Fugitive of the Sky

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Unwanted Mercy

"I like livin' near t' th' forest," the man said cheerfully as they emerged into the sunshine. "It remin's me of all I lost an' all I stan' t' gain."

Natan's eyebrows shot up but he didn't have the breath to spare while keeping up and holding his side. He could swear the man sped up every time he got close enough to take a grab at his sword. For a rickety old lunatic who somehow knew about Adonai, he seemed to be smarter than he looked. Or, he really was happy to get back to his home.

The man headed sideways to a low fence, the wood rough and unfinished with the posts barely plied together. The hoofsheep ran ahead and butted one corner until it caved and he could squeeze through. The man grumbled to himself as he walked to a gate and pushed it open. "So that's how you escaped, Tamber? Now I'm goin' t' have t' bend down and fix th' whole side again."

Natan snorted. The whole fence could do with rebuilding. He didn't even think it would keep out a determined rabbit, much less a wolf or whatever else the old man needed to keep out. Why hadn't anyone else come out to build the fence properly for him? Surely at his age he had someone to help. Another mystery that hopefully would be answered soon.

They walked past a modest garden with half-finished piles of harvested tubers and vegetables and a tiny patch of grain, sheaves gone and stalks rattling when the wind knocked them against each other. A couple of other hoofsheep trotted up as they passed another fence, sticking their noses in the gaps and mooing. Tamber mooed right back at them and shook out his ears.

"Here we are!" The man stopped in front of a house built with logs all the way to the roof and turned to look at Natan with a missing-tooth grin. "You stay ou'side an' I'll bring your answers in a moment."

The sun went behind a cloud and Natan shivered, rubbing his numb arm. It flapped uselessly against his side and let off another shudder deep inside him. Would he ever be able to use his arm again? He squashed the thought with bitterness and reminded himself of all that had already gone wrong. He would get his answers, and then he would be done. He'd find somewhere the hoofsheep wouldn't find him and end his own life on his own terms.

But despite his decision, some part of him still held out the hope there was another way other than dying, some way that redeeming his cowardice could happen. And why had Adonai partially healed his side and not his arm? What was this nonsense about mercy after judgment? Was Adonai going to give him a third or fourth chance, or was he only alive because he still had to protect the Larkwing girl?

Hetterah. Holding onto bitterness wasn't working. At this rate he'd end up caring and deciding he wanted to stick through his miserable life again. He already'd been lured this far with the promise of answers.

"Aha! Here we go." The old man dragged out a pair of stumps, disappeared into the house, and came out with an age-darkened wood box under his arm. He nodded at the stumps with his chin and slowly eased himself down. "Come on then. Never seen wha' a stool is or somethin'?"

Natan eyed the empty stump dubiously. "Why sit off the ground?"

The man snorted. "Ever felt how cold it is in winter this near th' Barren Lands? Trust me, you'll be glad your back's not touchin' th' floor when th' night comes."

"I'm not sleeping here," Natan bristled. He planned to get his answers and be gone.

"Suit yourself. Bu' I'm tellin' you, winter's almost here an' you'll be hard pressed t' go t' sleep in th' forest wit' those clothes on. I used t' do it when I was young, but now?" The man shrugged and absentmindedly patted Tamber's head.

"Your answers?" Natan folded his arms, hiding his wince and refusing to sit down. He wanted this over with, and he'd already been frustrated searching for so long.