“I mean...just look at those!” Robyn explains, playfully grabbing my bicep. I wrench my arm away, trying to hide my grin despite myself.
“Thanks though,” I mutter under my breath.
No answer is necessary.
Robyn walks with me the rest of the way back to the hut, making light conversation and happy to keep me company. Each of us take a bucket as we head towards my home. As it turns out she is to help her mother with the berry picking for the day, and after the morning’s ordeal and no other responsibilities to occupy my time, I feel it only right to offer a hand.
The hours pass by and morning fades to afternoon as we crawl through brambles and bushes to fill our baskets in the mercy of the shade. Much of the day is spent laughing and talking about random things, old memories, people in the village, and a fair bit of slandering Rhys. We both end up trying to outdo each other with our choice words until Robyn’s mother peeks her head around the corner with a scowl at our vocabulary.
By the time the sun tickles the treeline we have several filled baskets to show for our efforts and an impressive collection of thorns and splinters. Both of us now sports a tapestry of scratches and scrapes down our arms. The gentle smell of smoke fills the air, it is unusual that the fires would be lit already, often the light is saved until it is undeniably needed. Perhaps the winds are carrying the remnants of a bonfire.
Nightfall comes quickly and we are still by each other’s side as the evening’s feast is prepared, we have long since rested into comfortable silence having exhausted our reservoirs of village gossip and brutal insults.
As usual, Mother is inside helping to prepare the day’s haul from the hunters. Alice has been left temporarily in the care of Ida, as is common with the younger children. A hearty fire crackles lazily in the centre of the circle of logs that seat the villagers. Bennie is at it again, the loudest voice echoing through the open door of the tavern, he’s likely dancing on a table by now, judging from the cheers of encouragement followed by the occasional crash.
The usual chorus from the various forest creatures can scarcely be heard over the excited chatter of Avlym’s inhabitants. Everyone always looks forward to the feast. The daily communal meal around the fire brings everyone together, Ida babbling and occasionally gifting the children in her care with peculiar quips, Manuel snoozing against a log enjoying his day off from the hunt, everyone all in one place.
Arthur can be seen weaving in and out of the crowd getting information on the day’s happenings and ins and outs. He jots down notes and numbers in his tatty old book that keeps this place running as smoothly as possible.
Arthur is the man that really holds the village together, widowed many years ago he had been left childless and so poured his heart and soul into Avlym. Though now I focus on him he does seem to be acting rather odd, glancing at the forest nervously every few minutes, he should have everything sorted by now but he’s still pacing restlessly. Several others are acting similarly, muttering in hushed anxious tones towards whatever oddity I appear to still be oblivious to.
“Wha-” I began to Robyn, after scanning the group but not spotting any abnormalities, but the words catch in my throat. As if to answer my question a pair of the younger hunters split from the pack that have just emerged and rush towards the hut where my mother will be sorting the food. It has only just occurred to me that the hunters should have returned a couple of hours ago at the absolute latest, it was incredibly dangerous to risk staying out this far into the night.
Closely behind Devin, Jack and Randall hold a limp body between them, hurrying towards the fire where we all sit in shock. All eyes turn as Arthur steps forward to meet them.
He is just a boy. Looking only a little older than myself, but tall, lean...and an absolute mess. He is covered head to toe in dirt, mud, dust, and most worryingly blood. Lots and lots of blood. It pools around him as he lay on the floor fussed over by the healers of the village, my mum included, as they try to patch up as many of the deep gashes as they can. His lips are cracked and his bare feet raw. Dark bruising covers almost every inch of the boy’s body and sweat beads his forehead.
A dark shape sticks out by his temple, clinging to his skin and mostly hidden under the mess of hair. Perhaps it is merely a trick of the dim firelight or a clinging leaf or strand of hair, but something about it seems off. Too deliberate. I inch forward but the wind shifts and the tangled nest atop hid head repositions over the mark.
The pain that kid endured running through the forest must have been unimaginable, it’s incredible that he survived the creatures of the night long enough for the hunters to find him. It’s a miracle the forest gods hadn’t claimed him, them or something else more sinister. If not for the hunters, it’s unlikely the boy would have seen another sunrise.
As the boy is tended to, Randall enlightens Arthur. Thankfully we are close enough to hear everything quite clearly. Not that it matters much, the whole village is straining to overhear the conversation.
Randall reveals that they had come across the boy’s trail hoping for some large prey and instead found him on the brink of death, barely clinging to consciousness in the middle of nowhere.
The forest at night is a perilous place, the hunters rarely even venture out after the sun has set. Even if the predators don’t get you, it’s far too easy to get lost
