Eyes like the Forest (5)
#6 of Eyes like the Forest
Nausea fought its way into No-longer-gray gut as his stomach once again threatened to empty itself. The gentle rocking of the wagon's wheels turning over the dirt road, while once a comforting boon to the weary traveler, now tormented him in his current state. Drink never did sit right with him, and the copious amounts he had imbibed the previous night did him no favors. Pulling the hood of his cloak farther over his face, warding away the pervasive midday sunlight as he did the sick feeling in his stomach, he glanced at the driver to whom he sat beside. The large man seemed no worse for the drink, or if the suffering was there it was hidden beneath dark lines of grief. Normally loose of tongue, he was silent and had not said more than a handful of words since they awoke.
Everyone handled death differently: a farmer, rancher, or butcher would take it in stride, often putting their animals to the knife for their meals. They saw the purpose of death, how it gives way to life, and lets it not rob them of their spirit. A soldier would see it as an old comrade or foe, familiar in face and a company to whom they are tolerating. People of a less hard life would see it as a tragedy, a wrong, a transgression, an affront to their peace and happiness. For them, death is a thief in the night that steals the most precious of possessions. For Garreth, death stole from him one of the only consistent companions he had. For the traveler... death was a key. A key that opened doors, and broke bonds. Death was freedom.
Sleep must have taken him, for when No-longer-gray next opened his eyes to the careful nudging of the driver, the sun sat low on the horizon and they had stopped by a river crossing. Ahead, a bridge covered the broad waters that drifted with a lazy surety to the west, whilst the road beyond broke into two, one following the river, the other continuing northward. In the lee of the span a small building sat against it, with a tethered, wooden boat, large enough for six wagons as well as their passengers. Already it was being loaded with crates, barrels and sacks of goods. People, some with horses, mules, oxen, made to board while a few men prepped the vessel for departure. This was the ferry that would take him to Tarrensford, at long last. It had been days since he began his trek with Garreth, but it felt like weeks.
"If you catch this one, you'll be in Tarrensford by morning." The driver muttered, more words than he had shared with the traveler all day. A while back, No-longer-gray wanted nothing more than to free himself from the company of the then-jovial man, but now he was loathe to leave Garreth. While he wouldn't call the man his friend, he could not help but feel pangs of sympathy for him, and to leave him alone with the solitary ox was more than disheartening. It must have shown on the traveler's face, because the large man forced a small smile and made a dismissive, sweeping gesture with his hand. "Go on then," he said. "I'll be fine. You go and look after your cousin, I'll take the long way and we can share another drink when I get there."
Though the very mention of alcohol made his stomach turn, the traveler nodded wordlessly and climbed down off the cart. When Garreth clicked his tongue and jerked the reins, No-longer-gray gave a slow wave of farewell, and made haste to the ferry, soon to leave.
***
If the road was cruel to his unsettled gut, the waters were torturous. Boats never did him any kindness, but even moreso in his hungover state, despite the smooth and winding nature of the river. Several times he made his own contributions to the water, heaving over the edge of the ferry, coughing up the stew he had been given; it would make a finer meal for the fish than it did for him. Even if he didn't sleep before, he would've found no rest on the vessel like this, and was thankful that it would only bear him for the night.
While normally he would find company in solitude, the traveler had questions, so when a fellow passenger, a farmer, sought conversation, No-longer-gray was pleased to oblige. They chatted about the weather, their destinations, exchanged a few anecdotes; small talk was a learned skill that served the traveler well. Finally he brought it around to the encounter on the road he had with the wolves, regaling the stout farmer, rapt with attention, with the tale.
"... I mean, I felt bad. I hired him to take me up here, and his ox gets slaughtered by wolves on the way. So, we drank the night away on my coin, as is only proper. Odd thing is... I thought wolves weren't around this time o' year..."
"They 'ent," The farmer replied, shaking his head incredulously, giving his noggin a scratch in an almost comically stereotypical way. "Leastways, they don't usually..."
"Usually? So... has this kind of thing happened before?"
"Aye, or so I heard." The familiar light of a man with a tale nearly bursting from him cast in the farmer's eyes. "My pappy told me of this time, must have been about fifty years past, wolves came down and ran over these lands like locusts. Was a plague, it was. Kilt all the farm animals, not ta mention many a brave soul. The militia had ta come out and drive them back up the mountains, and even they lost a lot o' good men."
"Why'd it happen, did your pappy know?"
"Nay, not rightly so. He said somethin' about some terribleness must've scared then down off the mount, somethin' worse than bears or wolves. Can't imagine what's worse than that though."
The traveler looked at once pleased and concerned, consternation knitting his brows together and pulling at his mouth. "... I can."