Chapter 3: Friend or Foe

They ran for what must have been hours, George’s lungs burning with the effort, his feet blistering. Even so, the cloaked stranger kept up her pace, flowing through the forest like a river. He had no idea how she knew where she was going – everything looked the same to him. Still, the blackened, blighted trees slowly began to give way to healthier woodland. The pervasive mist started to clear, sunlight bleeding in through the leafy canopy, the air somehow less oppressive. There were still patches of wilted trees here and there, but it was far less frequent.

“I haven’t heard one of those whistles for a while,” he panted, pausing to lean against a tree as he caught his breath. “Shouldn’t we stop for a moment?”

The woman looked around, then nodded her hooded head.

“We can stop for a time. They will not be able to track us this far.”

“I have to get something to eat,” George sighed, shrugging off his heavy pack. “I’ve been running all day. I feel like I’m about to collapse.”

The stranger watched curiously as he set down his gear, finding a clear area of the forest floor where he began to arrange rocks in a circle. She offered no help as he collected fallen sticks to use as firewood, simply observing from a short distance. He pulled his fire starter from his pocket, tapping the flint and steel together to create a spark on a piece of dry foliage, cupping his hands around it as he blew on it to get it going. Before long, he had a modest fire going, and he set about constructing a tripod for his cooking pot. He filled the vessel from his canteen, setting the water to boil.

Fortunately for him, but unfortunately for his companions, being the designated cook for the group had meant that he was carrying most of their food on his person. As he hung his iron pot from the tripod and began to slice up pieces of dried meat on his cutting board, the cloaked figure drew closer, watching from beneath the shadow of her cowl.

“What is that?” she asked.

“You’ve never seen salted meat before?” George said as he slid the morsels into the boiling water. “It’s just flesh that was dried in the sun, then salted to preserve it.”

He added some handfuls of flour and some dried beans, along with some brown mushrooms that he had collected some days earlier, starting to stir the bubbling pot. The stranger inched closer, perhaps drawn by the scent, crouching on the other side of the campfire. She didn’t say anything more as he finished cooking, George pouring some of the soup into his tin cup, pausing before bringing it to his mouth.

“Do you want some?” he asked. “Besides the meat, it’s just mushrooms, beans, and flour.”

“Flour?”

“Just mashed-up grains,” he explained. “It’s made from plants, it’s fine.”

She seemed skeptical, but when he held out the tin cup, she shuffled a little nearer. As she reached out to take it, he noticed that her gloved hands had five fingers, just like his. She brought it beneath the shadow of her hood, taking a tentative sniff, then raised it to what he assumed must be her lips. He heard her take a sip, then a second, seeming to enjoy it.

As she ate, he reached into one of his pockets, pulling out his compass. He flipped open the ornate brass case, watching the needle dart around erratically. His silent companion set down the cup on the forest floor, then crept over to his side of the campfire, peering down at the shining object.

“What is it?” she asked. From this angle, the sunlight that filtered through the branches above shone on her cheek, revealing a sliver of lily-white skin. She wasn’t completely covered in fur, then...

“It’s a compass,” he explained. “It’s a magnetic device that always points to the North, letting me know which direction I’m heading in. At least, that’s what it’s supposed to do. See this little needle?” He passed it to her, and she turned it over in her hands as she examined it, more interested in the floral patterns that were engraved into the brass than the face. “It shouldn’t be spinning like that, it should be pointing in one direction,” he continued. “Something about those ... pyres that the natives have set up is interfering with the mechanism...”

“Natives?” she asked, glancing up at him. “They are not native.”

“No?” he wondered, cocking an eyebrow at her. “What do you know about them?”

“They came from elsewhere, from outside this place,” she replied cryptically. “When they arrived, the blight followed after them. I thought that you and yours were their kinsmen, but ... you are not. Where have you come from?”

He considered explaining how he had journeyed across the ocean from another continent but thought better of it, surmising that she wouldn’t understand such grand concepts.

“My name is George,” he said, enunciating the name very carefully as he patted his chest for emphasis. “My people and I came from the East, from across the plains. From outside this forest.”

“You look like them,” she said, looking him up and down. “But your dress is different, and you fight with those,” she added as she pointed to the rifle that was leaning up against the tree nearby. “What manner of magic is that?”

“It’s not magic,” he chuckled. “This is a firearm. It uses black powder to propel a lead ball that ... never mind,” he said as she cocked her head at him. “It kills with fire.”

“I have been watching you,” the stranger added, George trying not to look as disturbed as her admission made him feel. “There are few of you, yet you slew many of their number. Are you warriors?”

“No, no,” he replied hastily. “We’re explorers, we traveled here to see what lay West of us. We didn’t come to pick a fight.”

“I saw two of them slain by your own hand,” she said, turning her eyes back to the compass. “You killed them with smoke and fire.”

“Can I ask you something?” he began, quickly changing the subject. “How is it that you can talk as I do? You know my language, have you met people like me before? Are we not the first ones to arrive here?”

“I do not know your language,” she chuckled, returning the compass to him. “You know mine.”

“Uh ... what?”

She didn’t elaborate, returning to the other side of the fire, picking up the tin cup again.

“Listen,” he continued, the stranger resuming her meal. “I need to get back to my people. I’m the only one with a map, the only one that can guide them. Understand? They’re in danger, and I have to help them. Can you take me back?”

She paused, smacking her lips.

“Not through that,” she replied, nodding in the direction they had come. “Their blight saps my magic, silences the spirits.”

“Magic, right,” George sighed. Whatever this little creature was, she was primitive, superstitious. If he wanted to get anywhere, he would probably have to play along.

Now finished with her soup, she made for his pack, starting to rummage around inside it.

“H-hey,” he protested, shuffling closer. “Careful with that!”

She began to pull out random items, examining them one by one. She opened the leather pouch that contained his fountain pens and ink, pulling one of the pens from its leather loop, holding it by both ends as she brought it up to her face for closer inspection.

“It’s a pen,” he explained. “You know, for writing.”

Her next target was one of his ink bottles, the hooded stranger fumbling with the cork. George moved to swipe it from her hands, but she scurried out of his reach, now certain that it was something worth investigating.

“Watch out, don’t spill it,” he warned. “If you get that on your clothes, it won’t come off.”

She popped the cork, then gave it a sniff, turning her head away in disgust.

“It’s not food,” George explained. “Come on, you’re going to break something...”

Next, she found his journal, turning it over in her hands curiously. She discovered that it could be opened, starting to leaf through the pages, the way that her hooded head was moving back and forth letting him know where her attention was focused.

“That’s very important,” he said, knowing better than to try and take it from her now. “Please don’t tear it.”

“What are these?” she asked, turning the little leather-bound book so that it was page-up to him. She pointed to the looping cursive, perhaps not recognizing it as writing. Few native tribes that they had encountered on the continent had a writing system.

“It’s a record of my travels,” he explained. “We ... we make markings on paper that tell a kind of story, one that others can then read for themselves.”

“Oh, runes,” she mumbled as she turned her eyes back to the book.

“You have writing?” he asked. She didn’t reply, turning the pages, fascinated by what she was seeing. When she turned the journal to face him again, it was open on the map that he had drawn, spread across two of the yellowed pages. There was the mountain peak, the plains, the Eastern forests that they had trekked through for weeks prior. On the next few pages were the more detailed maps of the woods, where George had done his best to plot out the patches of blighted trees.

“What is this?”

“That’s a map,” he explained. “It’s a drawing of everywhere I’ve been on my journey.”

She examined it again, cocking her head, her gloved fingers tracing some of the lines.

“You made this?”

“It’s my job,” he replied. “I’m a cartographer, I’m responsible for keeping track of where we’ve been.”

“That is why you need to return to your people?”

“Yes, exactly,” he said with some measure of relief. He was finally getting through to the obtuse creature. “They need me to find their way. Will you lead me back to them?”

“As I said, I cannot,” she replied as she snapped the journal closed.

“The magic, I remember,” he grumbled. “What if I told you that I have an item that can ward off their magic?” he added, spying an opportunity to play into her superstitions. She looked up at him, watching as he reached into a pocket on his pack. He withdrew one of the silver trinkets that the company had brought along in the hopes of using them as gifts to placate any natives they encountered. It was a pendant shaped like a flower, glinting as it reflected the firelight, turning slowly on its thin chain. “This is enchanted,” he continued, addressing her as he would a child. “It will ward off the blight if you wear it around your neck.”

The stranger reached out, and he placed it gently in the palm of her hand, the chain slowly coiling into a tiny pile. She withdrew it, examining the clasp for a moment before sliding it beneath her cloak to secure it around her neck. George waited with bated breath, wondering if his ploy had worked.

“You patronize me, but it is you who knows nothing,” she chuckled.

George rolled his eyes, the stranger retreating to her side of the fire to admire the pendant some more as he started to return his belongings to his pack. It seemed as though she had turned his lie around on him. He had a feeling he wasn’t getting that pendant back...

“So, what are you going to do with me?” he asked as he slotted his pen back into the loop in its leather case. “I can’t go anywhere on my own with my compass broken, and if you won’t take me back to my people, where are you leading me?”

“To mine,” she replied.

“To your people? Why?”

“You are different,” she explained, stowing the pendant beneath her cloak as she peered at him through the licking flames. “You know nothing of magic, and you have fought the Blighters, killed them with your fire.”

“Blighters?” he wondered, rolling the word over his tongue. “Is that what you call those things that attacked us in the forest?”

“You fought them and survived.”

“Only thanks to you,” he said. “Thank you, by the way. For saving my life.”

“We have never fought them head-on and won,” the stranger continued. “They are larger than we are, stronger, and those that fall return from the grave to fight anew.”

“The sickness,” George said, nodding his head. “One of our company was infected with the disease. It made him insensible, almost feral.”

“Not a disease,” she said as she shook her horned head. “It is a blight, a dark magic of inversion, one that strips the life from the living and gives them new purpose as a husk of what they once were. It is the will of a dark god, its insults carved into the very forest itself through decay and suffering.”

“The dead can’t rise again,” George replied, unwilling to humor that kind of foolishness. “The blight that you speak of is a disease, some kind of infection. It causes decay, yes, probably through some kind of gangrene.”

“If you know so much, then why do you need me to answer your questions?” she chuckled. “You have something that can help us. The elders will decide what to do with you when we get back.”

“What if I say no?” he asked, crossing his arms defiantly.

“Then you can spend the rest of the journey being dragged along the ground after I bind you,” she replied as she tossed him the empty cup. He caught it, frowning at her as he dipped it into the still-bubbling cooking pot.

“Looks like I don’t have much of a choice in the matter,” he muttered as he took a sip. “You’re not going to nail me to a tree when we get there, are you?” She peered at him from across the fire, George raising an eyebrow. “You realize that I can’t see your face under that hood, right? I don’t know what expression you’re making.”

“I will not nail you to a tree,” she sighed.

“Good to know,” he replied, taking another drink from his cup. “How far away is your ... village? I suppose you must live in a village, right?”

“A few days’ travel,” she replied. “If you keep pace.”

“A few days?” he repeated, frowning at her. “My people might not even be there by the time I get back. What if they need my help?”

“There is more at stake here than you realize,” she replied, another cryptic comment that gave him no real information.

Tired of getting non-answers, George resumed eating his soup.

After resting for a little while, they resumed their trek, George following behind the strange creature as she danced through the forest. He was still in awe of her agility, the way that she scarcely seemed to touch the ground when she moved, his own footsteps thunderous in comparison. Now that he could actually see the mountain peak in the distance as it rose up over the treetops, he could tell that they were heading far to the North, much further than the initial scouting party had traveled. That meant that the basecamp must be somewhere to the South-West of where he was right now. Even if he managed to escape his captor, which seemed very unlikely, he would lose his way again once he returned to the blighted, foggy areas.

Curious, he pulled his compass from his pocket, opening up the brass case.

“Hey, it’s working again,” he muttered as he watched the needle point North.

“What?” the cloaked woman asked, stopping to look back at him.

“My compass,” he explained, brandishing it. “It started pointing North again. We must have traveled out of range of those pyres.”

“The effigies,” she muttered, nodding beneath her hood. “Bad magic.”

“About what you said earlier,” he began, stowing his compass again. “You said that the dead could rise, right? Why do you think that? Have you seen it with your own eyes?”

“Is that doubt I hear?” she chuckled, leaping over a babbling brook. “I thought you were so certain that the dead would remain so?”

“Listen, I’ve studied the natural sciences,” he replied as he hopped over the same brook with far less grace. “I believe in the natural laws, in chemistry, biology. There’s no mechanism known to my people that can revive the dead.”

“Not revive,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “To revive is to return to life. What returns is not the person who once was, nor are they alive. They are but a husk, animated by the blackest of magics, now playing host to the will of the Blighters.”

“But ... you’ve seen this for yourself? You watched a dead man come back and start walking around?”

“I have.”

“How could you determine that they were actually dead? Did you check their pulse?”

“Why do you ask me questions only to then question my answers?” she complained, pausing by a moss-covered tree trunk. “Let me ask a question now. How does that work?” she asked as she gestured to the rifle on his back. “You said it was not magic?”

“Why are you so interested in my gun?” he wondered, unslinging it. “It’s not like you can’t fight those savages yourself. I watched you kill one with an arrow.”

“Arrows can puncture, blades can cut, but these are not effective against the risen dead. That weapon ... it destroys, it dismembers. I found the blighted waya that your people killed,” she explained, the memory seeming to give her pause for a moment. “It was taken to pieces. Even in its rotted state, I could see the damage that had been wrought. Not even the risen can survive such injuries.”

“Alright,” he began, reaching into a pouch on his hip to withdraw a paper charge. “This called a charge. Inside it is a measure of black powder and a lead ball sized to fit snugly inside the gun barrel. That’s this long, iron tube here. The black powder reacts when ignited by a spark, creating an explosion that sends the lead ball shooting down the barrel at high speed. This flying ball is what kills, like a rock thrown from a sling, but tossed far faster. Do you have slings?”

“Yes,” she replied, nodding her hooded head. “How does one obtain this black powder?”

“It’s just a mixture of sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter,” he replied. “It’s chemistry, not magic.”

“Can you teach us to make it?” she asked.

“The black powder? Maybe, I know a little chemistry. Not the rifles, though. I’m no gunsmith, and something tells me that you don’t have metalworking.”

“Metal working?” she repeated, cocking her head curiously.

“The ability to forge metals, like iron or bronze, to shape them into tools. The knife that you put to my throat was stone, wasn’t it?”

“Obsidian,” she replied with a nod.

“Yeah, well, obsidian won’t stand the force of black powder. The barrel needs to be made from iron to contain the force of the blast, which is what propels the lead ball. If it was made from a weaker material like wood or stone, it would just split open like an overcooked sausage.”

“What is a sausage?”

“Never mind...”

The sun was starting to set now, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. George was glad to be able to see it again. He had spent far too long under a ceiling of oppressive fog.

“We should make camp soon,” he said. “It’s getting dark.”

“If you wish,” the cloaked woman replied. “But it will slow our progress.”

“Were you expecting to run all night?” he chuckled, but the way that she turned to glance back at him suggested that might have been her intention.

“Come,” she said, gesturing into the trees. “I hear a stream this way.”

“You hear it?” George repeated incredulously. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Then your ears are dull. Come.”

He followed her through the woods until they did, in fact, come across a small stream with a bed of smooth rocks that was winding its way through the forest floor. He stopped to refill his canteen, taking a long draw of the cool mountain water. It tasted so fresh, and he could feel it sliding all the way down into his stomach. He no longer feared that the blight might be present in groundwater or tree roots, as they hadn’t come across any signs of decomposing trees for hours. Wherever she was leading him, it was taking them far from the corruption that he had seen further South.

His hooded companion crouched beside him on her strange, slender legs, cupping her hands to drink from the stream directly. When her initial thirst was sated, she reached beneath her green cloak, producing a waterskin. She held it in the stream, letting the natural flow of the water fill it.

“You didn’t tell me your name yet,” George said, catching another glimpse of her face beneath her cowl as she turned to look at him. The golden rays of the sunset penetrated the canopy ahead, lighting up a pair of full lips that were human enough, along with a dark nose that was distinctly animal. It was situated where a person’s nose would be, but the bridge ended in something more akin to that of a deer or a cat, shiny and black. Her eyes were still in shadow, and she quickly moved her head again when she realized that he could see her. Why?

“We do not let outsiders know our names,” she replied. “Nor do we show them our faces.”

“Alright,” he replied with a shrug. “What should I call you, then?”

“Call me whatever you like,” she said dismissively.

“Alright, Legs.”

“Legs?” she scoffed.

“That’s all I can see,” he added, gesturing to them. He took another drink his canteen, unable to see her expression but feeling safe in the assumption that she was scowling at him.

George set up his tent as Legs watched him curiously, making a simple lean-to that was strung up between two trees. When that was done, he made another campfire, huddling close to it as the temperature began to drop. The newly-named Legs seemed indifferent to the dropping temperature.

“Don’t you have a tent?” George asked, wondering how she was expecting to sleep out in the wilds. “You’re carrying almost nothing, at least that I can see.”

“My cloak suffices,” she replied.

“What, even if it’s blowing a gale and snowing?”

“It holds an enchantment that repels both water and cold.”

“And you’ve put that to the test?” he scoffed, reaching over to stoke the fire.

“Yes.”

“If you say so.”

“Why do you show such disdain for magic?” Legs asked. “You mock me whenever I mention it.”

“Because I don’t believe it’s real,” he replied as though it should be obvious. “Belief in magic is just a form of superstition, and superstition is born of ignorance.”

“If that is true, then how do you explain the risen dead?” she demanded.

“I’ve seen no indication that they’re risen dead. My belief is that some form of contagious disease afflicts them.”

“You believe only what your eyes see?” she asked, George nodding. “Imagine for a moment that you are guiding a blind man. You describe the world to him, tell him where to step, warn him of obstacles. Yet, this man does not believe you, no matter how well-intentioned your advice might be. He cannot see the world for himself, and so rejects it.”

“An apt metaphor,” George admitted, nodding his head. “But I wasn’t blind last I checked.”

“You are blind in other ways,” she chuckled, apparently certain that she had outsmarted him. “I sense the currents of magic that flow through living things, I feel their warmth prickle my skin, yet you seem oblivious to it. You were so close to one of the Blighter altars that you could have touched it, yet you did not feel its darkness? Could you not sense the evil that emanated from it?”

George thought for a moment as he peered into the crackling flames.

“There was ... a weight to the air, a kind of ... disquiet. It’s nothing that couldn’t be explained by my own emotional state,” he added hurriedly. “The fog boxed us in, obscured our vision, which could have made me feel claustrophobic. Nobody feels at ease when they’re faced with a grisly scene of human sacrifice, either.”

“You accuse me of ignorance, but yours is willful,” she added. “Still, you have clever tools enough to compensate,” she said as she glanced at the rifle that was lying beside his pack.

“You know,” he continued, noting where she was looking. “I could get you guns if you wanted them – hundreds of them, thousands if need be. You need only take me back to my people. From there, we could take word back to the colonies, and we could return with an army strong enough to wipe out every last Blighter. If you thought my small company impressive, imagine a hundred cavalrymen armed in such a way. We trade guns with other native tribes in exchange for goods like furs often enough, we could outfit your village with weapons enough that every man and woman could be armed.”

“You know I cannot go back that way,” she replied, reaching beneath her cloak. Silver glinted as she brandished the pendant that she had stolen, her tone becoming more playful. “Not even with your enchantments.”

“Alright, alright,” he sighed. “You can’t blame me for trying.”

“Your foolishness is endearing,” she replied. “Even if you speak the truth, such matters are the domain of the village elders, not mine.”

“So, we’d have to go to your village anyway.”

She nodded, the firelight reflecting off her green eyes beneath the shadow of her hood for a moment.

“Will you cook more?” she asked, the sudden request making George chuckle.

“Oh, so you did like the soup I made earlier? I suppose I could whip something up. I should warn you, though,” he added as she peered across the campfire at him. “I’ll have to ration my food if I’m to be away from my camp for several days. I was carrying most of the supplies for my band of six, but we only expected to be away for a short while.”

“You shared your food with me,” she said as she rose to her feet, her cloven hooves rustling the ferns. “By rights, I owe you.”

“But ... you’re not carrying anything,” he said as he watched her wheel around, her cloak flaring out. “Where are you...”

Legs bounded off into the dark forest, quickly disappearing from view, leaving George alone beside the fire. The impulse to run now that she was out of sight was there, but he suppressed it. If his captor felt confident leaving him alone, it was either because she trusted him to know that he wouldn’t be able to make his way back without her help, or she was confident that she could apprehend him again easily enough...

He waited for perhaps an hour, starting to wonder if she was coming back at all. Her sudden reappearance startled him – she could be so quiet when it suited her – his companion emerging from the trees at the edge of the wavering firelight. She was carrying a pair of rabbits in her hand, the unfortunate cottontails dangling limply from their long rear legs as she approached. She lowered them to the ground beside him, George glancing up at her.

“That was fast,” he marveled. “What, did you commune with the forest spirits or something?”

“No, I just know how to find rabbits,” she replied as she crouched beside them. As he unsheathed the knife from his belt, intending to skin them, she reached out to stay his hand.

“Won’t you thank them first?” she asked.

“Thank them?” he asked, cocking his head. “Why?”

“They give their flesh to you as sustenance,” she explained. “Their lives end to prolong yours.”

“They’re rabbits,” he replied, confused. “They’re also dead rabbits.”

“Have you no respect for other living things?” she complained, keeping hold of his wrist. Clearly, this was a sticking point for her.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Er ... thank you, rabbits, for feeding us. I hope there are lots of carrots in the bunny afterlife.”

She seemed to accept his rather mocking gratitude, letting him resume his work, George skinning the rabbits with practiced ease. He found two Y-shaped sticks, then drove them into the ground on either side of the campfire, suspending two more sticks between them to act as a spit. He gutted the carcasses, then began to roast them over the flames, turning them periodically to ensure that they cooked through.

“So, why thank your meal before you eat it?” he asked as he stoked the fire with a branch. “Is that something your people commonly do?”

“We are all connected,” she explained. “Tree, insect, animal. One must die for the rest to survive, and that sacrifice should be acknowledged, appreciated. We give thanks, and in doing so, the dead might rest.”

“And what of the Blighters?” he asked, turning the rabbits again as the flames licked at their pink meat. “What’s their place in that cycle?”

“They are an insult to life itself,” she replied, making no effort to mask the contempt in her voice. “They pervert both life and death to serve their own ends, making a parody of them as amusement for their contemptuous god.”

“Tell me more about them,” George pressed, leaning closer to the fire. “Where did they come from? You corrected me when I referred to them as natives, you told me that they didn’t belong here.”

“My ancestors have lived in these forests since time immemorial,” she explained, shifting her weight as though settling in for a long story. “We remain within their bounds, protecting them from outsiders, and they grant us their protection in turn. The magic of life has always been strong here.” George could see her eyes reflecting the firelight again from beneath the shadow of her hood as she stared into the flames. “The Blighters spread their corruption from the South, but what cursed land birthed them, none can say. You call it a disease, and though you are wrong, it does spread as such. The plants wilt, the trees become vessels of corruption, and the dead are raised as cruel parodies of their former selves. The Blighters eat their pain, feeding on cruelty, the offerings they make to their dark benefactor empowering them.”