Almost Dawn

Cold. Stone cold. The ground beneath my hip has turned to ice somehow, though the night air still holds warmth from yesterday's sun. I shift against the olive tree's trunk, bark pressing ridges into my spine through the thin fabric of my tunic. The wool itches where it bunches at my shoulder, damp with sweat despite the chill.

My brother's breathing comes heavy beside me, that familiar whistle through his nose that used to keep me awake when we shared the boat's narrow cabin. Now it's almost comforting. Like home. Like normal things that make sense.

Nothing else makes sense tonight.

The boss wanted to meet his father. Here. In this grove outside the city walls. Three hours past midnight when decent people sleep and only foxes hunt. Said it was important. Said we needed to stay awake with him while he waited.

But my eyelids weigh like fishing nets full of silver catch, and the wine from supper sits warm in my belly, pulling me down toward dreams of safer waters. The bread too—strange meal tonight. Boss acting like it might be our last together. Breaking the loaf with unusual ceremony, talking about remembrance and sacrifice in that way he has of making simple things sound loaded with meaning.

My knee itches where the rough ground has scraped it raw. I scratch absently, feeling the bump of an old scar from when I fell against the dock rings as a boy. Simpler times. Before I started following a tradesman who talks about territories and power, who recruits working men to help build his network instead of letting us stick to what we know.

A night bird calls from somewhere deeper in the grove. Lonely sound. Makes me think of my mother's voice across the water when she'd call us home for evening meal. She never understood why we left the boats. "Fish don't argue back," she'd say, hands flour-white from kneading bread. "Fish don't get you killed for asking the wrong questions."

Maybe she was right. Maybe following someone who makes enemies of both beggars and kings wasn't our wisest choice.

The boss sits apart from us, maybe twenty paces, silhouette dark against the silver moonlight filtering through the leaves. Hasn't moved in an hour. Just waiting. For his father.

Strange family, if you ask me. Never seen the old man. Boss talks about him constantly though. "My father's house." "My father's will." "My father sends me." Like they're partners in some grand enterprise the rest of us can't quite grasp. Business that requires midnight meetings and coded conversations and always looking over your shoulder for who might be listening.

The kind of business that gets people arrested. Or worse.

A breeze stirs the leaves above, silvery whispers in the darkness. The olive trees smell of ancient wood and pressed oil, thick and familiar. Reminds me of the lamps we'd light in the boat cabin during winter storms, small circles of warmth against the vast dark of water and sky.

My mouth tastes of wine and worry. The cup we passed around tonight—boss insisted everyone drink from it, even though there was plenty to go around in individual vessels. Another strange ritual. Another sign that tonight was different from all the others.

My eyes drift closed. Just for a moment. Just to rest them.

The boss standing on the dock that first morning, watching us mend nets with hands that showed calluses from different work than ours. "Come with me," he said, like it was simple. Like abandoning everything you've ever known was no more complicated than choosing which tunic to wear. But something in his voice... something that made the choice for us. Left the nets dripping on the stones and walked away from the only life we'd ever known.

I jolt awake. How long? The moon has moved. Maybe minutes. Maybe longer. My friend beside me has slumped sideways, head pillowed on his arm, sword still gripped in his sleeping fist. Always ready for a fight, that one. Even in dreams. Hot-tempered since childhood, ready to settle arguments with fists before words.

Useful quality, lately. The crowds have been getting uglier. More divided. Some people reach out to touch the boss's cloak like he's some kind of miracle worker. Others whisper behind cupped hands and point with expressions that promise trouble.

Political trouble. Religious trouble. The kind that gets you dragged before councils and asked questions with no safe answers.

The boss hasn't moved. Still waiting. Still watching the path that winds down from the city.

What kind of father makes his son wait in the cold darkness? What kind of business needs this much secrecy? The kind that involves thirty pieces of silver changing hands, maybe. The kind where trusted friends start avoiding eye contact and slipping away from shared meals.

A fox barks somewhere in the distance. Hunting cry. Makes the hair on my arms stand up. Reminds me of stories my grandfather told about spirits that walk between sunset and dawn, looking for souls that have lost their way.

But it's not spirits I'm worried about tonight. It's flesh and blood enemies. The kind with torches and weapons and official authority to ask uncomfortable questions.

The olive trees around us are ancient things, gnarled and twisted by centuries of wind and weather. Their roots go deeper than memory, drawing life from earth that has soaked up rain and blood and tears since the world was young. If trees could speak, what stories would these tell? How many other midnight meetings have they witnessed? How many other men waiting for fathers who might not come?

A pebble digs into my thigh. I shift weight, feeling the protest of muscles that spent the day walking dusty roads from village to village, always moving, always staying ahead of something. Questions. Accusations. The kind of attention that follows men who challenge the way things have always been done.

My brother mumbles something in his sleep, probably dreaming of fish and normal problems. Problems that can be solved with stronger nets or different bait or getting up earlier to beat the other boats to the good fishing spots.

I envy him that sleep. That innocence. The ability to close his eyes and trust that tomorrow will look much like yesterday, just with different weather.

The boss talks about tomorrows that will change everything. About who's really in control and who just thinks they are. About the current arrangement getting turned upside down when the time comes. Bold talk. Dangerous talk. The kind that gets you noticed by people who profit from keeping things exactly as they are.

My scalp itches where sweat has dried in my hair. I scratch, feeling the grit of road dust under my fingernails. We've been traveling hard for weeks now, staying ahead of something. Or maybe racing toward something. With the boss, it's often difficult to tell the difference.

The night air carries scents from the city below—woodsmoke, cooking food, the sharp smell of too many people living too close together. And underneath it all, something else. Something that makes my stomach clench with unnamed dread. The smell of change coming whether you want it or not.

My eyes close again despite everything.

Walking through crowded streets while people shout the boss's name. Some with enthusiasm, laying palm branches in the road like he's some local hero returning from a successful campaign. Others with something darker in their voices. Fists raised. Stones ready. The boss riding that borrowed donkey like he owns the territory, smiling at both kinds of crowds with equal confidence. "Hosanna," some cry. "Troublemaker," others whisper. And through it all, the boss keeps riding toward whatever confrontation waits at the end of these tangled streets.

Later, in that upper room, the boss washing feet like a servant while we sat uncomfortable and confused. "I do this so you'll understand," he said. But understand what? The wine tasted strange that night. The bread felt heavy in my mouth. Everything felt like an ending disguised as a beginning.

I wake to the sound of my own breathing, quick and shallow like a hunted animal's. The dream—no, the memory—clings like cobwebs in the corners of my mind. That dinner. The way the boss kept talking about going away. About betrayal. About cups that had to be emptied and debts that had to be paid.

The kind of talk men use when they know their time is running short.

A stone shifts under my weight, scraping against another with a sound like grinding teeth. Everything here feels sharp tonight. The edges of leaves catch moonlight like knife blades. The shadows between trees look deep enough to hide armies.

Maybe they do.

My friend stirs beside me, sword-hand twitching in some dream-battle. He's been on edge for days, jumping at sudden noises, studying faces in crowds for signs of threat. Smart man. Cautious. The kind who notices when someone's being followed long before the someone does.

"They're coming," he said yesterday as we walked these same paths in daylight. "Can feel it. Like a storm building. The air tastes wrong."

I told him he was imagining things. But sitting here now, in this grove that feels more like a trap than a meeting place, I think maybe he was right. Maybe we've been walking into something that was planned long before we knew we were part of the plan.

The boss shifts position, turning his face more fully toward the path. Waiting. Still waiting. Patient as a fisherman watching his lines, confident that what he's seeking will eventually come to him.

But what if what's coming isn't what he expects? What if his father doesn't show up? What if instead we get visitors who ask harder questions and accept fewer excuses?

My throat feels dry. The wine from dinner has left me thirsty, but the waterskin hangs just out of reach and I don't want to wake the others by moving to get it. Better to endure the discomfort than risk breaking whatever spell of safety this grove still holds.

The moon is directly overhead now. Bright enough to read by, if anyone had scrolls to read. Bright enough to see the boss's face clearly as he turns toward us. Bright enough to count the silver coins if someone were foolish enough to leave them scattered on dark ground.

Thirty pieces, rumor says. The going rate for information about a man's habits. Where he sleeps. Where he prays. Where he might be found alone with just a few friends for company.

"Couldn't you stay awake with me one hour?"

His voice carries disappointment that cuts deeper than anger. The kind of sadness that comes when someone you trust fails you at the moment you need them most.

I sit up straighter, trying to clear the fog from my head. One hour. Has it been that long? Feels like minutes since he asked us to keep watch. Time moves strangely in the small hours before dawn, especially when you're waiting for meetings that might never happen or might happen in ways you never expected.

"Watch and pray," he says quietly. "So you won't fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

Prayer. Right. I should pray. Should ask for... what? Strength? Understanding? Safe passage through whatever darkness is gathering around us like fog rolling in from the sea?

But my eyelids are closing again despite every effort to keep them open. The wine. The warmth pooled in my belly. The strange peace that settles over dangerous places when you're too tired to properly fear them.

The boss returns to his watching post. Waiting for his father. Waiting for answers. Waiting for whatever comes next in this story that none of us fully understand but all of us are committed to seeing through to whatever end awaits.

I lean back against the olive tree and let sleep take me.

But sleep brings strange sounds. Wind through the grove, maybe, though the air feels still against my cheek. Like branches swaying in rhythm, creaking with the weight of something settling on them. Heavy things. Patient things that know how to move without hurrying.

The sound of autumn coming early. Leaves falling in clusters, not the random scatter of seasonal change but something more deliberate. Like footsteps, if footsteps could multiply themselves into a soft percussion of purpose. One set becoming many. Many becoming a whispered conversation between sole and earth.

Breathing that isn't quite wind. The kind of sound a forest makes when it exhales in unison, when every tree draws breath at the same moment and releases it with the patience of things that have been waiting for exactly this hour of exactly this night.

I drift deeper, and the sounds grow clearer. Not wind at all. Not falling leaves or settling branches or forests breathing together.

Something else entirely, moving with the inevitability of dawn toward our small circle of borrowed peace.