Into the Deep Wood

Val did not leave the barn that day.

Knocks came to her door but she had either ignored them or told them that she was unwell. There had been insistent ones, muted voices on the other side convincing her to come outside.

She did not wish to hear what became of Amir. A part of her felt that Marat’s words had been only partially true, and her gut told her that she would not see the leathermaker alive again. Their voices were too demanding. The knocks came too hard.

She felt that the past couple of days, sleepless and exhausted, had all been just a blur—as if a fevered dream. She fell asleep before evening came.

When she awoke, she did not quite remember what had gone on or where she was in the pitch dark. She felt her head pounding and a bit nauseated in the thick air of the cramped, musty room. Feeling around, she found the door and swung it open. It was a deep night, a white moon above. As she stepped out she was met with the farmhand standing against the outer wall.

“Good evening,” He said, “How are your wounds?”

“I’m… well enough.“ He’d startled her, and she took a second to gather herself. “I’d fallen asleep and missed the day, I’m afraid.”

He nodded but did not move. Val realized that he was not there by chance. He was standing guard.

“I… was going to get some food; I hadn’t eaten since the celebration.” She cautiously told him. Again, he nodded.

“Then let me take you.” He offered her his arm. A deep discomfort rolled through her. He was not guarding the barn. He was guarding her.

He took her to his home, where his wife and child were asleep. He gave her meat and bread and then returned her to the barn.

“Until the morning.” He dismissed her, leaning back against the logs.

Again, she was a prisoner. She was not free.

It was too much. She’d been so happy not even a week prior. She thought that every turmoil that led her here had finally won her peace. But, it had come crashing down again.

She was not, and maybe couldn’t be, their family. Not truly. Maybe it was because they had been raised in the same way. Maybe it was because they were able to share each other’s lives. Maybe it was that they had never known the horrors of the Deep Wood.

For a moment in time, she believed she could be like them.

Val could not take the thought of being a prisoner again. She did not want to know why they did not let her leave; she did not want to know what became of Amir. She wanted to leave and follow Marat south. That is where she should have been the entire time. He was right when he called her a stupid girl.

Stupid, stupid girl.

And now, because she had not been brave - he was gone.

Marat had considered taking a horse, but these farm horses would break a leg within a day of being in the plains. They could only keep to common roads or slow, soft-tilled fields. And, to his surprise, he found that the thought of stealing from Aimak Sein had made his stomach turn.

He did not feel anything when he’d put an end to Amir, not until he had already left. The anger blinded him, and Marat should have known better. He regretted what this would do to Aimak and his wife and how they would grieve. Aimak was a good, selfless man. His wife a kind, pious woman. They treated him as if he were their own son. He did not wish them harm.

He did not have to leave the gruesome scene. He could have laid the boy to rest and away from sight.

But he did not.

Marat’s father was the first to introduce them to the fragmented Nothing. Before attending school, they were already in the woods. The Nothing-touched, blind as they were, relied on heat and smell.

Now, traveling alone and on foot would be harder. Most hunters traveled in groups when near the Wounds. But even here, in the plains, it was not safe on his own.

Marat had recited the rules of a hunter. He hadn’t done so in a long, long time.

The first, a fire would have to burn through the entire night. Many of these creatures could not stand the heat of the flames. Of course, there were others born of the flames themselves. But those were far from the Deep Wood, in the very depths of Sudraj.

The second, there was to be no noise. There were several nocturnals that were so averse to sound that they would brave their death to make it stop. No fire would prevent them from entering the camp.

The third, if there were two men - one stood watch. The other was never to call out the watchman’s name at night. Monsters could lure the sentry away by mimicking the voices of their companions and leading them into the dark - a swamp, a forest, a chasm in the ground.

If there was only one man, he was to soak himself in water boiled with the yarrow flower. The ward from all evil, the yarrow was a repellent for the Nothing. However, as soon as the yarrow water would dry, it would lose most of its potency.

Marat frowned at the memory. Erlan had devised the oils and the waxes they’d used in their hunts. The yarrow oils remained potent for much longer than the water had. Even longer had it been stored in cool, dry places. He’d been inventive, more so than Marat.

He felt the longing, the absence of a part of him that would not lessen no matter the time passed. He tried not to think about his brother since the fateful night that he had spoken those words, almost a year after his passing, admitting it. Erlan was dead.

For so long, he had tried to figure out how Erlan could ditch the Legho and escape. For so long, he planned and schemed for his brother - trying to guess the events and clever tricks that he would use to make it back and find where Marat had taken the girl.

He began thinking that the farmer taking them off the main road would set Erlan back a few days and then a few weeks as he looked for signs of their change of direction. Perhaps he would go all the way to Tarahz before returning.

With every day, these thoughts faded a bit. And as the Rusalka’s whispers became louder, they seemed to get drowned out entirely. She made him feel as if Erlan was only around the corner. And surely it was the next day he would come - but as the night progressed, he no longer thought of Erlan at all.

And then, it all came rushing back. It washed over him - the regret, the grief, the loss.

His brother was dead.

And, he was alone. The girl was gone. As he knew she would be one day.

He was completely alone.

Had he forgotten his name, no one would be there to remind him.

And that was why he recited the rules—fire, silence, yarrow.

But there was another way as well.

The fourth, a lesser-known approach, was considered barbaric by those nobles who dabbled in the sport.

Wardwright, it was the practice of setting up carcasses of beasts in a certain way to stave off others from approaching the camp.

One would eviscerate the body by making the cuts only across the chest and down the stomach. Then, put generous pinches of salt in the cuts. Lastly, the carcass would be posted outside the camp on a pair of criss-crossed boards - not unlike a cross.

This method was the most effective but required enough preparation to effectively waste the day. It was even more challenging the larger the creature was. It was best used if one was to stay in a place for multiple nights. The ward would last as long as the wood hadn’t rotted and the salt hadn’t drained out with the blood. Insects and rodents wouldn’t touch them, and the carcass would last.

As it turned out, he was not above barbarism.

If he were, Amir would have still been alive.