Faithful Pebble
Part One Hundred and Twelve


The light was warm, bright and distracting. This is what woke him, the boy, sunlight flittering across his face. He opened his eyes revealing olive green pupils staring straight up into a canopy that was as wide as the world and as tall as the sky. In spite the morning gloom, in spite the shuddering leaves in the wind's frosted fingers, he watched as the sun winked its power at him. The boy blinked back groggily, snug, safe and confused.

He rested beneath a pine bush. The kitten was wrapped in a woolen prickly blanket large enough to cover him from head to foot. He wrinkled his nose, the boy. He snuggled frozen into its fluffy mournful warmth as he tried to remember how he got there, the meadow. Through the forbidden forest. Why was he there? The well dweller, the wanderer saved her. He smiled at the thought. His still drifting mind prodded on further. Where was he? The house, Snow White's hut. He was watching her for the wanderer. They were going to leaveā€¦

His thoughts stalled there. His emotions wavered a little at the notion, but then his body jolted. But then, his mind snapped into focus. "Pebble!"

The boy gasped. He rolled over quickly peering green sleep fuddled eyes pass four thorny branches at a door he could barely see. It was tattered and old, but closed. Smoke rose from the chimney and the little boy let out a breath. The scene hadn't changed. At least, it appeared to have stayed the same. It was frozen in time like the house, like the meadow, like the forest that smothered them both. The sun, in spite its brilliance, in spite the open sky, didn't reach the house. The forest's shadow ate it, swallowed it silently like water a well. The boy frowned. Disappointed, he inched closer shoving a broken branch further to the left. He tried to stick his nose passed it wanting to peer through the windows, but his view was obstructed, limited by his distance and the darkness, their darkness, hers and his and the forest's, hers and his and the villagers' of Warble Heights. The darkness was theirs as well as the girl's, though they didn't know it, she and him and them. He wished the shutters had wider gaps. He wished the drapes had sheerer fabric and less intricate borders. Maybe then, he could have seen her, the well dweller. Maybe then, they could have seen her, the town.

But maybe, they could see her, the boy thought. The sun still shone. It had broken through the clouds and pierced through the trees above him. It wasn't impossible, just difficult and difficult in spite its power didn't mean insurmountable. The kitten, the spy, the littlest pickpocket of Warble Heights, he spied movement and grinned. Difficult was not impossible. Impossible was impossible. And with that thought the boy's hope grew. It sprouted like the trees nestled about him.

The movement had him squirming. Behind the bush, he once more scuttled and then suddenly like the sunshine, she appeared. The well dweller calmly, cautiously crept out. She opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, her cloak hiding her from view. It covered her from head to foot wrapping her in a warmth the boy could easily feel. Groggy, snug and safe, those emotions weren't his alone to know, to enjoy or relish. They were theirs and he liked it. He shifted, the boy. He leaned forward rung to the bone by his curiosity and excitement. Yet, frustration lingered. It hovered over his heart and stayed there like a heavy hand. He couldn't see her, the well dweller. He couldn't see her feet, her hair, her body or her face. But her emotions. Somehow, he knew those. It escaped him why.

Her cloaked head scanned the horizon while her hands clutched the straps of one black bow and a tattered quiver of 15 sharp arrows. The worn, ebony set clung carefully to her shoulders. It hung proud from a posture filled with stone determination and liquid confidence, emotions the boy wasn't quite ready to see. Satisfied, the boy surmised, with what she saw, the girl descended from the porch. She crossed half hidden logs across the pitted ravine about her home. She turned left and followed a path the child had seen her take before. He licked his lips as he raced along the ring of the meadow. He followed her leaving the wanderer's blanket far behind. He would never find it again, though he didn't know that. In his rush, the thought never crossed his mind.

Step by step, silently in the bushes, the boy followed her. His curiosity and disgust ate at him as they meandered, finding the stream she bathed in the day before. The boy, who hated baths, scrunched his nose and grimaced. He didn't want to watch this. It was boring, especially since she only bathed with her robe on, washing under the water where he couldn't see. The boy let the branch bounce back into place. He slouched back against the tree he was hiding beside. That was when he felt it, the hand. The heavy hand squeezed his heart. It clamped hard across his mouth while another pulled him out of his spot. The movement was practiced, fast and sharp, but not silent. The boy squeaked and the bush fluttered as the boy struggled against a body he couldn't see. Then suddenly, in the felted foliage, the man pinned him to the earth and froze. He heard the girl's voice rise from the stream. He heard a sharp pull and a strong thud quiver against the trunk beside him. It drove a perched bird to dart past his head and up into the sky. He heard her footsteps, heard her hand push back the bush when suddenly his world faded to black. The shadows ate her. They ate her whole.


- Calla