A Forest Encampment

Two trees grew entangled. One of yew, one of willow. By careful pruning, wind, scrycraft, wiring or the will of the woods themselves, how the two grew as one is unclear. Over years, a tight length, spun like a corkscrew, each around the other, binding, charging, knowing, grew. Jessamine had found this tree after thirty-three new moons, searching in the darkness as it called out to her. Using a twine made of her own hair tightly braided, she sawed through the base of the twisted paired length to fashion herself a staff, nearly a head higher than herself when walking the woods with it.

Her eyes, midnight black and piercing, close tightly as she raises the staff over head and whispers to things no one sees. And the path is not revealed. Her handsomely squared jaw clenches and she implores again for an answer. Again, nothing comes. She runs a finger over the gentle cleft in her chin and her shoulders sag, resigned. She curses to herself, letting her dark blue cloak catch on brambles and not caring.

“Nothing,” she announces. “Not a whisper. You?”

Barrish rolls the map, scratches his lip and looks up the path again, paying no attention to Jessamine.  The trees are much thicker here than earlier in the evening and the darkening sky doesn't help show the way.  He peers behind, a bit past the witch, looking for some landmark, shakes his head, and pushes the map back into a leather tube that hangs from his horse's saddle.

“Well, I've not seen a curve or split in the road,” Barrish starts, rubbing the black scruff on his cheeks.  “I'm sure we haven't missed it.  It's been two hours, judging by light.  We've traveled two thumbs on the map.  Before that river, we were going one thumb every hour.  Either my thumb has gotten shorter, or there should be a crossroad camp right here.”

“Or,” Jessamine offers, checking the road to see what Barrish might be staring at, “The map merchant took you for a fool.”

Barrish gently nudges his horse onward and regretfully nods with a sigh. “Your spirit guides seem to take you for one.”

“Toad,” Jessamine threatens with a sideways smile, showing signs of many smiles before on her eyes. She holds her cloak as she mounts her horse in a position like a man would ride and signals Barrish to lead.

The woods on either side become impenetrable.  The leaves and gnarled trunks steal the light so that mere paces off in either direction there is only heavy darkness and a thick wet breeze.  The birdsong sounds of the day have given way to the chittering and popping noises of things that crawl through the damp leaves.  The evening is cooler, but by no means cool.  She concentrates on Barrish's wide shoulders in front of her as she rides as close as her horse will allow.  It is easier than trying to make out the shapes that seem to follow through the woods.  Earlier, these shapes were clearly trees wrapped in vines.  Now, minds fill in other things.  Staring intently into the leather vest on the broad tracker's back keeps her imagination from populating the woods with loping animals and worse.

Once more, Barrish slows and signals her to come beside him.

“This dark feels witchwork,” he mutters barely above a whisper to her left. 

She sighs and shakes her head. “All this time. And still you don’t understand.”

“Whatever is here makes my neck uncomfortable,” he continues.  “But there's little choice now.  I can't see ten paces.  Either we pull up a moss pillow around here for the night or we light a torch.  Truth known, neither choice brings comfort.  Damn that map maker.”

“Cartographer,” she reminds him.  Again.  Something snaps to their right and they both peer, stopping the horses.  Jessamine pulls her staff from the saddle and holds it defensively across her chest and sees Barrish's wide knife has already silently been drawn.

She swallows and the sound in her ears is deafening.  It could have been a large toad on a weak twig.  It could have been a thief.  The trees are too tight for bears.  A dog, perhaps.  Wouldn't they have heard howling? She leans in the saddle and squints.  There is nothing.  Wind pushes branches, and they cannot tell if anything else is moving.

Barrish has moved his short sword to his left hand at some point and he edges his horse closer to hers to see past towards the sound.  His leg brushes hers and Jessamine’s horse takes an uncomfortable step.  Barrish slowly puts his fist to her chest, forcing her to lean uncomfortably back in the saddle, clearing his view.  In that fist, a long, thin throwing knife.  The witch’s attention is split between the blackened edge of the knife and whatever is making noise in the woods.

Jessamine flinches as the knife flips in air in front of her face for Barrish to take it by the blade and he throws.  There is the soft muffled thud of something falling to the loam.  His arm is against her chest, holding her still, and she is sure he can feel her pounding heartbeat against his tensed forearm.

He lets that peculiar half grin of his open when she looks at him, a scarred reminder of a wolf from long ago.  He usually keeps himself clean shaven just to have that story at dinner with anyone who will listen. The past few days, they haven’t rested long enough for that luxury.

“You could warn me,” she whispers, trying to not pant.

“And warn our dinner,” he replies, dismounting.  He quickly darts into the underbrush, an impressive feat for someone of his bulk, and returns with the very large rabbit in fist.

“Did I ever tell you,” he starts, his voice almost at a normal volume as he ties the catch next to the map tube, “Of the time I threw a blade through two hare in a single throw?”

“Only every evening, Barrish.”

His laugh is genuine and loud, a single bark that does not echo as the trees eat the sound.  The air itself seems to heave a sigh of relief in the next breeze, a tremendous tension dropped from the woods.  He carefully cleans his short blade and slots it into place next to the others on the strap over his vest after he remounts.

“After he’s bled a bit, we'll find a clearing or some such for dinner,” he decides as he pushes further into the dark.  “Someplace not so tight.”

“Kill one rabbit and you're suddenly brave enough to continue,” she chides.

“You say that as if I were not brave before,” he says, mock offended.

The road has widened and they ride side by side.  The big man is comforting and perhaps a little bravery glows from him into Jessamine and their riding becomes more relaxed.  The promise of actual meat instead of dried chew strips fit for a mutt has definitely lightened their spirits.

“Do you think there's berries in these woods?” Barrish asks, not knowing how to find any in the dark, but hoping to flesh out the dinner selection.

“Mushrooms, perhaps.  But none I would dare eat.  Do not forget,” she wags a warning finger at him, “I have cinnamon.”

Cinnamon.  A warm sweet delicacy Jessamine introduced to Barrish at Aurec Major when they spent a week there making deals and trading.  Strange little sticks that she somehow gets a brown dust from which makes everything taste both exotic and comforting.  The smell on the fire and rubbed into a roasting bird is intoxicating.  Going into the big towns always brings such strange surprises.  At the time, he could not understand why Jessamine was trading a silver buckle for a bag of sticks and a few fistfuls of salt, but after that first meal, it was clear.

“You're right,” he concedes, mouth-watering at the thought of cinnamon-rubbed hare.  “We don't need berries.”

Jessamine cocks her head.  “Smell fire?”

Riding on the breeze is a faint but definite tang of smoke.  He nods.

“Crossroads camp, perhaps,” Barrish guesses, pushing the walk of the horse just a little faster.

They haven't traveled far at all before the yellow glints of a fire flit through the leaves against the charcoal sky around them.  The camp is a simple wood building, a large colorful patchwork covered wagon, and an impressive fire based in unmortared rocks.  Three horses are tied to a primitive stock fence and several men sit on crude benches of stone and trunk that encircle a pot hung over the fire that might be better described as a cauldron.

Barrish twists his bandolier so the blade handles are against his chest, instead of out to be drawn.  Jessamine secures her staff at her horse’s side, draping a blanket over it. More than once, the curious twisted nature had revealed her calling when they did not want it known.

“Fair met,” Barrish hails as they come to the clearing.  The faces around the fire turn expectantly.

“Come,” calls one man.  “We've room and stew.”

“As fine a greeting as I have ever heard.  I am Barrish.  This is Jessamine.”

As is usual, Barrish goes into the group first.  He will judge the men, their faces, their demeanor, their weapons.  Jessamine takes the horses aside and ties them by the others, waiting.

“Jessamine, pull up a stump,” Barrish calls, “It is cooler than I expected tonight and the fire is good.”

It is not cooler than Barrish expected.  But that is his signal that this crew appears safe.  Had he said it was warmer than he expected, the staff comes out and ready.  The one time he claimed the evening was hot, Barrish was the only man left standing when she got there and he had earned the crescent scar on his left arm.  The time he claimed it as downright cold outside, she entered a tavern to find him with a half-clad barmaid already in his lap.

“Our catch to add to your stew,” Barrish says, offering the rabbit to the man who greeted them.

“And for your company tonight, this,” Jessamine holds out her palm.  Two dark brown coins and two sticks of cinammon.

“Cinammon?” the old camp lead cackles.  “It seems we've some traveling noble merchants come to my little cross camp.  I am Sen.  I feed the travelers of this dark and weary path.  Your offer is quite appreciated, I assure you.  With that I offer ale to all, brewed in Southfinch, three days ride.”

“Bolo,” a dark-skinned man in a torn and simple grey cloak announces as he raises a hand, showing a triangular brand etched into his palm.  “Missionary of Kun.”

Barrish nods his head.  “Respect, holy man, and honor.”  Jessamine nods as well.

“Zench,” the final man says.  He is small.  His face shows battle.  A single eyebrow, a torn lip.  Not a pleasant visage, but he does not present himself as threatening.  “Wayguard of the priest.”

Bolo chuckles.  “No priest.  Traveller and speaker.”

“Do you wish to be a priest,” Barrish asks as he watches Sen butcher the rabbit with an experienced chef's skill.

“I prefer the road,” Bolo grins broadly, baring an actual full set of teeth proudly. “I cannot stay my feet.  While the wind lord might wish I sit still and teach his ways, I fear I have too much desire to roam.  I beg he forgives me for my impudence.  And you?  Are you merchants as our host has guessed?”

Jessamine glances to Barrish, wondering what they will be tonight. 

“Couriers when we can,” the big man rumbles easily.  “Merchants when we must.  We deliver a parcel of letters from Greyguard to Mienes.  Notes of debt, offers of trade, a love note from a saphead fool.  Nothing of value.  Yet still, they pay our days.”

“One does as they do,” Bolo nods, as if there were great significance behind his words. 

Sen has splayed the rabbit pieces in a large black pan and it sputters in the fire.  He strolls to the covered wagon and is swallowed inside.  When he returns, he has four wooden mugs filled with a bitter smelling brew.

Wayguard Zench is the first to slurp.  His eyebrow raises.  “Not the finest I've had, old man, but far from the worst.  To Kun,” he toasts and eagerly downs more.

“Do you not join us?” Bolo asks the camp host as he sips.

“Me?” Sen squeaks as he passes Jessamine a mug, “No.  If I shared ale with all who stopped at my little camp, I would sleep a winter through.  These lips can't hold what they once did.”

Barrish has his mug in hand and taps the steel ring he wears on the mouth of it distinctly.  Ticktick.  Tick.  A warning.  He does not look at Jessamine, but she knows he is on guard.

Jessamine raises the mug, waiting until Sen is looking away, and pours a bit against tightly closed lips, allowing nothing into her mouth.  As Sen turns back, she hastily wipes her chin on a dark blue sleeve, as if she had merely drooled a bit.  Barrish has pulled the same trick, but wipes his lips more vigorously.  His eyes flick to hers to make sure she understands.

“That's magic strong,” Jessamine says, giving a reason to not continue drinking at the moment.  Sen looks mildly annoyed and then disappointed.

Bolo looks at her sharply.  “These are not woods I would speak light of magic.”

“I seen magic up close,” Zench slurs.  “It smells.  It smells of lightning.  You know it.  That wrong smell in the air in summer storm.  The air gets lightning.  You feel it in your gut.  Then something wrong happens.  Seen a man's bone come out his arm, nothing touching him.  Seen a bat turn to fire.  Seen a man kill another with a rope turned hard as steel.”

“I, too, have seen nature twist,” Bolo agrees, “But I think we best not dwell on it here.  They say to speak and remember such things empowers those who use it.  I fear the forest itself here knows a thing or two arcane.”

“We've seen our share,” Barrish says.  “And respect your wish to not speak of it.”

Jessamine nods and takes another fake sip as Sen looks to her.

Zench yawns oddly.  “The ale.  Is strong.  Stronger than.”

“Zench?” Bolo catches the small man as he slides from the bench.  “Zench?  That's not like you.  Have you...”

A realization flutters across the dark man's face as turns to Sen before he slips to sleep, slouching to the ground half over his companion.

“You're nothing but a bandit.  A thief,” Barrish accuses, drawing a sword.

A terrifying sound splits the night air as a whip flashes in the old man's hand and Barrish's sword clunks unceremoniously to the ground out of reach.  “I prefer liberator of excess property.  No courier carries only letters between towns as far as Mienes and Grayguard.  You have more.   I know it.  Had you paid me more than two chip and two sticks of old and stale cinnamon, I might not have minded.  But I provide a fine service here, and for swollen pocket merchants like yourselves, that was an insult.  Try for your staff on that horse, woman.  I'll wager my hand faster.”

Jessamine very slowly holds out her hands, palms open upward.

“If you just finish your ale,” Sen explains calmly, “You will awaken in the morning, unharmed, I promise.  Perhaps your pack a little lighter, that's all.”

“What would possibly make us trust you?” Barrish asks.

Sen shakes his head slightly in agreement.  “I do see your point.  The other options are messy, though.  They involve ropes and being tied to trees.  I'm no killer, no, fear not.  Just trying to get my fair share, that is all.  All you merchants and couriers.  There's been too many poor pocket priests lately, and it isn't easy surviving... out... here...  Do you smell a storm coming?”

Jessamine’s sleeves cling tightly to her arms as they always do when she inscribes the runes in the air.  The smell of wet copper rises around them as she pulls patterns from her mind.  Barrish sighs, dumps his drugged ale on the ground and shakes his head in sad apology at the old man.

The symbols coalesce in the air as she guides their soft glow.  There is a high croaking squeal from the old man and his face twists as he feels his body stiffen.

Jessamine exhales steam and stares, weaving the symbols from other places.

Sen topples like a statue and remains in position as if he were still standing, whip still in hand.

“Huh,” Barrish notes in approval as he goes to the body.  “No blood.  Easy to clean.  Much better than that time on the boat.  Remember that?”

“I remember,” she relaxes and the air becomes clearer, but she is having difficulty breathing.  There is always a toll.

Barrish struggles.  “I can't move him.  What is this?”

She slumps to the ground after taking a small joint of the rabbit to regain strength.  “His blood,” she says between bites.  “Is now stone.”

The big man stares curiously at the witch before he shrugs and sits next to her with a piece of rabbit, handing Jessamine a bowl of decent smelling potato stew.

“He deserved it,” Jessamine mutters as she sprinkles brown dust over her stew.  “My cinnamon is NOT stale.”

“The seasoning of the witch,” Barrish agrees as he takes a pinch of the ground spice offered from her palm.

10/31/2019