THE HOMEBODY'S CURSE

I shifted the pack on my back, searching for some reprieve from the heavy load. The blisters on my toes throbbed within the worn leather of my boots. My long hair whipped in the strong wind. The village ahead bustled with activity—farmers leading their flocks back into their pens, wrinkled hands pulling laundry off the clothes line, mothers calling their children inside as the sun’s last rays filtered through the clouds.

I aimed my cramping legs towards the saloon, smoothing down the bangs that covered my forehead. The men smoking on the porch took their time looking over me as I pulled myself up the stairs.

“You don’t look familiar,” one of them commented, throwing his cigarette bud onto the floor and grinding it with the heel of his boot.

“I never will,” I replied as I pushed the saloon’s door open. “I’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

Long wooden tables crowded the dirty floor, benches strewed haphazardly between them. Lanterns hung from the rafters, casting light where the late evening rays could no longer reach. Dismayed, I searched the long benches for an opening.

I ignored the stares of the regulars as I carefully navigated to the back corner of the space, ensuring my large backpack didn’t touch any of the patrons. My sore legs barked in protest. Thankfully, the man sitting on the opposite side of the table did not look up as I took the last vacant seat.

A barmaid hurried over, eyeing my with disdain. “What will you have?”

“Water. Mead. Whatever meal is cheapest,” I said around my grunt, sliding my backpack onto the floor beneath my feet. My backpack was so dirty I doubted the unwashed floor could worsen its state.

“Is there a room available for me to rent?”

“Depends,” the barmaid replied. “What are you here for?”

“I’m not here for anything. I’ll be gone by morning, and I won’t be coming back.”

She grunted, a sound I could only interpret as approval. “See the barkeep when you’re done. He’ll take you to the room.”

I rolled my neck and shoulders, closing my eyes, as she walked away. She hadn’t mentioned if there was a bathing room, but I doubted I would have enough energy to wash.

“The barkeep gets handsy,” the man across from me said suddenly. My eyes flew open.

The stranger’s gaze remained on his glass, hood pulled over his head. His unkempt hair fell to his shoulders, despite a shaven face, with clothes as worn as mine. I did not respond as I considered him, barmaid returning with the items I ordered. He finally looked up as I drained the tall glass of water in three gulps.

I met his gaze. It was not as wary as the other gazes still trained on me, but there was something curious about it. His eyes flickered to my forehead, to the untrimmed bangs that nearly hindered my view.

“Thanks for the tip,” I finally said, bringing the mead to my lips.

“Care for another?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Not really.”

He wasn’t deterred by my harsh tone. “Townsfolk say there is a storm coming through here. Apparently these winds are the first sign of a bad storm. You might want to rent that room for two nights.”

My heart sunk at his words. I trained my gaze down to my glass, trying to keep the dismay off of my features. The excuse I needed to remain silent caught my eye, and I quickly shoveled the lukewarm food into my mouth.

The stranger finished his mead as I finished my meal. The window behind him revealed a darkening sky, the flickering light of the lanterns now casting the saloon in an orange haze. I waited for him to leave, or call the barmaid for a refill, but he merely watched my movements in silence. As if he was still waiting for me to respond.

“Do you live here?” I asked instead.

“No,” he replied quickly. He leaned forward slightly. “Are you returning home, or just beginning your journey?”

Home. The word clanged through me. I felt the familiar, lonely emotion it triggered, but time had trained me how to push it down, shove it aside. In similar fashion, I shoved my empty plate away.

“Just beginning,” I lied easily. “And you?”

“I think I’m a bit further in my journey than you are.”

His gaze became more intense, but I did not shy away from it. I could here an undercurrent to his words—I wondered at the challenge they presented. I could not make sense of his curiosity, whether is was friendly or formidable.

“Do you know when the storm will hit tomorrow?” I asked, keeping my tone light. Perhaps I could leave earlier, get ahead of it.

He let out a long breath. “They say it will hit in the early morning. I think its coming from the east.”

My fingers trembled around the glass I held. Bad news on both fronts. I could not go back west, from where I came. I had no choice but to travel forward tomorrow.

To my shock, the stranger reached out a tentative finger, lightly placing it on the back of my trembling hand. I pulled my hands away, down underneath the table.

“What’s your name?” he asked, hand still outstretched.

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” I snapped.

“Fine, bite my head off if you wish. From my perspective, I’ve done nothing but help you.”

“Why are you helping me?” I asked.

He leaned forward, farther than he had before, face mere inches from my own. I was too surprised to pull away.

“I think I know what you are hiding underneath those bangs,” he whispered.

I felt my heart stutter to a stop as the food in my belly threatened to return to the table. I swallowed it back as I made to swivel on the bench and leave, but he reached for my chin, forcing my gaze back towards his.

“I’ve seen you on the road before. Twice now,” he murmured.

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but you have clearly forgotten yourself,” I seethed, yanking my chin from his grasp. I reached for my heavy bag and pulled it to my back.

He didn’t say anything as I quickly navigated through the saloon’s thickening crowd, towards the barkeep. The large man indeed sized me up as I paid my tab. He gestured for me to follow, and I kept a careful distance as I trudged behind him. I did not glance towards the hooded stranger as the barkeep led me up the creaky stairs to see my room.

While the floor was just as dirty as the bar beneath me, I was pleasantly surprised by its state. I called out a thanks quickly before I shut the door on the barkeep, ignoring his grunt of annoyance as I clicked the lock into place. My own grunt echoed his as my backpack slid back to the ground.

I counted myself lucky that the room had a small wash closet, even though there was no bath. I approached the sink slowly, eyes on the warped mirror, carefully taking in the face that starred back. My bangs were unruly, thick, covering my forehead well enough that I knew the stranger below could not have seen anything. I took a shaky breath as I brought my still-trembling fingers to my forehead, pushing the hair back to reveal what I could not let others see. To reveal what I could barely get myself to look at.

Branded into my skin, burned so deeply that it would never fade, was a large C. The scar was still red after all these months. If I was lucky, in a year or two, the coloring would fade. But the scar never would, the mark always be present on my forehead. As much a warning for others as it was a reminder for me.

A reminder that I was a criminal. That I was cursed. And like the scar itself, there was no escaping it.

I washed myself as best I could in the pitiful sink, striping out of my worn clothes before collapsing on the bed with a moan. My muscles ached from the constant use, from the unending trek. The exhaustion pulled me under quickly.

It felt like mere seconds later when I jolted awake at the sound of thunder clapping, eyes blinking at the gray light that streamed in from the dirty window. The wind howled fiercely, causing the old building to creak and moan. A quick glance told me the churning clouds in the sky were about to unleash something fierce. I needed to go, now.

I made quick work of dressing, backpack a familiar weight again on my sore shoulders. I tidied my bangs before hurrying down the stairs. The saloon was empty, the space somehow smaller when it wasn’t filled with patrons. I pushed out the door.

And skidded to a halt as I nearly ran into the hooded stranger on the porch.

“Right on time,” he said, crooked smile pulling across his features. My hand flexed towards my waist, where I had a knife strapped to my hip.

“Are you going to stab me?” he asked, amused.

“Yes. Unless you get out of my way.”

The wind howled as lightening flashed. The force of it sent my hair back, sent my bangs back. I brought a hand up to my forehead, clamping the unruly hair down as best I could. But I knew my efforts were useless.

The stranger’s smile grew. “It seems I guessed correctly.”

“What do you want?” I hissed over the sounds of the storm. Most people ignored me when they found out. Some people spat on my boots. But the stranger’s eyes twinkled in a manner I had not seen before.

“What were you cursed with?” he asked, ignoring my question. I made to step around him, but he blocked my path, hands up as if he were surrendering. My fingers grazed the leather strap that held my blade secure, but I did not grab the hilt.

“Why do you care?” I demanded. It was a crime to do so, to even talk to a cursed person.

The wind gusted again, and I gasped.

His hood fell down as the storm finally broke. Rain pelted the dusty cobblestone with a dull roar. My eyes shot to his forehead, where a C scared his tan skin. The C was white, skin bulked but healed, as if the mark had been there for years. He did not reach for his hood, or move to cover the mark.

“I ask you again, what is your curse?”

I gulped, unable to pry my eyes away from his mark to meet his gaze. “To never have a home. To never rest. I cannot stay in one place for more than a night. I must always travel on.”

He took a step towards me, closing the small space. His fingers went to my forehead, prying my fingers away. He traced the red C with a light touch.

“You and I are the same, it seems,” he mused.

“What do you mean?” I breathed, heart in my throat. “What is your curse?”

“I mean our crimes are the same, because our curses are the same. I suffer the same fate you do.”

I blinked, finally tearing my eyes away from the mark and meeting his gaze. My ears hollowed out as another clap of thunder broke from the dark clouds.

“Would you like some company?” he asked, smile still pulling at his features. He brought his hand away from my forehead and instead held it out.

Company. The word clanged through me the same way home had. Things they were not supposed to have, or enjoy. Not with their fate.

I swallowed back the lump in my throat as I found my fingers meeting his. For months, I had walked on, leaving my family behind. My body ached from the never-ending journey, but the pain was nothing compared to what happened when I stopped. But worse of all, for the rest of my life, I was destined to never establish roots, to never stop in one place long enough to form a connection, to never have somewhere—someone—to belong to.

I stepped off of the porch with him and into the rain.