Flickering Thoughts

Death In Harmony: Part Twenty-Eight of Twenty-Nine

Death In Harmony is the fifth in the Tales of The Lesser Evil and this is the twenty-eighth, penultimate chapter.

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This is a fantasy series—not quite grimdark, but dark nevertheless—with complicated and believable characters doing their best to survive in a world simply indifferent to their existence.

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Flickering Thoughts

The Past: west of The Templelands

They walked fast despite being in the trees. The path was a good one. She passed no one else, but saw a handful of small fireplaces, ash and charcoal all that was left. One was still warm, and she suspected whoever had stayed there had done so during the day, cooking only after dark had fallen, rendering any smoke invisible, before moving on.

She did not stop until it was time to camp, and even then she continued to walk, searching for a likely place for the day, somewhere with thicker undergrowth, somewhere with more cover. Somewhere further from the world of humankind. A deer trail crossed the one she was following, and she took the way deeper into the woods. The moon was beginning to lower, but the sky was already brightening with the coming dawn. She could see many deer slots, but no other sign.

It did not take long before the trees became wilder, more dense, taller here, twisted there, and vast; ivy, honeysuckle, grape, and clematis covered and draped and clothed the barked giants, birds waking to sing from branches, and small animals scurrying through the loam and fallen leaves, returning to their homes for the daytime. Beneath the thicker canopy, an understorey of hazel, holly, huckleberry, and barberry, all shrubs and trees she knew, old friends. Even in the gloom, she could make out the leaves of wood sorrel, a tasty addition to any meal, in moderation.

Ahead, she heard running water, and stopped to listen, carefully drawing her bow and stringing it as she did, taking two arrows and nocking one. Water often meant others, people, but also animals drinking, especially this close to dawn. She moved forward as silently as she could, which was not too hard, the thick bed of moss and loam masking and cushioning her approach.

A small stream appeared in view and, at first, Flin thought she and Kadan were alone with the water. Then she noticed the small deer, not much bigger than a dog and dappled, perfectly camouflaged in the mottled light, their heads down and drinking. There were three of them, each taking it in turns to stretch their necks and look around, ears swivelling, and, she guessed, nostrils flaring.

She pulled back and loosed the arrow, immediately nocking the second, but there was no need, two of the deer had gone, disappearing across the stream in a bound, vanishing almost immediately. The third was laid on the bank, unmoving.

Flin moved quickly, shrugged off her pack and quiver and carefully laid the sleeping Kadan down on her coat. She refilled her waterbottles from the stream, including the bigger waterbag she only ever used for camp, drinking her fill. It was best to process the deer as fast as possible, the coming dawn making it a race against the light. After throwing a line over a low branch, she first carefully emptied the bladder of the deer, then raised the small deer off the ground by its hind legs to bleed. With luck, she would be able to have a good, hot fire, with a strong, smokeless bed of embers to roast the deer, long before the sun was up.

As she waited for the deer to bleed, she searched the area, looking for the best option for a camp—not too close to the water or trail, hidden from view, but with at least two ways out, should she need to move quickly.

It did not take long, ducking through overhanging branches, skirting clawing brambles and weaving through thickets of hazel. She soon found exactly the right place and set about making their home for the day in the growing grey light.

The day promised to be clear. The sky was a pale blue, with barely a cloud, the temperature dropping considerably before the sun rose and Flin was glad of the heat from the fire.

She sat with her back to a tree, mopping up the juices in her bowl with a small, reheated loaf of Sarah’s bread, washing her meal down with a tea, and then another tea.

Flin considered letting the fire die. She had eaten more than she probably should have, with plenty left to cook and eat later, before she started moving again. She was rested, breakfast had been enjoyable and Kadan had been good company, smiling and gurgling and eating well, seemingly engaged with everything around him.

There had been plenty of dry firewood, burning hot and long, with no smoke to speak of and she knew she was far enough from the road that, even had there been smoke, it would have been very difficult to pinpoint their exact location, but it paid to be safe. Twice, she had heard animals moving through the forest, larger than the deer she had eaten, and large enough that she kept her bow close by.

Despite the food and rest, Flin was still tired, but she knew it would take time for her brain to allow sleep. Instead, she decided to warm some water, and changed her mind about letting the fire die, carefully selecting a handful of seasoned oak branches she knew would burn clean, hot, and smokeless. They felt good in the hand, grey with age and as hard as the rocks around her. The sky was the first wash of blue, the sun yet to appear from behind the Templelands. Flin thought it felt right to be walking towards the dawn, as though a new beginning beckoned, every morning.

Instead of sleep, she would wash herself and Kadan, scrub her clothing and check everything she carried for damage. It made sense to do so, before the many days of walking ahead. If she had time, and energy, she would also start to prepare the spare coat for clothes for her son.

‘Let’s start with you, while you are still awake,’ she said, leaning over Kadan and beginning to undress him.

She paused almost immediately, he had a cluster of small red marks on his upper chest and neck, something had bitten him, an insect of some sort. She nearly missed the flea, it was so small, but managed to catch it and crush it between her thumbnails.

‘You poor thing, where did that come from?’ She checked him for other marks, other insects, but found none. Something tickled the back of her mind, a thought which somehow seemed relevant, but as soon as she reached for it, it vanished. After cleaning her baby, she applied a small amount of salve to the bites, to take away the redness and hopefully stop them being too itchy. ‘There, that should help. Now my turn.’

She found no marks or fleas on herself, but changed the dressing on her arm. It was painful and she knew it would scar, but it was clean and uninfected, and it seemed a small price to pay to escape the city, escape the plague and fire and men and monsters.

Her feet hurt and her legs burned, and she knew her muscles would protest for a day or two, but she was used to that. Walking always helped, after the first hour the pain always lessened and her body found its rhythm.

Again, something nagged at the back of her head, a thought that didn’t want to appear, flickering across and probing the silent places of her mind. Something someone had said, recently; she thought, hard, and caught it.

The monk—he had talked about the plague, about his order and their research.

He had talked about the rats.

He had talked about their fleas.

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