by Aaron Bunce
Henri stopped but didn’t turn right away. Anger bubbled up inside as he prepared for yet someone else trying to tell him how to deal with his grief. They had the audacity to ask him to stop searching. To lie down, and give up.
“Why don’t you just leave me be! My business is none…” Henri said, turning around, but stopped abruptly when he saw a group of men standing before him.
He must have walked right by them and didn’t even realize it. A tall man with a silvery beard stepped forward. His cheekbones were high and his jaw square. He wore finely made boots and traveling clothes, adorned with black wolf fur. Yet it was his eyes, which shone like light blue crystal, that were most striking.
“Henri, before you go throwing the pot at us, please hear me out,” Dugan Deerborne said.
“Dugan, not you too. You’re not here to tell me to stay. I’m warning you! I mean to go!” Henri said, his anger abating before the most respected hunter in the province.
Dugan was renowned as a tracker, hunter, and a guide, just like his father before him. Henri knew it was a reputation the old salted woodsman took seriously and worked hard to instill in his eldest son Dylan, who stood just behind him.
“Henri I’m not here to tell you to do anything. Although I do think you should sleep off this drink before you march off into the wilds, half-strung. I know where you’re going… and if you’re insisting on going, we want to come with you.” Dugan motioned back to the small group of men assembled behind him, whom all looked prepared for a journey.
“Come, don’t come, I don’t care either way cause there’s no changing my mind,” Henri said stubbornly. Although the idea of traveling with a group led by Dugan’s like did bolster his resolve.
He must think I’m crazy. What man in his right mind walks into the Harrows alone, full of drink, and in the dark? A man ready to die, perhaps.
Dugan nodded and fell into step behind him. They made their way down limestone steps from the common house, stopping at Henri’s home where he draped his traveling cloak over his shoulders and slung the pack he had already prepared. He hooked his hand axe and knife to his belt. It was the very same knife he had copied to give to his eldest son, Hunter.
“I’m heading out. Goin’ north this time, far north,” Henri said, stopping by the fire to kiss his wife on the forehead.
She didn’t look up from her sewing, nor did she acknowledge him when he spoke. Henri grunted and turned to leave. A short while later Henri led the group up the trail north, past the bluffs, and to the river.
He walked fast, despite the sickly feeling in his gut. It wasn’t just the ale, but also the deathly silence that had fallen between him and his wife. It felt like poison in his blood.
“I know what drives you, Henri. I understand what you are going through,” Dugan said, walking up next to him. His long legs and easy stride made the pace look like no effort for the older man. Henri tried to hide the fact that he was out of breath already.
“How can you know my pain? I lost my children, lost my kin. They were everything to me. I feel myself dying inside knowing they’re gone,” Henri said bitterly, puffing with the effort.
“I know because I lost someone very special to me. Thaws back, when my boys were small,” Dugan replied somberly, his eyes never leaving the trail.
Henri nodded, swallowing hard against the sour ick in his stomach. He felt guilty for his resentment and reminded himself that he was not the only one that has lost loved ones. He was not alone in grief.
“My wife…she was so young and pretty. I can still picture her face as if it were yester. We lived in the southern Boroughs back then. She kept a good home, raised my little ones up right, while I went out and hunted, kept food on the table and coin in our purse. Her ma helped watch the boys when I was away. One day she went to the river for water…she never came back,” Dugan said, looking over at Henri. The steel in the old man’s eyes softened a bit.
“Did you find out what happened to her?”
“She was pulled into the river, kicking and screaming, while trying to fill a pail of water. I found the marks on the bank where it pulled her in. It pulled her deep into the muddy water and drowned her. It was a yarjstead, a river phantom. That is what the villagers call them. I was never able to track it down. I was never able to bury her proper,” Dugan said.
“How did you move on?” Henri asked, his stomach souring as he listened to the old hunter recount his wife’s death. He felt selfish for trying to hoard the grief.
“I’m not sure I ever really did, to tell you the truth. I spent weeks…months, searching every cave and sinkhole along the river for leagues in either direction. Nearly got myself killed more than a few times. The search consumed me…I had to find the creature that took my wife. I thought that if I found the beast and killed it, well, that I would find resolution, and maybe some peace. I’ve watched my sons grow into strong young men. All of it without her. Now, I don’t think killing it would have given me peace. I would still miss my wife, my love. Nothing will fill that void in my life,” Dugan said sadly.
Henri plodded on in silence, the old hunter’s tale sobering him up. Hearing Dugan’s story didn’t make Henri feel any better, quite the opposite. It did allow him some perspective, however, although he wasn’t sure he was willing to admit what it meant.
“Why do you want to help me? Why now?” Henri asked.
“Because I have hunted this country all my life, and I know what those wilds are like. And if you think that is where your children are…well then I think I can help,” Dugan said.
“They weren’t alone, Dugan. They were with Robert and Damon Frontsman. They have to be alive. They are strong, even my little one. They have to be,” Henri said, choking back tears.
Dugan grunted, nodding his head. “The Frontsman boys were able woodsmen. I knew their father well.” Dugan went quiet and started absently into the trees.
The shadows lengthened, and the warmth of the sun faded, so the group stopped and lit torches. The woods grew quiet and for a time the crackling of the torches was the only noise. Even the wind seemed remorseful as it whistled longingly through the dry leaves above.
Henri’s thoughts drifted back to the last time he saw Hunter, Luca, and Eisa. He was taking his mule and cart to the river road, and then through the limestone bluffs to sell goods at the market in Marble Meadows. It was Henri’s usual route.
He left the house before the rooster’s first cry, so everyone was still tucked away comfortably in their beds. Henri regretted never waking them to say goodbye that morning, or hold them one last time.
Henri trusted Hunter. His eldest knew his rules, and that he would not take them past Harrow’s Gulch. The sound of the river snapped Henri out of his fog, the earthy musk of the silt-laden water wafting heavily on the cool breeze. They crossed the rickety bridge one at a time, moving with the care of a dancer to avoid the rotten planks in the dark.
On his first trip out, Henri charged across the bridge so fast that he almost fell through. It was that slip that helped him find his first clue. He pulled his foot back through the broken plank and found the first signs of struggle. The closer he looked, the more the weathered bridge told him.
He found blood on the planks, the dark red stains still visible even after seasons of rain and hot sun. Further down the bridge the handrail had been broken away, the splintered handrail still holding fragments of sun-bleached fabric. But most startling were the claw marks, minuscule gouges rent into the soft wood. Henri looked into the dark, rushing water, unwilling to consider what the marks on the bridge meant.
“We should check the ruins,” one of Dugan’s men said as Henri stepped off of the bridge.
“I’m sure Henri has searched there already. After this long we’re not likely to catch a scent this close,” Dugan said, holding up a blouse of Eisa’s he had brought with him. “We keep heading north and continue where Henri dared not go before.” Henri silently thanked Mani for the old hunter’s presence, for, without
his strength, he wasn’t sure how long he could maintain his nerve.
“What did you find at the ruins?” Dylan, Dugan’s younger son, asked.
Henri swallowed a hard lump. He hadn’t thought about what he found in the ruins since that day, and for a reason. He remembered charging in hastily, driven by his frightened manic search. He remembered the flies, how loud their wings were as they swarmed in thick angry clouds.
“I found their cart…still loaded with gathered goods – t’was all rotten. The mule was there too, or what was left of it. Just a pile of guts, bones, and hide. The parts the scavengers didn’t want. I found them inside, piled together and covered with worms. Torn apart, bloodied beyond belief…they were my friends,” Henri said, his voice cracking. His throat had gone very dry.
“But your kids weren’t there?” Dylan said. Dugan flashed him a look.
“No.”
“Well that’s good, right? I mean…then they must be alive, if you didn’t find them with Robert and Damon!” Dylan said enthusiastically, but Henri just stared straight ahead. Dugan, on walking next to him just shook his head sadly.
I found this,” Henri said finally, pulling a knife from his belt. “It was Hunter’s. I had it made to match mine. I gave it to him on the eve of his tenth name day. He was never parted from it. Always…always had it with him. I found it in the hallway just outside where I found Robert and Damon. It was crusted over with blood…smeared everywhere, on the floor, handprints on the walls. There were footprints too. No beast I ever seen makes a print like that. I found those prints again outside in the dirt, but they just disappeared in the middle of the clearing.”
“Oh,” Dylan said quietly, and after a moment dropped to the back of the group.
They walked on in relative silence, leaving Henri to the tormented memories of his other failed searches. He was no master tracker, but he could take care of himself. He couldn’t deny that the tracks were a bad sign.
Dugan told Henri to lead them to the furthest point of his previous trips. At that point, the woodsmen would take over. Henri told himself that there was little hope to cling to, little real hope at least. But if skilled trackers, hunters, and woodsmen knew the Harrows like they claimed and wanted to help him search, then maybe they could succeed where he alone failed.
The group walked on throughout the night, stopping only once to take food and rest. Hours later, they arrived at Harrow’s Gulch. Henri knew the spot well. It marked the farthest point north he dared travel by himself.
Dugan built a fire while Henri and the others made camp for the remainder of the night. Henri tried to sleep, unfortunately, every time he closed his eyes he saw the wretched ruins. So instead, he lay on his back and stared at the stars, listening to the soft, melodic breathing of the others.
The sky started to lighten a few agonizing hours later, so Henri perched himself upon a fallen tree to watch dawn break over the landscape. He looked longingly at the empty log next to him. Eisa enjoyed watching sunrises almost as much as he did. It was their special time together.
The others woke shortly after sunrise. They ate a quiet breakfast, packed up their camp and were off again before the sun was clear of the mountains.
Henri’s mind felt clear now that the ale had worn off, but at the same time his anxiety crept back in. It tightened his chest, making his heart pound and his breath short. Henri quickly longed for a mug of ale.
The trail from Harrow’s Gulch ended abruptly, and the group looked out over the wild Harrows. The rolling hills crested, fragmented by jutting formations of stone that rose up like waves. Behind that, sitting like granite giants, wearing halos of cloud were the White Back Mountains.
“Sixth arm, that’s a sight,” Henri gasped, taking in the view.
“Makes you feel a bit small, heh?” one of the woodsmen asked as he walked past. Henri nodded.
Dugan took control of the group. He organized the group into two parallel lines, with Henri stuck in the middle between Dylan and a young man with a black, scruffy beard.
They traveled the better part of the morning, Dugan leading them efficiently through the sweeping hills and patchy forests. There were no roads to follow, so the leader of each line had to pick the clearest route or cut one out of the autumn foliage with a long blade.
They located several hunting shacks. Although one was well provisioned, it didn’t look like anyone had used it for at least a season. They also stumbled across a deer kill, which Dugan believed was a mountain lion, as well as an abandoned goblin camp.
The afternoon turned over, and they pushed on. Dugan surprised Henri when he appeared next to him on the rocky shelf he had just climbed. The older man, unlike Henri, looked barely winded.
“There is a place not far from here, if there is news of your children, it will be as good a place as any to start looking. I must ask you not to speak of it when you return home though. I do not want the Council’s men or even the elder in Shale to know of it,” Dugan said, his blue eyes boring into him.
Henri nodded but didn’t know what the old hunter was talking about.
What could he possibly want to keep hidden way out here?
“If your children managed this far into the Harrows, then someone in Dedpit Barrow may know about it. But I will warn you, they don’t warm to outsiders. They’re a…skittish bunch,” Dugan said.
“Wait, they? Who are they? I didn’t think anyone lived up here. People live in the Harrows?” Henri asked.
Dugan simply nodded and walked away. Henri dabbed at the sweat on his forehead and followed the man up the slope. They inched their way down the next decline, made more difficult by the loose rock and shifting soil. One misplaced step could spell a painfully quick trip to the bottom.
A small valley sat nestled at the bottom, and at its center, a winding creek. When the breeze died down Henri became aware of how he smelled. Eager to rinse the vinegary sweat from his face, he skipped down the rest of the slope and made for the fresh bubbling water.
The sun streaked in through the spindly trees, their leaves shining vivid red and orange. The spongy moss covering the ground felt like lamb’s wool beneath his feet.
It is so peaceful, Henri thought as he hopped from stone to stone to the water’s edge. But as he landed on a loose stone something on the other side of the creek that caught his eye.
He saw it for only a heartbeat, as a passing glance. It looked like a beautiful woman, gilded in shining armor that caught the sunlight in a splash of brilliance. Henri lost his footing and teetered, dropping his eyes to find a better footing. By the time he looked again, she was gone.
Henri absentmindedly stepped up to the creek, pulling out his waterskin as he moved to kneel down, but something wispy and sticky caught his face. As he moved forward, he felt more of the silky threads fall on his hands and neck.
Cobwebs! Henri flinched, moving to swipe at his face. But these strands were unlike any spider web he had ever felt before. They were stickier than pinesap and as strong as hemp rope. The more he fought, the more tangled he became. He tried to pull away, but his foot slipped off of the slippery rocks.
Henri cried out as he fell, but only one of his legs splashed into the water. The rest of his body floated just above the creek, held aloft by the transparent weave. The small trees on either side of him sagged, bending as if tethered together by an invisible hammock. They shook as he moved, letting the sunlight filter down, exposing the sticky web.
Henri froze as something chittered strangely from trees above him. Crimson leaves rained down as something started to move. He couldn’t find his voice as a large brown form started to move, and then emerged from the tree’s shadowy confines, crawling with sickly efficiency down the transparent silk.
Too many legs, Henri thought as the frightening creature shambled towards him.
He heard voices somewhere off in the valley, but he couldn’t look away from the creature as it clicked ever closer, keening horribly. Everything fell into chaos. Noise filled h
is ears before he realized it was him screaming.
The frightening creature bobbed on the web by his feet, it's strange hooked arms jabbing at his boots. Its body was segmented, and easily twice the size of his head. Its legs were as thick as his wrist and impossibly long, ending in cruel looking barbs. The web around him jerked, and he closed his eyes in anticipation of the pain, but then he fell, crumpling into an awkward slump. Half of his body was on the ground, while his legs still floated, trapped with the weave.
“Grab him…grab him! Get it, get it!” he heard above him and a machete chopped down to cut his legs free.
Dugan grabbed Henri by the jacket and pulled him back, but he was still horribly tangled and could barely move his arms. With a loud snap the web binding the trees together broke, sending the horrible creature falling to the ground in a mass of clicking legs and thrashing pincers.
The group rallied around Henri, chopping, pulling, and sawing at the translucent threads. As soon as they surrounded Henri, the ugly, bulbous creature went into a strange and frantic dance. It hopped onto its back four legs and reared up before them. Its underside split open, peeling back like the skin of a banana to expose a multitude of tiny, hooked arms. Beneath that lie the creature’s gaping mouths, all opening and closing in horrible anticipation.
Several men approached, swords cocked back and ready, but the creature started to spin like a horrific dancer. It rubbed its legs against misshapen body, chattering and screeching.
Henri felt it almost instantly, first as a tickle in the back of his throat and then as a burning in his eyes. Before he knew it he was coughing uncontrollably, just like the other men around him. Henri wanted desperately to rub, but he couldn’t move his hands. He kicked as Dugan pulled, but he wasn’t even sure they were moving.
Dugan let go of his jacket and started chopping at the dirt by his feet, trying to severe his efforts to free him, even after he became affected by the creature’s invisible attack. The creature recovered from its horrible dance, reacting with impossible speed and as the fibrous strands of its web started to break apart. It skittered towards them, moving in to safeguard its meal.
