Sometimes living alone as I did, a mood, a blankness would come over me and I would look at what I had and feel despair. I couldn't look ahead; there were no tomorrows. It was as much as I could do at times to conceive of the next hour. My life consisted of the accomplishment of small tasks, the essential minutiae of existence, and nothing more.

    It was on one of these black days that I found him, and I thought at first that he was dead. A bedraggled, damp pile of rags was lying on the muddy bank of the stream, unusual in that it appeared to possess both arms and legs.

    I put down the bucket and knelt, but as I turned the body the eyelids flickered, half-opening, and I snatched back my hand. It was a young man, gaunt and pale and smeared with mud that also caked his dark hair. If he had been dead I would only have to bury him, but he was not and I was obliged to do something. I hated him for placing me in that position. I would do the minimum required but no more, and if he died then so be it.

    It was an onerous task, half-starved thought he was, to carry him over the uneven ground back to my house. I let him fall unceremoniously onto my bed and stood over him, hating him anew for my groaning back and aching arms. It was my only bed. He was robbing me of my sleep as well as my time.

    "Who are you?" I asked him. "Are you a fool, to come so far with so little? Where is your pack - your horse? Do you think I've nothing better to do than rescue fools?"

    There was no answer: He lay sleeping, and though I tried to wake him he did not stir. His thin chest rose and fell, a pulse trembled in his neck, and but for these signs he was as unresponsive as if he really had been a corpse. So I left him and went back to my interrupted tasks: Back up the hill to fetch the water, chopping wood, laying the fire, and I kept catching myself moving quietly for his benefit.

    "Why am I tip-toeing around him?" I said aloud bitterly. "When he's invaded my home?" To spite him I poked the fire under the pot with fierce abandon and the sudden clatter finally woke him. I heard the gasp and turned to find him staring at me with very dark, almost black eyes.

    "Water," he said, not as meekly as I'd have liked. I fetched some and he propped himself up on one elbow to drink, gazing at me over the lip of the cup with a startling and analytical intelligence. "Thank you," he said, when he had finished, and struggled to sit up. I made no move to help, watching dispassionately.

       "I found you up on the hill," I told him. "You would have died, exposed. What were you doing there. There is no road near here. And why have you no food or water? That's no way to make a journey."

    "Then I must thank you again, for saving my life."

    "Yes. Who are you?" I demanded.

    "Malcolm Reiffert," he said. He closed his eyes briefly and strange to say I felt relieved. He had a way of looking that made me uneasy, as if he were the householder and I the uninvited guest. The way he spoke also gave me pause. Was he a nobleman - robbed of his possessions on the road? He was uninjured, but perhaps had fled. Why then was he so thin, and dressed in clothes little better than a beggar's rags?

    "John," I said. "My name is John Morton." I was irritated. He had me feeling awkward and ungracious now, and I had saved him. "What happened to you?"

    "Living out so far, perhaps you've not heard?"

    "Heard what?"

    "Rumours of war," he said. "To the West. I was to carry a message." He broke off, looking away. "I can't say any more. You understand. Anyway, the message is gone. Taken."

    "Thieves?"

    "Thieves," he echoed, as if this was not the right word, but he didn't elaborate. "I'm sorry, but do you have any food? I'm afraid I can't pay for it, but perhaps one day..."

    I gave him some porridge, made with water as I had no milk and watched him eat it eagerly. Some colour came back into his cheeks and he no longer had to lean hard against the headboard.

    "So what happened to you?" I asked again. He only shook his head.

    "I have to go. Perhaps you can give me some supplies for my journey? I can't pay you, not now at least. However, if I can I will send payment."

    "Your journey? Where?" I asked. "You can make Bennisford in half a day, even weakened as you are. If you have means they will accept a note of credit for a mount."

    "No, I'm headed the other way," he told me. He was mad then, I decided. My house was the last before the foothills became the mountains. Even now, in early autumn, there would be snow. To go alone was suicide. I had contemplated it sometimes myself, to wander into the mountain passes and crawl into the numbing snow.

    "To the mountains," I said with deep sarcasm. "And you couldn't even make it safely this far."

    "Nevertheless, I must go."

    There was no arguing with him; he was determined. I grudgingly gave him a small pack containing water and some hard trail-bread and cheese, loathing him for making me care. I found I couldn't watch him limping off to his death and went back indoors, slamming the door and glaring into the fire.

    Much later, in darkness I was awakened by...

 

 

NB - This is the opening of a novel I've half-finished but I thought it would be fun to see in what different directions it could go. In the novel John left the world behind and lives alone for a very good reason, all bound up in a past he has purposely forgotten. 

Who is this grumpy, depressive guy? What's he got to be so grumpy about?

Who is Malcolm's message for? Who is following Malcolm and why?

What secrets are hidden in the mountains?

Hope you enjoy, anyhow

 

 

 

 

 

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The hound was so close now, he could probably see it if he dared to look, but he just kept running.

excerpt from The hunt no hound would forget.   by Rac7hel