2. Cry Now, Cry Later
Under the light of a half-moon, the river's water shimmers quicksilver. This is a good night for flight, clear-skied and heavy with summer's heat. You look back, over your shoulder; during the day you could see the fence surrounding your home's hayfield from where you are standing. But it is near midnight now, and behind you there is only darkness.
The meadow by the riverbank does not stretch far; to your sides and before you there are the outlines of the trees. Beyond them, there is nothing. You are afraid to go there. Not yet, you tell yourself. You linger for a moment, listening to the water tumble down. It would be a lie to say that you also do not consider turning back. They wouldn't be mad at your escape, even if they found out, and you could sneak in just as easily as you snuck out, lay yourself on the floor by your brother's side, wake up in the morning…
Slowly, you walk along the silver ribbon of the river, against the direction of its brisk current. You think that it must come down from tall mountains, where highlanders herd their sheep. Through a haze, you recall father speaking of them, how they are bold and suffer no dishonour and take great pride in keeping strong and clear. You don't know if that's good or bad, but the mountains are far away and high, and past them you know nothing at all. That alone is a reason to go.
But it is not where you will go. Upriver, there is a ford, easy to cross this late into the summer. And past the ford, there is a trail that leads into the woods, and this is where you promise yourself you will go. Because no matter how tall are the mountains, how remote the valleys, it is only into the forest's heart that no one will ever follow you.
For now, you stumble along a thin strip of gravely bank between the tree-line and the river's edge, nearly blind in the dark. It is slow going, feeling out the pebbles with the tip of your feet before making each step, and even though the dress you wear beneath the cloak shortens your each step, it is progress nonetheless, and it gives you time to feel.
It's the sound. There is no one by your side to talk, or break the quiet with their own heavy steps or huffed breath. At first all you hear is yourself and the river's steady rumble, but as you move farther and farther, your ears pick out different tones. There is the buzz of insects, mingling with the rustle of the water; they are plentiful here, flies and beetles of all sorts. They play a different tune by night, without the whine of bees and wasps busying about. The night does not belong to those who do honest work.
It's the wind, gentle this time of the year, but present. Sometimes a splatter of water as some fish or fowl breaks the surface, scared by your footsteps. But you too are scared. There are other sounds. Between the trees, far away, where you can't see them but are sure they are there, the beasts out to eat leaden, lonely wanderers such as you. Their howls carry far through the night. As do the cries that abruptly cut. The forest is never quiet.
There is some comfort in the smells. The earthy, heavy air of summer at full bloom, leavened by the cool river. Here, there is wet sand and mud, and all the myriad water-plants that you could name by sight, but not by smell. And flowers, too. You don't recognize any scent, though they cling heavily to you and the narrow gravelly path, but you're sure you know them.
Better to focus on such simple mysteries.
The thing about being alone in the woods that terrifies you how simple it would be to turn back. Because you can. The path is clear behind you. Clear for you to follow back to the place you call home. And if you think of the distant sounds you might hear, of the black spaces between the trees you want to take it.
So you try not to think, and instead focus on what flowers fill the night with their strange, familiar fragrances. But it doesn't work like that. You can't force yourself. You've been holding your breath for too long, teeth clenched. You breathe in and the air is cold on your throat and lungs. So different than what you left behind. You can't force yourself so you allow yourself instead.
You remember choking. Sitting on a bench and sewing, the needle running quickly in your fingers. And above the cloth, squinting at stiches with pursed lips, you struggled for every breath. It was the air inside your home. Smoke and herbs thrown on the fire to make it more palatable. Heavy. You've breathed it all your life, and it never felt hard to you. And then, as you sat down to do some work, your aunt teaching you about what to do when you are with a man, and you just couldn't. When your mouth opened, it was like a fish gasping, something flowing in but giving you nothing. You started coughing, pricked yourself bad with the needle, ran outside, but hardly anything squeezed its way past the soot that seemed to cake your insides. You retched, trying to force it out, but it stuck in your throat and refused to leave.
It's better now, even if it's cold. What you breathe in feels like air, not ash. There is at least that much.
You've been like that for days. But it was worse at night, when it would keep you awake while others slept, and you feared to make a move and betray that something was wrong. In spite of all that had happened, everyone was so happy for your wedding. You didn't want to- spoil it?
You tire of walking and crouch down by the riverbank to rest for a moment. You throw a pebble or two across the surface, then stop. If there are others around, it might draw their attention. There are things in the woods. Beasts, men, both and neither at once. You are sure they are there, looking at you, sharpening their teeth. It is how it's been told to you in the tales. So you stop.
You just can't. You're an idiot. There is no way forward. You back up, turn away, head home, to safety, take one step, then another, then stop. You remember again.
There is a memory of speaking. Of listening to words that you should recognize and realizing that none of them make sense. That mother is trying to tell you something, to encourage you, to show you that you are her beloved daughter in these difficult times, but what you hear is nothing but gibberish, kibbled language. You nod, then nod off, then she becomes angry with you because you didn't listen. You think. There were words, but now there are none.
You can't go back there. It's not safer there. It's not easier there. The woods will kill you, or something else will, but it is better that way.
But what if it gets better after a while, it's not that…
You want to breathe again. No.
Yet, everything does get quiet in…
You want to sleep again. No!
Still, you are…
YOU WANT NOTHING FROM THEM!
You realize after a moment that you are screaming at the waters, screaming so loud that you might start coughing up blood, screaming no words or meaning but raw anger as long as your throat can take it.
It's bad. You shouldn't be doing this. It's dangerous. But for a while, just a moment or two, you don't give a single shit. You howl like a wounded beast, you howl out the screaming thoughts battering against the inside of your skull. You howl until you can't.
It echoes for a long time, voice carried far over the swift-running waters.
You want to see your sister's face again?
You crouch down and cry. It's too much. You will go between the trees, where bandits and exile dwell, men for whom to kill is as as to spit, you will wander where the trees grow so tall that their canopies scrape the firmament, you will go as a brigand and a drifter who betrayed the trust of their kin. Saints know you don't want that. You don't want to be like that. But you don't know what else you can be.
When you thieved through the house which used to be yours, you didn't just steal some food and a spare knife, no, you took something else. Swallowing tears, you undo your bundle and look for it there.
You just wanted to be like any other girl. To smile and to dance and to be wooed and loved. You could have stolen your father's sword or your brother's axes. They would help so much. But no, you rummaged through other things, looking for a daydream you stole for yourself, a petty little token of who you will never again be, useless for a voyage like that…
[ ] …silver bracelets your mother liked to wear and which would in time become yours. You liked to put them on, think how beautiful they look. You too always wanted to look beautiful.
[ ] …a precious comb, a mirror, a sponge from a faraway sea that your aunt received as a gift and you were never allowed to use it. Signs of propriety and decency. You always wanted to stay clean and pure.
[ ] …needle, thread and some folded silk that your grandmother held back to give to your older brother's wife. It's the best fabric you have ever held in your hands. You always wanted to excel at woman's work.
