10
CONFRONTATION
🙜
The days which followed were some of the strangest that Ember could recall.
He had grown used to living alone in the passing of the seasons since his sister had left. The woods were never silent, but the eyes which watched him had always been those of the small or skittery sort. The birds in the trees had never included him in their gossiping, unless it was to whistle and scold for straying too close to a nest. And the mudbugs along the riverbank never paid him heed, unless they had the misfortune of being caught up in one of his traps.
Now he was in constant company.
No longer was Ky an unseen watcher in the woods when he walked the path to town, or merely a passing scent on the spring breeze. She had a name, a form, a voice. When their paths crossed, she wore the same threadbare clothes in various states of dampness. Sometimes she looked as if she had just emerged from the water, drenched and dripping; other times her hair seemed to have dried in the sun. Once or twice he caught her lacing up the last few knots of her jerkin, which brought a flush to his face.
In the mornings he was often startled to see her sunning herself in the branches of the old oak tree, a perch from which she hummed a quiet tune under her breath and observed him as he gathered his nets.
In the afternoons he glimpsed her picking and eating the incorrigible chickweed which grew along his garden fence, or turning his basket-traps upside down and confiscating the unfortunate mudbugs, which were cracked in half and devoured with an alarming swiftness.
And in the evenings, when he sat at his table with the door open and a candle lit, mending his nets or sitting in thought and listening to the river, he would hear the patter of damp bare feet on the stone, and the wooden step would creak quietly as a shadow stole before his door.
“Ember,” she would whisper. “Will you come away tonight?”
The first night, Ember had merely offered a firm shake of his head. Remorse stung his soul that he had, perhaps, disappointed the enchanting creature—and fear at what retaliation might await him. But she merely faded away into the rustling trees.
The second night she asked again, and he pretended not to have heard.
But on the third night, Ky did not go away.
She sighed a few simple words in a lilting voice; he recognized a nightingale’s tune, the familiarity of which quieted his trepidation of her siren magic.
“Ember, catcher of fine fish;
Morrow, he will come?
‘Tis but a little thing she wish—
Ember, he will come?”
He shivered; in the empty stillness which followed, it became apparent that the night birds, crickets, and frogs down by the river had fallen deathly silent.
The most sensible thing to do, of course, was to carry on with his very ordinary life as he always had, and pray the sirena did not eat him out of spite. Not one soul in recent memory had braved the treacherous paths of the Sisters and returned wholly sane—he had to admit that even the old wayfarer Hunter Nomanson, a man he had always admired, was slightly cracked in the head.
Only a fool would accompany her to that mountain—and Ember felt he had made himself a fool far too often as of late.
Tomorrow he would make his habitual trip into town to sell whatever mudbugs Ky had not eaten, and purchase a few baked goods to last him the rest of the week. Then he would step inside, bolt the door, and sleep very soundly in his own bed in his cozy cabin beside the river. No doubt he would awaken at sunrise the next morning to get an early start on patching that leaky roof.
Given time, the townsfolk would begin to trust him again.
Then he could sell his fish for a reasonable amount of coin, earning enough to keep himself fed and comfortable that winter, and speak to Isabel freely in the square on market days. The thought brought a hint of a smile to his lips as he remembered her soft touch, the rare, clear sound of her laughter, and the goodly earthiness of her scent.
No, I will not come with you.
He opened his mouth to say as much.
A displeased hum emanated through the door, shivering through the floorboards, the wooden chair, and his bones. The back of his neck prickled and he sat up; the nets he had been mending crumpled to the floor.
“One more day,” he begged, suddenly afraid that she would leave him. “I need some time to think.”
That wasn’t what I meant to say at all!
No sooner had he blinked than she was gone.
It required every bit of willpower he possessed not to get up and bolt out the door after her. He remained in the chair, every muscle taut, mind whirling. For a long while after, Ember sat alone in the dark beside a sputtering candle.
❧
A hazy sunrise greeted him as he strolled down the path to check his traps. Mist had rolled in along the riverbank, but no shimmering mirage reclined within the branches of the gnarled oak tree.
He was alone.
Ky’s otherworldly presence had been so constant in the past few days that he was acutely aware of her absence—that floral musk was beginning to fade, and he heard no unusual splashes and creaks, nor sticky bare feet rustling in the grass. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that he had angered her somehow.
That notion hung over him like a pall, and Hunter’s warning echoed loudly in his mind: They do not easily forget a face which has wronged them…
He kept his spear slung over his shoulder, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of her and half-fearing that he would not hear her approach. As the sun reached its midafternoon height, glowing upon the mists which lay low along the river-path, Ember trudged back to his cabin.
No sooner had he removed his fishing spear than there was a wooden creak.
Ember froze, clutching the weapon, and glanced into a darkened corner. The sirena stood beside his cupboard, two black claws pinching the edge of the handle as if she had been about to open it.
With an air of refined purposefulness—as if she had not been caught in the act of rummaging through his home—she took two steps toward the table, lifted her chin, and smoothed her hands along her waist. Her thick black hair appeared somewhat drier than usual, and Ember noted that it was tangled with little leaves and pieces of dried grass, as if she had been wandering the woods behind his cabin.
“Ember,” she greeted him softly.
Despite his best efforts to be annoyed, her voice melted him.
He offered a shrug.
“Hullo… I was looking for you this morning.”
A note of accusation crept into his tone.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“I want to see if it is good to leave tonight,” she informed him, placing one hand upon the table. “I do not find anything to trouble me.”
He swallowed tightly, setting the spear aside. “You’re going to the mountain?”
“Perhaps,” she murmured coyly. “I cannot return unless I find a way to read the runes.”
“Ah…”
He shifted in place.
An awkward pause.
“I shall be waiting on the river-path when the moon arises.” Ky looked up with her dark eyes and blinked twice, slowly. “Meet me there, and we shall go together to the mountain with two heads. As I say before, the choice shall be your own.”
Ember took a deep breath to steady himself.
He was about to reply, but Ky’s ears flickered. She pressed a finger to her chin, her eyes shifting toward the open doorway, and Ember instinctively fell silent. For a moment, he heard nothing.
Then a faint crunch of dirt under boot.
The steps were scuffling, slow, and paused several times.
A man’s stride, he thought.
Sudden alarm heightened his senses—it would not do to be caught unawares, with one of the river-folk in his cabin no less. Something had shifted between himself and his neighbors. An unspoken mistrust, on both counts; perhaps Isabel had been right to scold him for his lack of caution.
“Wait here,” Ember hissed.
He rose from the chair and moved swiftly to the door.
There he paused and—as an afterthought—grabbed his fishing spear. Dismay at his own reaction prompted a cold sweat: he had never before armed himself when any of the townsfolk came to visit.
Still, he assured himself weakly, best not to take any chances.
As he stepped down onto the flagstone, he saw Wilifrey standing awkwardly beside the tall grasses, arms at his sides. He was glancing about with a nervous quickness, but his wide eyes fastened on Ember with a little start as he noticed him.
“Ah! Yes - Ember…”
Ember planted the dull end of his fishing spear into the dirt and leaned on it slightly, frowning at him. “You seem surprised to see me.”
The farmer scratched the back of his neck, chewing his cheek. “Mm, yes—well, no. What I’m meaning to say is, we hadn’t—I mean, I hadn’t seen you about town in a goodly while, and we thought… well, I thought maybe… I came to see as you’re still alive and well.”
It wasn’t the whole truth - that much was certain.
“Just you?” Ember glanced down the path.
“Yes.”
“As you can see,” he announced dryly, “I am alive.”
“Yes… yes, I see that…” Wilifrey shrugged and shifted his weight to the other foot. He seemed as if he was about to say more, but he glanced over Ember’s shoulder, his gaze drifting slightly up and to the left.
His face paled.
As a faint breeze swirled through the mist, Ember turned to see a pale face peering inquisitively around the doorframe, still dripping river-water. Black strands of hair clung to an oily neck and lips parted in soft surprise, revealing the tips of two glistening fangs against a bluish tongue.
He saw her, in that moment, as Wilifrey must have seen her—indeed, as Ember himself had seen her not a week ago, standing on that very stoop.
A ghastly river-sprite.
The lanky farmer let out a plaintive yelp and sprinted back up the path.
Ember dashed after him, spear in hand.
“Wilifrey!” he shouted. “Wait!”
A wail of terror drifted through the mist.
“Wait—come back! I can explain—”
But the farmer had already disappeared.
Panting furiously, Ember took a sudden turn and darted through the long grass beside the river, splashing through the shallows before leaping up the pebbly bank on the opposite side. A barely perceptible deer trail led through the tall birch trees and he moved through the forest with a rustling swiftness—silent enough to pass unnoticed by men, though the keen-eared forest creatures scurried thither and yon as he rushed past.
When the deer trail met the bend in the river path, Ember heard boots crunching on dirt and pebbly stones.
He leapt forward, spreading out his hands.
Wilifrey skidded to a halt, fumbling to keep his balance, and Ember took the opportunity to say quickly, “Please, let me explain! It—it’s not what you think.”
He was surprised and a little frightened to see the grown man’s chin tremble faintly. Guilt wracked his chest—and tangled with a righteous flush of anger.
That shocked him.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had been truly angry with anyone. The idea of anyone but himself laying eyes on his mysterious companion unsettled him—but he had also long considered Wilifrey a friend, and the slack-jawed disgust and fear on his face was too much.
There was no use trying to deceive him.
“You can’t tell anyone,” he huffed. “Not a single soul! Do you hear?”
A whistling wheeze was the only reply, and both of them stared wildly at one another, breathless.
“The people in town already shun me! I won’t be able to set foot in the market square if you tell them Ember Jarelsson is consorting with the river-folk.” Ember’s hand shook on the spear, and he tightened his grip. “I always counted you a friend! Do you want me to starve come winter?"
Wilifrey regarded everyone in town with a contradiction of gullibility and suspicion. Nonetheless, he had always treated Ember kindly, even allowing him to pick the first of the apples from his orchards in the fall.
“Please, Wilifrey,” Ember whispered, heart pounding.
The farmer gave a quick, nervous shake of his head, mumbling something inaudible, and edged toward the woods.
They slowly circled one another.
Once he was reasonably clear of the fishing spear, Wilifrey bolted down the path, and was soon overtaken by mist and the noonday shadows of the woods. Ember stared after him with a feeling of sinking dread, and then stumbled back to his cabin in a bleary-eyed daze, dirt and brambles clinging to the soles of his river-wet feet.
Ky was nowhere to be seen.
❧
Ember unstrung the fishing trap from its posts, numbly, and dragged both the net and the mudbug baskets back to the cabin.
The net he hung outside on his cabin wall to dry, and the baskets he set beside the stoop. Once inside, he stripped the blanket from his bed and grabbed one of his newly-woven baskets, carefully tucking away all the food from his cupboard (one and a half loaves of bread from town, a few remaining apples, and the rest of the pilfered honey jar).
Then he marched out to the garden and gathered all the greens which looked ready for eating. He would have to eat those first, as they would spoil the quickest.
It wasn’t until he sat down at the table to rest that he realized he was too lightheaded to still be reeling from the excitement of his unwanted encounter with the farmer. Once or twice he got up to look out the door, but from that spot he watched the sunset colors spread behind the trees and touch the silvery surface of the river.
And it was there that he sat when a slender shadow crept up to the stoop, blotting out the light of the full summer moon in the doorway.
Neither of them said a word.
Ember thought of a few, but his tongue would not form them, so he silently grabbed the fishing spear on his way past and slung it across his back.
The rotting wooden step cracked under his foot as if to kick him out the door and he pitched forward, stumbling onto the flagstone and narrowly avoiding an embarrassing fall. If it was a sign, it was one that he wasn’t sure how to interpret.
Ky’s fangs glittered white in the darkness.
“I knew you will follow,” she whispered.
An owl hooted over their heads.
Ember could only nod stiffly; his teeth would have been chattering if he hadn’t clenched his jaw, and the muscles in his face were starting to ache.
“Come, Ember.”
She moved through the trees like a wispy sprite, following an obscure path which even Ember could not discern and occasionally pausing to glance over her shoulder. He followed close behind, one step after the other, the blanket slung over his shoulder, basket on his arm, and one hand desperately clenching the knife under his shirt.
What am I doing? he thought to himself.
And he had no good answer.
Only the faraway look in Ky Veli's eyes, and a curious stirring in his heart.