War of the Seasons, book one: The Human

CHAPTER FOUR: Lost

CHAPTER FOUR: Lost

Story had been walking along the path for hours, but hadn’t made much progress on her bare feet. The ground was soft enough, but it wasn’t the same as having shoes; she had to keep looking where she was stepping in order to keep her feet from getting cut and bruised.

“I’m going to kill whoever stole my boots.” Story winced from the pain of stepping on yet another sharp rock. She’d returned to the cave entrance, after getting over the initial shock of seeing the southern sunrise, to retrieve her shoes and socks. They weren’t there. They weren’t anywhere.

She was certain she’d tossed them outside the cave before climbing out last night, even though she had hit her head pretty hard in her fall and had been very focused on just getting out of her former prison at the time. Nonetheless, Story had peered inside the fissure to check and saw nothing but rocks and dirt. Annoyed, she’d searched the area outside the cavern’s opening once again and then slowly walked around the small clearing.

No boots. No socks.

It was as if they’d simply disappeared. That, or someone had stolen them, which meant that now she had to hike off the mountain in bare feet. Though, if worse came to worst, she’d figured she could tear her tattered hoodie into strips and wrap her feet with them.

That was no longer an option. Either she was a lot higher up in the mountains than she’d originally thought, or a freak cold spell had blown in. It no longer felt like the end of summer but instead, based on the new growth she saw everywhere, the height of spring. She shivered as a breeze whistled through the trees, very thankful that, torn up or not, she still had her sweatshirt wrapped around her body instead of her feet. The sun was starting to set—in the north, according to her compass—and Story, cold and exhausted, stopped next to the river and bent down to get a drink.

Immediately following her encounter with the pointy-eared jerk, she’d been too full of adrenaline and irritation to really get a good look around, but after calming down a bit, she was finally able to take in her surroundings. She was in the middle of a stunningly beautiful forest that didn’t look like anything back home in the Smoky Mountains. Her breath had caught in her throat as she viewed the softly waving ferns covering the forest floor and the graceful curves of the thin, black tree trunks that soared overhead. Glittering dust motes sparkled around her, floating lazily in the green-tinted sunlight that filtered through the emerald leaves of the forest canopy.

It was breathtaking.

At least it was at first. Eventually her growing thirst, sore feet, and empty stomach had dimmed even the ethereal beauty of this untouched wilderness. A wild fruit orchard had solved her hunger problem; she’d gorged herself on a tasty variety of peach or nectarine she’d never had before. They were sweet and delicious, but after the first half-dozen they were no longer such a treat, just fuel to keep her legs moving.

Her thirst had been slaked by the river she was drinking from now. Sitting back on her haunches, Story scrubbed the cold mountain water over her dirt-streaked face and hands. She pointedly ignored the state of her hair, which was an untamable mess, much like the state of her mind. Questions swirled through her thoughts. What were those things that had attacked her? Why had they left when she pulled out her father’s knife? Why did the sun rise in the south? And why hadn’t she seen so much as one airplane fly overhead?

Shifting from her knees to a seated position, Story dipped her bare feet in the chilly river to soak them a bit and ease the soreness. Despite the cold, she had half a mind to slip all the way in; she always felt better in the water. She kicked her feet lazily in the current and lay back against the sweet grass lining the soft bank, taking in the view of the river. It was roughly twenty feet wide and swift enough that it cut a deep furrow, leaving an embankment on either side. Rocks, boulders, and the occasional fallen tree peppered the riverbed.

She gave a half-smile. The twins would’ve loved tubing down this river.

Story could see their escapades clearly in her mind’s eye: Will, all long, gangly limbs, would barely fit in his tube, constantly threatening to tip over, and Katie would be doing everything in her power to ensure that happened. But everyone knew that it would be Story who ended up capsized in the cool mountain water, courtesy of the twins double-teaming her. But it wouldn’t matter; she had always been the best swimmer on her school team, so she did just fine. The twins had always marveled at how long she could hold her breath—far longer than a normal person could. But to Story, staying underwater for long periods of time came as naturally as... well, breathing.

She shook her head, letting go of the half-formed memories. She’d rested and daydreamed enough; time to get going. Looking around, she caught sight of a bridge a short way down the river that she’d somehow missed before.

Finally, a bit of luck!

Where there was a bridge, there was sure to be a road, and roads led to civilization. She was on her feet and jogging toward the bridge before the thought had even fully formed in her mind. Her dad would probably be harping at her for running while she was still weak and potentially injured from her fall, but that was Story’s way of doing things. She never walked anywhere when she could run. Her dad always used to say she was the most impatient person he knew. Story thought she just used her time more efficiently than most.

As she neared the bridge, she realized it was not the modern concrete structure she was expecting. Instead, it was built out of a white marble-like stone with silver grain lines; it looked ancient. Her run slowed to a walk as she got closer and could make out more details.

The years had not been kind to the bridge.

Rubble was strewn across the ground: bits and pieces of marble that had obviously once been part of the bridge. The wind and rain had worn down the carvings adorning the end posts, and there were no longer any sharp edges anywhere. Examining one of the marble posts, Story thought she could just make out the outline of a tree similar to the one she’d seen painted on the wall of the cave and on the ruins where she’d encountered the monsters. She traced a finger along the faint lines of the tree and was suddenly overtaken by a wave of deep and lingering sadness.

She stared at the faint carving of the tree for one moment more, and then tore her eyes away. She forced herself to step onto the bridge and walk across. Since nothing on her side of the river had indicated civilization, she figured following the path to wherever it led—hopefully the small town the rude guy had mentioned, or at the very least a hunter’s cabin—would be better than retracing her steps back to her prison-cave.

Once on the other side, Story alternated between walking and jogging for a couple of hours, conscious of the rapidly setting sun. The trail was very narrow, and at times she nearly lost sight of it. She knew she wouldn’t be able to walk safely at night, so she kept a lookout for a promising place to camp. The forest was much the same everywhere, but she eventually spotted a close-growing copse of trees that would provide some protection from the elements. Deciding that this was as good a campsite as any, she began collecting firewood. She had no matches, but her compass had a bit of flint on the cover, and by scraping her knife against it, she should have been able to spark a flame. Should have being the key words. It started to rain, softly at first, but then with increasing intensity.

After almost half an hour and numerous futile attempts to light wet wood, it was nearly full dark, and Story finally had to stop for fear of cutting off one of her fingers with her knife. The forest that had seemed so beautiful earlier that day was no longer so charming. The oppressive canopy loomed over her, blocking out even the starlight, and it was eerily quiet. No birds, no insects; just Story, the trees, the river, the miserable falling rain, and the terrifying feeling that she was being watched by those tree-bark monsters.

Logically, Story knew that last bit had to do with the creepiness of her surroundings and the aftermath of the day’s events, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the sensation. Even the twins would have had enough “adventure” by now and be begging for their safe, warm beds.

The enormity of the events of the last two days and her own helplessness came crashing down on her like a massive ocean wave. She screamed aloud in frustration—though she stopped herself just before she kicked at a tree. She was still barefoot after all, and breaking a toe while she was lost and alone in the woods would not be smart. Instead, she sat at the base of the tree, hoping for some protection from the rain, and did something she hadn't done since she was a little girl: Story buried her face in her arms and cried until exhaustion dragged her into sleep.