Whether from an unexpected bout of guilt, or simply stupidity, Stubby was attempting to bury Red the next morning. Chast had fallen asleep in the bushes nearby, flat on his stomach, and woke to a beetle crawling across his chapped lower lip. He blew air out gently and sent the beetle tumbling over backwards, only to right itself and continue along its way as if it had always meant to be going that way. Blinking sleep from his eyes, Chast saw through the foliage of the bushes to the clearing where Stubby was holding his sword with two hands, digging, rather poorly, a hole.

Swords are not primarily meant to be a digging implement, and it showed. Stubby was sweating profusely, and his boots were covered in a fine layer of dust, dirt, and gravel. Even in summertime, the ground of a forest floor is much harder than the islands’ sandy soil that Stubby was no doubt used to. It was full of roots and small rocks and snail shells and sticks. All matter of detritus worn down underneath the feet, paws, and hooves over the course of thousands of years. The tip of the sword made an unpleasant pinging sound every time it hit an impediment.

The prisoners, shackled together, still huddled against the massive cedar tree, looked on in frightened silence. While one of the obstacles between them and freedom had been unexpectedly eliminated, it seemed to have sent the other off-kilter in a dangerous fashion. There was no telling what Stubby was going to do. The guard was muttering to himself as he worked, stripping off layers of sweat-soaked clothing so that his ample stomach shone in the dappled morning light, dark trails of hair matted down in swirling layers. He looked every bit a madman.

Like the prisoners, Chast was afraid to move. He did not doubt his ability to get away quietly enough, but the wild look in Stubby’s eyes kept him rooted. His stomach grumbled and his tooth ached wildly, his entire body rebelling against a night face down on the unforgiving ground. He reached into a pocket gingerly for his willow root and placed it between his molars, the bitter saliva hitting the back of his throat when he bit down. His stomach churned at the familiar unpleasantness unaccompanied as it was by any additional nourishment.

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As the morning wore on into early afternoon, Stubby tossed the sword aside and looked at the work he had done. It was a paltry affair, no more than two feet deep, and certainly not long enough, but evidently the guard was finished with his guilt trip as far as the physical labor was concerned. He walked over to Red’s body near the remains of the previous night’s fire and began to drag it to the hole. It was difficult work, human remains being one of the few, true examples of dead weight. Even though Red had been a thin man, Stubby was breathing heavily by the time the body was sprawled over his pitiful burial hole.

The long legs didn’t quite fit, the ankles and feet stubbornly hiking up over the lip of the hole, and Stubby could not make them fit. Chast winced as he watched the horrific procedure. He knew what, by necessity, would come next. Stubby knelt down at the bottom of the hole and took one of Red’s ankles in both hands. The snapping noise was like a gunshot in the quiet woods as the guard broke his former compatriot’s ankle to fit it in the hole he had dug. The second ankle was no less, loud but slightly less horrifying only by dint of repetition. Once the body was in the hole, Stubby began to use his sword like a broom. From his knees, he put the blade to the ground and pushed the dirt over and into the hole.

When he was finished, it was late afternoon and there was a noticeable mound, not well-packed, and not particularly subtle as to what it contained either. Chast knew from looking at it that some lucky fox or coyote was going to happen by as soon as the pesky humans cleared out. His work done, Stubby collapsed on his pack by the fire and within minutes had begun to snore. Evidently, his grief went only so far, and all have to sleep eventually.

It was then or never. Chast gently slid backwards out from the bush until he was standing, and began the ginger walk towards the clearing, placing down each of his uneven strides carefully, avoiding cones, crinkling leaves, or rotting sticks. It was just before he crested the edge of the clearing, peeking around a large sycamore trunk, that the first prisoner saw him. It was a woman, and her mouth dropped open. Chast put one finger to his mouth.

-Shhh.