Awakening

by Hayden Pearton

  *

  The rest of the afternoon went by largely without incident, as the group continued to climb up the highlands. The only break in the monotony had been when they happened upon a herd of dyr -flanks bleached white from decades of pollution exposure- grazing on a hilltop. The animals had fled as they approached, denying the group any chance of fresh meat.

  Even as Barsch marvelled at the creatures ability to adapt and survive, Kingston had been harrying them on, wary of the falling sun. However, as they had hurried off, Barsch caught sight of a grisly wound the flank of one of the larger bucks, and silently wished that they would not meet the beast responsible.

  Finally, with the sun sitting red on the horizon, they decided to stop. Kingston had chosen to camp out under a large stone outcrop, which sheltered them from the wind and protected them from any nearby predators. A small stream, originating from the mountains above, snaked down the nearby hill. It led to a small grove of trees, a good place to find both food and firewood.

  “Alright, I’m going to set up camp, Barsch, do you think you could try and catch us some supper from that stream? And Alza, in the meantime, could you gather some firewood from the grove over there?” said Kingston, as he cleared a space under the outcrop for their camp.

  Alza had given no response to the query, but had gone off in the direction of the trees nevertheless. Barsch was then left to fetch the fishing equipment from his pack, although, in this case, “equipment” was something of a misnomer. Kingston had lent him a small piece of scrap metal that the hermit had bent into something resembling a hook, and attached it to a long length of twine.

  Making do with what he had was one of the first things his father ever taught him, so he resolved to do just that. Tearing of a few chunks of dried meat –which Kingston was saving for emergencies- to make bait, he strode over to the stream.

  While he was searching for a good spot, he was surprised by the pitter-patter of rain on the water’s surface. Judging from the accompanying cloud’s size and colour, the rain was not dangerous, but fishing in the rain was not something he had planned for. In minutes he was soaked through, and only the thought of drying off in front of the fire and eating fresh fish kept him going. However, after ten minutes of fruitless fishing, the thought was becoming less and less likely to turn into reality.

  “Any luck, m’boy?” asked Kingston, walking over to check on his progress.

  “Not yet, but I’m still hopeful,” Barsch lied, knowing full well that he had as much chance of catching a fish as he did of sprouting wings.

  “Well, it’s certainly good to see a young lad with so much patience. You know, that’s the real key to fishing, patience.” And just like that, Barsch knew that he could not return empty handed. He would stand there, all night if necessary, in order to fulfil the old man’s expectations.