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RIVER-FOLK

🙜

"You just missed him, Ember. Sorry.”

“But he must be around here somewhere! He wasn’t supposed to leave for another three months. Wasn’t his tent set up near your orchard?”

“I can’t help you—”

Ember jammed his foot in the door, narrowing his eyes at Wilifrey through the chink. The farmer glared back. “I’ve been all over town and I can’t find a single person who will give me directions. Just tell me which way he went, and I’ll leave.”

Sighing and twitching his fingers, Wilifrey jerked his head in the general direction of town. “He overstayed his welcome—heard he got thrown out of the tavern last night.”

“I knew that already. Where is he now?”

The floorboards in the house creaked as the farmer shifted his weight to the other foot. “Went up the road, back the way he’d come. Said something about returning in the winter, if you can wait ‘till then—”

But Ember had already leaped off the porch and was sprinting down the dirt path toward the road. “Thank you!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Wilifrey had opened the door just enough to stick his head out and was staring after him with the wide eyes of a frightened deer. “What do you want with that trouble-maker anyway?”

He didn’t answer. Luckily Hunter was never in a hurry to get anywhere, and Ember had no doubt he could find him before nightfall.

It was a nice day for a run—not too cold, still somewhat dewy—and the air was fresh and clear after the recent rainfall. For nearly half an hour, the smell of crushed grass and damp soil underfoot, the fishing spear bouncing up and down on his back, and the warmth of the sun beating down on his head were the predominant sensations. He could almost forget what had happened yesterday, and why he was trotting down the furrowed road in search of an eccentric wayfarer.

It was only his thumping footsteps, the buzzing insects, and the blue sky overhead.

He took a few shortcuts across Wilifrey’s fields when it suited him, and eventually left the low-lying fences and flat houses behind altogether. The trees grew thick on either side of the wagon-rutted road and it curved up and down with the natural lie of the land, growing hillier the farther he went. It wasn't long after the sun had reached its noonday summit that he saw the shadow of a man with a pack slung over his shoulder, and called out for him to stop.

He kept walking, seemingly oblivious.

"Hunter!" Ember called again, sprinting up the hill. By the time he reached the top, the man had stopped and set down his pack.

Slightly winded, Ember put his hands on his knees and leaned down to catch his breath.

"Well."

By the time he looked up again, Hunter had pinched off a stalk of grass and was twirling it in his fingers, leaning heavily on his walking stick. "If it isn't the young fisherman himself. Here to accuse me of stealing again?"

Ember wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he simply straightened up and said, “What did happen to those horses?”

Hunter flattened his mouth, stretching a purplish-black bruise mark around his right eye socket. Ember noted that his lower lip was swollen and a few cuts lashed his chin; Wilifrey and the rest of town must have been telling the truth about that tavern brawl.

"One of Alfrid's wagon team colicked last winter. I lent him the dappled bay." Hunter stuffed the end of the grass stalk into the corner of his mouth and chomped on it. "Gave the brown mare to Isabel, 'til such a time as their owners turn up. Though I doubt that'll happen."

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Ember smirked a little at that; every man in town was sweet on Isabel—and she despised them all equally. Even Hunter, it seemed, was not immune to her charms.

“What happened to your face?”

"Nothin' that hasn't happened before," grunted Hunter, chewing impatiently. "Did you have a reason for waylaying me, or were you just wanting to jaw about the weather?"

Ember took a breath, weighing his words.

“I came for advice.”

Hunter’s chin went slack, the stalk of sweetgrass drooping. His eyes widened. For five full seconds he stared at Ember, and then burst into raucous laughter.

“Advice!” he roared, slapping his thigh. “Nobody asks me for advice, young sir—nobody in this valley, leastways.”

“You’re not as dull as you make yourself out to be,” Ember insisted.

That prompted another sharp, crowing laugh. “Neither are you, I’d wager!”

Hunter rarely laughed out loud, aside from when he’d had too much to drink. But the man grew quiet again, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening and his mouth turning down at the corners.

“You ain’t here to spread more hearsay, are you?”

“No!” Ember said, shaking his head. “In fact, I’d like to apologize for what I said the other day. I don’t think you’re a liar. I do think you’re a very good story-teller, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Hunter’s grizzled countenance flashed to life. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and smirking a bit, beady eyes dancing in the noonday light.

“Well. You seem to be singin’ a different tune than when last we parted ways. What changed?”

Ember met his gaze evenly; he had questions, and he wanted them answered. “You’ve been all over these mountains and valleys, haven’t you?”

“Just about.”

“And you’ve seen a lot of things.”

Hunter shifted his eyes to the forest, scratching his beard. “More’n I care to remember.”

“You’re the only person I could think of who might know something about the river-folk,” Ember explained, speaking quickly before he lost his nerve. “I just had a few questions—”

“River-folk!”

Whistling, Hunter shook his head.

“They’re genuine questions,” Ember promised. “I swear. I’m not here to mock you.”

“How many questions?”

“A few.”

Hunter chewed thoughtfully. “Knowin’ you, it ain’t just a few… Best start with it now, so I can be on my way by sunrise, I suppose. Go on then, boy!”

Now assured that the wayfarer wasn’t going anywhere, Ember took a moment to glance at his traveling pack—he couldn’t help himself. Hunter had always been a bit of a mystery to the townsfolk, and he always carried items on his person that would have been considered odd by the farmers.

Today he noticed the hilt of a rusty sword sticking out from between the blankets, and a tattered cloth, perhaps a shirt or cloak of some kind. It was an unusual faded blue, which caught his eye.

“Aren’t dyes of that sort quite expensive?” Ember asked.

“I’ve no idea,” he replied dryly. “You’d have to ask the tailor what made it, and I reckon they’ve been dead a good long while.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From a fellow who’d rather be cold and well-fed than go hungry well-dressed.”

“Well, what is it for?”

“Wearing, of course.” Hunter stopped chewing. “I thought you had questions about the river-folk, not my personal belongings.”

Rubbing his chin, Ember thought for a moment.

“I suppose, to start—have you ever met one?”