Leaving Sherwood - A Fickle Universe Time Travel Companion

Chapter Six

They woke to the sound of wind rattling the metal panels of the roof along with the whisper of pine needles and the occasional cone striking them and rolling down. Outside, gray clouds scudded across sky the color of a fresh bruise and the temperature hovered around freezing. The wind made dervishes of dust, and bits of branches and trash blew fitfully around the dirt lot.

"There's a storm on the way," Will said. Part of him thought they ought to take shelter back in the shed, but the urge to move on was stronger. They were so close to their final destination that he could almost taste it. "We'd better get a move on."

There was no food left to break their fast, so they simply turned up the road and headed out, shoulders hunched against the wind.

Soda Fork Road wound its way into the woods, climbing gradually into the foothills of the mountains. They passed timber in various stages of growth, from areas cleared of every tree—the land scarred and littered with piled branches—to tiny trees planted in rows, to young trees not much taller than Will, and—the deeper they trekked—stands of pines that looked to be a hundred years old or more. Sometimes in the distance they heard the sound of activity.

A droning buzz followed by the crashing of trees falling to the earth, or the rumble of engines and horns blaring. Will realized it was the sound made by men harvesting these woods for industry.

The road forked, and forked again, and again, but each time they only needed to look down one way or the other to know which way to go.

Eventually they left the noise behind and all they heard was the squawk of a pair of black birds with white bars on their wings that kept pace with them, flying from tree to tree along the road. That and the wind whistling in the firs, blowing harder as the day wore on. The cloud cover thickened to solid gray and lowered, threatening rain or even a late snow.

It was close to noon when the first hard rain started to fall, blowing sideways and beating against their backs as though driving them along.

Still they walked on, until at last the shape of a cabin took form in the glooming daylight. No lights shone in the windows and the chimney looked cold, but it looked sound, not run down nor abandoned.

"Here." Paul tugged his hand, pulling him to the door.

There was no answer when the boy knocked, and when he tried the door handle, it turned in his grip. A gust of wind pushed it wide and sent it crashing against the inside wall, and they found themselves looking at a single room, neat and tidy, but empty of any movement.

Another gust of wind spurred Will into motion and he entered the cabin, motioning Paul to follow, then pushed the door shut. The light coming through the small windows was enough to see a lamp on the table near the door, and he fumbled with it until he figured out how to lift the glass to get at the wick, which he lit with Paul's lighter. He replaced the glass and held it up to look more closely around the room.

It was sparsely furnished. A bed. A small closet with hanging clothes visible through a door left ajar. A black bellied stove, open and the makings of a fire laid inside. The table by the door. A footstool by the fire. A chair in front of a desk with some papers atop it.

Opening a door on the opposite side of the room revealed a larder of sorts, where cans and boxes of food lined the shelves and strips of meat hung on drying racks. Venison, his mind whispered.

There was a stack of folded deer hides and a pile of antlers in the corner. More furs, rabbit and squirrel by the look of them, filled a basket in another corner. Another door opened out the back of the cabin, and when he opened it to look, he saw a covered woodpile and a tiny shack a short distance away. He stepped back out into the rain to investigate, wanting to make sure the owner of the cabin wasn't inside.