Shorn: Chapter 4

It rained that night. Sheets of water poured out of the sky. Shorn was soon soaked through. Lying there in a puddle, unable to sleep, he couldn’t help but think that a tent would have been a good thing to have.

Morning dawned gray and cold. The rain stopped, but everything was dripping. He got up at first light.

He got an unpleasant surprise when he picked up his food bag and noticed it felt light. Opening it, he saw that most of his food was gone. A chewed hole in the corner of the bag explained the reason. Some rodents had gotten into his pack while he was asleep. All of the nuts were gone, along with most of the biscuits. Some of the cheese and dried meat remained, all of it chewed on. He put his finger through the hole, a scowl on his face. This complicated things.

He guessed he had enough food for two or three more days. What then? He’d known food would be an issue eventually, but he’d expected to have more time before he had to deal with it.

He could try hunting or trapping food. Except that the only weapon he had was a knife, and he had no real idea how to make or set a snare. Fishing was out. The stream was too small for much besides minnows, and he had no net or fishing line anyway.

He briefly considered turning back. He was only a few days from Shakre’s home. Her people would happily resupply him with whatever he needed. Probably even teach him how to trap.

But he didn’t spend much time thinking about it, turning his steps toward the mountains once again. Turning back felt too much like giving up.

This is the hack’in dragh, he told himself. It is meant to be a challenge. Without challenge, there would be no growth.

The mountainside grew steeper during the morning. He lost the trail around midday. The climb became a brutal slog. His steps dislodged stones, which sometimes turned into small landslides that carried him back down the slope he’d just worked so hard to climb up. More than once he had to grab onto a tree limb or shrub to pull himself upward. Near the top, the trees and most of the vegetation disappeared. The landscape was granite scree, colored with lichen. Marmots chattered at him from their rocky perches. The last stretch was so steep he essentially had to crawl.

Finally, late in the afternoon, he reached the pass. He paused to eat a little of his dwindling food. The view back the way he’d come was impressive. He could see the peaks of Ankha del’Ath and further on the mass of the Firkath Mountains.

To the west as far as he could see was mountainous country, most of it forested. No cities or towns were visible, although possibly there were some hidden behind the mountains.

On the horizon was a very large lake or a sea. Surely there were settlements on its shore, maybe even a city. But it would take him many days to get there, and there was no guarantee he would find anyone.

This is the hack’in dragh, he told himself again. There will be challenges.

He didn’t linger long in the pass. The wind was strong up here and the clouds were threatening again. This would be a bad place to get caught in a lightning storm. He needed to move down the mountain before it got dark and try to find some shelter.

It was close to dark when he reached the tree line once again. The trees helped cut the wind considerably. The rain began to fall again. There were no flat places to camp. No rocks big enough to huddle under. He had to settle for sleeping under a thick fir tree.

In the morning, he found a game trail leading downhill. The rain let up, and the sun came out. The trail paralleled a small stream. Shorn passed though aspen groves just beginning to show leaves and crossed small meadows dotted with early spring flowers. He flushed a doe with a fawn. The pair burst through a patch of chest-high ferns and bounded up the hillside. He stared after them, wishing he had a way to hunt them.

He saw no sign of human habitation all day except for a lone, tumble-down log structure that had clearly been empty for years. The next morning, he finished the rest of his food. He walked all day and saw no one.

Shortly before sunset, the trail crossed the stream and suddenly intersected a faint road. It was overgrown, but it didn’t look abandoned. With no better options, he followed it.

He didn’t have to go far before he saw the farm. It was a simple, one-room log building, a line of smoke rising from the chimney. There was a small barn with a hole in the roof, a crude pen attached. Several fields had been cleared, but only one of them had been partially planted.

Shorn stood there for a while, back in the trees where he couldn’t be seen, looking at the place. He really didn’t want to approach it. He didn’t want to go through the all-too-familiar sight of people shrinking away in fear. Although, since these people had never seen him before, they’d probably scream. Or attack him.

But he badly needed food. Besides that, unless he wanted to live alone in a hut high in the mountains, he was going to have to deal with people sooner or later. When he thought about it, he realized it would be easier to start with one family. Showing up at the gates of some town or city would probably just get him chased by a mob.

He took a deep breath and walked up to the place. The door was rough-cut wooden planks nailed together, the walls whole logs chinked with mud. He knocked and stepped back. It wouldn’t help to loom over whoever answered.

From inside came voices.

“Was that you knocking on the table again, Kit?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Naw, mama. I think it was the front door.”

“The front door? Well, don’t just sit there. Go answer it. I have my hands full with this bread dough. I wonder if it’s that tinker we saw last fall. No one else comes out this way.”

Footsteps, then the door creaked open. A boy of about eight with tousled hair stood there in overalls and a homespun shirt. One of the overall straps had slid down off his shoulder, and he had a big gap between his front teeth.

He stared up at Shorn, his eyes growing wider and wider. Before Shorn could speak, he let out a squall, jumped back inside and slammed the door. Excited cries arose from him.

“There’s a monster at the door, mama! A monster come to eat us!”

“Calm down!” his mother yelled. “I can’t think with all your hollering. Now say it again, and slower.”

“There’s a monster outside!”

She snorted. “What are you on about? It’s no monster, just some weary traveler.” Footsteps approached the door. Shorn tried to look shorter.

“No, mama, don’t open it! It’ll eat you up!”

“Shush, boy. No one’s eating me today.”

A moment later the door creaked open again. Her gaze was fixed on his chest, about where a normal person’s face would be. It traveled upward, her eyes and mouth getting wider as she went.

Shorn tried a friendly smile. It wasn’t something his people did, but he’d learned it was important to humans, and he’d spent some time practicing in front of a mirror in Qarath. She flinched when he did so.

But she didn’t slam the door.

“Oh, my,” she said breathlessly. All the color had drained from her face. She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to run, scream, faint or all three.

“You need not fear,” Shorn said. “I mean you no harm.”

“You can talk!”

“Yes.”

“Wha…who are you?”

He drew himself up, which caused her to flinch again. He tried to slouch again, with limited results. “I am Shorn.”

“Not uh…not from around here then, are you?” She was visibly shaking still, but her voice was stronger. Kit had crept up and was peering around the edge of her skirts.

“I am not. I come…” He paused, knowing he couldn’t tell her the truth. “From the east. Qarath.”

His words calmed her somewhat. She wiped sweat from her face. “I think I’ve heard of it. A city, right? By the ocean?”

“Yes.”

She gave a shaky laugh. “They grow them big there, I guess.”

Shorn shook his head. “I am the only one of my kind. The people there are like you.”

“I suppose that’s for the best. I mean, no offense, but—”

“I am not offended.”

She was regaining her composure, though he noticed she was twisting a cloth in her hands. “What brings you this way?”

Kit stuck his head out. “Are you lost? Because this ain’t anywhere.”

“Kit! That’s rude. You apologize right this instant.”

“All right. Sorry, mister.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded curious more than anything.

“I do not know where I am,” Shorn admitted. “But I do not think I am lost.”

The woman nodded. Her color was coming back. “What can I do for you, then?”

“I require food.” He lifted the mouse-eaten sack that had contained his food. “I was not careful, and mice ate all mine.”

“Told you he was gonna eat us,” the boy said, stepping back.

“Kit! Stop that.”

“I will not eat you. I promise you this.”

“I apologize for the boy.”

“There is no need. I have seen others react the same many times.”

She gave him a smile, an actual smile. “I’ll bet you have.”

“What do you eat, if it ain’t people?” Kit wanted to know.

“Kit!”

“Sorry, mama.” Which he wasn’t.

“Forgive my son. Of course, we can share our food with you.”

“But, mama!” Kit protested. “You said we didn’t have enough to—”

He cut off sharply when she cuffed him lightly on the side of the head. She looked back at Shorn. “What he meant to say is, we don’t have much, but you’re welcome to share what we have. We can feed you tonight and send you on tomorrow with enough to get you down the road.”

“That is most generous.”

“I’m Melda. The impudent one is Kit.” A child even younger than Kit, probably around two or three—Shorn had difficulty with human ages—came toddling up then. She skidded to a stop when she saw Shorn. Strangely, she showed no fear, only curiosity.

Melda scooped her up and set her on her hip. “This is Ren. I have two others, Lysa and Pol. They’re out gathering wood right now.” She glanced at the sun, which was settling below the horizon, then off into the woods. “They should be back soon.”

Shorn saw the worried look in her eyes when she said this. He noticed also that she made no mention of a husband. The unplanted fields and the hole in the barn roof made sense now. He wondered what happened to the man.

There was a chopping block in front the house, some logs nearby. He gestured. “I will chop wood for you.”

She shook her head. “No. I can’t let you do that. You’re our guest.”

Shorn wasn’t sure what to say to that. In truth, other than Netra, Rome, Shakre, and a few others, he hadn’t had much interaction with people. He knew very little about the culture or norms they valued. But it bothered him to accept food without helping, when they so clearly had very little.

“I want to help.”

She started to refuse again, but he said, “Please.” He hadn’t had much opportunity to use the word, but he knew it was important.

Melda’s resistance collapsed all at once, and she gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you. That would mean a lot.”

Melda and her children went inside, though she left the door open. The axe that was stuck in the chopping block had a layer of rust on it. Shorn pulled the axe free. The part buried in the wood was bright and rust-free.

The axe looked like a toy in his hand. It was far too small for him to use two-handed, as it was intended. He had to hold it with one hand.

His first swing landed nowhere near where he intended. He frowned and tried again. Better this time, but not good. He’d seen men chopping wood plenty of times since arriving on this world. It didn’t look very hard.

But it sure wasn’t easy. If he wanted to hit the wood precisely, he could only do so on light swings of the axe, which meant the blade didn’t bite very deep. If he swung hard enough to bite, he was far off the mark.

It angered him. Here he was, one of the most fearsome warriors Themor had ever produced, and he couldn’t chop wood.

He focused on the work, concentrating on developing a rhythm, to establish the muscle memory necessary for the task. Slowly, it got easier. The axe started landing where he wanted it to, meaning he could swing harder. The pile of wood at his feet began to grow.

So focused was he on the task that he wasn’t aware of anything around him until a shriek brought him around, the axe lifted in defense.

At the edge of the clearing were a boy and a girl, around ten, branches they’d dropped lying at their feet, staring at him in horror. They looked like deer, poised for flight.

Then their mother appeared in the doorway. “It’s okay!” she yelled at them. “He’s harmless.”

Her words struck Shorn. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said that about him. If ever. They respected him, they feared him, they cursed him, but no one ever referred to him as harmless.

Still the youths stood there, so close to running.

“Stop gawking. It’s rude,” Melda called out. “Bring that wood over here. The fire in the stove is nearly out.”

They started for the house, circling around to stay as far from Shorn as possible, eyes fixed on him the whole time. Shorn wanted to speak, to tell them they didn’t need to fear him, but the words caught in his throat. The truth was, he was to be feared. What had he ever done to inspire any other response? He had aided Netra and the others in defeating the Children it was true, but his aid had come solely in the form of violence. He had not healed anybody. He had not fed anybody or given them shelter.

The children made it to the safety of the house and ran inside, slamming the door behind them. He could hear the bar drop into place.

Feeling heavy and awkward, Shorn returned to chopping wood.

After a few more swings, he gave it up. He was tense, and it was making him swing too hard. He feared he might break the axe handle, and he did not know how to make them a new one.

He looked at the road. Probably it would be best if he simply left. He’d caused enough problems as it was.

He picked up his pack and had just taken his first steps toward the road when the door opened again, and he heard Melda call out.

“Where are you going? It’s almost time for supper.”

Shorn turned back. “I do not wish to frighten the children. I will go somewhere else.”

She strode out into the yard then, scowling. “No, no, no. I won’t have it. That is not who I am. It is not who we are.” She walked right up to him, her earlier fear seemingly forgotten. “I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, but where I come from, we help strangers in need.” She looked him up and down. “Well?”

Shorn nodded slowly.

“Now wash your hands and come to supper. There’s a small creek out back of the house. Should be a chunk of soap on the rock there, unless one of the kids accidentally lost it again.” The way she said it made it clear how accidental she thought it was.

After washing, he went to the front door. He stood there, feeling misgivings. This was a mistake. He should just go.

“Come in!” Melda called.

Shorn had to bend over to get through the door. Once inside, he could stand, but he had to keep his head down to avoid hitting it on the wooden beams.

The children were already seated at the rough wooden table, bowls of food steaming in front of them. The two older ones were staring at him with big eyes. Kit pointed at a pot sitting on the table.

“Your food’s in there, Shorn. Mama says she doesn’t have a bowl big enough for you, so you got to eat out of the cook pot.” He seemed to have completely forgotten his earlier fear.

“Kit! Don’t be rude.” Melda smiled at Shorn. “I had a bigger bowl, but it broke over the winter. I hope you don’t mind eating out of the pot.”

“I do not.”

“Great! Let me just finish slicing this bread, and I’ll join you.” She spun suddenly and pointed at Kit. “I see that! Don’t touch your food until we’re all seated. You know the rules.”

“But Mama, I’m so hungry.” He was holding a chunk of potato in one hand.

“You want to wait and eat after us?”

“No, Mama.” He put the potato back and licked his fingers.

Shorn went to his place at the table, noticing how the two older children leaned back, still looking like they might scatter. He pulled out his chair and saw right away that it was too flimsy for him to sit on. The legs would snap like twigs.

“Perhaps it is best I sit on the floor,” he said.

Melda looked from him to the chair and back. “It’s not right. I won’t have my guest sitting on the floor.” She looked around, snapping her fingers as an idea came to her. “What about the chopping block? You could sit on that.”

Shorn carried the chopping block inside. Kit stared at him in awe. “Look how strong he is!” he crowed. He looked at his mother. “Did ya see that?”

She just sighed and looked at Shorn. “I’m sorry. Someone hasn’t learned any manners yet.”

“It is okay. He is a child.”

“I bet he’s stronger than Petro even,” Kit continued. “He was our plow horse. He died over the winter. He was getting too old to plow much, Papa said.” At the mention of his father, his face clouded. The other two children looked down.

“Oh, child,” Melda said. “What am I going to do with you?” Her voice sounded thicker, and there was a shine to her eyes that spoke of held back tears.

Shorn set the stump down and sat on it. He could only just fit his knees under the table.

Melda clasped her hands and bowed her head. The children followed, then, after a moment, Shorn.

The blessing over, the children went after their food like wolves. Shorn picked up the spoon set out for him. It was a serving spoon, but still quite small in his hand.

He was only a few bites in by the time the children had all finished their stew. They stared at what he had left. A realization struck him, and he abruptly lost his appetite. Because of him, the children wouldn’t get enough to eat. He looked at Melda’s bowl and saw that she didn’t have very much food either.

He set his spoon down.

Melda gave him a questioning look. “Is something wrong?”

“No. It is very good.” And it was. Whatever herbs she’d added had made the soup tasty. “But I have had enough.”

“I’ll eat his!” Kit yelled. The others weren’t far behind.

But Melda was looking at Shorn. He could tell she didn’t believe him, that she knew what he was doing. “You’re sure?” she asked softly.

“I am.” He pushed the pot away.

There was a flurry of movement toward the pot, but mom was faster. She slapped away hands and pulled the pot to her, where she could dole it out fairly. Shorn noticed she didn’t add much to her own bowl.

The food was soon gone. Melda tasked the twins with taking the dishes out to the creek to wash them, and Kit to wipe the table and bring in more wood. The little girl was fussing, and she picked her up and held her.

It took a moment, and he nearly kicked the table over, but Shorn managed to extricate himself from the table and stand. “Thank you. I will go now.”

She stopped him at the door. “I won’t have it. It’s dark. You’ll stay here tonight.”

Shorn looked around. There was one narrow bed and some mats leaning against the wall that were probably for the children to sleep on. Even sleeping on the floor, he’d take up half the room.

“I know,” she said, forestalling his next words. “There isn’t room.” She held up one finger. “In here. But there’s plenty of room in the barn, and hay for your mattress. Plenty of that too, since our horse died.”

Shorn started to refuse, but it felt like she really wanted him to stay. He wasn’t sure why she did, but he knew it would upset her if he left.

He lowered his head. “I would be honored.”

Her smile was wide and genuine. “That’s great. You’ll probably get more sleep out there away from all these kids. They take turns waking each other up during the night.”