Manuscript: Wayside, Chapter 6

Grim, Osborne and the others witnessed the dispersal of the Draugh as they bent breathlessly, recovering from their desperate run. Grim was flushed and covered in dirt from the mound collapse, but he was unhurt. The fainted boy had been swept up and carried away into a wagon by one of the strangers, who now rushed around busily in the campsite.

The camp itself was modest in size if not in design. The half dozen wagons, all grayed wood and white canvas, made a perimeter around the site. Their horses, a hodge-podge of roans and stallions and pack-bearers were tied down and sipping water quietly from a makeshift trough. The group managed to make the wastes seem homey though, as their tents and sleeping areas were swathed in blankets and pillows of brilliant golds and greens and blues. The aroma of something meaty and rich poured from two large cook pots near the center of the camp and the pots bubbled and popped. Grim wondered, even as he savored the heady smell of the food, what possible meat could be found out here in the Wastes.

Osborne approached several members of the wagon party and they spoke with their heads down for a number of minutes. Osborne at last returned to the Finders wearing a satisfied smile.

“Well. We’ll be staying here tonight. They’re going to tend to the boy and we’ll take him to Wayside tomorrow, along with Grim.”

Grim couldn’t help but notice, as Osborne addressed them, that some of the people in the camp were eyeing him strangely. He pulled Osborne aside.

“Charlie, who are these people?” Grim whispered.

“This, my lad, is Caravan.” Osborne said weightily, and paused as if expecting some sort of reaction from Grim.

Grim blinked. “And what’s a Caravan?”

“They’re waste-wanderers. Gypsies, you could say. They roam around out here. Sometimes they’re nearby, sometimes they’re completely gone.” Osborne shrugged. “Anyway, we’re dead lucky they showed up when they did. They sure made quick work of that Draugh.”

“I thought you said people couldn’t survive in the wastes without going crazy?”

“Who said they’re not?” Lee muttered. “They’re all a bunch of snake-oil sellers and fortune-tellers.”

Grim, Osborne, Murphy and Prith all eyed him.

“And they dress like hippies,” said Lee by way of apology.

“Well. We’re they’re guests for the night, so best behavior from everyone.” Osborne issued his command and dismissed the team. He joined a group of the Caravaners by one of their cooking fires and was easily chatting with them in moments. They appeared to do a lot more listening then talking, themselves.

Grim hovered around the outside of the camp. The ground reflected late day and he was still on edge from their encounter with the Draugh. He didn’t really want to talk to anyone though, and was irritated when one of the Caravaners, a girl about his age, approached him. She had emerald eyes and dark brown hair and she clutched the hem of her bright yellow and green dress like a safety blanket. She smiled shyly at Grim as she approached.

“Are you an emere?” She asked.

“No.” Grim said, even though he still wasn’t sure what the term meant.

“You seem like one.” She tilted her head. “You’ve got that look -- like you’re in more than one place at a time. That’s how my mother says you can tell an emere when you see one.”

“It’s probably gas.” Grim muttered, and leaned on one of the wagons.

The girl's laugh was like tiny bells. “My you’re a funny boy.”

“I have a terrible sense of humor.” Grim gazed out at the broken Draugh mound.

The girl walked over to Grim and followed his look into the wastes. “Shame about the boy. My father thinks he might have been in the Draugh's lair for a while. Possibly too long.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Grim.

“You're definitely new here,” the girl replied, extending a hand. “My name is Ophelia.”

Grim shook her hand, admiring her olive complexion and the smoothness of her palm.

The girl was looking curiously at him now. A distant look came across her face. “Don’t worry. The wolf isn’t your enemy. She was trying to show you the way.”

Grim looked at her, unsure how to respond.

She smiled. “Dinner time!” The girl hiked up her dress and cantered back to the camp, leaving a bewildered Grim behind.

* * *

They all sat together in relative silence, the Finders, Grim, and the members of Caravan. They ate stew with split loaves of earthy brown bread. It was thick and the meat was tender and Grim relished every bite. The Finder’s dried rations, which Grim had eaten on the previous night, had been much less appealing. One of the older Caravaners, a stone-faced man with silver hair tied in a queue and a brocaded green vest had caught Grim’s attention as they gathered around the fires to eat. Grim and Osborne now sat with him and his entourage while the other Finders chatted around a separate fire. The girl Ophelia was with them and smiled at Grim as he sat down with the group.

They exchanged pleasantries. Osborne shared his full name and rank, former and current, with a formality that made the silver-haired man smile. Grim introduced himself as well, with noticeably less pomp.

The silver-haired man welcomed them, addressing Grim specifically. “How intriguing it is to meet you, Grim Munroe. Yes indeed. Have you met my daughter, Ophelia?”

Grim met Ophelia's eyes and she winked. Grim's face flushed red. “Y-yeah. We met.”

The silver-haired man continued as if he hadn't noticed. “Were you in the forest long before finding your way here?”

The half-dozen people around the fire now looked to him, including Osborne. Grim felt like a specimen in a Petri dish. “A few hours, maybe? How did you know about that?”

The man continued, ignoring the question. “And when you saw the she-wolf, were you frightened by her?”

“That was a dream, wasn’t it?” Grim couldn't help but look at Ophelia when he answered.

“A thin line between here and the dream world,” The man said and looked at his daughter. “Drawn in dust.”

Ophelia looked uncomfortable, and Grim was at a loss for words.

Osborne cleared his throat and addressed the silver-haired man. “So, Duke...Faralen, was it?”

The man nodded.

“Does Caravan plan on trading with Wayside on this particular trip, or are you just passing through?”

“It may well be time to trade with Wayside again, yes.” The man Faralen replied. “Of course all of those arrangements will be made with the Council. We would not want any perceived improprieties between our people.”

Osborne blushed. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean to imply—“

“Tell me, how old were you in your birth land?”

It took Grim a moment to realize that Duke Faralen was addressing him specifically. “Oh, me. Fourteen this past June.”

“Grim Munroe”, Faralen repeated, “fourteen in June.” The man next to him, who had been quiet during the whole meal, looked up and repeated the words as well; “Grim Munroe, fourteen in June.” Ophelia, who sat at his right did the same. A man in red near an adjacent fire reiterated the phrase, and it bounced from mouth to mouth throughout Caravan like echoes in a cave. Then, just as casually as a common lull in conversation, the moment passed, and everyone returned to their meals and private chats.

Grim peered around the camp. Yet again, he was completely baffled and looked to Osborne for support. Osborne only shrugged and smiled and everyone around the Duke’s fire finished eating without further discussion or event.

After dinner, everyone gathered around the largest fire, which was made larger by a store of wood from one of the Wagons until it was a roaring bonfire that bathed the whole camp in warm light.

The boy from the mound was brought out of the wagon from his rest. He eyes were encircled as if he had been in a fight, but he walked on his own between his Caravan escorts. They had wrapped him in a colorful blanket, and at a wave from Osborne he went to sit with the Finders.

The man in red, who had first repeated Grim’s name outside of the group at dinner, entered the circle. He carried a faded old fiddle and bow which he had tucked in the crook of his arm. He lifted the instrument to his chin, twisted one of the tuning pegs, and then gently pulled the bow across the lowest string.

His song began softly. The melody danced between dark chords and playful syncopations. The bow tiptoed across the strings then crashed into a bold air which sang like a carefree bird on its virgin flight. It tumbled back into a chaos of complex harmony. A crescendo of bright arpeggios gave way to the dissonant weep of a lost lover. The man stood in the center of music, channeling the madness of rhythm and pitch with his body. He was poised as if raging against a storm, being pulled in all directions, balancing on the edge of something deep and dangerous.

Grim was transfixed. The man swayed and stomped, and the bonfire played with his shadow like the two were dancing, something angry and passionate and mourning all at once. As the song climaxed, the man shut his eyes, and stood tall and still. He played a final note. It was high and it was clear and it hung in the air like a crystal chandelier then slowly faded to nothing, absorbed by the darkness of the Wastes.

Grim clapped. Caravan muttered its approval and the man left the circle with little more than a nod to his audience, then everyone stood and began to prepare the campsite for evening.

Grim head was full of the song and he was not the only one that had been affected. The little boy, who had come to the circle pale and weary-looking, was flushed with color and he looked at the Osborne and the Finders as if seeing them clearly for the first time.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer you,” he said, in a light and careful meter. “but the Mara wouldn’t let me speak.” The boy looked down.

“It’s alright lad. At least you’re safe now. What's your name?” Osborne spoke in a gentle tone that belied his practice with this sort of speech.

“I can't remember. The lady in the wagon asked me a bunch of questions. But I can't remember.”

Grim noticed that Osborne wore a momentary look of worry, but it passed in a flash as Osborne recomposed himself.

“Well, there's no rush. It will come back to you. Sometimes hearing other people's stories helps you find your own.” Osborne smiled at the lad.

“Oh.” The boy looked embarrassed. “Ok. Thank you.”

“What's the last thing you can remember,” Lee grunted. “Do you know how you got in the cave in the first place?”

The boy looked down, concentration etched in his brow. “No...grass...something...”

“Probably for the best on that account,” said Murphy, who had taken apart his rifle and was now cleaning it piece by piece. “Best to forget those sorts of things, I say. Does no one any good to recall the dark times.”

“I would disagree with you there, Murphy,” replied Prithu. “Honey is not so sweet, without the memory of vinegar.”

Murphy hissed. “I prefer to surround myself with more pleasant memories. Like the smell of a woman’s hair after she’s been lyin’ in the barley fields in the sun.” He sighed. “Ah, sweet divinity.”

Lee rolled his eyes and Grim and the little boy shrugged their shoulders at each other.

“Well we have to call you something,” Murphy rubbed his chin. “Do you have a name you'd like us to use?”

The boy looked around the group and his eyes settled on Grim as if expecting him to say something.

Grim recalled the eyes of the boy when he was inside the monster, and how the shadows had swirled around him, as if he were the center of a storm. “How about Cane?”

The boy smiled. The name suited him.

Grim suddenly recalled the strange event at dinner, when the camp had all repeated his name in serial. He questioned Osborne and the others. Osborne had heard rumors that members of Caravan shared memories with each other in this way, like some kind of communal bank of thought that they all shared. He suspected that this was how they managed to stay so long in the Wastes without adverse effect.

“A lot of them are seers, too,” Murphy added. “See the past, and the future in you. Just by looking at you. Gives me the heebies.”

Lee huffed. “You’re past’s no mystery, Murph. You let us know every sordid detail each time you share.”

Murphy puffed up indignantly and lifted his chin to the heavens, “Well I’m not turning into one of them nasty Forgotten. No sir. I’ll share every time I use the toilet if I have to.”

“Please don’t.” Lee and Osborne said in unison.

As they stood and prepared for bed, Grim saw the girl Ophelia looking at him from the entrance to one of the wagons. She gave Grim a tight-lipped frown, then disappeared behind the door.