a bit of effort, he was able to lever the man’s now-rigid body onto the stretcher and lash it into place.
Facing forward, Birch reached behind him for the stretcher’s handles and lifted one end of it off the ground. The bindings creaked under the weight, but they held. He took a step forward. It was much harder than he’d expected it would be, but he was able to drag the stretcher with him, its base scraping against the forest floor. He carefully lowered the stretcher and then began to clear a path between the camp and the road, using a stick and his feet to remove the vegetation.
It was mid-afternoon by the time he’d created a passable route through the undergrowth, and he was eager to get moving. He took a sip from his waterskin, kicked dirt onto the fire, slipped his arms through the straps of his pack, and walked over to the stretcher. He took a breath, then he gripped the handles and pulled up, taking the weight of Buckthorn’s body.
Step by step, he dragged the interpreter through the forest toward the trail. When he reached the path, he paused, but he didn’t lower the stretcher to the ground. His tunic was already damp with sweat and was sticking uncomfortably to his body. Another hundred paces. He’d get that far, and then he’d allow himself to stop and have a sip of water.
Counting steps in his head, Birch continued. After he’d reached fifty, he glanced over his shoulder. The poles sticking out of the stretcher’s base had gouged a pair of continuous lines into the path’s surface, creating an exact record of the route he’d taken. For the most part, he seemed to have been walking in a straight line.
He carried on, pausing only briefly after he’d finished his first set of one hundred steps. He was soon on his way again, and this time he was determined to reach five hundred before he had another break.
*****
By the time Birch stopped to make camp, the afternoon was starting to give way to evening. He’d lost track of how many steps he’d walked in total, but if his aching back and blistered hands were anything to go by, it must have numbered in the tens of thousands.
He hadn’t seen or heard any sign of blood boars since he’d left the camp, but he was still intending to light a fire tonight. Especially now that Buckthorn’s body was beginning to give off the pungent odor of meat about to spoil.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
The body was still securely attached to the stretcher, and Birch dragged it a yard or so off the path. He wanted to sit down, but he forced himself to head into the forest to collect some firewood.
It didn’t take him long to gather an armful of fallen twigs and branches, and soon he had built a blazing fire. He prepared some tea and ate some travel biscuits. His supply of water was running low. Before too long, he’d have to find a spring or a forest stream. But that was a task for tomorrow. For now, he just wanted to fill his belly and take some well-earned rest.
Birch watched the smoke billowing from the fire. The wind seemed to be blowing pretty consistently from the east. Taking a breath, Birch maneuvered Buckthorn’s body into the smoke’s path. Back in Eldergrove he’d seen Sedge smoke some of the fish he caught in the pools up by Kestrel Ridge to stop them going bad. Hopefully, the smoke from the campfire would have the same effect on the old man’s cadaver.
Birch finished his food, added wood to the fire, and set out his bedding. He lay down on the opposite side of the fire to the body and closed his eyes. For a moment, he was aware of his aching muscles and his painful palms, but soon his whole body felt light, and he allowed sleep to take him.
*****
“Wake up, lad!”
Birch’s eyes opened to bright light. He closed them again. Had someone spoken? Was it Old Rush? Surely he hadn’t overslept. He lurched up.
“Steady. We mean you no harm.”
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Birch looked at the person who was standing in front of him.
It definitely wasn’t Eldergrove’s old stablemaster. This man was tall with a neatly trimmed beard. He had on a gaudy tunic striped in blue and red that Old Rush wouldn’t have been seen dead wearing, and his ornate metal belt buckle glinted in the light. Behind him stood a woman about the same age as the man, and two teenage children, one probably a few years older than the other. The youngest girl seemed to be about Birch’s age.
A few yards back, roped to a sapling that was growing close to the path were a pair of ponies, and attached to them was a four-wheeled wooden wagon. It was painted in blue and red, the same shades as the man’s tunic. It was the type of wagon that storytellers, acting troupes, and musicians used to travel in when they were moving around Verdant from village to village.
How had these people managed to approach without waking him? He glanced up at the sky. What time was it?
“Looks like you needed the sleep.” The man smiled. “I remember when I was your age. I could’ve slept through a hurricane.” He took a step closer. “Now tell me, what brings you out here on the road to Ravenhurst?” The man’s eyes flicked to Buckthorn’s wrapped corpse on the other side of the dwindling fire.
Before Birch could answer, the youngest girl pointed at him.
“That’s the boy from the ceremony. The one the Sacred Oak hurt when he put his hand inside it. And the one who was exiled.”
The man turned from his daughter back to Birch.
“Is this true? Is that you?”
Birch nodded. There was no way he could deny it. One look at the burned and blistered skin on the top of his hand and they’d know the truth.
“And what’s that?” The man pointed to Buckthorn.
Birch lowered his head. “It’s Buckthorn. Ravenhurst’s interpreter. I was traveling with him, and he died. He fell. His leg was broken. He knew he wouldn’t make it. He wouldn’t let me fetch help.” Birch hadn’t meant to say so much, but the words tumbled from his mouth. “I was heading to Ravenhurst as his servant, but now he’s gone”
The man knelt in front of Birch. “Sounds like you’ve really been through it since you left Eldergrove.” He grasped Birch’s hands and examined them. He first looked at the scars given to him by the Scared Oak, and then the blisters caused by the stretcher’s handles. “Why didn’t you just leave him? I think most lads of your age would’ve just upped and scarpered.”
“Where would I have gone?” Birch said. “Besides, I couldn’t just leave him in the forest. He was a good man. I think he would’ve wanted to be buried in the village he thought of as home.”
“That’s very commendable of you.” The man turned around and exchanged a glance with the older woman. “And perhaps we can help.” He gestured to the ponies and the wagon behind him on the track. “Let’s allow Jenny and Lady to carry the extra weight, shall we. We can strap old Buckthorn to the roof. Your hands look as if they’ve suffered enough. They’ll be worn down to the bone if you carry him all the way.”
Birch didn’t respond straight away. There was something about how the man had said Buckthorn’s name. He’d called him old and he’d spoken as if he knew who the interpreter was, but there’d been no remorse in his tone. No sadness in his voice.
The man clapped his hands together. “So, how about it then? Shall we give you and your baggage a ride to Ravenhurst?”
Birch needed more time to think.
“How would I repay you?”
“I hadn’t really thought about payment, but I’m sure we’ll be able to find some tasks for you along the way if it’s important to you.”
What did he have to lose? The plan Buckthorn had come up with wasn’t going to work now that he’d been recognized. They knew who he was. They knew he’d been declared Markless at the ceremony, and they knew he was an exile. His dreams of being an archer had been thwarted again.
But traveling by wagon had to better than stomping all the way to village dragging a dead body behind him.
“Thank you,” Birch said. “That’s very generous of you.”
“Nonsense,” the man replied. “I have a good feeling about you, lad, yet I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m Birch the Markless.” He extended his hand.
“I won’t shake hands with you on account of your blisters.” He laughed and put his hand on Birch’s shoulder. “But well met.” He pointed to himself. “I’m Bracken.” He gestured to the older woman. “And this is my lovely wife, Ivy. And our daughters Marigold and Meadowsweet. If you hadn’t already guessed, we are performers. I am a bard, and my girls are all musicians.”
Birch nodded to the others. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Good,” Braken said. “Now that that’s all out of the way, If we get a move on, we’ll have a good chance of making it to Ravenhurst by nightfall tomorrow."