Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

Whoever had hung it there had followed all through the day, pacing him through brush and forest along the hill ridges. Had followed, waited until he slept… then come to lean over him, and leave the little basket like an Easter lover.

Bajazet got to his feet, stood hunched under close branches, and took the basket down cautiously as if there might be a baby hill-rattler coiled in it.

There were… berries. A double handful of blueberries and wild cherries, all winter shriveled, likely gleaned from shrubs that must grow in the hills' deeper valleys.

Bajazet began to eat before he intended to eat – but when he noticed, still could not stop. He picked and chewed – spit out the cherry pits, savored and swallowed little pellets of leathery sweetness while looking around on guard that anyone might come and take these from him.

He ate, swallowed – couldn't stop even to think about this second night-gift until he'd eaten the last, scrabbled a tiny weather-dried blueberry out of the basket's rough bottom.

Finished, he stood staring into the basket as if more food might be found by looking very hard… and was angry there wasn't. A bread pudding – or something, if not a pudding. Why not more berries? The sweetness of them. His heart was thumping… thumping.

Who had left the little basket hanging? No cruel forester, after all, however gifted in woods-running… And not by the king's wishes, either. Gareth Cooper had no such imagination. Chase, catch, and skin alive, would be his way.

But Bajazet had no friend in the Eastern forests. No friend who was such a perfect ghost of the woods. No friend who wove blankets and baskets, and picked winter-dried fruit.

He set the basket down, gathered his things to travel – then ducked out of the thicket and called, shouting into the woods around him. "Whatever your reasons… I'm in your debt, and will repay!" There was no echo. He thought of calling again, giving his name, shouting that he was Bajazet, son of two fathers – both greater men than any the world still held – then decided not. Whoever had warmed and fed him while he shivered and snored would not likely be impressed.

His belly still ached, but less, and more pleasantly. He unlaced and peed against a rotted hickory stump, then laced, buckled his sword-belt under his cloak, and strapped on his pack. He rolled the blanket, shouldered it and his bow and quiver… and trotted downhill to the east. The hills were becoming greater hills, mountains; level ground was miles behind him. Let the Ghost of Woods – likely some half-crazed wanderer – follow if he wished. And call him a friend, for lack of any other.

It seemed to Bajazet he must be a little foolish, himself – foolish to feel an odd enjoyment as he trotted along, ducking leafless vines, leafless branches. Enjoyment in the chase, though he was the hunted, hungry, weary, and frightened. Enjoyment, though all those he'd loved, and who'd loved him, were gone. He felt a shameful flush of pleasure at all burdens of obligation vanished with his old world, and old life – leaving only action. And supposed he felt so, being still young, and knowing no better.

He left that for his reason as he traveled… And though fresh frightened past mid-day – hearing hounds voicing not so far behind him in the hill meadows – was not as unhappy as he might have been.

He trotted and ran, trotted and ran, through the rest of the day – imagining he outpaced any dog or horse. Once he went astride a slight stream, a trickling creek, for half a mile, then cut away straight east again by the arc of the sun… then slowed, staggering sometimes, now so weak from hunger.

Bajazet slept that night deep in brambles – was undisturbed by hounds or trumpets – but woke like a disappointed child at Festival, to no new gift.

He roused subdued, exhausted, no longer befriended, got his weapons and goods together, and crawled out of the brambles – thorns catching, tugging at his rolled blanket, the hem of his cloak.

He was very hungry, and caught himself walking first one way, then another. It was absolutely stupid, since while the hounds might cast and wander, the king and his cavalry troop would not – but sit their horses waiting for the pack to call scent, then ride straight to hounds and after him.

He supposed he might be caught, after all. And though he still felt yesterday's odd pleasure in simply being – felt it a little less.

He put his mind to walking straighter… trudged east by the tree-shuttered sun, managing with grunts and groans up a steep slant of saplings growing out of broken stone – then smelled the burned-fat odor of cooking meat.

Weary Bajazet became lively Bajazet then – finished his climb without complaining, and hurried stumbling along shelving gray rock open to the evening sky, a darkening blue, with pale clouds marching away south… He found the fire set in soil at the edge of the stone outcrop. It was a small fire, a neat pyramid, and already almost burned down to coals. A plucked partridge, its split breast smoking, sputtering, leaned into it on a slender peeled branch.

Bajazet didn't call out, didn't care for the time being who'd left this gift and the others. He knelt, lifted the bird and branch from the heat – burning his hands – tore at it and began to eat, burning his mouth.

… When there was only a little left, a portion to be reluctantly saved wrapped in his bandanna for the morning, Bajazet stood to stretch, easing cramps from so long squatting – and glanced behind him, looking back as he'd so often done, fearful of seeing the riding beasts, or a hound pack flowing toward him, and distant horsemen.

He looked – and had almost looked away, when he realized what he'd seen through failing light. A man's silhouette, solitary, on the near western ridge. And as he saw, he was seen; no question. Seen standing in the open by a fire's ashes, a fool with a cooked drumstick in his hand. Staring, Bajazet could barely make out the limb of a longbow slung over the man's shoulder. A forester, then, and not following with gifts of blankets or food.

Bajazet turned and ran, pack and rolled blanket jouncing, the piece of partridge still in his hand. He galloped down the eastern edge of the stone shelf, scrambling as it steepened, almost slipping, since he could only steady himself one-handed. The partridge leg he wouldn't lose. He reached the base of the outcrop, and ran again – dodging through a stand of stunted evergreens, paused after that for only a moment to look back… found the place on the west ridge, and saw no one there.

The forester, whether alone or with others, would have a choice: follow fast, and bring Bajazet down to be held for the king's pleasure, or hurry back to the column to report the prey in view. – He would, of course, choose the first. Bringing a king encouraging word was one thing; bringing him what a Warm-time copybook had called the object of the exercise was another, and meant royal favor.

"In the fucking open!" Bajazet called out his stupidity to himself. He'd only had to take the bird and keep going, not squat there on the stone like some suppering sweat-slave for the hunters to come upon.

He deserved to be caught. In the fucking open! He ran with the strength the partridge had given, as the little rabbit had given strength before. Ran down into woods on the hill's last eastern slope, and saw nothing but forest and the next hill – a softly rounded mountain, really – rising before him… already dusted the faintest green of spring in the evening's last light.

He bit into the bird's leg, chewed it as he ran. It was hide and seek, after all – a game in everything but penalty. Could he wait at the hill's foot, watch to see if the follower grew careless enough to catch a broadhead arrow? He might, if he were less afraid…