Chapter 3

Chapter 3 of Rivers of the Sky - my fantasy novel about loss, redemption, and the mysteries behind the Great Rivers of Transmigration.

In a week the horse was dead.

It was so sudden, the way those nasty furuncles broke out all over its body. The worst was that Adrian knew how to treat the poor thing, but being a fugitive and all, he couldn’t just head into town and visit the local druggist’s shop. What then could he do? Nothing. And as he did nothing, the boils continued to spread and the horse grew weaker and weaker until one afternoon it simply collapsed. Adrian ended the beast’s suffering by opening its throat with the knife Jessamine had given him. Well, he meant to end its suffering, but sadly, it took a long goddamn time for the beast to die, and all Adrian could do was sit there and listen to the poor thing wheeze and wheeze before death finally decided to take it away.

The next morning Adrian did his best to skin the carcass. It was too large to prop up, so when he began his cuts blood and gore spilled all over the place, and when cutting out the liver, he accidentally cut into the bile duct, which further made a mess of things. Still, he managed to salvage a few good portions, and using a bit of tinder fungus he prepared a fire and cooked the meat, then ate a hearty meal and smoked the rest for later. And although the following days of travel left him tired and footsore, he never once went hungry. Still, it was difficult to ignore the lure of a roadside inn, difficult even though good sense told him that imperial riders and mercenaries and informants were surely swarming these places. Lord Haroden must’ve promised quite a sum for the foolish thief who stole the imperial robe.

So Adrian had no choice but to sleep in the wild, under the protection of the pines and broadleaves and surrounding foothills. His days were filled with sunshine and birdsong, his nights alive with wolf howls and katydid calls and the occasional high-pitched wail of a bearcat. Three years of military service had taught him how to survive well enough, but the weight of solitude was difficult to bear, and even the lush springtime landscape wasn’t enough to lift that weight. Still, there was but one small bit of solace to hold onto. Out here, Adrian was neither an impoverished wretch nor a wanted criminal. Out here, he was just a man. Well, a man with a burned and deformed hand. But a man nonetheless.

He traveled along the outskirts of the main road, avoiding the imperial checkpoints and post stations and all the settlements that appeared every dozen or so miles. Sometimes this required him to traverse difficult terrain: dark forests filled with tortuous paths, upland slopes fraught with poisonous flora, and stony ledges with steep drop-offs. He mildly sprained an ankle after slipping on the loose scree of a downward slope, and was nearly bitten by an adder whose nest was unintentionally disturbed. Once he awoke with strange rash marks on his chest, so he slept off the ground on a suspended bed constructed out of branches and grasses that were tied together using the gut salvaged from that poor dead horse.

His thoughts often drifted to the stolen imperial robe in his haversack. Funny how all that fine silk and fancy filigree and rows of studded garnets meant nothing out here. The natural world cared not for material possessions. Sadly, Adrian once had all the coin and property and purpose a man could ever want in his life, but that was before the accident with his hand. Something good taken away was much worse than never having it at all.

Supplies dwindled as the days passed, and hunger soon took precedence over other concerns. He paused from his travels to forage for grasses and greens to supplement what little horsemeat he had left. He dug for dandelion roots, plucked blades of goosegrass, picked fresh knotweed by the riverside, netted small red crabs that scuttled along the banks, and collected limpets that clung to the underside of rocks. It was the very bloom of spring, and Adrian was thankful for that.

The waterway inevitably led him to a quaint lakeside village. Steeply pitched thatch-roofed houses rose out of the surface of the water, their back ends supported by hardwood stilts. Nearby, flat-bottomed boats drifted lazily across shallow waters, manned by sun-beaten fishermen equipped with fish gaffs and barbed hooks and sinkers and nets. From the sides of their boats dark-feathered cormorants plunged into the water to snap up fish, although their necks were tied with a cord to prevent the seabirds from swallowing their catch.

The simplicity of a fisherman’s life warmed Adrian’s heart. Sure, they were poor and overworked and overtaxed and occasionally they went hungry, but they were generally unfettered by the daily pressures of urban life. It certainly seemed a respectable way to spend one’s days, and certainly one in which most men found comfort. But Adrian wasn’t like these common folk. He couldn’t bear the thought of never returning to his former life of prosperity and privilege. He wanted more for himself. He deserved more. And this robe was the key to obtaining it all.

Farther along was a private property of ramshackle longhouses rising over rows and rows of rectangular garden plots. Vegetables. So many vegetables. Adrian’s eyes widened at all the colors and textures. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. You’ve already stolen enough, haven’t you?

But Adrian couldn’t help himself; his horsemeat had run out, and he was tired of eating grass and tiny crabs. He moved a little closer. So many delicious choices. Spinach, beetroot, coriander, sweet potatoes, cabbages, artemesia, broad beans, and more. He just wanted a little taste. Why not? Dawn had not yet broken, and no one was around. Besides, it wasn’t like stealing a goddamn lamb. He just needed a few handfuls--enough to keep himself nourished for a day or two. He saw purple-tinged rutabagas and colorful aubergines and tender sorrel. Red amaranth and purple mustard plant and tomatoes so ripe their glossy flesh looked about to burst. He saw gourds, sugar cane, taro corms, barberry, onions and garlic and sword beans and--

The ground vanished. Adrian pitched forward, and darkness rose to swallow him whole.

Thud. He landed on his hands and knees, hard, so hard he was sure he’d twisted or fractured something. But no, as the pain began to ebb, he realized the dirt wasn’t as solid as he thought. It wasn’t packed earth--it was mud, thick and wet and . . . no, wait a moment. Adrian cringed from the stench. It wasn’t mud at all. 

What the hell is this?

An ordure pit, he realized, then bent over and vomited.