Coleman

The horse’s hooves pounded against the highway with gunshot ferocity tossing back bits of gravel and tar and quitting a burning plume of dust in the blue. Atop the horse was a man somehow both lean and brolic, his hat tipped, his nose pointed towards the sun and silhouetted. If he could hear over their thunderous gait he would hear sirens. He knew he would have to turn off the road and get hid. In front of him was road and blue but beside him was all green and brown and the greybeige of death and desiccated underbrush. His eyes scanned the starry understory for a clearing or an egress for them to escape. Though he hated the word, escape was what they needed.

There ahead he saw a shaft of darkness indicating a clearing and gave a pull on the reins guiding the horse to a slower pace into the forest. Though unkempt and wild as the forest was he was confident in the horse’s abilities of traversal. He brought them to a stop. Now with it quiet he could hear the sirens as the lusty wail grew louder and louder and terrifyingly constant and closing in before slowly whimpering off into the distance until they were left with complete silence, save for the hulking beast huffing and puffing.

They stood there in the near-constricting overgrowth just listening and noticing the sounds of the crackling branches over which groundrats and squirrels skittered and squeaked within the susurration of the trees and the soft call of birdsong, like the beginnings of a fairy tale. What he wanted to hear was water, so he took a moment and listened intently trying his best to block out the birds and the rats and the branches and suddenly he heard it. The direction he honed was crowded and dark with the trees grappling each other with their branches and the squirrels dancing over the bridges they made.

He slid himself off the horse, boots landing unevenly on the terrain and imbalance almost overtook him, but the horse shifted to be leaned against and he was once again struck with the impressive ease of their bond. He gave the horse a gentle pat. He reached into his pack to grab his patinated machete which always frightened his horse no matter how many times the creature saw it before he turned towards the thicket and began to hack at it. The horse stood and watched. As he chewed through the brush dodging the webs of large spiders and rodent nests and the carcasses of nests past and the carcasses of meals past he could hear the sounds of the water getting closer and closer. Every once in a while he looked back to confirm his horse was following, which was a good thing for a horse to do. Sometimes he imagined the horse was talking and would imagine bits between him and the horse, which was a lonely activity but he accepted that if nobody heard it it was like it never happened.

Eventually the brush began to make way again into a magnificent clearing. The pair stood there breathing and taking in the small lake they had found. It was dazzlingly lit by the yellow in the sky and it reflected against the blue on blue of the water. The lake was embanked with mud and reeds and the lawn around it was bespeckled with daisies and baby’s breath and wild lavender. Near them was the inlet of a quaint river that was the source of the sound he followed and cradled in the womb of the inlet there was a girl standing stark naked in the small flurry of water. She stood tall and erect with her hands placed at her sides facing against the current as if she was trying to block it, and she did not move. He averted his eyes to her paleness quickly pulling his hat down to stop from defying himself and even though he could not see he felt her gaze turn to him.

“Apologies ma’am.”

“It’s alright,” she said. He did not add anything else because he was unsure of what to do until his horse snorted behind him.

“What are ya’ doin’ out here?” he asked.

“I live here.”

Her response begged no more questions because of the way she said it. He had heard of all kinds of women that lived in the forest and the majority of them seemed to be mythological.

“You can remove your hat,” she said and he did and looked towards the water.

“This might be a stupid question, but are ya’ some kinda’ nymph?”

“We don’t really call ourselves that,” she responded and as she did the horse gave what almost sounded like a sarcastic snort. She sucked her teeth at this.

“You two know each other?” he asked with a gesture to the horse. He tried his best not to look over her body and instead focus on the magnificent scenery around her.

“It’s not really what you’re thinking. I’m not some kind of woodsy harlot.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said while darting his eyes to meet hers.

“What are you running from?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you mean," he broke with her gaze to put his machete back in its place, giving the horse a good slap. It sniffed back in kind.

“Well you made your way through that thicket with haste. You must be running from something.”

“It’s best not to get into it,” he said and that was all.

She looked upwards at the waning blue and said it would be dark soon, told him to follow, and he did. She practically glided over the brush on the ground with the way she deftly maneuvered its complications in her bare feet that looked kissed by snow and had a redness to its creases. He realized he was staring intently at them but justified it as wanting to take the same deftly chosen trail she did and there were worse places to affix his gaze. They trounced through the thickness with his horse champing behind them.

Soon they were coming across another clearing next to the streaming river which was much smaller and more remote. In it was a wooden cottage. Its walls were painted white with two windows facing the front and the trims of the structure were left their natural cherry brown and perched atop was a handthatched roof of great strength. In front there was a porch with just a small stump for sitting and a lamp pounded into the soft earth that emitted a soft warm light that attracted large fluffy moths.

“Did ya’ build this yourself?”

“I had help,” she said and nothing more as she pushed the door open into a warm embrace of the coziest variety. To the back of the small studio was a hearth that held herbs of various ages and hydrations hanging overhead out of the lick of flames and benefiting from their heat. In the center was a diminutive kitchen table with a collection of wildflowers in a simple white vase and a few pillar candles and beneath it was a woven grass rug that looked impossibly soft. To the left was a simple kitchen with an ice chest and a washbasin and more plants of varieties he couldn’t place. In the cabinets were simple white plates and bowls and glasses of similar innocence. To the right was an unassuming wooden wardrobe at the foot of a bed laid with white linens and pillows made of the same wood the house was.

“Y’have a lovely home.”

“Thank you. Please, sit,” she said and gestured to the dining room table. She walked into the kitchen clothed in a simple linen frock preparing tea which was soon placed in front of him. He noticed there wasn’t any running water or accoutrements for lighting fires or candles and was about to ask how she made the tea before she gestured towards the candles in an aged manner and flames appeared on the tips of their wicks. That answered his question but raised many others.

“So… are ya’ gonna kill me or something?”

“Now why would I do that?” she asked, looking startled and offended.

“I’m sorry, I just figured since I’ve seen yer’ tricks and all.”

“My tricks?” Again offended.

“Look I’ve never met no nymph or sprite or whatever you are. Pardon me if I’m not hip to the lingo.”

“Nymph is fine,” she said with an affect that told him she wasn’t a huge fan of the term.

“I would rather know yer’ name,” and he took a sip of his tea as he asked.

“Serena, yours?”

“Patrick Coleman. I sure do appreciate you openin’ yer’ door to me, Serena. I know I came upon you at an inopportune time,” another sip of his tea.

“You seemed like you needed somewhere to go,” she sips as well.

“I did,” and he gave a tip of his hat before realizing he should have taken it off prior to sitting and anxiously discarding it onto the seat to his right. He ran a hand through his hair slightly damp with sweat and smoothed it back before meeting her gaze again.

“Are you going to tell me what you are running from yet?”

“Nope, if ya’ don’t mind,” and he gave a cautious shake of his head. This seemed to not satisfy her but she understood nonetheless as she did not press the issue further. They sat there for a few minutes drinking their tea and occasionally glancing at the roaring ember of the hearth before he finally spoke.

“Now I’m no lazybones guest. I’m an excellent hunter and would gladly go and fetch us somethin’ to eat tonight. Don’t wanna put you out an’all.”

“I don’t really eat. Occasionally for the energy I will suck on the candies I make from the tree sap or a sorrel leaf when I am feeling like I need a treat. Other than that I don’t really need food.”

He took this in for a moment then patted his knees.

“Well, I do. D’ya mind if I go huntin’?”

“I can call something to us.”

“What?”

“I could call you a few rabbits and you could eat those,” she said simply as if it was common knowledge.

“Thanks but no, I’ll find somethin’ myself.”

“Okay, I will be here.”

He bid her goodbye for the moment and walked back out into the clearing towards his pack of gear. He rustled around for a bit before finding his charge which was the case containing his takedown bow and a few sturdy titanium arrows. The bow was a rich and deep brown wood with a gold lining accenting the edges of the bow and defining it in space and when he held it he felt his arm glow. He also grabbed a few hanging hooks. His horse whinnied softly in the distance and he looked at the horse and smiled and the horse seemed to smile too.

“Judgin’ by the density of the forest, I think it best if I go on this mission alone.”

The horse shook its mane as a response and he hoisted his quiver over his shoulder and gripped the bow in his left hand and scanned the edge of the clearing for any indication of a trail. In the tall blades of grass to the North there was a telltale gap in their fringe and he set out towards it.

It didn’t take him long to develop a small cadre of dead rodents that swung from his belt loop and rustled with his steps as he journeyed back towards the homestead where he left himself. It was truly getting dark now and he felt himself chasing the daylight in the hopes that he would get to the shelter before it went black. He felt that he was being watched but attributed it to the very real possibility that an animal was hiding in the shadows and tracking his movements and focused singlemindedly on the path he carved out of the overgrowth. Finally he followed the trail into the clearing he had left from an hour ago. His horse stood lazily off to the side and his pack lay untouched and he could see through the open door that Serena was still sitting at the table drinking tea and looking at the fire. He trampled back across the river, gave the horse a pat and walked into the open door with a gentle knock.

“I’m back.”

“Welcome back. I spoke with Charles.”

He blinked, “Okay, who’s Charles?”

She gestured outside presumably towards the horse and he scratched his chin and walked back outside and looked at the horse accusatorily. Suddenly and with great fanfare a uniformed officer came running out of the forest. He held his gun out with purpose towards the homestead and Patrick and the horse in a wild gesture of dangerous indecision.

“I finally found you, Coleman,” said the officer with a finality that even made the horse shift nervously and let out a small snort. Patrick walked around the horse and stood between it and the gun, unbothered by the firearm but worried for their safety and worried for Serena’s safety the most even though they had just met. He worried he had already revealed her to the world and knew at this moment he would need to act against this.

“Okay, okay… I’m surrenderin’, see?” Patrick raised his hands and as he did the horse immediately began to buck and whine and whinny in protest. Serena came to the door to see the commotion and her face fell immediately when she saw the scene in full. Patrick cooed at the horse to calm it as he walked slowly over to the officer with his hands still raised above him and stepped cautiously in the soft dirt. However, as he reached the officer, the nervous bastard’s gun went off and Patrick felt the bullet whizz by him sending out a small wave of wind with it before lodging itself in Serena’s leg and blooming a crimson flower wet with dew.

Patrick jumped towards the officer and grabbed his wrists twisting them and sending the man overboard his own equilibrium onto the ground towards the creek with a splash of mud. It was a wet and nasty wrestle with the cotton of their clothing sticking to each other and the officer’s belt of tools digging into either of their bodies but it remains eternally true that two men keen on fighting will do it regardless of the appropriateness. So fight, they did. Patrick tossed the gun to the side as quickly as he could before pouncing quickly on the officer and laying a few blows across his orbital and sending splashes of water towards the shore which reminded Patrick that there was an injured girl just past it and he needed to finish this to get to her. Patrick took a few good jabs to the jaw, but he was much bigger than this man. He grabbed the officer and pressed him against the bottom of the creek and drowned him in the babbling water. The man jerked and grabbed at him with the terror of a small dog being pinned by a wolf. He bubbled in agony, until there was no noise whatsoever besides that babble and he was gone.

Patrick breathed for a moment and watched himself against the rushing water seeing his visage ripple over and over again in a cyclical but natural refraction. He had killed before but it had been a while and it was especially difficult to do it with your bare hands like an animal. He snapped out of it when he heard Serena moan in pain and stood up rushing past the horse and onto the porch of the homestead. There he saw Serena with her bloody leg and her sweaty beauty gleaming and he judged that the bullet had hit an artery if she had them because the amount of lost blood was impressive and upsetting. He heard her whispering though and put his ear to her mouth where he heard her saying “Water” and he understood and scooped her up and ran as fast as he could with her in his arms towards the creek. Beside the officer he laid Serena like one might lay a fish one is catching and releasing and she reacted in much a similar way the fish might immediately wiggling in the water and opening her droopy eyes. Of course the blood in her dress stayed staunch and stagnant but he saw the steady flow from her wound down the creek begin to dissipate until there was nothing left to flow and she sat up in the creek with the rivulets of water dripping down her face and a bit of moss collecting around her arms.

“Thank you, but you have to go,” is all she said and he tipped his hat to her like a respectful man might even though it was with a frown and an apology.

“Will you be okay?” he asked with the hesitation of a child.

“Yes, I’ll be okay.”

With that he sighed and apologized again and walked towards the horse that left out a soft whine. Once again, he would have to move past the nerves of taking a life in favor of escape. He swung his leg over the horse and clambered onto it and tipped his hat again and departed in the opposite direction with a swiftness, and she sat in the water, feeling the current.