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We managed to find a small farming village just as my stomach was seriously considering eating itself. The folk eyed me curiously as we sauntered through but none approached. I had headed west, making sure to avoid the Greysmarsh survivors.
The strangers were friendly enough, happy to exchange their foodstuffs for my coin. I kept to myself as I ate a warm bowl of stew at a little table outside a woman’s home, having tethered Peaches in a stable to enjoy the hay and make conversation with her own kind.
As I watched children playing in the streets using sticks as swords, I couldn’t help but think maybe I should stay here. Because that was the idea, wasn’t it? That was Kaspar’s plan for me? That I would leave Kalmador and just slip into another place so seamlessly it would take no thought at all. After all, that was what I had done when I had left Greysmarsh, wasn’t it? I’d never looked back. Not once.
But now, knowing that only heart-wrenching agony came from turning my face to the past, I couldn’t stop myself. It was a fresh wound I continued to prod. Because the only way to deal with pain was to feel it. And oh, dear reader, I felt it. I felt it like a chasm in my soul. Deep, dark and festering.
Before me, the children warped and all I could see was Mirabelle and I.
The young farmer in the pasture ahead mucking out his pigs became Kaspar. He had finally escaped the crown and had found that simple life he had always dreamed of.
Shivers assaulted me and I pulled my cloak tighter as sweat beaded on my brows and pooled between my shoulder blades.
Did he really think I could start my life again without him?
Did he really think every day would not be torture?
At least this way you’ll be alive. You’ll be safe.
That was true. I was alive. Horrifically and excruciatingly alive.
I left that place without another word, thankful that the food and rest had given Peaches the strength to pick up speed. The sun was dipping low, shifting the cloudless sky to a beautiful cobalt blue. Again, I stuck to the paths, but unlike last time, I had absolutely no idea where I was going. My inner compass had broken and now spun every which way.
By the time the sky grew so dark I struggled to see, I was well and truly in the middle of nowhere. I had not passed another settlement for quite some time and I could see nothing but grassy knolls in every direction. My heart stuttered with sudden anxiety. The pleasant heat had left with the sun and now the night’s breeze was cutting. I needed to find some sort of shelter or there was a good chance I was going to freeze to death. A normal person could have probably lasted, bundled up inside a cloak and cuddled close to Peaches for warmth. But I was no normal person. I was already losing the feeling in my fingers.
Then, like a beacon calling me to sanctuary, I spotted it. A lone hunting lodge. Or perhaps shack was a more fitting description. It was quite easily a third of the size of my home in Cragdale, with a rotting stable attached to the side, ready to collapse in the next storm, but it was something.
As I headed closer, I noticed there were no lights coming from the windows. It sat solemn and alone in the dip between two hills, abandoned. I hopped of Peaches and scouted the area, a broken piece of the stable’s fence held in a tight grip just in case. But as luck would have it, it was empty. And it was about time a bit of luck came my way.
Inside, the place was coated with a thick film of dust. No visitors. That was a good sign. There was furniture. Simple, wooden furniture but it was all the essentials I needed. A bed pushed against one wall, and chairs and a table set up around a cold hearth. A thud behind me made me turn and in came Peaches, strolling in to meet me in the centre of the cold, dark room.
“Well, girl-” I hugged her neck, gazing in wonder at our discovery. “Welcome home.”
She bobbed her big head, as if satisfied with the idea.
Suddenly incredibly weary, I stumbled towards a dusty chair and collapsed onto it. The hard wood jarred my bones but I was honestly too tired to care. I was just thankful the thing had stayed in one piece. Chucking the rotting piece of stable post into the empty hearth, I let out a heavy exhale.
“I guess we’d better get a fire going, hm?” My eyes drifted to Peaches. She had crossed the room and had wasted no time in claiming her spot. After twirling slowly, sizing up the space, she thumped down on the floor at the end of the bed. My heart swelled and pressure built behind my eyes.
I’m so glad you’re here.
I crossed the room, rubbing some life back into my thighs and grabbed the blanket still tucked perfectly over the straw mattress. Dust plumed in a huge, white cloud as I shook it out. I sneezed. Peaches sneezed. I laughed. Peaches’ ears twitched as she squinted up at me.
“Here.” I draped it over her body. “You stay there and relax. I’ll go get the wood, shall I?”
And that, dear reader, is the story of how I ended up thriving out here in my little hovel. It was quite the journey, wouldn’t you say? It must be well over two years now since we first claimed this place as our own. It’s heading into autumn now. There have been no more big storms but I let Peaches wander in and out as she pleases. She’s back in her favourite spot at the foot of my bed.
So, now we’re at the end, I guess it’s time for me to reflect on why I even decided to write all this down in the first place. The simple, surface level reason would be that I have a lot of time and not much else to do. But in truth, I just really don’t want to be forgotten. Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, I am not extraordinary. I am just a person, like everyone else; despite my best efforts to contort myself into something more unique. I don’t believe I have necessarily left an imprint on this world and I doubt there will be a gaping hole in existence after I perish. But I lived and I loved and I really do not wish to end up as a rotting corpse with no name, buried in an unmarked grave by whoever is unfortunate enough to find me here when my time is up. I hope Peaches expires before I do. I don’t much like the thought of her chewing on what’s left of me.
I was not a very open person in my life and looking back, I think that is one of my biggest regrets. I should have told Kaspar I loved him the moment he had uttered those three heart-stopping words to me. Because I did. Way back then. The words were right there on the tip of my tongue, but I panicked and I pushed them down. That one time I told him was not enough. If I could go back in time I would have said it with every greeting, after every kiss, at every goodbye.
I wish I had done more for Mirabelle. I hadn’t even given her a proper apology for leaving her in Greysmarsh while I went off and pursued my dreams. I hadn’t apologised for forgetting her.
There is no chance that I will ever forget her again. Whenever the wind bends the boughs of the trees outside just so, all I hear is the creaking of that blasted rope.
I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if things had played out just a little differently. If I had trusted Kaspar with the truth about Mirabelle, could he have saved her the way he had saved me? Was there an ending to this story were the both of us were here, sleeping top-to-tail and fighting over the blankets? I bet she would have no trouble growing her own vegetables. She would have mastered this living-in-hiding business. She would have made it fun. The shack could have been our new den, complete with creaking floorboards and draughty windows.
I have opened my soul to you, dear reader, and I cannot thank you enough for reading. You now know me more intimately than anyone ever has. I am sorry for burdening you with all of this. But, considering this is me wrapping things up, it seems only right that I end it with a flourish, don’t you think? So I’ll take my painting out from its special box under my bed and I’m going to try this one more time.
Here goes nothing.
I lay the painting out on my table, brushing away leftover crumbs from breakfast and weighing the corners down with cutlery. It’s all finished now, every last detail. The backs of my eyes immediately start itching. It’s been a few months since I’ve had this out on display. The wedding portrait had been a silly fantasy back then but it feels like a sick joke now.
I have painted nothing else noteworthy in my time here. Sketches of my sweet old girl are tacked up on the wall at the end of my bed; I think that is why she lies down there. My special talent must give those images a spirit of their own, one that is soothing by the way she falls asleep so quickly and snores so contently.
My hand traces the petals of the peonies on the parchment and I smirk at the pillowy softness of them. They don’t shrink away this time, which is promising. Mouth agape, I watch as they follow my finger, turning and fluttering as if my touch is their light. This is new. I can even feel the silk of my dress, the tough brocade of Kaspar’s waistcoat, his hair... I can feel his hair.
The painting distorts as tears blur my vision.
Legs suddenly wobbly, I drop into my chair and trace the shell of his ear. The soft waves of his golden hair shift and curl around my fingertip.
I can feel him.
So many emotions are battling through me right now I don’t know how to feel. Elated? I can touch him. My talent has somehow strengthened. But I can’t touch him. Because it’s not really him, is it? I’m never going to touch him again.
As I sit and gaze at my creation, the figures before me move. They clasp hands, my pale, slender fingers slipping seamlessly into his large palms. Painting-me tilts his chin up a fraction, the sun through the window dances on my eyelashes making them look like spun gold. Painting-Kaspar’s pink lips quirk into his gentle smile and then, right before my eyes, he plants a kiss upon my cheek.
My chair gives way under me and I crumple to the floor. My heart is pounding so hard it smacks painfully against my ribs. I grab the chair leg for support, my racing mind making the room spin.
It worked. It actually worked. Dear reader, I’ve finally done it!
A noise between a sob and a laugh escapes me and Peaches’ head shoots up. Oh, me falling off my chair doesn’t wake her but that did? I could have seriously injured myself!
Her hooves are then scratching at the stone floor, trying to find purchase. I quickly get to my feet to help her up. Her ears are bolt upright, nose pointed, sniffing. And that’s when I hear it, too. Hoofbeats. Outside.
She trots excitedly over to the front door while I grab the butter knife from my table, upsetting my painting. It curls back up into itself with a snap.
No one ever rides by here.
A whinny of a horse. Peaches’ tail swishes. I move to the window, heart in my throat.
A huge, glistening black stallion has stopped before what’s left of my stable.
Wait, I know that horse.