Into the Deep Wood

“Good morning!” the farmer’s wife appeared in the barn doorway, a bright smile on her face. She was carrying a tub of water. Thin, dancing steam rose from it. Val propped herself up on her elbows, squinting at the light.

The barn had been converted to a small, private residence. Its walls were low and had no windows aside from a very small one where the corners of the roof met. It was surprisingly warm even as the weather began to turn cold. It was furnished with a wooden boat, nets, harrow, wicker baskets and various other farming equipment.

All of it had been concentrated at the north side of the barn, two cots and a small dinner table now taking up the other half. Bunches of birch, oak, and eucalyptus leaves hung from the roof to be used throughout the fall and winter in the steam bath house. Their aroma drifted through the barn and reminded Val of home.

“Good morning, Mother,” Val said, carefully setting her legs off the cot. The woman knelt by her, helping her take her shirt off and bathe with a cloth from the hot basin. A new linen shirt, a man’s, and very large on Val, slipped over her head. “Could we try going for a walk?”

The woman shook her head, wringing the cloth out and hanging it on a hook nearby. “I’m sorry, dear, I have a lot of work to do - the frost is settling on the grasses in the night, and before you know it, winter will come. Perhaps your young man friend could take you?” her eyes sparked with mischief, fully knowing that the tease went unappreciated by the girl.

“Perhaps.” Val lowered herself back down. “Where is he?”

“Saw him walking toward the lake before I’d even fed the cattle.” the farmer’s wife said, still smiling to herself even though Val did not feed into her words, “I’ll be back by lunchtime, and if he does not return I’ll have someone take you.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Val sighed, “I wish I did not have to stay in here. It is so stuffy, and I am tired of the heavy air.”

“I’d have you stay with Amir; he is the only one with the room in his leather shop - but it is not proper for a girl your age.” The farmer’s wife was already in the doorway on her way out, “Besides, how would Marat feel about that?”

Her tease went unanswered.

Val closed her eyes, and her hand ran across her abdomen where the grisly scab - a scar now - had run across it. It’d been just over a month that they’ve been here. Her body recovered slowly from what had been an uncertain blur in her mind. Whenever she tried to remember, she couldn’t. Not really. She recalled the feelings of despair and fear. Of disappointment. Of crushing, all-consuming guilt. And then hopelessness and acceptance. The acceptance, perhaps, was the worst of them all. It was such a complete, vast vacuum that devoured all other emotions. Perhaps acceptance wasn’t the right word.

The only vividness she had of the night were the memories of counting her heartbeats and then, Marat stumbling toward her, screaming something. Maybe her name? She didn’t know. She’d felt his hands grab and hold her together - his fingers slipping on the blood that gushed out so heavily. And then, she remembered nothing.

Everyone was so kind here. The farmhand and his wife, with their newborn baby. The farmer and his wife, her caretakers. And then there was the young man, Amir—the leatherworker. Val saw how red his face had gotten at the sight of her whenever she would pass by, being helped along on a walk. How his eyes avoided hers at the dinner table - on the rare occasion that Marat agreed to join everyone in the main house. Amir had liked her, it was clear. And how could he not? There was not anyone their age for leagues around. She was likely the first girl he had laid eyes on in months.

Naive, she thought. Although she had no more experience in the ways of love, she’d been sure that he came from a simple life and simple understanding. Just like she did so long ago. She wished for the self that she was back then. Now, she was fragmented. There were so many pieces of her, and none felt they fit together anymore.

Were she back in her village, she would have thought him handsome. He had those kind eyes that he dropped whenever she looked his way. He had short hair, nearly the same pale brown as hers, and stood just a bit taller than she.

And then, again, she’d grown so used to Marat by her side that Amir looked to be just a boy compared with the older man. Over the past month, he hardly left her side except for his long walks. Together, they’d been housed in the barn. He was silent most days, sometimes two; they would go without a word between them, but he cared for her diligently and without complaint. Without him, she would not have been able to eat on her own, to relieve herself in the night, to begin moving her arms and legs through the pain.

He was not kind when he did, though. He’d get annoyed and throw his hands up as she sobbed because she couldn’t lift her arms. He’d ask her if she wished to die flopping like a fish on her back - because if that were the case, he may as well have left her in the clearing.

He’d stay awake with her until the morning hours as she cried out in agony. He pushed her to walk as she begged to be left alone. When she resisted, he would pick her up anyway, with her pleas to put her down following their steps. At first, he carried her slowly through the grounds, only setting her down when they reached a patch of wildflowers or the calm cattails by the lakeshore. Then, she began walking a few steps on her own. Now, she could take short walks, slowly, with someone whose arm she could hang on to for support.

At night, she would sometimes hear that he was awake. His breathing was different if he was awake. Sometimes, he would get up and leave on another walk when it was well past midnight. Val thought that this may have had something to do with his brother. It had been many weeks now since Erlan’s death. The words were never spoken, and the subject had not come up with Marat. She kept wanting to ask him but felt it was not her place. Even if she did, he was more likely than not to snap at her instead.

She was hurt, and he’d helped her. She wanted to do the same for him but found no words or the bravery to do so.

In the first few weeks of their being there, Marat had asked the farmer, Aimak, repeatedly that he go along to the city with him. But the farmer refused, saying that he was in no shape to do so. Marat must have thought so, too because he did not threaten to walk there instead. It would have been foolish to do so, as his limp was no longer due to the injury born of the Legho but of the wooden leg.

The night that he had been brought to the farm, the men had examined him and decided that the infected wound could be cured with a mixture of herbs - but upon pulling up his pant leg further to treat it, they saw that his skin was darkened - almost black, with a foul odor of death to it. They severed the leg just below the knee, saving his life. Shortly after, Aimak and Amir crafted a false leg for him. It was wooden, held in place with leather bindings that ran up to his hip under his pants. A tight leather boot had been sewn to slip securely over the wood. It would protect it from the elements and splintering when he fully rested his weight on it.

He was getting used to it, and sometimes he would forget about it altogether until he took a step and stumbled - expecting to feel the motion in his foot, a foot that was no longer there. He spent a long time walking the lands - and away from other’s eyes; he’d practice jumping, standing up from both a laying and crouching position, and sometimes even running. The latter was the hardest; he fell often. He could not go fast or far.

He would bellow in frustration where no one could hear, lying in the dirt, and lament the agility and mobility he used to have. What was he now? What was a hunter that could not crouch? That could not run or climb a tree? What was a hunter that made thumps on the ground wherever he walked? He was now fit only to do tasks that trapped him indoors; perhaps he could teach young, well-to-do men about the dangers of the Nothing and how to navigate the oddities of its making.

Perhaps he could just jump off a cliff.

Now, Aisultan had no use for him. The worth he once had was gone. He had nothing to offer for his freedom…

Except for the girl.

And he could no longer offer the girl.

The damage she inflicted on herself made her useless in that regard. She did not realize what she had done. He should have watched her closer, after Erlan. But where he was wise in the ways of beasts, he had fallen short in the ways of man. Or, he supposed, woman.

He did not realize the harm that night had brought about. He was so preoccupied with his injury and getting her to the city. Now it was all over. Aisultan would send men after him, and in his misfortunate state, he would not stand a chance once reckoning came.

And so, he walked. He walked the land and around the lake. It was overgrown, but it had but a dock where the farmer had fished. Marat spent considerable time there. He had never fished and never spent much time around water unless the hunt called for it. He did not like water. He was not good at swimming. Erlan was good at swimming.

He shook the thoughts off. He didn’t know how far downriver his brother was carried. How long until he returned? What foulness the presence of the Legho had burdened him with.

But now, sitting by the water, he felt a little bit closer to Erlan, wherever that was now.

“Why the sad face, soldier?”