Page List


Font:  

Hok decided she needed to do something to occupy her mind. Something to help herself. She stood, and the crane squawked. It stared straight at her, bobbed its head three times, and flew off.

Hok teetered in the soft soil next to her grass pile, watching the crane fly up a narrow stream not too far away. It was not the same stream she had followed to the marsh. With no other plans, Hok decided to follow the crane again. She regained her balance, took a long drink of water, and began to walk, cradling her broken arm.

Hok headed back into the forest, following the crane's path up the stream. The crane was nowhere to be seen, but Hok pressed forward. The more she walked, the more cloudy her head became. She assumed it would have gotten clearer, but she was wrong. Between the Dream Dust and stress of her arm break and everything else, she knew exhaustion was setting in. Walking was probably one of the worst things she could be doing to her body right now, especially since she hadn't eaten in a while. However, she didn't know what else to do. She didn't see any point in sitting still, waiting for help that would never arrive.

Hok continued to follow the stream, hoping it would lead to a house or a trail or something. She knew that if you followed a river or stream long enough in that region, chances were good you would eventually find civilization.

Overhead, the clouds continued to thicken and it began to rain. She was soaked and chilled to the bone in no time, but at least the rain kept the insects away and washed much of the mud off her body and out of her stubbly hair.

The evening shadows came early thanks to the rain, and Hok knew that she would have to stop soon. The dizziness was returning, too, and her mind was beginning to play tricks on her. She even thought she heard voices.

Hok rounded a bend and her thin eyebrows raised. She saw two women, one old and one a few years older than herself.

“Would you get off that bridge already?” the old woman grumbled from the stream bank. “We are going to be late.”

“But I want to make a wish, Mother,” the young woman replied from beneath a delicate umbrella. “Give me a coin so I can throw it into the water and—”

The young woman stopped in mid-sentence as Hok stumbled up the center of the stream, heading for the bridge.

“What on earth is that girl doing?” the old woman said in a disgusted tone. “She is far too old to be playing in the water, or in the rain for that matter.”

“I don't think she's playing,” the young woman said. “Look at her face and the way she's holding that one arm. She looks like she needs help.”

“She needs to learn how to carry herself like a lady,” the old woman snapped. “That's what she needs. She's a mess! There is no excuse for a girl to look like that. I bet she's homeless. Let's go before she starts begging for money.”

“I don't know …,” the young woman said. She stepped off the bridge, and Hok tried to call out to her. All Hok could manage was a high-pitched squeak. Hok reached the bridge and collapsed onto the stream bank.

The young woman stepped forward and examined Hok, and her eyes widened. “Look, Mother! Her eyes are almost round, and the little bit of hair she has is brown!”

The old woman scoffed. “Don't touch her. She's a half-breed. No better than a mongrel dog. Come, let's be on our way.” The old woman turned away from the bridge and walked up the narrow road.

The young woman looked at Hok, then at her mother. She laid her wishing coin in Hok's hand and followed her mother.

The next morning, Hok found herself still fading in and out of consciousness beside the bridge. The rain had stopped, and numerous groups of travelers had passed over the bridge since daybreak. Many had stopped to stare at her and debate how she had come to rest there, but none had offered any assistance. The only person to come near her did so just long enough to snatch the coin from her hand. She heard the word mongrel many times.

With her weary eyes closed to the morning light and the indifferent passersby, Hok eventually heard the strangest sound. It was a soft, garbled mumbling, like she imagined a spirit might sound.

“Xy you zwqd vmxp?”

Hok opened her eyes, then slammed them shut again. This couldn't be happening.

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes once more. Hok felt the remaining color drain from her pale face. She decided she must be dead. A ghost was standing over her in broad daylight.

“Xy you need vmxp?”

Hok blinked several times. The ghost was still there. It looked like it was waiting for her to say something. Was the ghost trying to communicate with her?

Hok stared at it. Alive, the ghost would have been a teenage boy. His face would have been pleasant enough, but now it was creamy white and covered with red dots. Its eyes were as blue as deep river water, and its hair was the color of dirty straw.


Tags: Jeff Stone Five Ancestors Fantasy