underbrush. Still she takes the time to point out where to find water, what sorts of plants grow nearby, and which are edible, poisonous, and medicinal. At one point, she peeks into a cave she claims is the lair of a two-meter long adder.
“I didn’t know we had adders this far north,” Kenzie challenges.
“This one’s a rarity,” the girl says, giving Kenzie a mischievous smile. “But I started tossing mice to him and now he’s my biggest fan.” I don’t know whether she’s being facetious or telling the truth, but somehow the idea of her throwing wriggling mice to an enormous snake doesn’t seem far-fetched.
Every now and then, I see the silvery flash of light from her astrolabe, but she’s stealthy about it. It’s always tucked out of sight by the time she turns around. Even though she’s constantly checking our route, it’s hard to keep up with her. Firestone especially is having a hard time. I know he must be in constant pain from his shoulder burns, but the girl doesn’t seem to care, pressing on with the intensity of a hungry animal on the trail of a fleeing dinner. She perks up at the sound of a gurgling stream long before any of us notice it, and lets us break for lunch at the water’s edge. We refill our skins, treat the water with our filters, and enjoy a good long drink. While we rest, she darts around picking herbs from the bank of the stream and crushes them into Firestone’s canteen.
“Lavender, feverfew, skullcap.” She hands the skin back to Firestone, looking proud of herself. “It’ll help you with the pain and ease any headache or dizziness you might have.”
“How do you know all that?” Firestone asks, eyes widened.
The girl touches her shoulder, mirroring the wound on Firestone’s body, pushing her jagged honey hair from her face.
“Severe burn, Bolt wound, dehydration. Doesn’t take a genius, now, does it?”
She reminds me of my virtual assistant, my C-Link, Demeter. They share a cheekiness and a fondness for showing off. Though Demeter was really nothing but a sophisticated computer program, she was, for a few months, one of my best friends.
The girl is careful to keep her arms tucked out of sight and under her cloak. I imagine she’s not keen to have everyone asking about the scarred lines weaving their way across her skin.
By nightfall, she estimates we’ve walked about thirty kilometers, and says we should be at Normandy by midmorning the day after tomorrow. The temperature has dropped sharply and we’re all keeping our eyes on the wind, hoping we won’t get the storm she mentioned earlier. “It’s just taking its time,” the wayfarer says, sniffing the wind like a dog. Before we pitch our tents, she insists we all set traps, and even asks Firestone to show her how he sets his. They begin chatting about trapping like they’re long lost friends, and she seems impressed.
I’m the last to return from setting my trap—my fingers were so cold I wasn’t able to wrap the twine properly—and when I get back, there’s a small fire going and our wayfarer guide has laid everyone else’s socks to dry on a nearby stone.
I peel off my boots with a groan and shake them out.
“Gross,” Firestone says. “Those smell worse than a dead skunk.”
The wayfarer wrinkles up her nose. “Nothing smells worse than a dead skunk.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m thinking we’re all getting pretty damn close to dead skunk territory.
“Speak for yourself. I’m fresh as a spring rose,” she says with a grin.
Once we’d set up the tents the night before, we’d agreed to take turns on watch and I’d taken first shift, and she’d taken second. I heard her and Jahnu trading places sometime in the night, and felt her open the tent flap and crawl in, squeezing her small frame in between Firestone and I and immediately falling asleep. Now, she’s up, rustling around outside and building a small morning fire.
When I step out from the tent, she
“I didn’t know we had adders this far north,” Kenzie challenges.
“This one’s a rarity,” the girl says, giving Kenzie a mischievous smile. “But I started tossing mice to him and now he’s my biggest fan.” I don’t know whether she’s being facetious or telling the truth, but somehow the idea of her throwing wriggling mice to an enormous snake doesn’t seem far-fetched.
Every now and then, I see the silvery flash of light from her astrolabe, but she’s stealthy about it. It’s always tucked out of sight by the time she turns around. Even though she’s constantly checking our route, it’s hard to keep up with her. Firestone especially is having a hard time. I know he must be in constant pain from his shoulder burns, but the girl doesn’t seem to care, pressing on with the intensity of a hungry animal on the trail of a fleeing dinner. She perks up at the sound of a gurgling stream long before any of us notice it, and lets us break for lunch at the water’s edge. We refill our skins, treat the water with our filters, and enjoy a good long drink. While we rest, she darts around picking herbs from the bank of the stream and crushes them into Firestone’s canteen.
“Lavender, feverfew, skullcap.” She hands the skin back to Firestone, looking proud of herself. “It’ll help you with the pain and ease any headache or dizziness you might have.”
“How do you know all that?” Firestone asks, eyes widened.
The girl touches her shoulder, mirroring the wound on Firestone’s body, pushing her jagged honey hair from her face.
“Severe burn, Bolt wound, dehydration. Doesn’t take a genius, now, does it?”
She reminds me of my virtual assistant, my C-Link, Demeter. They share a cheekiness and a fondness for showing off. Though Demeter was really nothing but a sophisticated computer program, she was, for a few months, one of my best friends.
The girl is careful to keep her arms tucked out of sight and under her cloak. I imagine she’s not keen to have everyone asking about the scarred lines weaving their way across her skin.
By nightfall, she estimates we’ve walked about thirty kilometers, and says we should be at Normandy by midmorning the day after tomorrow. The temperature has dropped sharply and we’re all keeping our eyes on the wind, hoping we won’t get the storm she mentioned earlier. “It’s just taking its time,” the wayfarer says, sniffing the wind like a dog. Before we pitch our tents, she insists we all set traps, and even asks Firestone to show her how he sets his. They begin chatting about trapping like they’re long lost friends, and she seems impressed.
I’m the last to return from setting my trap—my fingers were so cold I wasn’t able to wrap the twine properly—and when I get back, there’s a small fire going and our wayfarer guide has laid everyone else’s socks to dry on a nearby stone.
I peel off my boots with a groan and shake them out.
“Gross,” Firestone says. “Those smell worse than a dead skunk.”
The wayfarer wrinkles up her nose. “Nothing smells worse than a dead skunk.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m thinking we’re all getting pretty damn close to dead skunk territory.
“Speak for yourself. I’m fresh as a spring rose,” she says with a grin.
Once we’d set up the tents the night before, we’d agreed to take turns on watch and I’d taken first shift, and she’d taken second. I heard her and Jahnu trading places sometime in the night, and felt her open the tent flap and crawl in, squeezing her small frame in between Firestone and I and immediately falling asleep. Now, she’s up, rustling around outside and building a small morning fire.
When I step out from the tent, she
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