Erlebnisse

The

Hunched over the table next to the fire, the four of us discuss possible solutions. However, had we the gift of honest clarity, we might admit what we all realize to be true, that only one option remains. A house burned to its foundations and a missing father tend to narrow things down. But this is our home, this Grécuainian soil and its people who have so quickly turned against my family, they do not easily detach themselves from our hearts.

"You have no incentive to stay and every life-threatening reason to go. What can possibly hold you back?"

"I have spent thirty years in that house, Bren. And my daughter, nineteen. Do not expect us to leave it at the stomp of a boot?" To her credit, my mother continues to shape her block of wood into something beautiful, cutting with smooth, calm strokes.

"Stomp of a boot? Ma'am, that beloved house of yours is a charred crisp, and your daughter, if she does not already, will surely have a price on her head by morning."

The dull thunk of a knife clumsily hacking into wood spills across the table. My mother stares in stark confusion and disappointment at Bren.

"That is my daughter whom you slander, Matthews. This is not your tavern, and I am not your drinking mate that I will take such words against my daughter so easily."

Obviously, Bren meant no such thing, and he clearly intends to say so, but our mysterious friend at the end of the long table beats him to it.

"Pardon my frankness, Mrs. Obliss, but your daughter indeed slew two men with a mere carpenter's hammer but six or so hours ago. Whether she did it intentionally or otherwise plays no part in what comes next. The matter at hand concerns your husband's rescue, along with the other captives, and how we mean to keep away from any officers charged with Mistoryn's arrest." Not once does the man turn our way, but rather he continues to stare out the window to our right. The flames' energetic lights cast playful shadows across his stubbly face, and for the briefest of quiet moments he appears suddenly thirty years younger, perhaps my age. Is he fifty-five, or seventeen? But his eyes betray his fleeting youthful appearance, and he returns to his ancient state. So far I have not heard so many words from him, and he turns to me as if sensing my astonishment.

"At last, the old sage imparts his wisdom," Bren quips, yet I read the same puzzlement in his teasing features. "But you are right. We must leave Grécuain and return to my friends in Central. I have received no missive in too long a span of weeks, and I am beginning to suspect something has gone afoul. In any case, we cannot risk an encounter with more government representatives."

My mother responds, the fire from our house having consumed her with a new energy, and Bren answers in turn, with the occasional input from the mystery man, who has yet to introduce himself. My mother argues for a nonexistent security; Bren, for a doubtful rescue mission. All the while my head screams to turn back, to return to the ruins of my house, the unnotable cottage atop the seaside hill. I mentally kick myself for even considering such a selfish option, when my father's life could well hang in the balance. With his disappearance, I can feel my last anchor to sanity slipping from its hold on the shore. And yet, how to tear this part of my life, the town, the backeré, out of my blackened heart? No matter what anyone says on my behalf, the truth still stands: I have bloody life on my hands, exactly where I held that cursed hammer, and I am guilty. With nineteen years in my book, surely I have had enough time to reign in this darkness, this voice that now has materialized into something which only I can see.

The minute the excuse to retire for the night escapes my lips I know what my conscience requires of me.

For that reason, I do retire to my room but only to grab a fresh pair of boots and a burgundy cloak from their place next to my makeshift bed in Bren's stuffy attic. The small window looking out behind a deviation of the main road seems as good a chance as any, and with several bruises and scrapes, I at last make it to the ground quietly. Guards line the sides of the road, and I have no intention of repeating today's mistake. Crouching as low as efficiently possible, I dash behind houses, taking great care not to disturb any of the horses.