Hedge of Thorns: Objectives
My most urgent task, find white willows that someone else isn’t already harvesting for bark. Hiking due east, a likely location could be along Iron Creek. Likely, and dangerous. Bobby had been heading that way to hunt, when he never returned. The residents of Glenoma and Randle believe the area harbors cannibals.
Tumble returns to the table, and sorts thorns from the basket. “Is there a shape you’ll prefer, or a length?”
“The straighter the better, and three inches or longer, please.”
He chooses three, and reaches for his needles.
When the rhythm of his breathing shifts, I glance up. When Tumble concentrates, his eyes squint, his lips pucker as though he’s tasted something sour, and his nostrils flare with every breath.
If I don’t find another task, I’ll laugh, but the timing is right for me to get the biscuits out of the pan and bake another batch. As I work, the steady skritch of Tumble’s needle tip picking away at the first thorn drives me to move faster, until I can escape it.
Snap.
Will he start another? I set the pan of dough in the coals. Splitting the biscuits, I load them with haw jam and jerky. The anticipated combination of smoky and sweet makes my mouth water as I work, but this batch and the next are for the journey.
Skritch. Skritch. Tumble persists, intent on precise control of his needle. Scrapings, dust-fine, land on the table. Snap. He drops the pieces and sighs. “I was hoping this would work. It’s the smallest of the needles. Maybe I’m gripping the thorn too tightly.”
While I’m packing my travel rations, he frowns and stares off into space.
“Mercy, do you have any fine wire? It might work better if I could try burning a thorn hollow.”
“I’m not sure. Oops, got to rescue those biscuits…” I rush to the hearth, and pull the pan from the coals. “I’ll look around, and if I find any wire, I’ll put it out on the table before I go. See the rock in the corner by the door?”
“Yup.”
“Use that for a rest.”
“Right.” He stretches. “Thank you for the canes, Mercy.”
“You’re welcome.” His thanks don’t replenish my resources. How long will he need to stay? Only a trek into newly risky territory will tell. I don’t think he’ll heal enough to leave on his own initiative while I’m away.
“May I look at your pictures?”
“Sure, but keep them away from food and water.”
“I have that much common sense.”
That much? Given his fall, I’m not as certain, but he’s laid the canes across his lap and is propelling the rocker toward grandpa’s room. The deeper he sleeps, the better for me to finish preparations. I note that he doesn’t ask for more willow bark tea.
When grandpa’s bedroom door closes, I open the cupboard where I’ve been storing the jugs of hard haw cider. It takes several trips to move all but one jug into the darkest corner of what had been my loft. While I’m up there, I fill four twenty-one round ammo clips for the Sig Sauer. Two with hollow point bullets, and two others with hunting ammunition. Then, I lock the cabinet.
Hedge of Thorns: Objectives is an episode of a serialized short story that posts on Friday.
Check the menu on this blog for other, previously posted serialized stories, here.
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