ã€ŠISEKAI-EDã€‹


 Chapter One - Crash Landing; A Discovery; Camp

    The excruciating pain tearing through my body is the first clue that I¡¯m not dead. My right shoulder is crumpled against solid ground, which is surprising because, moments ago, I would have told you that I was underwater and too disoriented to know where the surface was. My shoulder hurts like hell, but I¡¯m not being tumbled by waves pulling me ass over teakettle. Everything is still.

    This is good, because even in the stillness I¡¯m so disoriented that I think I¡¯m going to be sick. I try to open my eyes, but it¡¯s pitch black. This doesn¡¯t help the building nausea; I blink against the darkness, praying I¡¯ll find something I can use to anchor my vision, and when this doesn¡¯t work I close my eyes and concentrate on the feeling of solid ground beneath me.

    It isn¡¯t sand. It¡¯s not even sea-polished rock. It¡¯s a layer of pine needles and dead leaves covering the thick and gnarling roots of trees.

    I¡¯m too busy trying not to puke to give this much thought.

    Please, I think. Please let me lose consciousness again. Just until I stop feeling sick.

    The only times I¡¯ve felt like this before have been when I¡¯ve gotten too drunk, and passing out to escape nausea has only ever worked when I¡¯ve already puked a couple times first. Also, I am not drunk. I¡¯m probably concussed.

    I can¡¯t remember if falling asleep is a bad idea.

    The sound of urgent voices reaches me through the trees, and some of the worry dissipates. If there are people, then they¡¯re bound to have lights. If they have lights, I might be able to sit up without losing my balance ¡ª or whatever¡¯s left of my last meal. Both of these are things I¡¯d like to keep.

    I can hear myself thinking the words I should shout to get their attention. I can¡¯t seem to get them from my brain to my mouth. I can feel my tongue against my teeth, just as I can feel my toes and my fingertips. I can¡¯t seem to find the will to make any of these things move.

    I might be more badly hurt than I thought.

    ¡°Over here, I see something!¡±

    I open my eyes. There¡¯s a dim glow illuminating the trees around me, and I no longer have to concentrate on the feeling of gravity in order to keep my stomach settled.

    Roll over, I think. Roll over, look for whoever¡¯s talking, say something, let them know you¡¯re alive ¡ª

    My body feels too heavy. The thread connecting thought to form is feather light. I barely manage to move my fingers, clenching and unclenching my hand ¡ª and the all-over pain concentrates sharply in my right arm and shoulder. If I weren¡¯t in a heap on the ground with a major head injury, I¡¯d scream.

    The flexing of my fingers, however, is enough.

    Someone says, ¡°She¡¯s alive,¡± and then I hear feet crunching over twigs and leaves and see the ruddy glow on the trees grow brighter. Someone crouches down beside me and rolls me onto my back. Every nerve explodes into pain, and my grip on consciousness gets very weak, indeed.

    There¡¯s a lot of shuffling, a lot of people talking, and a persistent sense that staying in my body is a lot more effort than usual. Even trying to relax feels demanding. I am barely aware of my surroundings, barely hearing the gentle voice telling me I¡¯m doing just fine, the firmer voice giving commands I can only assume are for triage. I am dimly aware of my limbs being manhandled as I¡¯m checked over for breaks and injuries.

    Judging by the sensation of someone wiping a wet cloth over my skin, I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve been bleeding.

    There is a pause that lasts just long enough that I think maybe that¡¯s it. I hurt, but with this end to the poking and prodding and assessing, all that could possibly be left to do is sleep. I¡¯m ready for it, too, eager to slide out of my body and away from the consequences of whatever the hell I did to wind up like this.

    Just as the weightlessness begins to overtake me, there are hands jostling at my knees and my shoulders. I slam back into consciousness.

    ¡°Sorry, sorry.¡± As he speaks, he¡¯s lifting me off the ground. My left arm hangs down along his side, my head resting against his right shoulder. His voice is calm and steady. ¡°You¡¯re all right, it¡¯s going to be fine. It¡¯s not safe out here. A lady like yourself shouldn¡¯t be sleeping on the forest floor, not in your state. We aren¡¯t going too far, just a little ways, it¡¯ll be over soon¡­¡±

    It is not a little ways. It is, I am almost certain, at least a hundred miles. But somewhere in the first twenty miles or so I finally adjust to the rhythm of his gait and the sound of his voice. He mumbles with the same soothing tone used by someone reassuring a cat in a carrier on a trip to the vet, and I know my brain is scrambled because I actually think it¡¯s a little endearing.

    Two hundred or so miles later, we arrive. I hardly notice. It¡¯s only the relief of finally being still that tells me anything has changed, and I immediately fall into a deep, empty sleep.

    *

    I wake up in a bed wedged between three walls. There are frosted windows set along the length of the bed, diffusing gray daylight. I turn my head, hiss in pain, and then try again more slowly.

    Along the side without a wall, there are curtains bunched together at the head and foot of the bed. The ceiling outside the bed nook appears at least a couple feet higher than the ceiling over my head. The room is dark, but I can make out trunks and boxes and a wooden stool nearby in the weak light from the windows set high in the wall to the left. There is a pervasive scent of old wood.

    Absolutely everything hurts. Some things hurt worse. Sitting up is a long, slow process as I discover what is and isn¡¯t willing to move. My right shoulder throbs constantly, and most of the muscles of my core protest at being forced to work in these conditions. By the time I make it from horizontal to sitting on the edge of the bed, the only reason I stay upright is because I¡¯m not sure I have the energy to lie down again.

    It is also around this point that I notice I am in the wrong body.

    I¡¯m wearing a dress shaped like a very long t-shirt made of unbleached fiber. My thighs stretch the material to its limit as they spread over the edge of the bed; thick thighs have never before been among my charms. Nor have full breasts, either, but I have a fine pair of those hanging unencumbered by a bra. I tug at the buttons down the front of my dress and notice that even my hands are no longer the knob-knuckled and scarred things I remember. These fingers are slender and soft.

    The shirt-dress falls open and slides off my shoulders. My right shoulder is black with bruises, but I am more distracted by the discovery that I am, indeed, no longer flat-chested. I crane my neck (gently, so gently, every muscle in my shoulders bellowing like a school principal at a kid with a lit firecracker) and discover the tattoo I got when I turned eighteen is missing from my right arm.

    At the far end of the room, the door opens.

    A man stands in the doorway, backlit by gray daylight and a merrily burning bonfire. He freezes in surprise ¡ª possibly to see me awake, possibly to see me half unclothed, staring back in confusion.

    ¡°Uh,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m. Um.¡±

    And I, only a little more eloquently, ask, ¡°Who am I?¡±

    For a count of three, we only stare blankly at each other. Then he turns his head and yells over his shoulder, ¡°Ma!¡±

    *

    Ma is, in fact, not his mother. This is the first thing she clarifies. Her skin is darker than mine, and her hair is black and steel pulled into a tight bun. She is thin-lipped and flint-eyed and, when the man in the doorway tells her I¡¯m taking my clothes off and don¡¯t know my name, she sighs like this is all she needs and says, ¡°Get out of the damn wagon. I¡¯ll be there in a minute.¡±

    The man backs hurriedly out the door, closing it behind him, and I hear him stumbling off the edge of the steps. Someone else laughs.

    When Ma comes in, she makes me drink some water, informs me her name is Marion ¡ª ¡°Usually just Ma¡± ¡ª and then sits down on the nearby stool. ¡°Can you stand up?¡±

    I very carefully reach my toes to the floor and ease my weight onto them. Ma observes this with a clinical eye, then says, ¡°Drop the dress for a moment.¡±

    I do. She checks over my naked body, then lifts the dress back up and helps me arrange it into place with more gentleness than I expect.

    ¡°How¡¯s your head?¡± she asks.

    ¡°Sore.¡± This seems obvious.

    Ma reaches out with cool fingers to touch the side of my face. ¡°How about here?¡±

    ¡°Ow!¡± I pull back, then groan in pain at the electrical jolt that charges through me at the sudden movement. There¡¯s a wound on my temple, and now I am keenly aware of it.

    ¡°Sorry.¡±

    This sounds more like a polite thing one says than a sincere apology, but I keep the thought to myself. I ask, ¡°What happened?¡±

    ¡°You fell off a cliff. You must have a thick skull, surviving a drop like that.¡± Ma is teasing. She doesn¡¯t look like someone who does humor, but her mouth quirks in a way that might generously be called ¡®good-natured¡¯. ¡°What¡¯s the last thing you remember?¡±

    There is no possible answer to this question that is going to be useful. I remember plenty. It just doesn¡¯t apply here. Despite this, I decide to tell the truth. ¡°I was in the water. I think I got caught in a rip tide or something. I went under and couldn¡¯t figure out which way was up anymore.¡±

    Ma¡¯s flinty eyes spark. ¡°You were in the river?¡±

    ¡°The sea.¡±

    ¡°The sea.¡±

    I almost nod, feel a warning twinge in every muscle of my cervical spine, and instead say, ¡°Mhm.¡±

    Ma stares critically and repeats, ¡°The sea?¡±

    It is incredibly obvious that I have given an impossible answer, but I have woken up in a body that isn¡¯t mine after a fall I didn¡¯t take. There are already impossibilities at work. I don¡¯t have enough information to even lie effectively, and Ma seems like the kind of person who would notice immediately if I tried.

    I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯m right, too, because Ma says, ¡°Huh,¡± and stops pressing. ¡°And you don¡¯t remember your name?¡±

    I look down at my unfamiliar body. ¡°I have no idea who I am. I thought I had a tattoo.¡±

    ¡°Where?¡±

    ¡°Right arm.¡±

    Ma glances at my arm, and I turn carefully to show her it¡¯s nothing but bruises now. She looks back up at my face, not quite able to hide her suspicion ¡ª and that¡¯s fair, because I did dodge the question. I remember my name. It just doesn¡¯t match the rest of me.

    ¡°All right. What would you like to be called?¡±

    ¡°What kind of name do I look like?¡±

    I¡¯m hoping she will say, ¡°You look like a ¡ª,¡± and give me a baseline expectation. Instead, I see a flicker of skepticism, then she gets up and roots around in one of the chests lining the wall. She pulls out a round mirror. In her hand, the pads of her fingers only just frame its edge; when she offers it to me, I have to use both hands to hold it up.

    The person staring back from the mirror¡¯s surface has periwinkle blue eyes, dark eyebrows, and a horrific scab on her right temple. Her hair is thick and dark and needs a brush. I raise the mirror up and away from me, shoulders straining even from this small weight, to fit the whole face in the reflection at once.

    It¡¯s a round face, like a little October moonrise. A thumb print of a divot on her chin. A cupid¡¯s bow mouth.

    Without thinking, I say, ¡°Oh wow. I¡¯m really cute.¡± Ma bursts out laughing, which is the only thing that stops me from adding, ¡°I¡¯ve never been so cute.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll be even cuter if that gash on your temple heals up. Speaking of¡­¡±

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.Ma pulls a box from under the bed and brings out a bottle and a clean cloth. She pours some of the bottle¡¯s contents onto the cloth and dabs at my face, and I watch the face in the mirror contort in pain as the antiseptic makes contact and starts to sting. Even this is fascinating.

    Then, abruptly, it¡¯s overwhelming.

    ¡°I need to sit,¡± I say, already sinking to the bed. I set the mirror aside and lower my head between my knees, breathing slowly as a wave of dizziness turns my brain to static. Ma tucks the mirror into the box with the antiseptic and gently rubs my back. My breasts aren¡¯t ridiculously huge, but they¡¯re a lot more than I¡¯m used to and I can feel them compressing between my ribs and my thighs. This is both incredibly funny and disturbingly foreign, so it probably isn¡¯t surprising that I start laughing and crying at the same time.

    ¡°Hey, hey, shh¡­¡± Ma soothes. ¡°You¡¯re all right, you¡¯re doing just fine¡­¡±

    ¡°Who am I?¡± My hands start to shake.

    ¡°Maybe we should get some food in you,¡± Ma says. ¡°I don¡¯t know when you last ate, but you¡¯ve been unconscious for most of a day. I think I¡¯ve got something you can wear outside the wagon.¡±

    She opens another chest and pulls out a cardigan and a pair of trousers that are probably comfortably loose on her and which are snug enough on me that I barely need to cinch the drawstring. I need help with everything. She even rolls up the cuffs on the pants for me so I¡¯m not walking on them.

    ¡°It¡¯ll have to do,¡± she says, a little apologetic. ¡°We can see about making alterations later. Maybe find you a skirt somewhere, if you like.¡±

    After testing my ability to sit and stand a couple times, Ma helping me keep my balance, I say, ¡°I think I¡¯ll be all right like this.¡±

    Ma steps out of the wagon ahead of me and holds a hand out to help me down the stairs. I am barefoot, and my right foot hurts to walk on more than my left. I have been awake for maybe an hour and I am already incredibly bored of being in this much pain.

    Someone jeers, ¡°Ooh, la la, fancy lady,¡± at the sight of me being aided like a d¨¦butante at a ball. Then there is a crack, and an ¡°Ow!¡±, and someone else saying, ¡°Don¡¯t be an ass, Thirsan.¡±

    I don¡¯t care that someone¡¯s being an ass, partly because if I am this cute then why shouldn¡¯t I be acknowledged as a fancy lady ¡ª but mostly because I am far more interested in the fuck-off huge trees surrounding us. With tremendous care, I tilt my head to look upward at the distant implication of blue sky and mid-afternoon sun. It barely reaches us on the forest floor for the layers of tree branches and the massive tree trunks in the way. If redwoods had bigger, scarier cousins, then I was standing in a small clearing at their feet.

    ¡°Let¡¯s get you seated,¡± Ma says, prompting me to pay attention to my immediate surroundings and not the several hundred feet above my head. The ground is mostly flat and even, and someone recently raked the immediate area free of leaf litter. The network of roots rising to the surface of the ground is more of a ripple than a jab to the soft soles of my feet.

    What I can only assume is a log-sized fallen branch makes one of three benches around the fire pit. Ma makes sure I¡¯m seated before walking across to a second wagon, where another woman is working at a stove affixed to its back end. There is a third wagon to the left and a fourth to the right, and as I look I realize they all appear to be carved from solid chunks of wood.

    The log bench to the left is empty. On the bench to the right sits the man who walked in on me, looking at me like he can¡¯t decide if he wants to ask how I¡¯m doing or apologize for earlier. Next to him sits a¡­ boy? Man? Definitely the source of the jeering. He glares like it¡¯s my fault he got called an ass, then turns his ire on the empty space across from him. Clearly, I am beneath his notice.

    ¡°Are you feeling better?¡± asks the man.

    I again catch myself before I try to nod and say, ¡°Yes, thank you.¡±

    ¡°Have you remembered anything?¡±

    ¡°Nothing useful.¡±

    He smiles, and I think he¡¯s aiming for optimistic but he can¡¯t keep the worry out of it. ¡°That¡¯s all right. You¡¯re still healing. And you¡¯re up quick, too ¡ª you were in rough shape last night, so it¡¯s good you¡¯re already walking.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± the younger guy, Thirsan, cuts in. He¡¯s grinning irritably and still not looking at either us. ¡°If your frail legs give out, Prince Finch¡¯ll sweep you into his arms and ¡ª ow!¡±

    Finch, I presume, interrupts Thirsan by plucking a cone (pine cone? Are these massive trees some sort of pine?) from where it¡¯s wedged between the log bench and the ground, flinging it at Thirsan¡¯s head. His aim is the studied balance of careless and precise that I recognize immediately.

    These are brothers.

    Thirsan begins snarling venomously at Finch to stop throwing things at his head, and Finch retorts with aggravated calm that he¡¯ll stop throwing things when Thirsan stops acting like a jackass. Thirsan denies the accusation. Finch assures him that he can expect the pine coning to continue. I watch this exchange, noticing the same red-brown irises, the same gold-brown skin. There¡¯s an auburn undertone to Thirsan¡¯s heavily cowlicked hair not present in Finch¡¯s, which lies flat and dark. Thirsan is gangly, still growing into his long and skinny limbs. Finch is not.

    I stare. Wow, Finch is not.

    His clothes almost hide it, but as he swats Thirsan¡¯s hand away I see the muscles move beneath the weave of his sweater. Yes, I can see why the younger brother is taking pot shots at his elder for carrying me through the woods last night; Finch isn¡¯t body builder sized, but barbed words are the only damage Thirsan has a hope at landing.

    In true younger brother fashion, he lobs insults like he¡¯s carpet bombing.

    ¡°Boys,¡± calls a warning voice ¡ª the cooking woman, not Ma. ¡°Knock it off, please.¡±

    Thirsan returns to sulking and slouching. Finch, aggrieved, folds his hands together and focuses all his attention on the fire for the length of a slow, calming breath.

    ¡°What¡¯s the age difference between you?¡± I ask.

    Finch¡¯s eyes move from the fire to me, and I see the ghost of a smile. ¡°Seven years.¡±

    ¡°Six years, five months,¡± Thirsan corrects.

    Finch, recalling they have just been scolded, strains to say nothing.

    I have not been scolded and have also recently cheated death. ¡°And how many weeks?¡±

    Thirsan looks ready to call death¡¯s private number on me. ¡°Five days.¡±

    ¡°Ooh. A tremendous difference.¡±

    Thirsan launches into a tirade about how six and a half years is definitely not the same as seven and that it¡¯s far more reasonable to round up to six and a half, during which I say to Finch, ¡°So if you look about twenty-four, that must make him¡­¡±

    To which Thirsan explodes in a volcanic rage, ¡°I am nineteen!¡± and thunders into the woods.

    Finch covers his face with his hands to hide how hard he is trying not to laugh. This feels like a small victory.

    ¡°I¡¯m twenty-six,¡± he says.

    ¡°I¡¯m ¡ª¡° I stop. I was twenty-four. Am I still? I sift through the memory of looking in the mirror, searching for context clues that might tell me if I am older or younger now, then skirt too close to the moment things got unnerving and stop before I wind up with my head between my knees again.

    Finch is watching me glitch in real time, and I force a smile. ¡°I think I¡¯m about the same age as you, probably.¡±

    ¡°You look a bit younger,¡± he says gently. I can¡¯t tell if this is a polite reassurance or the honest truth.

    ¡°Is he going to be all right out there?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Oh, yeah, he¡¯ll be fine. He¡¯ll probably go punch a tree until he feels better. He¡¯s at that age.¡± This last bit he says with such practiced efficiency that it is clear this has been the excuse for some time; no one even thinks about it anymore.

    ¡°Were you like that?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± he says immediately, looking horrified.

    From the vicinity of the stove, I hear a doubtful, ¡°Hmm¡­¡±

    ¡°I was not that bad,¡± Finch defends.

    The woman who had been cooking carries two dishes over, one in each hand. ¡°You weren¡¯t a flash fire. You were still pissed off a lot.¡± She approaches me and offers one of the dishes, sitting down beside me. ¡°Here you go, pet, eat up. I¡¯m Puck, nice to meet you.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say, taking the bowl with my left hand, and am about to introduce myself when I remember I still don¡¯t have a name. I think of the face in the mirror again, holding the memory at enough distance to look at it without giving myself chills.

    My right arm is, without question, not weight bearing, but I need both hands to eat. I set my bowl on the ground and use my left hand to arrange my right hand onto my knees without actually engaging any of the muscles in my right arm. As soon as I rest the bowl on my palm, everything from my fingertips to my elbow starts ringing warning bells, but I can eat in relative peace like this.

    The food is a thick stew over bread. I recognize carrots and potatoes and onions, even rosemary, but not the meat. It is not, I suspect, something usually carried in grocery stores. It¡¯s unfamiliar, but it¡¯s good.

    ¡°Shoulder still feeling rough?¡± Puck asks.

    ¡°It¡¯s a mess,¡± Ma quips around a mouthful of her own dinner. She¡¯s taken a seat beside Finch, apparently also not concerned about Thirsan¡¯s absence.

    Puck clicks her tongue and murmurs, ¡°Really ought to put that in a sling, even if it¡¯s not broken. I wonder if I¡¯ve got some extra fabric lying about¡­?¡±

    ¡°Finish eating, first,¡± Ma says, as Puck looks like she might be about to stand up. ¡°She¡¯ll manage without.¡±

    ¡°I know, I know¡­¡±

    I finish my food. Even the empty bowl feels like more weight than my right arm can stand.

    ¡°Where should I put this?¡± I ask.

    ¡°I¡¯ll take it,¡± says Puck. ¡°Marion, where are the poor girl¡¯s shoes?¡±

    ¡°We had to cut everything off to check her for breaks. Shoes, too.¡±

    Finch glances at me and away again, face turning crimson. I hadn¡¯t had the awareness to notice at the time; had he carried me through the woods while I was stark naked? Whose dress had I been wearing when I woke up?

    ¡°You might have kept something. Even cut up and repaired clothes are better than your hand-me-downs.¡±

    ¡°You insult my wardrobe?¡±

    ¡°I like it just fine when it¡¯s on you. It¡¯s a disservice on her.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t mind,¡± I say, because Marion looks like she¡¯s about to take it personally. ¡°I¡¯m comfortable.¡±

    ¡°There, you see? She¡¯s comfortable.¡±

    ¡°Given her circumstances, of course she is.¡±

    Puck and Marion glare at each other, a second conversation playing out in silence and subtle facial expressions I can¡¯t hope to interpret. It ends with Marion looking away first, sighing impatiently. ¡°Fine! Fine, once she¡¯s healed up. No sense looking for a cobbler when she can barely stand without help.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±

    This last exchange is so terse that I can guess this conversation isn¡¯t over.

    When Puck collects all our dishes to wash up and Finch goes to help her, I ask Ma, ¡°Is it all right if I go lie down?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± She still sounds annoyed, but it¡¯s not meant for me. She helps me upright and sees that I reach the bed without falling over. Now that I¡¯ve eaten, all I want is to go back to sleep.

    ¡°There¡¯s a pot in the corner,¡± Ma says, pointing to what looks like a large, metal jar with a lid. ¡°If you need to relieve yourself, use that instead of going out in the woods. It¡¯s not safe.¡±

    ¡°Thanks.¡± I decide not to overthink what this means. Barring some camping trips and public events, I have always had access to indoor plumbing. That might be gone forever, and I am not ready to deal with it.

    I really don¡¯t want to think about cleaning out a chamberpot.

    Ma leaves, visibly dreading whatever conversation she¡¯s about to go open up with Puck. I make use of the chamberpot and ease myself carefully back onto the bed, shoulder throbbing. You wouldn¡¯t think a person could fall asleep through pain like that, but I¡¯m out in minutes.

 Chapter Two - Brand; Days Go By; Who Cries Like That Anyway?

    The next time I wake, it¡¯s dark and I¡¯m thirsty. I am also, once again, stiff with pain, and I stop to rest between sitting up and standing.

    When I open the wagon door, Puck looks up from her seat at the fire. So does a man I don¡¯t recognize. He looks enough like a human version of one of those Japanese raccoon dogs that I am ready to believe that¡¯s just the kind of world I live in now ¡ª populated, in part, by beings with human and animal aspects. Then he smiles brightly and offers me a little wave and he looks so normal that I remember I¡¯m probably just concussed.

    ¡°Is there some water?¡± I ask, voice crackling.

    ¡°Oh! That¡¯s right, I was going to bring some in earlier,¡± Puck says, pushing herself upright and bustling to the kitchen-wagon. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to disturb you while you were sleeping.¡±

    The new man asks, ¡°Feeling better?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I say.

    He laughs. ¡°Bad¡¯s better than dead.¡± Then he laughs again when I have to give this sentiment serious consideration. Puck returns with a kettle of cold water and a metal cup, then herds me back into the wagon.

    ¡°You and Brand can chat later. You need to keep resting.¡±

    She leaves the door open so the weakening fire can illuminate the interior, pours water into the cup and makes me drink, then refills it when I¡¯m done. The water leaves an herbal taste in my mouth.

    ¡°I¡¯ve added a tincture to the water to help with the pain,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯ll set the cup on the chest by your head. Can you lift the kettle on your own?¡±

    Puck holds the kettle out while I test the strength of my left arm. It¡¯s heavy, but manageable. She sets the kettle beside the cup and nods, satisfied.

    ¡°You should be fine like this until breakfast, I think. I¡¯ll check on you when I get up.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    She smiles at me in the dim light. ¡°You¡¯re welcome, pet.¡±

    *

    The pain tincture is so effective I sleep through the night. When I wake, I drink the contents of the waiting cup, relieve myself, then go outside.

    Brand is sitting fireside again, this time looking sleep-rumpled but still happy to be here. He has to be in his thirties, but might be approaching fifty and just carrying it well. I hobble to the seat I¡¯d taken last night and sit quietly, smiling at Brand in greeting.

    ¡°Sleep all right?¡± he asks.

    ¡°Like a rock. You?¡±

    ¡°Ooh, love to hear it. Me, nah. Kept hearing noises outside, got all jumpy.¡±

    ¡°Are there animals in the woods?¡±

    ¡°Oh yeah, killed a bunch yesterday. Puck¡¯s already got some of ¡®em frying. This sounded more like a ¡ª¡°

    He says a name I don¡¯t recognize at all.

    ¡°A¡­ what?¡±

    ¡°A soh-bee-lah.¡± Brand over-pronounces the word for my benefit, and when I still look confused he adds, ¡°Looks like a big, floating hand drifting through the woods, eyes on its palm and the tips of its fingers. Likes to eat fresh guts.¡±

    I am pretty sure he¡¯s just fucking with me, but he¡¯s got that kind of unendingly jovial attitude that pulls legs as easily as he¡¯d deliver life altering news. When it¡¯s clear I don¡¯t know whether or not to believe him, he smiles even wider.

    ¡°It¡¯s too early for cryptids, Brand.¡± Ma steps out of the kitchen wagon.

    ¡°I¡¯d rather be too early than too late.¡±

    Ma rolls her eyes.

    Finch and Thirsan exit the wagon to the right, Finch making a fair effort at looking alert, Thirsan not even trying. They, too, sit at the fireside, while Ma helps Puck prepare breakfast. Puck sits next to me again while we eat, checking in to see if I¡¯ve taken more tincture and if I¡¯m feeling any better. When we finish eating, she has me remain by the fire while she improvises a sling out of scrap material ¡ª and then shuffles me back to bed, which I am fine with because my new life is all about escaping pain through the healing magic of sleep.

    This is the pattern for the next several days. I don¡¯t actually keep track of how many; when you spend that much time sleeping, time itself starts to lose meaning. After one meal, Brand measures my feet, and at the next he presents me with a pair of soft shoes made of animal skin. Once I have shoes, Puck invites me to help her mind the stove. A few days later, when I can bend over to touch the ground without feeling like I might overbalance, I join Finch in walking to the creek to wash dishes.

    ¡°Have you remembered your name yet?¡± he asks, as I try to clean out a bowl one-handed.

    ¡°Not yet.¡± I have been responding to anything clearly directed at me. It turns out that, when most of what you do is sleep and be injured, you really don¡¯t need a name very often. ¡°I tried looking in the mirror again, but¡­ nothing¡¯s coming to me.¡±

    Finch lifts the bowl from my hand and finishes the work. ¡°Are there any names you like?¡±

    There are a lot of names I like. I crouch beside him and watch the surface of the creek, trying to think of all the girl names I¡¯ve ever heard, checking them against the mental image of the face I carry now. I keep remembering Marion¡¯s disbelief when I told her the last thing I remember is the sea. What if I pick a name that¡¯s weird for this country? Or flat out wrong?

    I¡¯m still contemplating as we walk back to the camp. I have not been especially helpful ¡ª my pre-washes are more like letting them soak with bonus splashing ¡ª but I don¡¯t think I¡¯m being sent or invited on these chores to actively contribute. They are an excuse to get my blood moving, gently test my limits, and familiarize with my surroundings. I¡¯ll be useful once I can move my right arm again. At least once a day the question of my name comes up, too, and I¡¯m willing to blame my inability to name myself on the blow to my head, just one more temporary disability I¡¯m working around.

    I do think the concussion is affecting how well I can think at least as much as the pain does, or the amount of time I spend asleep. If existing didn¡¯t hurt so badly, I¡¯d be questioning the reality of my situation a lot harder. That aside: it¡¯s like all the girl names I can think of are from people whose name I feel weird about borrowing, or are examples from my teen years ¡ª fanciful, aggrandizing, or the wrong kind of quirky. It¡¯s not like anyone here knows what video games are, but I probably shouldn¡¯t name myself for my favorite digital princess. Right? I mean, I¡¯ll know in my heart what a massive dork I am, and I¡¯ll have to remember that every time someone calls my name.

    I wish this body¡¯s previous resident had left a note somewhere in her head.

    I wonder if she ever hated her name.

    *

    I wake up from an afternoon nap and go to help Puck with the cooking. Most of what we eat is either stored behind panels on the kitchen wagon ¡ª a lot of root vegetables ¡ª or are things foraged in the woods. Brand hunts, which means there are usually rabbits or birds, but not every hunting venture is successful and the meat only keeps so long. Puck makes it last with an enormous pot on the stove that¡¯s always simmering, adding water and new foraged bits after every meal, putting in fresh bones and teasing out the old ones when they start to crumble. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    When I help, it is to make sure nothing burns while she¡¯s managing some other task. Her expectations are so reasonable that it¡¯s a relief to meet them. Cooking is not a challenge, especially when my only real responsibility is moving things around in a pan or stirring the contents of a pot, and I was more than capable of feeding myself in my previous life.

    Even so, Puck regularly throws me for a loop. I don¡¯t know jack about mushroom foraging, but she confidently tears things off of dead trees, chops them into pieces, and adds them to the pan. She identifies wild herbs and narrates things about their usefulness for various ailments, and if she doesn¡¯t incorporate them into the meal then she ties them into bundles and hangs them from the side of the kitchen wagon for later. When she starts talking about plants I try to pay attention, but I¡¯m not sure she expects me to remember. Puck seems very happy to keep the conversation going in a low murmur whether or not I¡¯m there to listen.

    I have no idea how many of these plants exist in my old life as well as in my new one. I can use a spice rack, but I don¡¯t think I could recognize most of it in a garden, let alone out in the wild.

    Puck brightens when she sees me approaching, waving me over to the stove and practically shoving her wooden spoon into my hand. ¡°Just stir everything now and then,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯ve got a project I¡¯d like to finish before dark.¡±

    I stand idly by the stove, rearranging the contents of the frying pan and then the soup pot, as Puck vanishes into the wagon for several minutes and then reappears again with a basket. In the basket are fistfuls of cut herbs, empty jars, and a large, glass bottle of something clear.

    ¡°I found a patch of that pain reliever herb,¡± she says. ¡°Perfect time to make more tincture.¡±

    I alternately prevent the food from burning and snoop on what she¡¯s doing. Puck stuffs leaf and stem of the herb into the jars without quite cramming it in, then pours the clear liquid into the space that remains. She puts on lids, taps the side of the jars, rolls them around a bit, then opens them and adds a little more liquid.

    ¡°You have to make sure everything¡¯s submerged,¡± she comments, mostly to herself. ¡°Keeps it from rotting.¡±

    When she is done, Puck squirrels everything away back in the wagon. I have to wonder at the inside; the amount of things she manages to appear and disappear with is incredible, and both she and Ma somehow have space to sleep in the middle of all that.

    I haven¡¯t seen the inside of the other wagons. I¡¯m curious, but also keenly aware of how scarce privacy is. I am already encroaching and am of limited use; I don¡¯t want to antagonize anyone into thinking it¡¯s time I become someone else¡¯s problem.

    ¡°Hey. You.¡±

    I jump. Thirsan steps out from beyond some enormous clumps of ferns, looking at me like I¡¯m the weird one for being startled. It turns out he¡¯s very good at making himself undetectable, and it comes just as naturally to him as his Vesuvian rage.

    ¡°I caught a fish,¡± he says. He holds up, indeed, a fish. ¡°Can you cook this?¡±

    I look at the pan, and look back to the fish again. I don¡¯t have room. I don¡¯t want to tell him no, either.

    ¡°Can you de-bone it?¡± I ask, because it seems an easy place to start.

    He slaps it down on the prep board and uses a knife pulled from somewhere on his person to remove the guts and the bones while I try to think of what to do with it.

    Puck saves me moments later, appearing just as Thirsan finishes. ¡°Chuck that in the soup, love,¡± she advises. ¡°Not the bones and bits, though, set those aside for Brand. He could use the bait.¡±

    It is disquieting, being this close to the hunting process. Circle of life or whatever, all living things eat, but most of my animal protein has been pretty far removed from what a live animal looks like. Rotisserie chickens, fish fillets with the skin still on, that sort of thing ¡ª not entire creatures freshly emptied of life. No one has asked me to do any butchering so far, but I¡¯m terrified it¡¯s going to happen and I¡¯ll faint on the spot.

    It isn¡¯t often that Thirsan comes within arm¡¯s reach of me, so when he stands beside me long enough to drop the fish meat into the pot, I¡¯m surprised by how much taller he is. I am definitely the shortest person in this little party, Puck only just beating me out for height, but I underestimate Thirsan every time. He has that stretched out look that older kittens and puppies get where they haven¡¯t quite grown into themselves. From several feet away it looks lanky and goofy; when he¡¯s towering over me I immediately remember what he¡¯s like when he¡¯s pissed.

    He leaves without another word.

    I talk to Brand almost as little as I do to Thirsan, but this is because Brand is often away from the campsite. He hunts, yes, but he also collects wood for the fire, which is a task here. In an ordinary forest, the kind of fallen branches you¡¯re likely to find on a typical walk will be good kindling; here, he needs an ax. Sometimes, though, he returns with maybe only a day¡¯s worth of wood strapped to his back, looking contemplative, and I suspect he also just enjoys the solitude.

    When Puck comes to take the wooden spoon from me, Finch reappears to see how dinner is coming along. We sit on different logs but at the ends closest to each other so we can chat. He tells me about the rest of his day, which mostly involved doing his and Thirsan¡¯s laundry. I tell him about watching Puck¡¯s project and he observes, ¡°Oh, making tinctures.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s all it is? Just¡­ pouring clear alcohol over plants?¡±

    ¡°Basically.¡±

    ¡°Huh.¡±

    ¡°She would be able to tell you more,¡± he adds. ¡°If you¡¯re interested.¡±

    I have no idea if I¡¯m interested, but it occurs to me I might need to learn some useful skills in the near future. I wasn¡¯t exactly thriving in my previous life, and that was the culture I was raised in ¡ª but I¡¯m optimistic. I miss coffee and I miss plumbing and I miss being much further removed from the processing of the dead animals I eat, but the crushing sense of having failed at being alive is gone. I can¡¯t remember the last time I felt so weightless.

    After dinner, Ma and I go to my wagon and she has me test my range of motion. This happens once every few days, and based on what she sees she gives comments like, ¡°Don¡¯t hike your shoulder,¡± or ¡°Keep your hips level.¡± After I¡¯ve done the active motion tests, she very carefully repositions my right arm while I do everything in my power to not use any of the muscles from my shoulder to my fingers. Once, there was a truly alarming POP from where my collar bone met my shoulder, and Ma froze and stared at me like she was waiting for me to scream ¡ª but after the initial jolt, it actually felt better.

    Then, for a little bit, it felt worse, as everything readjusted around it. But with all the brown-and-green bruises and the rest of the damaged tissue, this didn¡¯t make much of a difference. It felt like something that had been sitting out of position was finally back where it ought to be.

    I can raise my arm about forty-five degrees without much problem. I can¡¯t quite reach ninety, and it starts to shake the closer I get. When Ma guides it up and down, with no effort from me, it gets to about a hundred and fifteen degrees before meeting resistance. Ma is careful to avoid making me wince, so she doesn¡¯t try to push it to a hundred and twenty.

    When she has me hold my arm out at a comfortable angle and gently pushes down on it, it gives out immediately.

    ¡°It¡¯s looking better,¡± she says, helping me adjust the sling around my arm again. ¡°Might still be a week or two before you can do much with it, but it¡¯s improving.¡±

    ¡°Have you seen an injury like this before?¡± I ask, fidgeting in the sling. At this rate, I¡¯m going to have a stress injury in my neck from supporting the weight of my arm.

    ¡°Eh.¡± Ma waves a hand. ¡°Not exactly like it. Seen plenty of injuries, though. Some of them were a lot worse.¡±

    I debate whether or not to ask, then plunge in. ¡°When I heal, what happens next?¡±

    ¡°What happens?¡±

    ¡°Do I¡­ go somewhere? Do I stay with you?¡±

    Ma is surprised by the question, then sympathetic. ¡°I¡¯m not dropping you off at the nearest town, if that¡¯s what you mean.¡±

    I am relieved, and then startled to find I¡¯m crying. ¡°Oh, sorry, I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m¡­¡±

    If I apply a little thought, of course I know why. I have no idea where I am or whose body this is. Whatever history I¡¯m supposed to have in this place, it¡¯s lost to me. I thought I was used to spending a lot of time alone, but being alone in a city with grocery stores and a job you hate and an underfunded public transit system is not the same kind of alone as being a literal stranger to every aspect of your existence. My survival hinges on not being abandoned by this wagon-dwelling collective, and I am afraid.

    Ma does her best to give me a hug, then she goes to the door and says, ¡°Puck, can I borrow you for a moment?¡± before returning and rubbing my back reassuringly.

    ¡°What¡¯s the ¡ª oh dear ¡ª oh love, what happened?¡± says Puck, bustling inside, pulling me into her arms and rocking, hushing me fondly while Ma takes a relieved step out of the way.

    ¡°You can stay with us as long as you want,¡± Ma says.

    ¡°Of course she can,¡± adds Puck.

    ¡°We¡¯re¡­ We¡¯re an odd bunch. If you decide you¡¯d rather not live like this, we¡¯ll help you find somewhere else. Even if it takes you a little while to make that decision. If your memories return, I can see to it that you get back to where you belong. Until then, you¡¯re one of us.¡±

    I don¡¯t say that my memories will not be returning because that¡¯s a lot more explanation than I know how to give, not without adding several layers of confusion. But Ma¡¯s words unwind a nervous tension coiled up in my chest like the spring on a trap, and Puck is so soft and kind and reassuring.

    Ma excuses herself, and I wear out what energy I have left on crying. Puck makes me take some of the pain relieving tincture and lie down, then she sits beside the bed, humming quietly until I fall asleep.

 Chapter Three - Campsite Toddler; Tall Boys; Name

    In the morning, I feel a little silly about having cried. No amount of rationalizing the reasons I might have to come over all emotional will counteract the embarrassment that comes from having a breakdown in front of strangers. It doesn¡¯t matter how cute my new face is, crying is an ugly experience and I am mortified to have shared it with both Ma and Puck.

    Ever since my arrival in this body, in this place, I¡¯ve depended on everyone around me for all but the most essential actions. Now I have cried like a five year old who missed her nap, and exposing myself emotionally like that cuts too close to giving up all pretense of adulthood. I will not let myself be infantilized, not even by my own dumb ass.

    Puck is the only person in range when I exit the wagon, so I start by asking, ¡°Is there something I can do?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re still quite injured,¡± she says gently. ¡°I¡¯d rather not see you overwork yourself while you¡¯re healing.¡±

    ¡°Please? I¡¯m so bored. I feel like all I do is sit around waiting to feel better.¡±

    ¡°And why shouldn¡¯t you, love? Look at the state of you ¡ª bruised up arm you can¡¯t move properly, face still scabbed up. You¡¯re recovering well, but you aren¡¯t recovered.¡±

    When she sees I am perturbed by the prospect of yet another day spent resting quietly, she says, ¡°Let¡¯s go do a bit of foraging. I¡¯ll see if I can teach you something useful.¡±

    So I eat breakfast and we spend the next few hours puttering around the woods, in easy shouting distance of the fire, looking at mushrooms and bits of moss and the fiddleheads of ferns, Puck narrating all the while about some neat leaf or another and its use in medicine. I am fascinated but can¡¯t remember names by the time we return to camp. I want a notebook. I want use of my right hand.

    My shoulder joint sends a burning ache of warning at the mere thought of writing.

    During our foraging adventure, Puck lets me hold the mushroom bag. It¡¯s quite a lot smaller than her collecting basket, with straps that fit neatly around my wrist, and at first I thought it was a little patronizing but I quickly grasp she has the experience to assess what I can handle. After walking around the woods for hours, even at so easy a pace and on mostly level ground, I am exhausted. My right ankle hurts. The preemptive shoulder pain from my fantasy about taking notes triggers irrational anger, and I feel my functional age drop from five years old to three.

    ¡°I need to go lie down,¡± I say, as graciously as possible.

    ¡°Rest well, love. You did good work today.¡±

    I¡¯m still pissed off, but Puck¡¯s words make me feel a little better despite my new status as campsite toddler.

    *

    I can¡¯t remember the last time I was this badly incapacitated. Even colds blow over pretty quickly, and I never had a major injury. I tripped on stairs once in a while, but in the way where you grab for the handrail and your heart jumps into your throat and you count your blessings because God knows that¡¯s not a hospital visit you can afford ¡ª and then you go back to the rest of your day and forget about it. It¡¯s not the sort of thing that results in days upon days of compromised movement or sleep as pain management.

    It¡¯s also weirdly off-putting that no one is making demands over the things which are within my power. Instead, the feeling that I¡¯m being entertained instead of usefully employed persists. Puck has me help carry mushrooms while she identifies flora and fungi. Ma asks me to monitor the fire pit. Finch invites me along when he¡¯s doing dishes or laundry. Brand and Thirsan make no requests of me at all.

    This is not the kind of culture I am used to. The workplace attitude of ¡°Leaning time is cleaning time¡± gradually simplified into ¡°If you aren¡¯t busy, look busy.¡± Even my parents assumed that being home sick meant I could still do light chores. I feel like one of those people who go on vacation and can¡¯t enjoy the beach because there¡¯s no goal.

    My thoughts aren¡¯t the problem, I think. I could sit on a beach on vacation for a couple weeks. It¡¯s just the social conditioning of constant activity: I¡¯ll get in trouble if I¡¯m caught looking too relaxed. I feel guilty that I¡¯m not doing more, even if I¡¯m not actually sure what I should be doing.

    Because, of course, I don¡¯t actually know. I might have camped a few times but I know nothing about survivalist hobbies, and as much as this place is basically familiar ¡ª people and beds and frying pans and cardigans ¡ª the differences give it all an uncanny quality. I don¡¯t recognize any of the names Puck uses for plants, or the shape of their leaves, and I have no idea if that¡¯s because I just never noticed these or if they truly aren¡¯t something I would have seen before. The massive, silvery-gray trees around us are nothing like the massive trees I know of. I don¡¯t recognize the fish or the birds, but I don¡¯t know how much of that is a personal failing and how much goes to show that I am not in Kansas anymore. So even if I had been a prepper weirdo, I¡¯m not sure how much it would help me here. Any fish I could catch one-handed might still be poisonous and I wouldn¡¯t know.

    Wandering around, at least, either improves my stamina or reveals how much of it I have recovered. The light foraging trips with Puck get a little longer each time, and I don¡¯t need a nap quite as urgently when we are done. I stay awake long enough to watch her chop up leaves and throw them into the soup pot, or press my finger to the thread she¡¯s wound around bundles of plants while she fastens a knot into place.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    The feeling of doing toddler-level labor doesn¡¯t change, but I resent it less.

    ¡°I understand why it¡¯s important to hang the herbs,¡± I say, holding the end of a string with several bundles of herbs knotted along its length. ¡°But why do you hang some of them outside, and some of them inside the wagon?¡±

    ¡°These ones are repellents,¡± Puck answers. ¡°As they dry, they release a scent into the air that deter pests and things from the campsite.¡±

    ¡°Will you still use them in food or medicine or¡­ whatever? Once they¡¯re dry?¡±

    ¡°Oh yes. Anything I can put in a bottle. It¡¯s just lucky that they ward off trouble while I¡¯m preparing them for storage.¡± She steps down from her footstool, shifts it over a few feet, and steps up again. ¡°The ones inside are a little more delicate; too much light while they¡¯re drying, and they lose potency.¡±

    The light here isn¡¯t very strong to begin with, as the trees block so much of it, so I am mulling over how delicate this must make them as Puck tries to shift her footstool over again and is stymied by tree roots.

    ¡°¡¯Ey, gentlemen,¡± she calls. ¡°Can one of you reach high enough to get the string over the hook?¡±

    Finch gets up from the fireside. ¡°I¡¯ve got it.¡±

    ¡°Bless, love, thank you.¡± Puck hands him the string, and he reaches up and manages to push it into place, standing on his toes. The overhanging roof of the wagon is only just within his reach. He moves down the length of the string, toward me, and reaches for the next hook ¡ª but the ground is very slightly lower.

    ¡°Pass me the footstool,¡± he says.

    ¡°I can do it.¡± Thirsan rises from where he has been more preoccupied with watching Finch than the root vegetables roasting over the fire.

    ¡°If I can¡¯t reach it, you can¡¯t reach it.¡±

    ¡°Yeah I can.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m taller than you.¡±

    ¡°No you¡¯re not.¡±

    Finch looks at him like he¡¯s just claimed he can grow gills. Thirsan holds out his hand for the string, and Finch hands it to him, fully expecting to be proven right.

    He isn¡¯t. Thirsan can reach the hook. Without acknowledging me, he takes the end of the string from my hand and loops that over the last hook, too. Then he turns to Finch and smirks.

    ¡°You¡¯re not actually taller than me yet,¡± Finch says, very slightly put out and unable to hide it.

    ¡°I am. I keep telling you I¡¯m taller, and you don¡¯t believe me.¡±

    ¡°Fine, back to back, let¡¯s see. Puck, who¡¯s taller?¡±

    ¡°Oh honestly, boys, aren¡¯t we a little old for this?¡± says Puck, then she squints and says, ¡°Well look at that. Thirsan finally outgrew you.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Ha!¡±

    ¡°No way, the ground must not be flat here ¡ª¡°

    ¡°I told you, I told you weeks ago ¡ª¡°

    ¡°All right, all right, you two, go mind the vegetables please, thank you for your assistance¡­¡±

    Finch glances at me and insists one more time that there is no way Thirsan is taller than he is, this blow to his pride just a little more than he¡¯s prepared to accept, and I want to tell him he¡¯s still very tall and it doesn¡¯t diminish him just because his moody teenage brother is very slightly taller, but I don¡¯t think I should get in the middle of this. If I say something, I¡¯ll say the truth and it will almost definitely make things worse. Thirsan will double down on gloating, or Finch will know I can see this dealt psychic damage and the damage will only magnify. Instead, I make myself busy helping Puck with the next bundles of herbs, and save Finch some pride by pretending not to notice he lost any.

    *

    Going nameless for however many days or weeks since whatever act of sorcery brought me here has been almost a relief, but the absence of a name is a vacuum desperate to be filled and I need to think of one before someone else does.

    I¡¯ve been trying them on. I have a lot of idle moments in which to do this, so I run through names I¡¯ve always liked ¡ª names I thought maybe I¡¯d give to a daughter, if I had one, or names I¡¯ve given to characters in video games. The boring Earth name my parents gave me never felt like it quite fit, like it was just sounds I¡¯d grown accustomed to. With a new body to work with and no past to work from, choosing a name feels as important as choosing who I¡¯m going to be while living with it.

    And yes, I take forever to name my player characters, too.

    When Puck sits me down to inspect the scar on my face after the last remnants of scab peel off, I ask her as casually as possible, ¡°Do you like the name Akasha?¡±

    She makes eye contact very briefly, surprised, then goes back to studying the scar with unnecessary intensity. ¡°Do you like it?¡±

    ¡°I think so.¡± I don¡¯t want to sound so nervous, but I am. I always liked the name but I only learned about it while watching a really questionable vampire movie. I doubt that movie made it to theatres here, though, and I think this face is pretty enough to be an Akasha. Still, I want Puck¡¯s reassurance. Just in case Akasha was the name of this place¡¯s Vlad the Impaler and I haven¡¯t sidestepped the vampire association after all.

    ¡°Would you like me to start calling you that, then?¡± she asks.

    ¡°If it¡¯s all right. If it isn¡¯t weird. Is it a weird name?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s very pretty, love. It suits the blue of your eyes.¡± She smiles, and I have no idea how a name can suit someone¡¯s eyes but if Puck says it¡¯s so, then I¡¯ll trust her. Then she says, ¡°Well, Akasha. You¡¯re going to have a very striking scar for a while, but given time I think the worst of it will heal over. You might not even notice unless you¡¯re looking for it. I¡¯ve got an ointment that should help minimize the scarring, now that the scab is gone.¡±

    She goes to get the pot of ointment from her wagon, returns, demonstrates how much to use and how to apply it, and calls me Akasha again while telling me to keep it next to my bed and to apply it before I go to sleep and when I wake up. I feel an anxious thrill at hearing her say it. I have a name again.

    It feels momentous. I¡¯m the joined existence of this body and the spirit inhabiting it. This is my identity, now: Akasha, short and bright-eyed and very cute, impatient to be useful, hopelessly oblivious. I¡¯m working on it.

    Even though I don¡¯t want to go back, I think about the body I left behind, rolling in the waves with an ill-fitting name. It deserved better.

    I¡¯m sorry, I think, as though my thoughts will carry across time and space to who I was before. And who knows ¡ª maybe they do.

 Chapter Four - Moving On; A Small Sense of Surroundings; About Predators

    Puck says things like, ¡°Could I have you mind the stove for a moment, Akasha?¡± and ¡°Akasha, love, bring this over to Finch, would you?¡± just often enough that my name spreads without a formal announcement. This is a relief. I can¡¯t imagine going around telling everyone individually any better than I can imagine requesting everyone¡¯s attention around the fire and declaring myself.

    I still feel my ears go hot when Finch says, ¡°Morning, Akasha,¡± the next day, but he blushes, too, so at least it¡¯s not just me.

    As if my name is the sign she has been waiting for, Ma announces after breakfast, ¡°We¡¯re moving camp today. Brand is getting the ¡ª¡°

    She says a word absolutely no one else is fazed by, and I am immediately certain I will look stupid if I ask.

    ¡° ¡ª so make sure your wagons are locked down. Secure or protect anything you don¡¯t want breaking. As soon as the ¡ª¡° the word again; hih-buh-vins? ¡° ¡ª are hitched up, we¡¯re going. Akasha, I know you don¡¯t have much, but it¡¯s important you learn the process; I¡¯ll show you what to look out for in the storage wagon.¡±

    Ma exchanges a few words with Puck, then we go into the storage wagon where she directs me in the way the trunks are fastened to the wall and the floor by rope to keep them from sliding. She opens them up to demonstrate how things are stacked together, how soft items are used to reduce impact to delicate things, how the trunks are filled to the lids in such a way that the contents can still move but not bounce.

    ¡°You won¡¯t have to worry about this right now,¡± she says, ¡°But for future reference, I recommend never packing things onto your bed. You can fill the floor or line the walls, but if we¡¯ve been traveling all day then the last thing you want to deal with at the end is moving a heavy trunk out of the way so you can sleep.¡±

    In my former life, I had damned myself while cleaning my room by using the bed as an extra shelf, and more than once had to make a judgment call on whether or not the laundry was getting folded or if I was just sleeping next to it. I understood this recommendation intimately.

    I am helping Puck condense the kitchen furniture onto the back of her wagon, impressed at the way even the prep counter fits into place around the stove, when Brand returns from the woods with the hibbovins. I stare. They look like burly, hunch-backed horses with horns that swoop around their ears and along their jawlines. Their hooves are cloven. Their tails are tufted, lashing whips. They are soot-dark and yellow-eyed, but follow Brand docilely, and stand two to a wagon while he hitches them in place.

    ¡°They¡¯re just hibbovins, love,¡± Puck says, touching my left shoulder.

    I nod, quick and silent, because they aren¡¯t ¡®just¡¯ anything. Hibbovins look like fresh exports from Hell, disturbingly graceful for their size, and with that grace comes a quiet that makes them seem less real. No matter how hard I try to pay attention to what Puck is showing me about locking up the kitchen, I can¡¯t tear my eyes away from the enormous demons Brand leads around like sheep.

    Once the monsters are hitched, Brand directs the wagons one at a time away from the circle around the fire pit and into a line, starting with Finch and Thirsan¡¯s, then mine, then Brand¡¯s own, then Ma and Puck¡¯s. As he does this, everyone else checks around the area for items left behind. Finch uses the soup pot to pour creek water over the fire pit.

    ¡°Are we ready?¡± asks Puck.

    Ma nods. ¡°Looks like. Brand, take the lead. Thirsan, you¡¯re on storage. Akasha, sit with Finch. Puck and I will take the rear.¡±

    It is only now I realize that I will be sitting directly behind a pair of the creatures, not walking at a safe and respectable distance to the side or perhaps several yards behind. My heart starts to pound.

    ¡°Do¡­ do we sit inside?¡± I ask Finch.

    He laughs. ¡°Nah ¡ª up here.¡±

    Then he pulls a hidden ladder from just beneath the roof and starts climbing.

    The roof of the wagon is carved out in such a way that there is a sort of wide trough down its center, and a guard rail at the back. I imagine it could be used as extra storage space, if someone had more than would easily fit in the wagon, but most immediately, it is space where Finch and I can sit with a view that lets us see the way ahead of the hibbovins. I could probably lie down in the open space and feel quite safe.

    Ahead of us, Thirsan is already seated on top of the storage wagon, reins in hand, looking a little bored. Behind us, Ma helps Puck into a seated position beside her, laughing as she sways into Ma¡¯s shoulder.

    ¡°You all right?¡± Finch asks. ¡°Not afraid of heights, are you?¡±

    ¡°I think I¡¯m fine.¡±

    ¡°Do you want to steer?¡±

    ¡°No!¡±

    He laughs, and I realize he¡¯s yanking my chain ¡ª I am obviously terrified of the hibbovins, so of course handing me the reins is a bad idea.

    If I were in perfect health, I probably could have walked briskly alongside the wagons and kept pace with them. Brand guides the way through the trees, winding along a path which looks more like a coincidence of space than a proper road. The ride is not smooth, the wheels bumping and juddering over roots and rocks and whatever else hides below the leaves of small growing things, but there has to be something absorbing the worst of the impact because it doesn¡¯t feel like my teeth will rattle out of my head. The rocking has a hypnotic effect. The hibbovins are unnerving to watch, muscles rippling beneath their fur with each step, but I keep my eyes on the forest and it passes like a dream.

    *

    We arrive at a small meadow in the middle of the afternoon and stop to stretch our legs and eat. The hibbovins wander into the meadow, wading through the weeds that grow much more densely where the sun can reach the soil, and they set out chewing on anything their mouths can reach. My fellow humans and I stay near the meadow¡¯s edge and lunch on dried meat and foraged greens.

    ¡°Makin¡¯ good time,¡± Brand remarks. ¡°The way¡¯s been clear, got here earlier¡¯n I thought.¡±

    ¡°Where are we going?¡± I ask, mostly to make conversation. My entire world has been the size of our campsite and its immediate surroundings for days unnumbered. Nothing he says will mean anything to me.

    He takes a stick and starts marking the ground, one wavy line to the left, one to the right, then a dot closer to the right side. ¡°We started here,¡± he says. ¡°That¡¯s where we were camping the last little while.¡± He makes another dot a couple inches lower and a bit to the left. ¡°Here¡¯s about where we are now. And here¡­¡± he moves the point in an undulating line through the air several more inches down, as though roughly indicating the path ahead, then finally stabs it into the dirt about a foot and a half away. ¡°¡­is where we¡¯re headed next.¡±

    ¡°Oh. We¡¯ll be doing this several days?¡±

    ¡°Yuh. ¡®Bout a week and a half, conditions permitting.¡±

    I look at his rough map. ¡°What¡¯s the boundary? Here and here.¡± I point to the wavy lines on either side. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    ¡°It¡¯s the edge of the forest ¡ª the outer walls.¡±

    ¡°¡­walls? The forest has walls?¡±

    He looks at me strangely, then remembers I am supposedly an amnesiac. ¡°We¡¯re in the Sunken Forest.¡±

    ¡°Sunken¡­ Forest.¡± I frown down at the edges of the crude map as though I might understand a few lines in the dirt better than his words. Brand takes pity and elaborates.

    ¡°So this is one side, right, and this is the other, and in the middle¡­¡± he makes a series of wavy lines running between them. ¡°There¡¯s this river. Once, this river filled the whole forest ¡ª you can see the bones of fish in the forest walls, some places. But the river got smaller and smaller over time, and then this forest grew up in the old river bed. The trees are special, they only grow here, and they grow as high as the wall and no taller. They¡¯re river trees. Looks incredible from up top.¡±

    I look up, up, up, at the branches overhead. I look at the gap that is the meadow, and the hole between the branches that lets the sunlight in. The trees tower over us, and I try to imagine what he has described ¡ª a canyon, isn¡¯t it? A canyon full of enormous trees.

    Brand is watching me with growing amusement. ¡°It¡¯s haunted down here, too,¡± he adds. ¡°Spooky shit lives in the Sunken Forest.¡±

    ¡°Brand,¡± says Ma, a warning bite in her tone.

    ¡°She oughta know,¡± he replies defensively.

    ¡°She doesn¡¯t need to hear cryptid horror stories.¡±

    ¡°She wants to know about them ¡ª Akasha, you want to know what¡¯s out here, right?¡±

    I nod encouragingly, because yes I absolutely want to know what this place¡¯s next best thing to Bigfoot is.

    Ma sighs. ¡°Don¡¯t give her nightmares.¡±

    *

    Brand tells me about the Sobilah, whose name I recognize from before ¡ª a floating hand with an eye on each finger and one on its palm, which drifts between the trees looking for prey. Then he describes a coravik, which sounds more like an ordinary bird of prey than a cryptid, small and gray with a curved beak and sharp talons and an unnerving ability to go for the eyes, sometimes out of spite. What makes it stand out as something other than a very rare raptor is that it usually appears like a divine punishment after witnessing something you shouldn¡¯t; someone bathing in the river, or clandestine meetings among the trees. It¡¯s unclear from Brand¡¯s stories if the coravik is a protector of nude bathers and private gatherings, or if it¡¯s a vengeful shapeshifter.

    The nude bathers are either a ghost or a cryptid, too, depending on the story, luring people to their doom or just seducing the unsuspecting. He calls them ¡°river beauties¡± and gets a little too far into a story about the time he met one before Ma and Puck simultaneously realize what he¡¯s saying and shout, ¡°Brand!¡±

    He cuts off, remembering himself and that he is telling a cute young lady about one of his youthful misadventures, and he laughs and blushes and laughs some more. ¡°You don¡¯t need to hear all that,¡± he says. ¡°Point is, I lived to tell the tale.¡±

    ¡°And you kept your eyes, too,¡± I add, and he laughs once again in agreement.

    I don¡¯t need to hear the details, of course. But I¡¯m not delicate, either, and I kind of want to know if the whole story was as funny as he made it sound.

    Finch and Thirsan reappear from wherever they have ventured to, collecting fresh drinking water from one of the streams criss-crossing the Sunken Forest. In light of what Brand has told me, I am reconsidering these streams; they must branch off from the river, or run down to join it. They are the thin remnants of what was once something vast and deep.

    The world I live in has become incrementally bigger.

    When we resume traveling, I ask Finch, ¡°Do you know any cryptid stories?¡±

    ¡°Cryptids?¡±

    ¡°Brand was telling me about them. We covered the Sobilah, and coraviks, and river beauties. Actually, that¡¯s where we got sidetracked; Brand was telling me about how he met one, and then Ma and Puck interrupted before it got¡­ um. Too detailed.¡±

    Finch laughs the awkward laugh of someone who knows the rest of the story and is distressed to think I almost had my poor, naive mind afflicted by that knowledge, too. ¡°That was quick of them. Just stay away from the river and you won¡¯t have to worry about it.¡±

    ¡°Do you have a river beauty story?¡±

    I am only asking to tease him, which proves rewarding. He turns crimson.

    ¡°No!¡±

    ¡°Really? A healthy young man like you never went looking to tempt fate while fishing?¡±

    ¡°Too risky. I have more sense than that.¡±

    ¡°Are they all girls? Maybe I should go test my luck, see if there¡¯s a handsome man waiting in the water to seduce me.¡±

    Finch actually responds, ¡°You¡¯re thinking of woodsmen,¡± which is so much more informative than I expect that I forget my teasing.

    ¡°Woodsmen? Are they ghosts or cryptids?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re¡­¡± he thinks. ¡°More cryptid than ghost. River beauties are like that, too, though, where it could be either. Or both. Sometimes it¡¯s one, and sometimes it¡¯s the other.¡±

    ¡°How do you tell?¡±

    He shrugs. ¡°Ask? I don¡¯t know, it hasn¡¯t really come up.¡±

    ¡°So river beauties are women, and woodsmen are men.¡±

    ¡°Usually.¡±

    ¡°And woodsmen, what, run around the forest with no clothes on, daring women to chase them? Do they have coraviks, too?¡±

    ¡°Ha! No. Woodsmen are just handsome.¡± He thinks. ¡°They usually have a dog. Or they¡¯re looking for a dog. You have to watch out, though, because if you start talking to him and you aren¡¯t seduced by his charms, he might go at you with an ax.¡±

    I puzzle over the idea of a lumberjack who doesn¡¯t take ¡®no¡¯ very well as a cryptid. ¡°How is he not just some guy trying to meet girls in the forest? I mean ¡ª¡° I stop myself before saying weird flex, but the feeling is there. ¡°It sounds like a spook made up to discourage girls from wandering around the woods alone. Or from talking to strangers.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not a spook,¡± Finch says, then pauses while he thinks of an explanation. ¡°The river beauties and the woodsmen are both half in, half out. Here, but not all here.¡±

    He looks at me to see if this vague explanation is working at all. It is, sort of. I used to read a lot as a kid, and this sounds like exactly the kind of thing you¡¯d read about in myths or folklore ¡ª you turn around, and the person you were just talking to is gone. The cozy cottage that kept you safe from the storm overnight is a broken down hovel when you come back a week later. That kind of thing.

    ¡°So how do you tell the difference? How do you know if it¡¯s a person or a cryptid or ghost or whatever?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to tell,¡± says Finch. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to walk away.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s it? What if it¡¯s just a person?¡±

    ¡°If you¡¯re alone in the woods, don¡¯t talk to strangers. Simple as.¡±

    I bite back the petulant impulse to press, to find out what one was legitimately supposed to do if some guy is looking for his dog and there¡¯s no one else around. Maybe all of it is made up stories so guys like Brand can brag about hooking up with ghost ladies at the river, or to mythologize wariness of strangers; the point wasn¡¯t to make people anxious, but to assert it¡¯s better to be safe than sorry. Don¡¯t go in the woods alone, and if you absolutely must then be aware of stranger danger.

    ¡°So what should I have done?¡± I ask, because I can¡¯t just let it rest. ¡°I wake up in a strange bed in a wagon in the woods, surrounded by strangers. Some woodsman walks in on me while I¡¯m checking my injuries. What then?¡±

    Finch looks surprised, then a little embarrassed. ¡°That was different.¡±

    ¡°I dunno, Mister Woodsman. Trusting strangers just because there was no one else around doesn¡¯t sound like I had a lot of choice. Maybe there needs to be a signal so you know who¡¯s human and who¡¯s only half there.¡±

    ¡°Woodsmen and river beauties wouldn¡¯t help an injured person. They¡¯re more like predators.¡±

    ¡°So you¡¯re definitely not a predator.¡±

    It is very interesting that Finch stops himself before agreeing with this sentence and gives it some real thought. ¡°I definitely didn¡¯t want to hurt you,¡± he says. ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s so for a woodsman.¡±

    ¡°So you might be a predator?¡±

    He does not immediately agree with this either. ¡°I¡¯m a hunter,¡± he says, finally. ¡°I take advantage of weaknesses to eat. ¡®Hunter¡¯ is just ¡®predator¡¯ with more tools, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve given this some thought.¡±

    ¡°Some.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t elaborate.

 Chapter Five - There Are People In The Forest; Stay On The Road

    We stop for the night on the edge of a different meadow. Brand unhitches the hibbovins so they can graze freely and rest. Puck gets the stove going from coals which have stayed hot all day in the oven, despite how far we have traveled; the kitchen rig is designed with consideration for days like these, and she turns the coals into a fire to cook over in short order.

    ¡°Shan¡¯t be making soup tonight,¡± she muses, as I help her feed sticks and dry wood into the flames. ¡°But I think Thirsan and Finch will be back with a fish or two soon enough, and if I move fast I can get to some nice greens ahead of the hibbovins and we¡¯ll have some of those, too.¡±

    We eat. We go to bed. In the morning, breakfast is jerky and foraged plants and fresh water. We resume traveling within an hour of waking up.

    As we cross another narrow creek, I ask Finch, ¡°Will we be coming close to the river?¡±

    ¡°Not today. Why?¡±

    ¡°Just curious. Brand was telling me yesterday about how this whole area used to be riverbed. I was wondering what it looks like now.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll be coming up to it sooner or later. Depends on which route Brand takes us on.¡±

    ¡°There are routes?¡± I look around. I can¡¯t even see a road. ¡°How can you tell?¡±

    ¡°Mostly just experience. You learn what to look for.¡±

    I try to pay attention, looking for clues that there is a road or that it diverges one way or another. Whatever Brand reads in the trees at the head of our procession, I can¡¯t see it from the roof of the third wagon. There are just trees, big enough that the space they need between them for their roots to spread is also wide enough for the wagons to pass through with no trouble.

    That there are covertly marked routes implies there are more people.

    ¡°Are there a lot of people in the Sunken Forest?¡±

    Finch thinks. ¡°Maybe? We¡¯re definitely not the only ones.¡±

    ¡°How big is the Sunken Forest?¡± I ask, and when he looks puzzled by the effort of trying to contextualize this, I add, ¡°Could a hundred wagons be in the forest at once and not bump into each other for days?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°A thousand?¡±

    ¡°Probably not a thousand. Maybe a few hundred.¡±

    ¡°Huh.¡±

    I¡¯m starting to sound like a little kid again, which is humbling. I have only slightly more comprehension of my surroundings than the average child, and I already don¡¯t love the feeling that I am the most annoying person in my extremely limited world, but these aren¡¯t really circumstances where I can fake my way through what I don¡¯t know until I figure it out. Much like a child, there is a very real chance I could kill myself with how much I don¡¯t know.

    I probably shouldn¡¯t be too hard on myself. Most of the adults I knew were also city dwellers who wouldn¡¯t be much better off. Still, I miss my cell phone. I miss search bars. I miss being able to ask whatever questions I need answered without having to rely on the good nature of another person.

    But that¡¯s not an option. I go back to interrogating Finch.

    ¡°So there¡¯s at least a few hundred other wagons?¡±

    Finch weighs this doubtfully. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe around that number.¡±

    ¡°But there¡¯s easily five hundred people living in the forest?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°And they all know how to find a way through the trees?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Have they made villages? A village. Is there a town?¡±

    ¡°Not in the forest, no.¡±

    I fall silent again. At least five hundred people, but no village?

    Finch adds, ¡°There are villages on the outside. Towns, cities. We go up to Holyhill once in a while, which is pretty big. It¡¯s about half a day¡¯s walk from the forest. Down here though, I think I¡¯ve seen¡­ maybe sixty wagons together at once. There¡¯s definitely more of us, but we don¡¯t hang out in large groups for too long. We¡¯re on our way to a quarter meet now, though.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s a quarter meet?¡±

    This question kicks off an explanation about seasonal gatherings that take place up and down the Sunken Forest, three week windows where bands of people ¡ª like ours ¡ª come together, trade news or goods, and generally hang out and party. There are designated locations, but who meets where is a matter of proximity and the state of the river, whose course shifts and swells and dwindles according to the weather and the season.

    ¡°We¡¯re closest to Star Point,¡± says Finch, ¡°Which is a Spring and Autumn meeting ground ¡ª high enough it won¡¯t flood, gets warm sun during the day but isn¡¯t too cold at night.¡±

    ¡°So that¡¯s where we¡¯re going? Star Point?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    I am immediately pulled in opposite directions by excitement and anxiety. A quarter meet sounds fun. It also sounds like I will be soon be oblivious and peculiar in front of a much wider audience, and I only have two outfits, both of which have been modified from Ma¡¯s wardrobe. They are fine ¡ª they are practical and comfortable ¡ª but I am suddenly, keenly aware of my vanity. I am so pretty. I want to dress myself up like a doll for a party. I never again want to experience being under-dressed in a room full of my peers, trying to project that I am unconcerned in clothes that beg to be overlooked and ignored.

    I take a breath. I unclench my feet in my soft pelt shoes.

    Okay, I think. Probably need to work through some things.

    These are, after all, Ma¡¯s old clothes. She and everyone else I know here dress very similarly, a lot of earth tones, wool, plant fibers. Puck wears swishy skirts, green and blue and brown and unbleached cotton or something very like it. She did a good job of hemming what I am wearing into something that looks like it was always mine. My cardigan is a little long, but my breasts are bigger than Ma¡¯s and she¡¯s leaner than I am, so I probably don¡¯t look like I¡¯m swimming in it. I will not be out of place. I will be a stranger, but I will still look like I belong.

    Finch cannot possibly know my thoughts, but he intuits something of them and says, ¡°You don¡¯t need to be nervous. Everyone¡¯s really friendly. If you need help, I¡¯ll be there.¡±

    I look up at him, grateful even if he hasn¡¯t quite understood the flashbacks I am having to middle school. Or high school. Or college. ¡°Thanks, Finch.¡±

    ¡°I mean, it won¡¯t be just me. We¡¯ll all be around, you know, helping you meet people or¡­getting acquainted. It¡¯ll be fine.¡± He is trying so hard not to sound like a hero, bashfully overcompensating for something that almost sounded like intimacy.

    I want very badly to start teasing him, but he¡¯s trying to be a gentleman by offering help as much as he is by not making it about himself. So I don¡¯t say anything, and I think about leaning over to bump a shoulder affectionately into his arm, but my shoulder is still a little bruised and achy. Anyway, maybe a gentleman is all he¡¯s trying to be. Maybe he can¡¯t help being a little bashful when I look up at him like he¡¯s my very own knight in shining armor.

    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    *

    Our way through the forest weaves and wends, even when it looks like there might be more direct courses between the trees. I have to wonder at this, at what it is that Brand sees that makes him choose the most winding way. I am also irritated by asking all the time, so during our midday break on the fourth day, I wander back the way we came to look for whatever it was Brand saw that had us bending to the right, past the trunks of three vast trees, then curving back to the left and to the place where we finally stopped. He could have led us in a straight line to the same place with no trouble.

    What I notice first is that, in the tracks through the low-growing greenery made by the wagon wheels, there is a mesh of roots across the surface of the forest floor. This is softened by fallen needles and woodland detritus, but I can feel with each step where the narrow roots of trees break through the surface of the earth. All the other plants with their green stems and soft leaves have found space between these roots, and grow only just past my knee at the tallest.

    There are places where the plants appear taller, but as I investigate I see they are growing from rises in the ground itself ¡ª and with a little prodding, I discover these rises are fallen tree limbs deteriorating under the effects of weather, water, time, and the work of new growing things, if they aren¡¯t just mounds of earth. There is a subtle pattern to their placement, too. If we hadn¡¯t just ridden through, if the wagon wheels hadn¡¯t left their track through the foliage, I might not have noticed. These overgrown rises are placed to surreptitiously guide the eye. From the top of a wagon, at the head of a line, this might be more obvious.

    It doesn¡¯t take long to figure out why Brand had turned instead of going straight, either. There is no rotting log blocking the way, but beneath all the live plants is a thick root growing into the path which would be a bear to go over in a wagon. If the root isn¡¯t enough to tip a wagon over, it would definitely be hard on the wheels and everything above them. The shape of the tree trunk where it meets the root bulges visibly, even though the root itself is hidden ¡ª this, I imagine, is the kind of thing Brand knows to watch for. He can read the trees and the secret roads of the Sunken Forest.

    I walk back to the wagons with new attention to my surroundings, arriving at the hump of a buried log that signals to steer left. I step onto and over it, dismissing the twinge in my ankle as a minor complaint. I haven¡¯t exercised much in the last few days, and it is getting tight from disuse.

    I hear water. Not just the contented murmuring of a creek, but a rushing, rhythmic chant.

    That, I¡¯m almost certain, is the river.

    I look around me, taking note of the place I have just come from. There isn¡¯t a lot to see here, nothing that looks like the marks of a wagon road, but this only means that the buried log I just stepped over is easy to pick out against the rest of the forest. Straight ahead, there is more light through the trees where sun reaches down into the empty space the river has carved.

    It is a straight line from the log to the river. It isn¡¯t even daring, wandering off by myself for a few minutes. It¡¯s fifty yards, tops.

    I can do this.

    I look back a few times, checking and re-checking and re-re-checking that I still recognize where I started from, and I decide I won¡¯t go far. I just want to see what it looks like.

    The trees open onto a small beach of pale, round stones. Most of it is still shadowed, but the sun cuts across the treetops to reflect off of the river, so bright my eyes water. A long, pale limb of driftwood lays crookedly against the bank, and I use it as a guide rail down the slope to where forest floor becomes riverside.

    The river is entrancing. From where I stand, it flows from around a bend to my right and sweeps past to my left. This stony little beach probably floods when it rains. I walk up to the water¡¯s edge, stopping before I risk getting my shoes wet, and stand in a patch of glorious sunlight. The rocks warm the soles of my feet. I stay there a few minutes, basking in the sun until my skin starts to prickle with sweat.

    I check the way back into the woods, up the length of driftwood marking where I came from, just to reassure myself that I can¡¯t possibly get lost that easily. I walk a little ways upriver ¡ª barely upriver; twenty feet upriver ¡ª and enjoy the thrill at how fast the water moves, how clear it is, how quickly it drops off into darkness. Not a spot for casual bathing, then.

    Movement catches my eye and I look up. Through the air, above the river¡¯s surface, a shape floats toward me. It takes me a moment to make sense of what I am seeing. It looks like an angelfish, triangular and flat and several hundred times larger than anything I¡¯ve seen in an aquarium. From its top to bottom fins, it is at least three of my body lengths. Maybe almost four. It moves with slow, ethereal grace, peacefully unconcerned.

    It has all the substance of a bubble full of smoke. It fades away to nothing at its edges, the faint impression of a thin membrane the only indication that its fins don¡¯t blur into nonexistence. It makes me think of a glass ornament come to life.

    It notices me with the attention of an afterthought, idly flicking its tail fin to adjust its course for a closer examination. Its eyes tilt forward, pale pink pupils shining against bright white irises.

    From behind me, I hear Finch¡¯s voice.

    ¡°Akasha?¡±

    I turn towards him, awed. ¡°Are you seeing this? Are there seriously ghost fish here?¡±

    Finch does not look impressed. He looks alarmed. He whistles sharply through the fingers of his left hand and makes a sweeping circular motion with his right. It looks like he¡¯s bowling without the ball, and I have just enough time to think, Huh, that¡¯s weird, before wooden staves burst out of the ground in a circle around me, half a second before the fish lunges forward. It smacks forcefully into the staves, mouth snapping like it¡¯s hoping to suck me in.

    I yelp and drop to the ground. The fish reverses, then darts forward for a second attempt before drifting to the side, assessing. I am surrounded by staves ¡ª no, saplings, live trees as thick as my wrist, sprouting out from between the rocks and twisting to meet over my head. The ghost fish tries again, more for the sake of trying than a focused effort, then turns toward Finch.

    Finch, yelling and waving his arms to attract attention, starts to throw rocks to control the fish¡¯s movement, slowly making his way across the beach and closer to me with the forest at his back. The ghost fish is not deterred so much as intrigued by the fight Finch puts up and it watches with interest, dipping closer, darting back. Finch whistles again.

    ¡°Here!¡± shouts Ma, and then there she is, storming out of the trees with Puck and Thirsan. Puck throws an object into the air above all our heads, and Ma ¡ª

    Ma throws a goddamned fireball.

    The object pops into violet smoke. The ghost fish, unfazed, swims forward. Then it flinches back, and back, and back, the smoke clinging and trailing as it tries to escape. It turns away and swims through the air above the river at a speed which, after everything else I¡¯ve just seen, is upsetting to contemplate.

    ¡°Everyone all right?¡± Ma asks.

    ¡°Fine,¡± says Finch, a little breathlessly.

    I am too preoccupied to answer, shakily squeezing myself out from between the trunks of the saplings. ¡°What the fuck was that?¡±

    ¡°One of many reasons you never go off by yourself.¡± Ma¡¯s tone is just sharp enough to sting. ¡°What were you thinking?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t know,¡± I say, cringing at how whiny and defensive I sound. ¡°I just wanted to see the river. It was sunny, I heard water.¡±

    Ma looks about ready to start lecturing, but she closes her eyes instead, jaw clenching. She takes a breath and exhales slowly, almost definitely praying for serenity. When she responds, her voice is the careful calm of someone mindfully containing their temper. ¡°I need you to stay in view of one of us at all times. Until I say otherwise, don¡¯t wander off on your own. Please. The forest is not safe. Especially for someone with no experience.¡±

    Her eyes meet mine, expectant. I nod. She nods. Then she turns back toward the woods. ¡°Come on. Brand¡¯s probably getting worried.¡±

    We all follow her back toward the trees. All the good feeling from the warm sunshine has gone, and I feel irrationally ashamed of myself for nearly getting eaten by a¡­ a what? A ghost fish? Is this one of the ghosts Brand and Finch were telling me about?

    Does that mean all those other stories weren¡¯t just folklore?

    And was that a literal fireball Ma threw? And the saplings ¡ª that was Finch, right?

    The boundaries of the known world collapse under the weight of new information. I knew, basically, what to expect with a life lived in wagons. There was a lot to learn, but that was inevitable. I could believe there was a place for me and I could work hard to find it.

    But monsters?

    Magic?

    Did I get rebooted as a video game character?

    The sense of being overwhelmed and underpowered that I left behind in my previous life sends a delicate tendril vining up the back of my neck. I roll my shoulders, shaking my arms out, so desperate to not let that feeling back in that I don¡¯t even care how badly my shoulder reacts. I¡¯ll take the pain over quiet despair any day.

    It¡¯s fine, I insist. I¡¯ll adjust to this, too.

    As I get into position on top of the wagon for the next leg of the day¡¯s journey, I try to focus on the peace of those few minutes in the sunlight and forget everything that happened after.

 Chapter Six - Riding With Brand; Swimming Hole

    The next morning, Brand bats my good shoulder with the back of his hand and says, ¡°You¡¯re sittin¡¯ with me today. Front of the line. Let¡¯s go.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± I say. ¡°All right.¡±

    I glance at Finch, who has overheard this and looks a little crestfallen before playing it off as no big deal. We¡¯re all just keepin¡¯ it fresh around here.

    I¡¯ve been trying to act like an adult and not a kid who was just chewed out for poor situational awareness, even if that is a lot closer to what happened. I¡¯m also limping again and trying not to let it show. I tweaked my ankle during the fight, probably when trees shot up out of nowhere and I fell over, and I didn¡¯t notice until climbing down from the wagon to get ready for dinner and bed. It¡¯s not unbearable. The ankle had already been kind of achy, so it was only a little worse off than before. I am so tired of pain dictating how I live, though, and anyway, it¡¯s just another day of riding a wagon through the woods.

    We¡¯ve been moving for only a few minutes when Brand begins, ¡°Ma wanted me to talk to you today. Tell you more about the forest. Cryptids. Everything.¡±

    ¡°Everything?¡±

    ¡°Well, not the birds and the bees. Gotta keep it polite, she said.¡±

    ¡°Magic?¡±

    He hesitates. ¡°We can talk about that, too.¡±

    We rumble forward in silence a little while before he tries again.

    ¡°It¡¯s hard to tell what you know and what you don¡¯t. Like. You don¡¯t remember who you were, you don¡¯t know shit about the Sunken Forest, but you aren¡¯t dumb. You know fire is hot. You know all kinds of ordinary stuff. But then you wander off in the forest, no backup, no wards, and no one does that ¡ª that¡¯s ordinary stuff, too. So, right, you came from up top, of course you don¡¯t know. But people up top don¡¯t come into the forest at all, they¡¯re too scared, and you¡¯re not scared. So you don¡¯t think like them, and you don¡¯t think like us, either. That fall really knocked the sense out of you, huh?¡± He chuckles, elbowing me lightly in the ribs. ¡°You do all right, mostly, so we all forget you lost more than just your name when you fell. We forget there are things that are obvious to us that you need explained. Even the folks up top know you gotta watch out for cryptids around the forest, but when I tell you stories it¡¯s like you think I¡¯m making it up.¡±

    ¡°I did,¡± I admit.

    ¡°Really? Even when I told you about the river beauty? Sheesh! This woman¡­¡±

    ¡°So what is a cryptid?¡± I ask. ¡°I thought¡­ Doesn¡¯t cryptid mean it¡¯s not real? There¡¯s ¡ª¡± I stop, realizing I don¡¯t know how to explain that grainy photos and bad camera footage is hotly debated but not considered incontrovertible evidence. I am not sure this is a place with photography. ¡°There are just stories told by grifters or people who want to impress their drinking buddies. Or scare kids.¡±

    Brand takes a minute to collect his words. ¡°The things in the forest are only here in the forest. I don¡¯t know about other places, maybe they¡¯ve got their own, but when I talk about cryptids I mean things only here that aren¡¯t quite animals and aren¡¯t quite people. Sometimes they¡¯re what¡¯s left of something dead. Sometimes they weren¡¯t alive like you and me to begin with. They¡¯re more like dreams that got away.¡±

    I stop myself from impulsively saying that means they aren¡¯t real, because I saw it for myself and already know that¡¯s not true. ¡°And¡­ you use magic to fight them? Is that it?¡±

    ¡°Well I¡¯m not gonna use my hands,¡± says Brand. When he sees I¡¯ve missed the joke, he adds, ¡°Ghosts don¡¯t care if you punch ¡®em, and you¡¯ll just get your fingers frostbit.¡±

    ¡°But fire works? And making trees grow?¡±

    ¡°Smoke works. If you use the right kind, anyway. And the trees work because it¡¯s river trees. You can¡¯t just throw any old wood shavings and expect a result.¡±

    ¡°Ma definitely threw a fireball, though.¡±

    Brand suppresses a sigh. ¡°Yeah. She did.¡±

    We ride in silence for some minutes. I think, Maybe I should just tell them. It would be easier, wouldn¡¯t it? If I just said I got body-swapped with someone across realities or universes, maybe everyone would be more willing to talk openly. I could explain why some things are familiar and some things aren¡¯t. If they can handle magic and monsters, they can handle this, right?

    Only for them, magic and monsters is normal, isn¡¯t it? Just like the hibbovins, which I still find alarming even though they have been nothing but docile and politely disinterested in me. I¡¯m not sure I could say ¡°horse¡± and expect anyone to know what I¡¯m talking about. If I haven¡¯t seen it in front of me, if no one has mentioned it in my hearing, I have no idea if it exists here.

    So maybe certain kinds of magic are a normal part of life, but cell phones and satellite transmissions and traveling two thousand miles in a single day are incomprehensible ¡ª and sounds more like a world which would have body-swapping technology than this one. If you can arrive on the distant end of a country in a matter of hours, why not? Besides, if I tried to describe television or the internet ¡ª or, possibly, horses ¡ª I¡¯d probably sound insane before I sounded otherworldly.

    I¡¯d rather be the amnesiac than the madwoman or impossible thing living among them.

    ¡°Hey,¡± Brand says, interrupting my rumination. ¡°We¡¯re about to turn. Guess which way?¡±

    I look at the way ahead of us. ¡°Right.¡±

    ¡°Ooh, good guess.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t guess.¡± I point to a raised patch. ¡°That¡¯s a marker, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    Brand looks at me, genuinely impressed. ¡°How¡¯d you figure that out?¡±

    I blush, pleased at his approval. ¡°It¡¯s why I wandered off yesterday. I wanted to know why you¡¯d gone right instead of straight. There was a tree root in the path. When I was standing in the wagon tracks, I noticed the hidden guides.¡±

    He pats my head like a proud uncle trying not to make a fuss even though he¡¯s thrilled. ¡°Look at you ¡ª you¡¯re quick, you¡¯re real quick! See, you¡¯ll get this. You learned a lot yesterday, huh? Not just about ghosties.¡± He laughs. ¡°You¡¯ll get there.¡±

    I ask, ¡°Can I learn magic, too?¡±

    From the look he gives me, I wonder if this is too ambitious a question. But instead of telling me Ma and Finch are some kind of special breed of human, he says, ¡°This is hard to talk about. We don¡¯t talk to outsiders about this kind of thing. But a lot of us down here started out up there, so you aren¡¯t an outsider forever, just until... until you aren¡¯t. I don¡¯t know, I was born down here, but I¡¯m the only one of us ¡ª¡° he jerks a thumb over his shoulder ¡° ¡ª who was. Thirsan was nine, he¡¯s basically grown up with it, but Finch was sixteen and Ma was seventeen and Puck was¡­ about the same age as you, come to think of it. You¡¯re learning to read the ways even without someone telling you, you¡¯re already becoming a forest woman. So you¡¯ll keep learning, and one day, you¡¯ll know. Maybe you¡¯ll do magic, too.¡±

    This is not a satisfying answer, more like a very complicatedly worded dodge, but Brand looks at me like he is hoping this helped. I nod.

    ¡°Right. So. You noticed the way markers. Good start. You notice anything else?¡±

    ¡°Um¡­ Some are logs, some are dirt?¡±

    ¡°Wow, you really got in there, huh?¡±

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°Not that deep. I just noticed the difference.¡±

    Brand pointed to a mound we were passing. ¡°So there¡¯s one, right, and if you look up a ways, there¡¯s another. They don¡¯t look like much, aren¡¯t really anything but a suggestion: don¡¯t go this way with a wagon. The logs, though, those are different. The way they lie tells you something. Can you tell what?¡±

    I look. There aren¡¯t that many of them around, and from what I can see they were arranged to look as accidental as possible. Just dead, overgrown wood in a forest. ¡°Nope.¡±

    Brand is almost as pleased to teach me as he is when I figure things out on my own. ¡°Those are why we don¡¯t see cryptids on the road.¡±

    He tells me all about how there are a variety of wards used by the people who dwell in the forest to create safe channels of passage. There are places with gaps, the way an overpass or underpass is built into a roadway to allow pedestrians to cross through areas with heavy traffic. The gaps protect the wards from taking damage from something trying to force its way across. If something does damage a ward, these built in breaks also stop that one damaged ward from leaving an entire channel unprotected. The wards use the network of river tree roots to connect to each other and shape the barriers.

    ¡°Between one ward and the next, it makes a boundary that feels like solid tree to any cryptids trying to cross it,¡± Brand says. ¡°Even the ghosts can¡¯t go through river trees.¡±

    ¡°Why not mark it clearly?¡± I ask. ¡°Why all the cloak and dagger? It¡¯s just roads.¡±

    ¡°For one: even all cloak and dagger-y, there are things that know where the gaps are and like to skulk around. No one travels alone in the forest, and shit like that is why. Something¡¯s always gonna think you look tasty, and it¡¯ll do the work to find out. We hide the gaps, and fewer things can hide around them. For another¡­ It¡¯s spooky down here, right? Everyone knows that. People like our happy little band, we¡¯re fine with it, we know it, we have the skills to come and go. Up there?¡± He waves a hand at what I assume is the direction of the nearest wall. ¡°All they know is that the scariest shit in the kingdom hangs out here. They call it the Ghost River. Making our roads hard to find is just one more way to keep outsiders out, keep ¡®em from getting brave and thinking what the forest needs is taming. And yeah, we like to spread rumors when we go up, make sure nobody gets ideas, but we don¡¯t need to. You can see the ghosts from the cliffs, once in a while. No one comes down here unless they know a guy or they¡¯re desperate.¡±

    Brand stops, then glances at me.

    ¡°Or, you know. They fall in.¡±

    *

    Brand spends the rest of the day telling me about cryptids. I will almost definitely not remember any of what he says; it¡¯s all just a stream of information, way more than I can internalize in one sitting, and I¡¯ve always been more of a visual learner. The point, however, is made: if I see something in the forest, I should assume it wants to eat me and make cute accessories out of my vertebrae.

    He also informs me that the running water and that little stone beach wasn¡¯t even the river ¡ª not exactly.

    ¡°There are a bunch of places where the river splits around land and makes islands. Sometimes they¡¯ve got bridges connecting one side of the river to the other, but spots like that one? Nah. Wrong place for it. We¡¯ll be arriving at one of the crossings tomorrow. You¡¯ll get a look at just how big the river really is.¡±

    So it is on our sixth day of travel that I finally get to see the river at the heart of the Sunken Forest, and I learn we are crossing not one, but three islands to get to the far side.

    The entrance to the first bridge is within the trees, and as we begin crossing we rise up over a long stretch of rocky riverside beneath us before we start crossing the water. I barely give this a thought as I stare out over just how much river there is to cross. I can¡¯t actually see the other side. The island anchoring the other end of the bridge hosts a cluster of river trees that, despite being immense, are sparser and younger than the ones we¡¯ve just passed through. There are still enough of them that they could hide a small village in their midst.

    The bridge reminds me of the Roman constructions we learned about in Western Civ classes, which makes me wonder at who the hell constructed these, and how long ago. Who had the time? The ability? What¡¯s keeping them stable? If someone once lived here with the ability to do that, why wasn¡¯t this a densely populated area now?

    There¡¯s a wind over the river that blows cool enough to chill my skin, even in the sunshine. Brand is practically glowing with excitement at how nice a day it is, how lucky we are to make this crossing in such perfect weather ¡ª ¡°I¡¯ve done this in a storm, and let me tell you, worst decision of my life¡± ¡ª and how great it feels to be out here in the fresh air.

    ¡°Do cryptids come up here?¡± I ask, my head full of warnings.

    ¡°On the bridge, nah. Wards on the ends keep them out. Probably some old ones in the supports, too. Over the bridge? Maybe. They usually go under. Ma and Puck are ready, though, so don¡¯t worry.¡±

    ¡°What is it they do?¡±

    ¡°Puck makes smoke bombs. She knows all that apothecary shit, so she makes little packets of dried plants and fire powder. If she drops one on a fire pit, it clears anything out of the area and creates a safe zone. She throws one in the air, Ma lights it up, pow! ¡ª smoke screen.¡±

    I remember how fast the ghost fish backed away and fled when it hit the smoke. It¡¯s comforting.

    After the weaving path we have been traveling through the forest, the island crossing is almost direct. Wagon tracks are visible on the ground, and they curve to meet the next bridge in an easygoing arc through the trees.

    The second bridge is shorter, but scarier. It appears to have been constructed mostly out of live river trees that have twisted together to fill in where the stones of the original bridge washed away untold generations ago. Before we begin to cross, Brand stops the wagons.

    ¡°Hey, Finch,¡± he calls. ¡°Come check the bridge.¡±

    Finch hops down and runs up ahead of the hibbovins, touching the roots that grow around the right side of the bridge. After a couple minutes, he stands up. ¡°Feels stable. I think Chazey came through here a little while ago and did some reinforcing, it feels like her work.¡±

    ¡°Ah, Chazey,¡± says Brand dreamily. ¡°You think she¡¯s ahead of us? Going to Star Point?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, I can¡¯t tell how long ago she did it. Recently, but that could mean six months ago.¡±

    ¡°I hope she¡¯s there, I haven¡¯t seen her in a while¡­ Chazey¡­¡±

    Finch catches my eye, then he grins and says, ¡°Didn¡¯t she join up with Angor?¡±

    Brand clutches his heart. ¡°Don¡¯t you joke!¡±

    ¡°I thought she wasn¡¯t at the quarter meet at the Hollow because she was upriver with him and his crew.¡±

    ¡°You think you¡¯re teasing, but you¡¯re breaking my heart, Finch, why would you do that?¡±

    Finch trots back to his wagon, Brand muttering about some things being sacred. He¡¯s almost definitely hamming it up. As he goads the hibbovins forward, however, he gets that dreamy face again. Chazey must be someone he has a longstanding and well known crush on.

    We stop for a break on the second island. This island is wider than the first, and there is something of a swimming hole carved into it by the river and a natural incline leading down to the water. The massive trunk of a fallen tree is jammed into the opening between the river and the pool, blocking out the current. Puck takes the incline down and sticks her feet in, content to sit and watch as Thirsan and Finch strip to their underwear and jump into the water from thirty feet up, howling as they launch themselves into empty space. When they bob to the surface, both of them gasp for air against the chill and whoop loudly.

    Then they swim over to the incline, push themselves out, and race back up to the top to do it again.

    I walk down the incline and stick my feet in the water, too.

    ¡°You going in?¡± Puck asks me.

    Finch swims over to us and plants his hands on the stone. His shoulders work to heave the rest of him out of the water, stomach muscles flexing to raise his knees high enough to rest on the pool¡¯s edge. He grins, panting against the chill, water running down his chest, his waist, his thighs as he steps to his feet then returns to the ledge for another jump.

    ¡°I¡¯m just fine watching,¡± I say.

    I sit with Puck for a little while, but I¡¯m still too cold from the wind over the bridge to soak my feet for very long and so ascend back to the wagons and sit in the sun. Brand cannonballs down once, as if on principle, then comes back up and has his lunch with an air of wet satisfaction.

    ¡°Gotta do it once,¡± he says. ¡°I don¡¯t have energy like those kids anymore, but one time? I can do it one time.¡±

    Ma ducks into the wagon she shares with Puck, then comes out again wearing undershorts and something like a relaxed fit halter top. She dives gracefully off the edge of the swimming hole, surfacing in front of Puck and resting her arms on the edge of the pool, long legs swaying in the water behind her. Puck crosses her ankles and titters at whatever Ma is saying.

    I eat my lunch, watching all of this in good humor but feeling a little left out. I¡¯d love to jump in. I have nothing I could wear to protect my modesty, though, and even if I did, I can¡¯t swim. Not with my injuries. Jumping from this height might even make them worse.

    ¡°Hey,¡± says Thirsan.

    I look over to where he and Finch are, near the edge of the swimming hole. As we watch, Thirsan turns his back to the edge with his heels together, and folds his arms across his chest like a mummy. He closes both his fists, pinkies extended, smirks, then tips backwards into the water. He drops like a stone, plunging head first beneath the surface.

    Finch and Brand exchange a tense look.

    ¡°Does that mean something?¡± I ask.

    Finch responds, ¡°What?¡±

    I fold my arms over my chest, pinkies extended.

    ¡°Ah. Um. It¡¯s an impolite gesture.¡± He holds up his own extended pinky. ¡°Doing this to someone is a way of saying they¡¯ve uh. Got a small penis.¡±

    I laugh. Rude, yeah, but every culture seems to have at least one crass form of sign language.

    Finch relaxes when I am not immediately offended. Then he grabs the nearest river tree cone off the ground, peers over the edge of the swimming hole, and flings it.

    The faint ¡°Ow!¡± from below confirms a direct hit.

 Chapter Seven - First Taste; Space and Selfhood

    The bridges between the second island and the third, and then the third and the far side, take longer to cross than the first two. Ma and Brand stop to discuss whether or not to stop for the night near the river, or go further inland.

    ¡°We should just stop here,¡± Thirsan interjects. ¡°We¡¯re already out of the flood zone.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like how close we are to the river,¡± says Ma.

    ¡°Might be a good learning experience.¡± Brand nods at me, then looks meaningfully at Ma.

    Ma immediately does not like this idea. ¡°We can get a little further away before we start that.¡±

    ¡°Sun¡¯s going down quick. It¡¯ll be dark by the time we get there.¡±

    ¡°Not if we get moving, it won¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Even if we get moving.¡±

    Ma sighs, radiating annoyance. ¡°We spent too long swimming.¡±

    ¡°And we had a great time doing it,¡± says Puck. ¡°And now we are all tired, and would rather stop a little early since we are in no particular rush to get anywhere. Please, love, let¡¯s just start dinner.¡±

    Ma looks to the setting sun, to the forest, to her tired out crew, and says, ¡°Fine. Akasha, come here.¡±

    I startle. Ma and I haven¡¯t interacted much since the ghost fish incident, and she doesn¡¯t seem like she¡¯s in a good mood. But I climb down from the roof of the wagon and dutifully follow her.

    Ma goes into the kitchen wagon and comes back out a moment later with a wooden tube. She hands it to me.

    ¡°These are wards. There are thirteen markers in here; place twelve of them in a circle around the camp site. It can be a pretty big circle, just make sure you can find them again. You¡¯ll be collecting them in the morning. When you¡¯re done, bring the thirteenth back to me.¡±

    Orders delivered, Ma turns to help Puck set up the kitchen.

    I immediately stress over how nonspecific these directions are. Does the circle need to be precise? Do I worry about whether or not the hibbovins are inside or outside of the circle? Does ¡®pretty big¡¯ mean I have to shout to be heard on the other end, or does it just mean big enough to hold the wagons and some wiggle room? Does it have to be touching the ground? I hate this. There is so much room for error that I am doomed to fail.

    I take a calming breath. Then I take a second, because the sun is still high enough that I have time.

    Right. Well. If I fuck it up despite following orders, I guess that will be instructive for both of us.

    On this side of the river, the bridge touches rock. We have stopped not far off from the bridge¡¯s entrance, still easily in view of it and the river beyond. The wagons stand on flat, dusty stone, and Brand is placing wedges under the wheels to stop them from rolling. The hibbovins, freed from their burdens for the night, graze on tall grass growing nearer to the river. We are, for once, not surrounded by river trees ¡ª although they aren¡¯t far away. Some of them sprout from between cracks in the stone ground, their roots tumbling around them in search of water and soil.

    The space is very open. Not a lot of places to lose ward markers. Not a lot of places to hide them, either.

    I place the first one close to the bridge behind us and try to estimate the placement of numbers on a giant clock as I walk in a circle around the wagons, paying attention to anything that might stand out so I can find them again in the morning ¡ª a tuft of grass, the patterns in the rock surface. Each ward marker is heavy and textured. I can¡¯t tell if they are very old wood or carved stone. They are sort of shaped like discs, smaller than my palm and etched with a symbol that is half lost in the roughness of its surface. Each one gives off a sensation like waving a hand over a staticky pile of laundry. When I¡¯m done placing them, I bring the thirteenth back to Ma.

    ¡°Done?¡± she asks.

    ¡°Done,¡± I answer. I hold out the the thirteenth stone to her.

    Instead of taking the marker, Ma clasps both her hands around mine.

    The static feeling emanating from the marker swells and expands.

    Instinctively, I try to pull away. Ma holds my hand in place.

    ¡°Almost ready.¡±

    The static builds like excitement, like a panic attack ¡ª and then settles into place in a fine, fizzy calm.

    ¡°There,¡± says Ma. ¡°Your first real taste of magic.¡±

    She takes the ward marker, flips it like a coin, and puts it in her pocket.

    *

    Finch and Thirsan do their evening fishing off the edge of the bridge, coming back with only one fish large enough to feed the six of us easily and looking very pleased with themselves. It has to be cut into sections to fit in the frying pan.

    There is moonlight enough to see distant shapes floating over the water. Not many of them, only a handful scattered up and down river and on into the distance, skating through currents as long deceased as the ghosts themselves. They don¡¯t glow. They catch the moonlight as clouds do. I watch the luminescent shapes from the roof of the last wagon while I eat my fish and a salad made of flower petals and wild greens.

    ¡°Do they always stay over the water?¡± I ask.

    Finch, seated beside me and also watching, finishes chewing and swallows. ¡°Mostly. The trees keep them in.¡±

    ¡°What is it about the trees?¡±

    ¡°Not sure. The ghost fish rarely go past the tree line ¡ª up a stream, maybe, if it¡¯s wide enough. Even the cryptids in the woods can¡¯t damage the trees.¡± He knocks on the wagon. ¡°Damned useful.¡±

    I have long since pieced together that the wagons appear to be a single piece of wood because it¡¯s true ¡ª they are whole logs of river tree trunks, carved and fitted with doors and windows, but I haven¡¯t been able to imagine the process. ¡°When you need a new wagon, what do you do? Are there special loggers for that?¡±

    Finch finds this suggestion bewildering. ¡°Loggers? No, not at all ¡ª no one cuts the trees.¡±

    ¡°You just¡­ wait for one to fall¡­?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    ¡°Seriously?¡±

    Finch points to the line of wagons, end to end. ¡°All of these were one tree. It made a few more wagons besides these, too.¡±

    ¡°But what if you don¡¯t have a fallen tree available and need a new wagon?¡±

    ¡°You wait.¡±

    ¡°You wait until a tree falls?¡±

    ¡°Or until you hear about a downed tree. It¡¯s a big forest, if a tree¡¯s gone down and someone finds it, they¡¯ll spread the word. There are people who like carving out wagons, and there are other people who will get hold of wheels and axels and everything, so one way or another, if someone needs a wagon, it¡¯ll get to them.¡±

    I almost start asking about how a person got the wagon they needed with all the appropriate customization, because the storage wagon ¡ª my wagon ¡ª was carved with one bed and a storage space above the bed and some shelves, but then I remember it¡¯s not that hard to install what you need as you go and that I¡¯m thinking like someone poisoned by consumer culture. Things are different here.

    ¡°What¡¯s the inside of your wagon look like?¡± I ask.

    Finch looks surprised, and then a little flushed.

    ¡°Sorry, I only meant ¡ª what¡¯s the layout like? Is it like mine, or¡­?¡± It occurs to me that wagons aren¡¯t just private, but intimate. I sleep in borrowed space and I have nothing except what I¡¯ve been given. For Finch and everyone else, these are their lives.

    ¡°You can look,¡± he says. ¡°If you want.¡±

    My responding ¡°Yeah!¡± sounds like I¡¯m trying too hard not to be enthusiastic, but Finch just grins and grabs his now empty plate and the lantern whose light we¡¯ve been eating by, and he descends the ladder.

    Thirsan is sitting on the platform outside the door to their wagon, still picking at his salad. Finch jumps lightly over the three steps up to the platform, and nudges Thirsan with his foot.

    ¡°Going in,¡± he says.

    Thirsan scoots only just far enough out of the way to allow the door to open unobstructed. ¡°Whatcha doing?¡±

    ¡°Just showing her the inside.¡±

    Thirsan assesses this too casual statement with a judgmentally raised eyebrow. ¡°You need me to come back later?¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯m just ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Like five minutes? You won¡¯t need that much longer, right?¡±

    Finch, divided between addressing the accusation that we are seeking privacy or the insult to his stamina, stifles an irritated sigh and chooses neither. ¡°She¡¯s just curious what the other wagons look like, calm down.¡±

    ¡°All right.¡± Thirsan takes another bite of his salad, unconvinced.

    Finch does not acknowledge this, instead holding the door open with his right hand and holding the lantern up with his left. I climb the steps and go inside.

    I am used to the state of the storage wagon, all chests and crates and the scent of old wood mixed with something not quite dusty, but a little stale. The storage wagon, despite having a bed in it, has not been a place anyone has made into a home for a long time. Finch and Thirsan¡¯s wagon is tidy in the way a travel-ready wagon ought to be, its cupboards near the entrance bolted and all its trunks secured, but there is a life to it which is impossible to miss. There are two beds on either side of a narrow walkway, each of them elevated off the floor high enough that I would need to use their step ladders to climb in. Finch pushes himself up onto the edge of his bed the same way he pushed out of the water earlier, twisting to sit on the mattress¡¯s edge. He has left the wagon door open, as if to make a point to Thirsan that nothing weird is going on.

    The trunk from under Thirsan¡¯s bed is sitting open, partially blocking the walkway. A wash bowl and a pitcher are sitting out on the shelf under the cracked open window at the far end, a washcloth hanging from a hook to air dry. A stool sits in front of it with a second washcloth draped over one of its rungs.

    There are another pair of storage trunks between the ends of the beds and the back wall. Above those and beneath the row of windows running down the length of the wagon are shelves, and on the shelves are books. The lantern light is weak and I don¡¯t want to go digging around in their stuff, but the sight of books is unexpected. There are a pair of strings wrapping around their spines, I assume to keep them from falling, and I can make out nails stuck into the wood where the strings are anchored in place.

    The floor is clean. Not polished, but cared for. And while it smells like old wood, it smells like Finch and Thirsan and the herbal soap they use at the wash basin.

    Because I feel like I should say something, I say, ¡°It¡¯s nice in here.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s usually a mess,¡± Thirsan calls. ¡°Finch leaves his dirty clothes out.¡±

    Finch does not deny this, only adds, ¡°And Thirsan never puts anything away. The cleanliness is temporary.¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Cleanliness is always temporary.¡± I lean against the ladder to Thirsan¡¯s bed, facing Finch. ¡°It¡¯s still nicer than the storage wagon in here. Maybe I need to clean my floors, too, and it¡¯ll smell less dusty.¡±

    From the door, I hear a sarcastic, ¡°You sure you can handle that kind of labor?¡± ¡ª but it comes at the same time Finch asks, ¡°Can your shoulder take it yet?¡±

    I ignore Thirsan. ¡°Not yet, I guess. What if I just use my feet? Wrap some wash cloths around them, pour a little soapy water on the floor¡­ I would still need to move the trunks, though. I don¡¯t want to do any water damage.¡±

    ¡°When we get to Star Point,¡± says Finch, ¡°I¡¯ll help you with the trunks. We¡¯ll probably be emptying most of them, anyway.¡±

    I wonder if I should feel self-conscious about having him in my space. After that first incident, when he walked in on me with my borrowed dress falling off, he has stayed out of the storage wagon completely. But for all that it¡¯s a private space to sleep or change my clothes, it doesn¡¯t really feel like mine and it doesn¡¯t hold anything personal. As a matter of fact, everything it contains is really someone else¡¯s. And now I have to wonder if there is an entire culture around intimacy among the forest dwellers and their wagons I¡¯ve been completely oblivious to, all because I¡¯ve had no reason to develop a sense for it.

    What if even showing me this much is some kind of ¡®amnesiac¡¯ privilege, granted because ¡ª like a child, yet again ¡ª I didn¡¯t know any better when I asked?

    God, it¡¯s exhausting to learn how to be a person. Asking about how the wagons are made is one thing, but the social norms are lost on me, too, and those have to be learned implicitly.

    Instead of voicing any of this, I just say, ¡°I appreciate it, thanks,¡± and smile. ¡°How far off is it, now?¡±

    ¡°About two more days. If there¡¯s more than a couple other crews there, I¡¯ll be surprised; we¡¯re arriving pretty early.¡±

    Thirsan gets up, sets his dish at the edge of the platform, and comes inside. ¡°If you¡¯re done ¡®just showing her,¡¯ I need to go to bed. I¡¯m tired, and Ma¡¯s going to wake us up at the ass crack of dawn after stopping early today.¡± He pulls his shirt off, throws it carelessly across his open trunk, then stands in front of me, looming, looking expectant and bored for the split second it takes me to step away from the ladder. He climbs up and drops onto his stomach as though he will immediately pass out there.

    Finch looks like he might comment on the brazen disrespect, but instead turns his attention to me. ¡°I¡¯ll walk you back to your wagon.¡±

    I shake my head. ¡°I¡¯m fine on my own. G¡¯night Finch. G¡¯night Thirsan.¡±

    ¡°G¡¯night.¡±

    A muffled sound from Thirsan¡¯s bed might be ¡°G¡¯night¡± or just a grunt of acknowledgment, it¡¯s hard to say.

    I return to the storage wagon without anything but moonlight to guide me. It¡¯s mostly dark, but the way is clear and I am familiar enough by now with the wagon¡¯s interior to not stub my toes on my way to bed. I undress, and set the cardigan and trousers on the nearest trunk. I tuck myself in and try not to dwell on how much of a sense of self I¡¯ve lost in having nothing ¡ª not even a life I can return to or the people I knew there. The people who knew me are people I will never see again.

    I had never considered how much of my identity was caught up in literally everything I left behind, body and friendships and unread books included. I¡¯ve been too preoccupied with healing and traveling to think about it. I haven¡¯t thought about the tchochkes I left on my desk. I haven¡¯t thought about the coat and scarf I¡¯ve worn every winter for the last five years that had become a kind of cold weather signature. It wasn¡¯t me, but it was a sort of extension of me.

    Now, as Akasha, that coat wouldn¡¯t even fit.

    I¡¯m no longer the person I used to be. All the outward signs and all the problems I once had are gone forever. So if I¡¯m going to make it here, I need to ground myself in something other than having no idea what¡¯s going on.