When I Lose My Way

Garris’ eyes absently followed the curl of the flames at the centre of the firepit. A few hours ago they emitted rays of heat, now they leave just enough orange light to make out the figure of nearby trees. 

His fingers pick mindlessly at the loose tree branch he had gathered from the nearby forest. His mind a million acres away. He sits on the stump of a tree, the trunk is nowhere to be seen, probably moved ages ago by a hunter or lumberjack or maybe even a bear or some other articulate creature.

A significantly loud pop from the fire bringing Garris back to his senses. 

He doesn’t remember it being the evening, let alone dark yet. 

His eyes search the stars, which dot the underbelly of the obsidian sky. Garris looks down at his hands, where the stick remains, his fingernails filled with the shavings he scraped off. He prods the dying fire with the butt of the branch, watching sparks fly up into the darkness. A few of the embers landing on the toe of his scuffed and worn boots, they were a gift from his father, originally intended for his brother, but circumstances change, leading to Garris becoming the oldest of his other siblings. 

Without the ability to know the hour, Garris assumes that now would be a good time to get some sleep, he has travelling to do, and plenty of it. With a grunt he stands up, his joints popping, not noises supposedly meant to be heard when a fifteen year old stands up, yet here we are. 

The night air is fresh, filled with the scent of trees hundreds of years old. Should you wish to strain your nose you may be able to smell the distant river, (the type of smell hipsters want candles of, for you modern folk.) Though, the air isn’t cold, almost perfect resting conditions. Garris slips off his coat, feeling a sudden chill with the exposure. He lays out his coat on the ground, flattening it, adjusting the edges to cover as much ground as possible. He pulls off his cloak, tossing it to the side to use as a blanket. He takes off his binder, folding it and putting it away in the satchel leaning against the stump.

He places the satchel near the neck of his coat, and lays down, it’s an awkward position to curl up into, especially with his boots on. But he’ll need the warmth when morning comes, so he pulls his cloak up over himself. 

It takes a while to fall asleep, the satchel being used as a pillow is packed with assorted items, some are solid. Eventually, Garris drifts off.

Dreams can be a mystery, you never know what you will imagine, or if you will remember a past experience or, perhaps an odd mix of the two. 

For Garris, flashes of a cottage life fill his mind. His siblings playing in a field of tall grass, burrs sticking to their linen shirts and dresses. The summer breeze disturbs the trees closer to the house, the smoke rising from the small cobblestone chimney, wafting around the flower bushes covering most of the outside walls. The squat building radiates comfort, it’s embodied in the rose carved into the worn oak door. The smell of fresh lavender blends with the smoke, the aroma recognisable from a long distance away. Garris sees his family, gathering together inside the door, his parents cooking their dinner meal. The sun lowering in the sky, gleaming across the fields, a true golden hour in all its glory. 

Once the sun is out of sight, the only light comes from inside his family’s cottage. He remembers the way the torchbugs used to gather in the forest, nature’s fireworks, such excellent creatures, Garris knows nothing in anatomy, and the thought of the light up bugs baffles him. But it does quite excite him in a way he can’t describe, him and his brother used to gather them in jars before his other siblings were born. His brother used to-

“Oy, wake up.” A sudden harsh voice breaks through his dreams, accompanied by a jostling smack with a stick. 

Garris sits up abruptly. The morning sun piercing his eyes, he blinks a few times to gather himself. There stands a man, stout in posture, strong in smell. Matted brown hair and beard speckled with patches of grey. Mud set deep in his pores, that would take hours of going over with a horse’s brush to exfoliate. His used-to-be blue cloak worn, torn and wet in the hem from travel. Behind the man is a two wheeled wooden cart, filled with assorted fabrics and metals, yet in the place of a mount, the man carries the front.

“Who are you?” Garris asks. Scrambling to grab all of his articles of clothing. Pulling his coat on over his tunic, and tying his cloak around his neck. He yawns.

“‘Name’s Gilford.” The man extends a hand towards Garris, dropping one of the handles on his cart, the materials shifting dangerously to the side. Garris quickly accepts his hand, Garris’ eyes drift towards the man’s belt, which remains empty and is only used to keep up his pants. This man is unarmed. 

“I’m Garris Shaw.” Giving his name to this man in an effort of mutual trust, Gilford pulls his hand away to steady his cart.

“I was wonderin’ if you’d help me with the cart? It’s terribly heavy, I’m just going into the next town over, not too far.” 

“There is a town nearby?” Garris quirks an eyebrow. 

“Yes, just over the hill. I could pay you if you need?”

“That’s not necessary. As long as you do bring me to this town, we’re even.”

“Right then, if you could grab on to this handle, we could get movin’.” Garris does as told,  labour was not an alien activity for Garris, as he had often plowed and hoed his family’s garden. The man keeps his word, leads him into the village, his tough facade falls as he continuously apologizes for hitting Garris with a stick. 

“What is it that you do exactly?” Garris asks after a while, the two had been walking for a few hours, exchanging only short conversation. He looks back over his shoulder at the miscellaneous items in the cart behind them. 

“Oh, ’m a scrap metal salesman.” Gilford shrugs. “It pays.”

“Scrap metal? I didn’t know that was a thing people did?” 

“You didn’t grow up in a very big village did ya?” Garris shakes his head. Gilford chuckles. “Scrap dealers are everywhere, we populate the lands, we take our wares from one village to the next, collecting and selling as we go.”

“Have you seen the world?” Garris asks, awe lining his words.

“I’ve seen some of it, I never cross any water, not worth it. I take it you haven’t traveled much?”

“No,” he smiles. “it’s my first time away from home actually.” His smile falters as quickly as it came, he drops his head, shifting his gaze to the root-lined forest floor.

“Bad memories?” Gilford’s tone sympathetic and soft, he signals to Garris to stop moving the cart. Garris drops his side to the ground, Gilford doing the same. 

The two of them find a spot next to the cart on a fallen tree acting like a bench, both taking a seat. 

Garris lifts his eyes to meet Gilford’s, the man’s eyes filled with an unmistakable sadness. Garris gives the smallest nod.  Garris massages his left wrist, the weight of the cart starting to take its toll. 

“You’re not alone there.” Gilford mutters. 

“You too?” Garris asks incredulously.

“Aye. My- My family, my daughter, and my wife,” he clears his throat. “Viking raid.” Something then passes behind his eyes, at those words, flashes of fire, and rubble, they grip at his heart, settling visibly in his chest, his breaths coming out choked. 

“I’m sorry.” Is all Garris says. ‘I’m sorry’, words overused by distant neighbors the last time Garris had seen his family. ‘I’m sorry’ the same words repeated twice on the note left on his abandoned bed. 

“I’m the only one.” A singular tear falling down his left cheek. Collecting dirt as it trails, leaving a streak down his face. “I should’ve been there. Why me? Why did it happen to them? I wasn’t there for them.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

“‘f I should’ve been there- ‘stead I was acres away in some town I dunno the name of.” It takes Garris a moment to register the words, slurred through a heavier accent than moments ago. 

Garris pulls his satchel up onto his lap and roots through it to find his handkerchief, he gives it to Gilford, who gratefully accepts, dabbing his cheeks with the small cloth, it’s softer than using his sleeve. 

After a few moments of silence, broken only by Gilford’s occasional sniffles, the man asks, “Who is Trinn?”

Garris stills, “What?” 

“On your bag, it says Trinn?” 

Garris’ eyes dart to the satchel still sitting on top of his thighs, where, of course, the name ‘Trinn’ is embroidered in his mother’s fine needlework. 

“Trinn was- a friend.” A jab of guilt flares inside his chest. 

“Why did you leave home?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I just unloaded my past to you, I can spare some time.” 

Garris knows he means well, knows he’s just trying to evening the two of them out and listen, but Garris’ fight or flight response is taking control. Breathe, he tells himself. 

“Trinn was my brother.”

He remembers the creek. A forest not unlike this one surrounding the small river-like body of water, birds in the branches, lily’s floating, the way the sun reflected on the surface of the stream, a picturesque scene, worthy of the most famous painters’ retelling.  

Most of all though, he remembers his brother. 

Wild chestnut curls and the plethora of dark freckles, Trinn’s wide and sideways grin, missing one of his canines from when the two of them had climbed the tallest tree they could find, which had ultimately resulted in Garris breaking his right wrist. 

Trinn was only a year older than Garris, the two inseparable, as per their fathers rules never to go to the towns, neither knew any-one outside of the family. 

And this way of life was pleasant, tranquil, yes, but all the same filled with adventure. 

But the time at the creek was different. Trinn was sixteen, full of a rebellious fire and a general disregard for anything his parents told him. When he and Garris had traveled to the creek not too far away from their home, he needed to push the rules. 

“Just dip your foot in.” Trinn told Garris, the former already slipping off his boots. 

“Isn’t it cold?” Garris asked.

“Not really.” Trinn let his toes dangle under the surface, wincing at the chill, but quickly smoothing his expression into a signature smile, followed by letting the sole of his foot come to rest on a slick rock at the bottom of the creek. 

Trinn takes a few steps further, his numb toes curling around the sides of the mossy stones. Garris removes his shoes. Placing them carefully on the grass and rolling up the bottom of his trousers. He comes to stand at the edge, slowly lowering his foot.

“Ah!” He recoils at the frigid water. “You- You barnacle!”

“Barnacle?” Trinn snorts, “What kind of an insult is that?”

“A perfectly good one.” Garris crosses his arms, then adds under his breath. “Barnacle.”

Trinn chuckles. “Barnacles are great though, why use it against-” his breath hitches, his foot gliding straight off the wet moss, losing his purchase on both legs. His arms slicing through the air to try to steady himself, instead causing him to fall forwards, his ankle getting lodged in between two rocks.

Trinn’s body is sucked under the surface, the sunlight’s reflection toying with Garris’ eyes, neither brother had noticed the depth of the stream. 

“Trinn!” Garris calls out, bolting into the creek, glacial water be damned. Bending down to his knees, soaking his trousers. He crawls across the stones, slippery, yes, but the lower center of gravity gives him the advantage. 

As Trinn stays motionless beneath the water Garris reaches for his shirt, pulling himself under to get a good grip. His water-clouded eyes able to make out the stringy red cloud coming from Trinn’s scalp. 

Garris pulls on the fabric, hoping Trinn will come with it, but his brother remains unmoved. He blurrily spots where Trinn’s leg is caught. He dives deeper, propelling himself towards the large stones. He tugs at his brother’s leg, his lungs starting to burn. He wedges his hand in between the rocks. Twisting his angle, and applying force, Trinn’s ankle slips out. 

Grabbing onto his brother’s shoulders he pulls them both up. Garris gasps for breath once they reach air. Garris carries him to the grass, his feet slipping on the moss, but regaining their grip after a moment. 

He collapses, a cough wracking his body. His hands trembling, he places his fingers on Trinn’s throat, feeling no pulse. 

“Trinn?” Garris whispers, his voice hoarse. He re-positions Trinn, tries his hand at resuscitation, his tears landing on his brother’s cheeks. He screams, calls for his parents, and when they do come- it’s already too late.

“If I had been faster.” He tells Gilford. “If I had talked him out of it, if-.” he trails off, taking a steadying breath.

“I know how you feel.” Gilford sympathises. “How did you end up out here?”

“After the service, when we buried him, I ran, hastily packed a bag before the rest of my family got home, I left a note. Nothing more. It’s been five days since I left.” 

“I haven’t been home since it happened either.” Gilford tips his head up in calculation, “It was three years ago, I never really talked about it, no-one would listen if I tried.”

“Will I ever feel better?” Garris’ throat is tight.

“There is no way to tell.” Garris nods. The sun hangs low in the sky, Gilford grunts as he stands. “We had better get on our way if we want to reach the village by nightfall.”

Garris tires as the night progresses. A blend of the weight of the cart, the absence of his binder, and a sorrowful pit still filling his chest with the memory of his brother, all leading to a disgruntled attitude. 

When he hears a quiet howl he thinks it’s just his mind playing aggravating games with him, but a few moments later he hears soft paws against the fallen leaves on the ground. 

He stops walking, holding up his hand in front of Gilford, who understands his signal and follows his lead. 

Garris slowly turns around, as to not provoke the animal behind them. A singular wolf meets his eyes, it’s pupils are rimmed gold, hidden in the shadows of trees it stalks the two humans.

As the wolf takes a slow step forward, it’s eyes remain motionless, boring into Garris’. The latter carefully moves his hand towards his satchel, where he fumbles blindly for his knife. 

The wolf takes another step towards them, Garris’ hand finds the knife, reflexively raising it at the wolf’s sudden movement. The wolf takes this as a cue to attack.

In a swift motion, the wolf pounces towards Gilford, the larger, much stronger man raises his forearms, where the wolf’s claws dig into his shirt, making cuts on his arms.

Gilford twists his arms, causing the wolf to fall to the ground, it only takes a short moment of pause for the wolf to calibrate it’s next strike, this time aiming for Gilford’s thigh. The wolf digs its teeth into Gilford’s leg, the man lets out a cry of pain, grabbing at the wolf’s neck. 

Outside of the flurry of motion, Garris finds his opening, rapidly charging forwards, baring the knife, and striking the wolf in, if it were a human, it’s shoulder. 

It unclamps its jaw, whimpering. Garris removes his knife, raising his arms and making curt, cutting actions. 

The wolf recoils, cowering away, not putting pressure on its wounded side. 

Garris sighs, turning towards Gilford. “Are you alright?” 

“You saved my life.” The man responds.

Garris makes a dismissive gesture. “Are you alright?” He repeats.

Gilford rolls up his sleeves, assessing the damage. He nods. “Not bad, I’ll need to wrap my leg though.” 

Gilford’s words stuck in Garris's head. ‘You saved my life’ they were delivered with honesty, and with sincerity. The everpresent weight in his chest somehow feels lighter. 

“The town, as promised.” Gilford says as they enter a small village, buildings made of straw and sod surround them. 

“Thank you for leading me, I never would have made my way here without your help.” Garris states.

Gilford considers for a moment. “You could travel with me, if you’d like? You can go home when you feel ready, and explore the world in the meantime?”

“You mean it?” Garris stares up at him with wide eyes. Gilford grunts in approval. “I would like that very much.”