Pemba takes my mother’s scepter from me and stashes it away in the pack before he tucks it amongst the roots of the hollowed-out tree where it will stay dry overnight. Stepping out again, he stretches out his shoulders, raising his arms above his head. I wince as I hear the loudpopof his bones shifting. If only we were home and I had access to the coven’s apothecary to mix him a tincture, I could ease his soreness with a simple list of herbs.
“I just need a good night's sleep, Rooke. Don't worry about it,” he calls over his shoulder as he works his way down to the water.
I sigh.Brothersand their ability to read me like a book.
Guilt roils in my stomach and rises up the back of my throat, threatening to overwhelm me. I swallow roughly, desperately, as I blink away the tears that prick at my already weary eyes.
I had more brothers and a whole tribe of sisters, all of them lost to me now. They’ll never grow up and journey into the world. They’ll never find love, never make friends, never live their lives and grow old here in the forest. I’ll always remember their tiny faces, blurred by the tears streaming from my eyes as Pemba and I placed them gently, lovingly, on the funeral pyres. But I’ll never see them again.
To think of them, their names and their faces, is to plunge a knife through my chest and straight into my heart. I want to curl into a ball on the forest floor and fall apart. To pound my fists into the dirt and scream out the agony I feel, to curse the Fates for doing such a thing to my family, to cry until there is nothing left inside me.
Tears stream down my cheeks once more as I pull off my boots and then my thick, hand-knit socks and tuck them next to the pack carefully so they’ll also stay dry. I curl my toes into the fresh dirt of the forest floor and let it soak in some of my pain, both the physical and the pain in my heart.
I've never worn shoes for so long in my life.
I've never worn a jacket for so long either, and it feels foreign to be so tightly laced up when the earth and the nature around us call so strongly to me. I don't know how anyone could possibly be a traveler and live like this permanently.
A fate worse than death, I should think.
I let my eyes fall shut as I take in several deep lungfuls of air. It's an old habit, something my parents trained their children to do. The best way to get a reading of your surroundings is to breathe them in and filter the information you get. The scents you smell, the taste of the air on your tongue, the sounds of life around you. You remove the sights, and suddenly, it’s so much easier to find what you need.
The forest provides everything.
From scent alone, I learn there are wild herbs growing all around the hollow tree. Enough that I should be able to loosen Pemba up a bit and aid him in falling asleep without too much hassle.
I pull off my jacket, rain be damned, and tuck it into the hollow as well before I begin to gather what I need. Luckily, I’m a resourceful Ravenswyrd witch, and I can also find the tools I need to process the herbs for use. There are tools all around us, if only you know where to look.
By the time Pemba comes back, stripped down to just his trousers and his hair still dripping wet because he enjoys the feel of it, I have fashioned a mortar and pestle out of rocks. On the log beside me, there’s a steadily growing mound of crushed herbs in one of the small wooden bowls we’d brought along, and I’ve unpacked the small, hand-carved cutlery we packed the first time we left the coven.
Pemba starts a fire, and I try not to look at the small iron pot in my hands as I walk down to the river's edge to collect water.
My father made me this pot.
He was one of the few ironsmiths in the coven, always working with his hands, and he crafted it for Pemba and me the moment he knew we would be traveling together to meet with the Seer. It's simple, but no one in our coven ever cared about the way things were decorated, only about the beauty of their uses.
It was the last gift my father ever gave me.
If only I'd known, when he handed it over to me, I might have thanked him a little more thoughtfully. I suppose this is going to be a part of my life now, thinking about all the things I could have done better, the things I should have said, and sending out silent prayers that my parents and loved ones all went to their deaths knowing how much I loved them.
I can’t look at the pot for too long without tears overwhelming me again. I can’t think about any of my family without a lump forming in my throat and my gut churning, my entire body threatening to give up even as I’m forced to continue onward.
Once I get the herbs brewing over the open fire, I head down to the river to wash off.
I strip off the makeshift trousers and the long shirt I was wearing tucked into them, folding them haphazardly and leaving them on the riverbank. I hesitate before I remove my underclothes as well and wade into the water as naked as the day I was born.
The river is as refreshing as I dreamed it would be, and I hold my breath under the water for a moment and let it wash away the tears on my cheeks. Once I’ve scrubbed my skin raw with nothing but my hands and the quiet desperation inside me, I lie back and look up at the moody sky as it peeks through the leaves. I float on my back, paddling with my hands against the gentle current as I lose myself in my thoughts, letting the cool embrace of the water distract me. I know my hair is going to be a nightmare when I get out, so I just enjoy the feel of the water for as long as I can.
There’s a push at the back of my mind, a gentle prodding that I’ve become accustomed to. The voice, trying again to make contact. Once the initial shock of suddenly hearing a male voice in my head wore off, there were some slow weeks of getting to know each other through our connection, and I made it difficult for him in the beginning, but he fought to win my trust. With that trust came the feelings that still swirl around in my gut the moment I feel him there, the way my body reacts to his simple presence and the cravings I feel for him. Mornings have become a playful time between us, but I ignore his call for now.
I’m too raw and exposed to play games with him, too caught up in my grief to entertain him.
A water sprite, barely more than a few drops of water strung together, plays in the dappling water next to me. It’s joyful and childlike, though the creature is far older than I am, maybe older than the forest itself. I don’t react or make a fuss about it, even when it splashes water in my face, because Pemba will kick a cauldron about it if he finds out, and I’m perfectly safe. I can tell it’s been a long time since it has seen a witch, and it’s just getting a good look at me.
I wish I could feel the same joy as the sprite.
When I'm finally out, dried off and back in my traveling clothes, I find Pemba pouring the tincture into two small wooden cups, a small satchel of dried berries and nuts in his hand that he offers to me first. I'm sick of eating them, but I would never say that to him.
“Eat up, Rooke. We'll be back on the road before dawn tomorrow, so we should rest while we can.” Pemba blows on his tincture and tries not to smell it as he gulps it down in one go.
