pleading, desperate cry.
She shushed him and turned on her heel, stomping toward the cabin at first, then softening her steps as she grew closer. The interior looked warm and inviting. A few antlers were mounted on the walls, along with clockwork rifles of various shapes and sizes. They were of the sort of guns that long-range hunters use, unfolded for display. The solitary, black metal stove cast an orange glow across the room. She saw nobody inside, but the interior of the cabin was surprisingly neat and well-kept.
She traced a path around the back of the house and found another trail lined with blood-red branches, their bark as smooth as flesh, the leaves a startling green.
A twig snapped and Skyla spun around to find herself facing a large, barrel-chested man. He looked down from dark, thickly browed eyes and a bushy beard, nearly black. He wore a skin cap with flaps that fell over his ears, his checkered shirt a wall of fabric. In one hand he held a rifle, in the other a pheasant. Blood dripped from the slain bird onto his large black boot.
Skyla let out a squeak of surprise, and then laughed in relief and embarrassment, simply glad to finally see another human face. The hunter however, did not seem the least bit amused. A suspicious scowl crept across his features.
Up until this point, Skyla had been rehearsing what she would say: Hello sir or madam, my name is Skyla. I hail from Bollingbrook and I am lost. I am in need of food and lodging. What say you, good sir?
Instead, what came out of her mouth was a desperate, crazed gibberish. She stopped talking immediately and shrank.
“Who are you?” he asked. His dark green eyes studied her with distrust, his voice calm. There was a smear of blood on his shirt.
Skyla was frozen for a full minute before she finally found her voice.
“Please,” she squeaked out.
“Why are you here?” he asked, slowly this time, as if he thought she couldn’t understand him.
“I... I’m lost,” she said, forcing the words out. She felt as though her one opportunity to get a meal might be slipping through her fingers. “Me and Orrin… we—”
“Who’s Orrin?” he cut her off. His grip on the rifle tightened as he glanced over her shoulder and out into the night. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Oh! Neither do we,” she said quickly. “We just need a place to stay for the night before it rains.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ I want to see who ‘we’ is before you take another step.”
Skyla was about to answer when Orrin landed on the tin roof with a loud squawk. The man dropped the pheasant and swung his rifle upward, taking aim at the raven. He muttered something about vermin as casually as if he were flicking a bug from his coat. Skyla screamed and launched herself into the man’s elbow as the gun discharged. There was an ear-ringing explosion and Skyla felt warm air next to her head as the smell of gunpowder and sweat stung her nostrils.
The man stumbled backward, disbelief in his eyes as he tried to gain his balance. The gun veered haphazardly off at an angle. He swore and looked at her as though she were insane.
“That’s Orrin,” she yelled at him, nearly in tears.
He glared a moment, before bending over to pick the dead pheasant up from the ground, his gaze never leaving her. Skyla was uncomfortably aware of the gun he held, wisps of smoke still rising from its barrel. It ticked mechanically, threateningly, reloading itself. The man walked over to a side door and kicked it open. He then hung the bird by its feet over a bucket where it drained. A wing outstretched elegantly as a paper fan as the bird bled out.
“You’d better check on your friend,” he said.
He walked through the door and closed it. Through the window, he pointed across the room to the front door and made a face at her as if to say, Well?
Skyla walked back around the cabin, dreading what she might find. Her mind filled with images of a broken pile of feathers on the
She shushed him and turned on her heel, stomping toward the cabin at first, then softening her steps as she grew closer. The interior looked warm and inviting. A few antlers were mounted on the walls, along with clockwork rifles of various shapes and sizes. They were of the sort of guns that long-range hunters use, unfolded for display. The solitary, black metal stove cast an orange glow across the room. She saw nobody inside, but the interior of the cabin was surprisingly neat and well-kept.
She traced a path around the back of the house and found another trail lined with blood-red branches, their bark as smooth as flesh, the leaves a startling green.
A twig snapped and Skyla spun around to find herself facing a large, barrel-chested man. He looked down from dark, thickly browed eyes and a bushy beard, nearly black. He wore a skin cap with flaps that fell over his ears, his checkered shirt a wall of fabric. In one hand he held a rifle, in the other a pheasant. Blood dripped from the slain bird onto his large black boot.
Skyla let out a squeak of surprise, and then laughed in relief and embarrassment, simply glad to finally see another human face. The hunter however, did not seem the least bit amused. A suspicious scowl crept across his features.
Up until this point, Skyla had been rehearsing what she would say: Hello sir or madam, my name is Skyla. I hail from Bollingbrook and I am lost. I am in need of food and lodging. What say you, good sir?
Instead, what came out of her mouth was a desperate, crazed gibberish. She stopped talking immediately and shrank.
“Who are you?” he asked. His dark green eyes studied her with distrust, his voice calm. There was a smear of blood on his shirt.
Skyla was frozen for a full minute before she finally found her voice.
“Please,” she squeaked out.
“Why are you here?” he asked, slowly this time, as if he thought she couldn’t understand him.
“I... I’m lost,” she said, forcing the words out. She felt as though her one opportunity to get a meal might be slipping through her fingers. “Me and Orrin… we—”
“Who’s Orrin?” he cut her off. His grip on the rifle tightened as he glanced over her shoulder and out into the night. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Oh! Neither do we,” she said quickly. “We just need a place to stay for the night before it rains.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ I want to see who ‘we’ is before you take another step.”
Skyla was about to answer when Orrin landed on the tin roof with a loud squawk. The man dropped the pheasant and swung his rifle upward, taking aim at the raven. He muttered something about vermin as casually as if he were flicking a bug from his coat. Skyla screamed and launched herself into the man’s elbow as the gun discharged. There was an ear-ringing explosion and Skyla felt warm air next to her head as the smell of gunpowder and sweat stung her nostrils.
The man stumbled backward, disbelief in his eyes as he tried to gain his balance. The gun veered haphazardly off at an angle. He swore and looked at her as though she were insane.
“That’s Orrin,” she yelled at him, nearly in tears.
He glared a moment, before bending over to pick the dead pheasant up from the ground, his gaze never leaving her. Skyla was uncomfortably aware of the gun he held, wisps of smoke still rising from its barrel. It ticked mechanically, threateningly, reloading itself. The man walked over to a side door and kicked it open. He then hung the bird by its feet over a bucket where it drained. A wing outstretched elegantly as a paper fan as the bird bled out.
“You’d better check on your friend,” he said.
He walked through the door and closed it. Through the window, he pointed across the room to the front door and made a face at her as if to say, Well?
Skyla walked back around the cabin, dreading what she might find. Her mind filled with images of a broken pile of feathers on the
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