The Rokkoh Adventures

Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 3

The flurries fly around in a heavier downfall, but Winter's bite remains the same. I set eastward, eyes combing through the darkness between the pines. As I trek, there are only the trees, the snow, and the increasing wind. The Smith's devilish grin creeps into the forefront of my thoughts, and through the windowpane of this search it seems intentional. The monster, a fallacy. My mission, a wild goose chase. My friends, defenseless. I need to get back to them, I tell myself. They need me more than the Smith does. I don't need a sword of my own, especially not one from a lying bastard who fools children into leaving him alone.

The wind chills my back instead of my face, but I cannot move. Curious eyes creep. A flash of glimmering gold, two small circles of the dazzling hue, peek out from behind a tree. They blink slowly twice before moving south, its gaze never breaking. I cannot see its frame in the night, only the golden eyes. I follow, my own curiosity taking over.

Tri-toed tracks lead the way through the thickening snow. Each is enormous, bigger than my head. The trees thin out, giving way to a white plain lit by the bright crescent moon. Ahead, the giant footprints stop at the mouth of a cave carved into the side of a hill. The wind picks up, blowing snow into my face as I step closer to the cave entrance. The golden orbs watch from just inside, hiding amongst the shadows with patience and expectancy. The glimmer fades as I come near, receding into the depth of the cave until the gold is gone. Standing in the mouth, my eyes adjust to the cool black. A hulking figure kneels several yards away, its back to me. Long fur, tawny and thick, covers the body. It hovers over something, and through the dark I can hear faint, sweet noises.

The iron sword grows hungry in my hand. Strike, it begs as I inch closer and closer to the hairy beast. My footfalls are far from silent; each one echoes throughout the space. Yet the creature does not move to defend itself. Perhaps, I wonder, if the thing is deaf and simply does not know I am there. But it had watched me from amongst the woods, led me to its home as if it wanted me to follow. Why?

Nothing but a couple feet of air separates us now. The blade could easily cut that distance and sink into the large prey. The fur could drip rubies. I could claim my prize and go back to the Tower victorious and proud. It would be more difficult, though, to hide my contraband than I imagine it is for Dagan.

It turns in its spot, pivoting at the hip and reaching out a long furry arm. Its four fingers, charcoal yet eerily human, take gentle hold of my wrist. It doesn't even seem to notice the blade held in that hand. Eyes like precious coins look up to me, a glint of glee shining in the gold. Surrounding each eye is a circle of deep black flesh. A flat obsidian nose, much like a dog's, pokes out of the fur. Its mouth hides underneath. It encourages me with a soft pull to come closer. Nestled in a bed made of straw and leaves, suckling on the juices of winterberries, is a baby. Its fur is longer, thicker, and as white as the snow outside. Its little fingers hide under the fur, but its little feet with three toes are of the same hue as the larger one's fingers. Its eyes open and close between pulls of juice, revealing dazzling silver. It hums and coos as it feasts.

"Is this your baby?" I asked, hushed and in awe.

"Ohnesh," it replies, slow but proud.

The creature takes my other hand in that same gentle way, lowering it until my fingertips lay upon the baby's fur. Soft, thick, warm. The baby squeaks in delight as I rub its head. Although its eyes close, I can sense the smile hidden underneath its wintry fur. When I move my hand away, the little thing goes back to the winterberries that sit in a small mound next to it.

The larger one, presumably the mother, releases me from her delicate grasp. She rises to her feet, long lanky legs helping her tower over me. She stands at least ten feet tall, my head at her belly. She looks down to me with those blissful golden eyes, and a hand reaches out to stroke my head. Such a sweet, pure, and loving gesture. Oddly comforting, as well. It makes me feel like a child, though not in the way the Smith had done. Instead of shame, mockery, or humiliation, there's safety and care. My mother made me feel that way. There are few memories left of her, and even fewer things I remember about her, but I'll never forget the love she gave.

The sword grows heavy with guilt and disdain. It no longer begs or whispers in my ear. It cries, regretting the task it had promised. Yet I keep my hold on it. After all, it still needs to be returned to the Armory at the Tower of Lost Children. There would be more lashings for leaving it behind as opposed to bringing it back, I imagine.

The giant hand leaves my head, but the smiling eyes remain.

"Thank you," I tell her. "I have to get back now."

"Be safe," her voice comes, still slow. Despite the enormity of her size, the lightness in her voice is clearer now. A being of peace, devoid of malice, only relying on her massive frame to ward off predators. I see it. She is no mindless beast, scrounging around for scraps or violence. She only wishes to provide for and protect her youngling. Who am I to kill her?