A Memory: spring, two years ago



It's a quiet, warm spring day, and I have nothing really to do but lie back in the grass and watch the clouds roll by; and I find myself thinking of all the other warm days I spent like this, with no desire to do any more. My ma would probably be yelling at me to do this chore or that around the farm, or at very least, trying to push me to find some ambition to do something, anything. Take up a trade, mostly; it's the one thing none of my brothers did, and a perfectly normal thing for a fifth son to do, so that when he came of an age to find his own home and take a wife and build a family, he'd have a way to support them. But I always wanted nothing more than to watch the clouds roll by until the stars came out, and then watch them instead. And that's almost all I'm doing with most of the day today, and it feels… different.

There's an urgency now, despite that my day before me is almost nothing but rest, that I never felt back home. This morning, I passed the day fishing and hunting. Not much by way of fish today, enough for breakfast, but I got lucky with the bow and took down one of those creatures that's like a deer, but shorter and stockier, that I see a lot on these plains (but usually in the distance and moving too fast even for Kestrel to catch). Some of the meat awaits, wrapped up in linen and keeping cool in the Great River, to be dinner later; the rest is currently salted and hanging on a makeshift rack over a fire, being smoked just enough to keep fresh for five or six days, if I'm lucky.

It took me more than two months to hit upon this method for travel. After leaving the Thane, I'd made my way through the Mark, choosing not to stop at Brockbridge to say goodbye to Lithiva. It didn't seem right to say farewell to one sister if I didn't have time to go back and say farewell to the rest of the family. I wonder now if that was wrong. I stayed at barracks, garrisons, and inns on the way, and each day I'd seen a part of the Mark I'd never seen before, and been farther from home than I'd ever been. No need to think about food or campsites; that I was in the service of the Thane provided me meals, lodging, and stabling, until I reached the Limlight and crossed it. I spent most of that day agape at the thought that this very field, the grass beneath Kestrel's hooves, was the selfsame land where Eorl, and the riders of the Éothéod that he commanded, had fought the battle that would lead to the founding of the Mark. That blood was spilled here, the blood of men and women and horses of the people whose paths I sought; that I was standing on the soil that had drunk that very blood.

It was realizing that I was getting hungry later that day that snapped me out of this reverie of history. From then on, I spent part of every day trying to fish, hunt, and forage. As a result, I made poor time. It took weeks merely to reach that part of the Great River that skirted dangerously close to the Dwimordene, which I of course avoided by as wide a berth as I could, having no wish to be ensorcelled by the Witch of the Golden Wood.

Past that, as the soil grew damper and the way even slower, I found myself barely making any progress. So much time had passed, and I had yet to even find another person, let alone a sign of the Éothéod, or the lantern. The idea that I would be on this journey, alone, far from home, for a very long time, was starting to haunt me, to seize me and claim all my thoughts, to put an ache in my heart that never quite left, that could not even be driven away with a song.

One night, cooking one of the very same beast I was smoking now, it occurred to me that I couldn't eat most of this catch before it would go off, and that seemed a shame. The salt that ma had added to my pack helped a bit, but not much. But I did know how to smoke meat. The trouble was, smoking took time. I hit upon an idea; I would spend the next day smoking the rest of the meat, and trying to add more catch to it, instead of trying to make any headway, since I was at a nice dry campsite with good shelter, a perfect place for this.

Once I was free from the need to hunt and fish and forage every day, with a bag full of smoked meat and fish at hand, I found myself making vastly better progress. I went for five days without having to pause to gather more food. It felt so much better, seeing the plains roll by and the mountain peaks to my left slip behind me, that I decided to keep to this approach. The next day was spent keeping to one campsite while gathering enough food to last four more, and on I went. One day on food, staying in one place; four, five, maybe even six putting leagues beneath and behind Kestrel's stride.

It's given me a better knack with the bow, to be sure, but the fish-hook remains my main source of food. The Great River is a fickle pantry, well-stocked some days and almost bare others, but it never leaves me with nothing. The bow is far less reliable; those deer-like creatures are plentiful, but swift and wary, and on the open plains it's hard to even get close enough to make an attempt. But when I do take one, the meat is bountiful and a welcome change of pace. Forage provides me little in these plains; some berries or greens now and then, but even in the height of summer, there will be little of fruit here. Still, a river onion now and then is a wonderful thing.

The plains may yield little forage for me, but more than enough for Kestrel. He is rarely hungry, though I often am. But while the thought of a bowl of my ma's stew sets me to a longing ache, I would rather have a few minutes with ma than with her stew. I have never been alone before, and now, it has been several months since I have had anyone but Kestrel to talk to. And while I'm sure Kestrel understands every word I say, he seems to be getting tired of having to listen to me, and he never answers. I don't doubt that he could if he wished. His strength is unflagging, but his wisdom even more so, and I can tell he knows that when I ride him, he is the smarter of us. I wonder if he has Mearas blood. He ought to be carrying a prince, not a clumsy farm-boy without talent, skill, wit, or ambition. I suppose it's time to go back to keeping my voice within myself. I cannot afford to make him upset with me, here in the middle of nowhere.