Hollow Road

by Dan Fitzgerald

  Finn tensed all his muscles, then released the energy he had pulled into his core. It exploded throughout his limbs and filled his head with silence; the sow’s roar, Carl’s cry, and all other sounds of the world simply vanished. He watched the sow hurtling toward him as if he were seeing it through rippled glass. He saw it bounce off the air inches from his body, like it had hit a wall, then tumble backward, dazed, struggling to regain its feet. Sinnie put another arrow into it, in its side this time, and it squealed, turned, and bolted into the forest, the other piglet fleeing in its wake. Finn’s head was spinning and his legs had turned to rubber, so he leaned against a tree for support. He focused on his racing heart, willing it to slow, which it did after a few seconds.

  Carl stepped over to the piglet and put his sword through its chest. It did not move. He grabbed it by its hind legs and hauled it back to the camp, his teeth clenched and his face red.

  “Stupid, stupid, deadly stupid,” he muttered, not looking up as he passed Sinnie. Her shoulders slumped and she turned to Finn, her eyes begging for support. He found his legs again, and though he was still a little dizzy, he stepped over to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Good shooting,” he managed. “Our days of endless journey cakes are at an end.”

  “But our days of mister know-it-all grumpy-pants have just begun.” Sinnie looked back toward Carl, who had dropped the piglet by the fire and was standing there, catching his breath.

  “He’ll be fine,” Finn assured her. “Especially once he gets a taste of bacon.”

  When Finn got back to the camp, Carl was sharpening a large knife with a whetstone, and his face had returned to normal.

  “That was impressive,” Carl said, looking up from his task. “I thought you were a goner.”

  “Me too, actually.” Finn took a sip from his waterskin and swished it around in his mouth, which had that metallic taste he got after a big energy drain. “I wasn’t sure if I could do it in time. I just...” he threw up his hands. “I guess my training took over.”

  “So was that...some kind of invisible wall or something?”

  “Not exactly.” Finn looked at his hands, then back up. “I don’t have that kind of power, not yet anyway.” Carl had gone through some rudimentary training before he had moved on from study, but Finn wasn’t sure how much he would understand. “It’s an extension of my bodily energy called a force shield. If I am fully centered, I can store the energy in my core for a few seconds, then when I release it, it extends beyond my body, just by a few inches, and its power is increased by tenfold or more.”

  Carl nodded, running the blade across his thumb, then giving it a few more strokes with the whetstone. “And how long does it last?”

  “Five seconds, maybe ten, is all I can do before I pass out,” Finn said. “I’ve only just learned it. I barely got it off in time, and I dropped it right away, or it dropped itself. Everything happened so fast.”

  “Well, I’m thrilled to see the reports of your talent were not exaggerated. Makes me wonder what else you’ve got up your sleeve.” Carl’s eyes showed a glint of mischief—or was it ruefulness? Carl had to know Finn would not reveal anything that hadn’t already been shown. Finn couldn’t imagine what Carl had gone through, having had his gift, small though it was, disappear.

  “I know much less than many, but surely more than some.” Finn’s response pulled a smile from Carl. “At any rate, I save us on food, since I’m only supposed to eat twice a day, and I require less sleep, so I hope to be of value to our cause. Not to mention, I’ve always been told I’m rather pretty.”

  “Well I’m not the best judge, but you surely aren’t ugly,” was Carl’s reply. Finn smiled, glad his friend—and Carl was starting to feel like that again—did not show the same disdain for him that some in the village had. He wasn’t sure if Carl knew about his fling with Theo at study, but he hoped it would make no difference if he found out.

  “You’re not so pretty.” Sinnie plopped down on the log next to him. “Maybe a little above average at best. But you do have that tattoo-and-leather thing going on, which I guess would have its appeal, to some.” She ran her hands over his leather vest, a gift from Val, one of the masters, who held a not-so-secret crush on him.

  “I choose to accept your compliment.” Finn put his hand on her knee, giggling when she brushed it off.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Sinnie said. “Hey Carl, look, I’m really sorry. I just saw that ball of bacon trotting right into my sights, and I guess my instinct took over. I know, you’re not supposed to mess with the babies because the mama is always around, but...I promise it won’t happen again.”

  Carl looked at her, his eyes softening, and blinked. “It’s fine. We all make mistakes. But most of them aren’t quite as delicious. Speaking of which,” he said, standing up and grabbing the piglet by its hind legs again, “I’ve got a little disemboweling to do. Somebody want to get that fire going? I figure we might as well have a decent bite of breakfast before we hit the road.” He turned and walked a short way into the forest. Muffled cutting and tearing sounds ensued.

  “A man in charge,” Finn mused. “I kind of like the new Carl.”

  “Yeah, I think he was wrong,” Sinnie said. “War really did suit him.”

  THEY SET OFF WITH BELLIES full of piglet under a radiant sun that filtered through the forest just enough for light and warmth but no real heat. They ran across several small groups and one large caravan, but they did not stop to talk to anyone, and no one did more than just nod and smile. Maybe it was the coffin? Or it could have been Carl, whose demeanor was not the friendliest. As dark approached, they set up camp at the edge of the forest, where it began to thin out and give way to the scrubland that eventually would become plains before transitioning to pine forests at the foot of the Silver Hills.

  When they stopped for lunch the next day, Finn slipped off behind a bush while Sinnie and Carl tucked into the extra pork they had cooked that morning. He had to work hard to quell his stomach’s complaint, but as he sank deeper into his poses it evaporated, leaving him feeling light and airy, but powerful. Though it had drained his physical energy, casting the force shield had given him confidence, which helped him stay focused. He chased away thoughts of what would have happened if he had been a half-second slower, finished his routine, and returned as Sinnie and Carl were saddling up again.

  “Should be another day or so before we get to Silver Road,” Carl said, as if reciting a pre-set travel plan. “Then maybe two days to Hollow Road, and another day and a half to Brocland.”

  “Hopefully that weather will move to the south,” Sinnie commented, gesturing toward a cluster of dark clouds in the distance. “I really hate sleeping wet.”

  “Well, we can always tarp the cart and sleep under it,” Carl suggested. “Or maybe we can find a good scrub tree and tarp that. At least it’s not likely to be too cold just yet.”

  It started to drizzle as the afternoon wore on. Finn did not cover up as the others did, embracing the wetness as best he could. He often wondered if he was really cut out for Bodily Control, since he truly despised the deprivations it required. But he did them dutifully, with the occasional indulgence, as per the mantra: nothing to excess, including abstinence. The masters always seemed to embrace the pain, the hunger, the cold, or whatever form of self-torture was at hand. There was even a branch that was into exotic piercings, self-flagellation, and secret rituals involving lots of leather straps, whips, and other implements that defied the imagination. But Finn liked his body the way it was, liked to be comfortable, eat and drink his fill, and find pleasure when just the right young man came along, which he feared would not be often, now that he’d left study. So he rode in the rain, with stoic Carl ahead of him and suddenly glum Sinnie behind him. He wanted to go back and offer her some comfort, but at the moment he had precious little to give.

  Nor did their sleeping arrangements improve his lot. After a meal of journey cake and cold boar, they settled in under a
tarp stretched over a bush. And while it wasn’t as wet as he had feared, it was crowded, and it seemed every time he moved an inch, he either ran into another body or poked himself on a branch. He had no sooner fallen asleep than Carl woke him for his shift. To his relief, the rain had passed, and there was enough of a moon to see, more or less. He stayed up longer than he needed to, both because he liked pampering Sinnie for some reason and because the training asked that he always find ways to increase any challenge. After waking Sinnie, he went down hard, waking to the smell of pig roasting.

  “I gather we’re going to be staying here a little while,” Finn said, his stomach growling at him. Carl had cut the rest of the piglet into pieces for faster cooking, but it would still take a couple of hours.

  “I figure there’s no sense wasting a good kill,” was Carl’s reply. “And I happen to have brought a nice tin of salt, from East Marsh.”

  “Well, you do know how to live out of doors,” Sinnie said, her eyes bright with admiration, but not, Finn thought, with anything more. “I guess you’ve had your share of experience.”

  “Far more than I care for, to be frank. But the way I see it, we’re out here, and you have to admit, it’s some beautiful country.” Carl gestured vaguely toward the Silver Hills, partially visible between the scrub trees. Finn was surprised to hear Carl wax suddenly poetic. “And we’re getting paid—actual silver denri—to travel through here, to go back home, and maybe help out a little. I’ve spent too much time being forced-marched through landscapes I never had time to appreciate. And I don’t think a couple of hours is going to make a difference to anyone. Besides, if we do run into some kind of situation, I’d rather not face it on a diet of journey cakes alone. If that’s okay with you two.”

  Sinnie jumped up and gave him a big hug, which Carl took as graciously as he could, but still with his trademark stiffness. Finn stepped in and wrapped them both up, mostly because he knew it would bother Carl, and he thought Carl really needed to be bothered.

  Chapter Four

  Carl stopped as the Silver Hills came into full view, majestic and snow-covered in the distance. The South Road ended at Silver Road, which skirted the northern foothills of the mountains. Carl had seen the Silver Hills from this perspective a half-dozen times, but they had never struck him as they did now. When he had left Brocland five years before to join the service, he was not in the right mindset to appreciate their beauty, but now he felt he could stare at them until the sun went down.

  “They seem so close,” Sinnie said. “But I bet it would take weeks to reach the foot of one of the snow-covered mountains.”

  “At least,” Carl said. “And you’d have to be a lot better equipped than we are.”

  Their eyes remained glued to the hills as they rode west down Silver Road. The hot sun was counterbalanced by a steady cool breeze that seemed to bring puffs from the snow-covered peaks to their faces. Several smaller roads branched off wherever there was a village or a mountain pass, like Hollow Road, which they would reach the next day. They saw relatively few travelers on Silver Road, but horse, foot, and cart tracks were plentiful. They camped in a copse of cedar that night, enjoying a clear, starry night without disturbance.

  Early the next afternoon they came to the point where Hollow Road branched south from Silver Road, and Carl studied the crossroads before they continued. Hollow Road led along the Snake River valley, punctuated by smaller valleys, three of them containing villages, the last of which was Brocland. There were only a few recent tracks coming from Hollow Road, which was not a good sign, but it suggested that at least Kelsey, the first village, still had folks coming and going. It would take the better part of two days to reach Brocland, and he knew a blacksmith in Kelsey who could put them up in his work shed for a night. That would mean one night sleeping out of doors past Greenvale, the second village.

  The weather was cooler but still quite pleasant as they followed Hollow Road into the pine forests leading up to the Silver Hills. Legend said these forests were inhabited by woodland spirits, some of them malevolent. He had never put much stock in such things, but the news, or lack of news, from Brocland, had put him on edge. He had asked Sinnie to keep her bow handy just in case, and she seemed eager for action, though her attention tended to wane after a time. Her performance under pressure with the boar had given him confidence, although he wondered if she would be able to shoot at a person, if it came to that. She was no fragile flower, but he knew firsthand it wasn’t easy for anyone, no matter how much training or bravado they possessed.

  Finn seemed to alternate between meditation and endless prattle. After riding silently for an hour or more, he would pull up alongside Sinnie, or occasionally Carl, and start conversations on any number of things, no matter how little response he got. Carl appreciated Finn’s energy, but it tended to distract him from watching the road and forests ahead, so he tried to discourage it while they were riding, to little avail.

  When they stopped for lunch, Finn slipped off into the woods for his usual routine of odd poses, while Carl and Sinnie shared some of the boar, which had been salted to slow spoilage. It would be good for one more day, then have to be jettisoned, but it had served them well, and they savored it. Sinnie didn’t say much while they ate, her eyes drifting off down the road toward home.

  “Looking forward to seeing your folks, I imagine?” Carl asked.

  Sinnie gave a half-nod as she chewed and swallowed. “Sure, I mean, yes, kind of, more or less.” She nibbled on a bit of journey cake. Carl knew Sinnie’s father had worked in the mine when they were still open, and that he did some prospecting, going off for days at a time to some secret spots he had. Her mother raised sheep, and could often be seen taking her flock off to graze in the meadows near Brocland, her blond hair tied back in a ponytail. They were hard-working folk, on the serious side, and they would have been hard-pressed to understand Sinnie’s choice of profession.

  For his part, Carl had no family remaining in Brocland now that his mother had passed, but he did have fond feelings for the village, and some of the people in it. He looked forward to seeing Mr. Massey, the retired army captain who ran the Village Guard, who had encouraged him to join the service after he had washed out from study. Massey would be getting up there in years, but he had always seemed ageless, and Carl surely would have heard if he had died. And he looked forward to seeing Elder Gummache, the old priest who sometimes gave the kids bread and sips of mead, and showed them the church relics when they helped him take care of the grounds.

  When they started getting ready to saddle up again, Finn still had not returned. Sinnie called out to him, but he did not respond. Carl stood up, drew his sword, and gestured to Sinnie, who quietly retrieved her bow and arrows and followed him. He moved from tree to tree, slow-stepping in the direction Finn had gone. He saw Finn slumped against a tree about fifty yards away, and moved toward him, crouched low, watching the silent forest for movement. As Carl and Sinnie approached, Finn stirred, but his eyes remain closed. His hands were clutching thick tufts of moss that grew along the roots of the trees.

  “Finn,” Sinnie said in a half-whisper. “Finn!” she said, a little louder. Finn’s eyes fluttered open, though it seemed to take him a moment before he saw them.

  “Hey,” he murmured. “Hey,” he repeated, turning to Carl. “I guess I must have...” He sat up, rubbing his face, then putting his hands on his knees.

  “Maybe your long watches are taking a toll on you.” Carl had never seen Finn lose control like this.

  “No, I’m fine, it’s just...wow.” He looked down at his legs, his hands, the roots, and the moss. “I feel like I just had a conversation with this tree.”

  Sinnie looked up at Carl, her face stuck between smiling and disbelief. “What, are you a druid now?” she asked.

  “No, and I can’t really explain it, it’s just...I had this dream, but it was so real.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I was doing a seated skywatch pose, like this—” He touched
his feet together, his knees sticking out at what looked like a painful angle, leaned his head back until his eyes were facing up. “I was looking up the trunk into the branches, and everything got kind of...spinny, narrow somehow, like I was staring into a swirling tunnel, and then I saw this warm green light, kind of pulsing, real slow, and...” He stopped, turned his head back to face them. “I think the tree was trying to tell me something.” His brow furrowed and he stood up, put his hands to the tree, and looked up into the branches, then down at the roots.

  “Like what?” Carl asked. Finn’s mind had always been always sharp, however flippant he might act. Maybe it hadn’t been a dream; maybe the tree had talked to him. It was said those with the gift could sometimes commune with the natural world, though Carl had never felt anything like that with the small gift he had once possessed.

  “Actually, it was trying to give me some pointers on how to sit up straighter, how to use my legs to anchor me,” Finn said, his voice soft. “Like roots,” he murmured.

  “Well that’s...kind of creepy, actually,” Sinnie said. “Maybe this is a sign we need to get our asses out of this forest.”

  “I agree.” Carl touched Finn on the shoulder. “The sooner we—”

  “Give me a moment.” Finn gently removed Carl’s hand as he stood up. “I just need to...” He put his hands on either side of the tree, closed his eyes, and touched it with his forehead. Carl and Sinnie exchanged puzzled looks, but neither dared to say anything. After a few seconds, Finn released the tree and walked past them back toward their horses without a word.

  “Should we be worried?” Sinnie asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Carl replied. “But you’re right. We need to get our asses moving.”

  THEY REACHED KELSEY about an hour before sunset. The town was alive with the sound of saws, axes, and hammers taking advantage of the last bit of daylight. Carl hadn’t been to Kelsey more than a couple of times, on business with his father, but he found Hoyle’s shop easily enough. He left Finn and Sinnie with the cart and approached the shop. A boy about twelve years old, presumably Hoyle’s son, was scraping coals into a large metal bucket. He wore a leather apron, boots, and long gloves, all of which looked a bit too big for him, but he handled the coals like a pro. He gave Carl an inquisitive look as he poured a little water on the coals, watched them steam, then poured a bit more.