That’s where she kept her laughter, most times.

I have been translating a diary, as you may be aware. It is one I found some time ago, full of words written in a strange hand. Despite my best efforts, decoding the lines of its author takes effort and an accumulated number of hours far greater than I ever anticipate. In recent weeks I have made headway, now understanding the looping order of the months and days that are inked onto each page. Renn’s precise timeline, however, will remain obscure until I have translated the whole.

Presented here is the latest entry. It is a passage recounting a conversation with Alistair, seemingly after the moment when Brae disappeared. I won’t lie and pretend I wasn’t affected by his words.

Feshen, 1-on-Flax, 568

In those first hours with Alistair, as he scoured the hill and its surrounds, his movement distraught and frantic and with a fevered conviction he would find the one whom he sought, I had slumped against the trunk of an oak, numb and tired and unable to speak. The oracle, in its many cruel ways, had shown Alistair his own future. In so doing, it had robbed us both of Brae. Like rain attempting to soak an already sodden land, the unreality this presented would not easily permeate my mind.

Later, when Alistair calmed and I had found my tongue, we debated as to what we should do. To head south was to return to Toör, to confusion and anger and faces replete with doubt. I found myself thinking of my father and what he would say. I thought of those who would recognise Alistair, their disbelief more immediate than my own. Yet to continue would find us in Kareth, a city vast and unknown—the very place where Brae would have been my guide. In the end, Alistair could see little sense in the former. What hope would he find, with both the women of his life now gone? I found that I agreed, telling him that if there was hope, it would be in the city of scholars. With this decision so easily reached, we did nothing else that day but make camp, walking a short way down the slope of the oracle’s crippled hill, far enough to feel we could rid our minds of its proximity.

“I’m sorry,” I managed, sitting that night by the fire.

“Sorry? For what do you have to be sorry?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my gaze fixed on the flames. “I should have stopped her. Done something.”

Alistair rubbed his hands through the thick of his beard. “No action could have changed it, boy. I am convinced of that.”

“No,” I conceded. “I suppose you are right.”

“I sought it for answers. For hope and nothing more. My Brae sought it for me.”

I could say nothing to that, true as it was. That many in our village thought Alistair had abandoned his child was something I felt best left unsaid. Brae must have known the truth. Sitting there with Alistair that night, thinking on all that had come before, I had no way of knowing then how that could be so.

For a long while after, we said nothing more. The fire burned, then died, leaving just sulking embers, scattered flakes of ash. Eventually, sleep came, though occasionally I would awake and hear Alistair weeping. At other times there was only the silence of the land, the movement of leaves, the unseen chitter of insects. When dawn came, Alistair was awake. He seemed different, more composed. He made a nod in my direction and I nodded back, sitting up. The sky, a clear and pale blue, promised warmth and there was a faint scent of jasmine in the air along with a tinge of something distant and unfamiliar. The storm of two nights past seemed to have cleansed the land. It was the total opposite of what it had done to my mind.

*

We were walking again and had found the trail north. It was a proper path by now, one weathered by feet more than two, taking us up a subtle incline towards another set of hills. To our right, its growth low and sprawling, the unmistakable line of hedge clung to the earth, a marker we no longer required. Toör was long to our backs, and even with all that had happened and the slow comprehension it brought forth, I found a hint of the surreal in being so far north.

As though the silence of our steps had roused his words, Alistair spoke.

“Your name, boy?” he said.

“My name?” I asked, too slow to catch his meaning, the kind of response I would have offered his daughter.

He cast me a curious look, his beard hiding what must have been a smile. “It is short for Renndon, is it not?”

I realised what he meant. There were no others called such in Toör, the name uncommon as it is. Though I had not told him my full name, to extend Renn into Renndon may not have been the most difficult of leaps, but it could just as easily have been short for Rendel, Renner, or the more common Renwick.

“That it is,” I said.

Alistair let out a sigh. “That makes you Darrow’s son, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. “That it does.”

At that, Alistair laughed, a great bellow from his broad chest. “Oh this is such madness.”

“I thought we’d established that,” I said, kicking a stone into the grass, wondering how long it would take for us to locate each and every fact.

He grunted and clapped me around the shoulders, an action I soon came to expect at all times. “You are just three to me, little Renndon, son of Amistel. Three, and barely a day.”

I winced. “I’m very much not, as you can well see.” I offered a small curtsy as though to emphasise the point, but any mirth was soon gone, replaced instead by our shared disbelief. For Alistair, in the space of a moment he had traversed the years of my childhood, my short span of adolescence, the days and months and eons of my fawning over his Brae. The answers to his future had been crafted, instantaneous, by my own present. This realisation, recurrent and bleak, shuttered us again into silence, and for a good while we did nothing but walk. As we moved I noticed that Alistair would assume the role of leader, edging always slightly ahead, his actions so like that of Brae.

Eventually, he spoke again.

“Tell me, what was she like to you?”

My cheeks began to burn and I was thankful the heat of the day could mask the betrayal of my skin.

I scratched at my neck and summoned the only word I could: “Cold.”

Alistair laughed, slapped me on the back. “Cold to you, eh boy?”

“Cold to me,” I reaffirmed.

“My little girl—,” at this Alistair paused and swallowed. “My big girl,” he resumed. “My big girl. Help me see her. Describe her.”

“Describe her?” I asked. My words, idiotic in their repetition, seemingly had no care of whether daughter or father.

“Yes, describe her. Her looks, the length of her hair, the way she speaks. Paint a picture.” There was a glimmer in his eyes, as though he knew how I felt.

“Well,” I started, trying to order my thoughts. “She ranged, as I told you. So she was gone much of the time. Sometimes with others, but mostly alone.”

Alistair nodded, emitting a gruff approval.

“She was fond of the Owl,” I continued.

“Ah, good lass. Alwick still there, no doubt?”

“Yes. Alwick’s still there. Part of the timber itself, we joke.”

Alistair smiled. “Good. A kind man. Go on.”

“She could drink. Knew her ale. Knew—”

“—like her father, then. Less so her mother, but like enough her father.” He seemed pleased, angled his head to the sky, as though reminiscing on memories—ones I was creating for him. “And you drank with her?”

“On occasion, yes. We would drink together.” I couldn’t help the half-lie, didn’t want to admit that most my attempts had gone awry, through my own idiocy or that of someone else.

“I’m sure she found your company to her liking.” Again Alistair turned and gave me a look that said all too much.

“I could make her laugh,” I said, the words too quick to come forth. That I had managed to achieve such a feat mere days before seemed, in the totality of her absence, a false memory.

“Ah, that be a talent.” Alistair stopped and waited until I was by his side. “She was slow to laugh, my girl.” His voice became pained. “Something restrained her, even as a babe.” He let out a sigh, then looked up as several birds wheeled overhead. “I would tickle her, stick out my tongue, do anything I could to hear that laughter. But do you know what she would do, boy?”

“No,” I said, my mind too slow once more.

He shook his head, laughed his low laugh. “It was as if she would take that laughter and move it. Push it up her face. She would laugh with her eyes, ye ken?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I would die happy seeing that once more. You could see her love, scrunched up in her eyes. That’s where she kept her laughter, most times. But truly, that’s where she kept her love.” Alistair squeezed my shoulder, so very gently, as though from father to son. “Take my meaning?”

“Yes,” I said, all manner of things inside me breaking.

If Alistair told me more that day, I don’t recall. I spent the rest of our walk in a distant place, replaying in my mind each moment I had spoken with Brae, all the times I had stumbled in conversation, played the fool with such ease. I recounted the many attempts to make her laugh or smile, and thought on each moment I had made her eyes crease.

I tried to count the last, but I ran out of numbers.

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This was an entry from my novella, Brae’s meteorite. Writing serialised fiction is difficult, especially when I often want to flit in and out of other pieces. Something I have done aplenty. It has been many months since I posted a new instalment from Renn (last month I did rewrite the first entry, as a means to kickstart my mind again and engage the editorial part of my brain, though perhaps that doesn’t count).

I am late this week, so very late. I am travelling, currently in the far north of Australia for a conference, so time, somehow, dilates.

You can find the original first entry here:

And the table of contents here:

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“Who are you?” I asked.

Hello lovely reader.

This is an entry from my novella, Brae’s meteorite.

The very first entry and the table of contents can be found in the links below, though it is always my hope that you can dip straight in and still feel some sense of the story.

It has been many a month since I hefted the thick tome of Renn’s diary onto my desk, to wonder at the ink-encrusted parchment and the meaning behind each cryptic swirl. Over a number of recent days I have translated what I deem to be the latest entry in his tale, though I note that once again several pages were torn from the spine—an act, I can only assume, born of frustration or despair.

Darn, 20-on-Rye, 568

She was gone.

I have written and rewritten my account of that moment, here in these pages, tearing up each one. Even with the long distillation of time, none bring me closer.

And so I will try again.

*

After Brae vanished, the rain stopped. In its place came the steady drip-drip of water falling from leaves. I don’t know how long I remained in place, crouched between the trees, unmoving as though waiting for her return. But Brae didn’t return. She was gone, leaving an eerie quiet that hung in the air, accompanied by the fear and confusion that swam beneath my skin.

For the first time since we left Toör, I was alone.

Except I wasn’t, for my eyes trailed to the spot where Brae had been. A man was there, lying on his back, staring straight up at the night sky, and I may have thought him dead were it not for the blink of his eyes and twitch of his arms.

I wondered on what to do, yet after some moments found myself moving through the trees to the edge of the clearing, straining my eyes to get a better look. He appeared to be older, his thirtieth year, near enough, and under the fading glaze of stars I could see he wore a rugged set of clothes—a thick, fur-lined jacket, dark leggings and insulated boots. Winter clothes, I realised. What business does a man have in winter’s clothing?

I took another few steps, emerging into the clearing. Inept as I was, I did so without the silent skill of Brae, my feet squelching through the fresh puddles and mud. The man stirred, turning his head in my direction.

“Who’s there?” he said, his voice husky and dry.

Now that I was closer I could make out the deep red of his hair, like soil rich in clay, with a beard the same colour that sprouted eagerly from his face.

“Renn,” I proffered, walking closer still. “I am Renn.” With no idea what else to say, I added, “Are you hurt?”

“Hurt?” he asked, confused.

“Can you move?” I corrected. “Are you injured?” By now I assured myself that this man was no threat, that he may actually be hurt and need my assistance. I moved forward, crouched near to him, but not so near that I was within his reach.

He lifted his head from the ground so that his chin touched his chest and he could look down at his body. “I feel stiff,” he said, letting his head drop back. “I—,” and then he whipped his head from left to right, panic within his eyes. “Where is she?” His head did another desperate sweep, hands scrabbling at the sodden ground in an attempt to sit up. “Where is she?”

I stood and took a step back, nervous of his erratic movements.

“Where’s who?” I asked.

Fear was writ into his face. He managed to push himself up onto his elbows. “I thought I saw …” He stopped, shaking his head.

Thought you saw what? I wondered, my own mind racing through everything that had happened. Brae, the oracle, this man. I couldn't understand, not then, and without realising I moved away to the eastern edge of the clearing, looking through the thin line of trees to where the barest hint of dawn tinted the horizon. The stars had begun their retreat, leaving a canvas ready to be painted by the day’s light. I turned away, made my way back to the man, fuelled by a sudden conviction.

“What happened? What did you do?” I said, voice raised and not at all confident in my tone. It was as pointless a question as any in my life.

“Me?” The man shot a glance my way as he struggled to his feet, wiping his muddied hands on his jacket. “What did I do?” he asked, incredulous. “I saw her. Right here.” He looked down, scanning the ground as though it held some answer. “Mara was here,” he said. “I saw her, and then she … and then I …”

Mara?

A sudden cold clarity swept through me. I reached out, clasped both his shoulders in my hands and locked my eyes to his.

“Who are you?” I asked.

He frowned, tried to release himself from my grip.

“Who are you?” I repeated.

His frown deepened, but his movement stopped.

“Alistair,” he said. “Alistair, of the village Toör.”

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I understand it has been a little while since there was some Brae, and even then it has been spread over a long number of months (far longer than originally envisaged), so some of the puzzle pieces may not immediately fall into place. Or maybe they will.

As always, I love any and all of your thoughts.

Peace, love and meteorites x☄

In its place, something new stirred

Hello.

This is an entry from my novella, Brae’s meteorite, which takes the form of words translated from a diary I found.

The very first entry and the table of contents can be found here:

The pages of this entry were crumpled, as though they had been torn out and then put back at a later stage. In places, Renn had repeatedly scribbled over the text, obliterating the words underneath. What thoughts were written there originally I will never know, but those I could decipher have been transcribed below.

Arando, 19-on-Rye, 568

After her kiss, Brae slipped away towards the hill. With each step, the grass seemed to part, letting her pass in silent reverie as the stars kept on their eternal watch.

I was left numb and alone, my eyes half-closed as the taste of her lips lingered, the soft finality of that moment caught in a place that persists even now. In my mind, her warning echoed raw and real: You can’t come. It’s not safe for you.

But what safety would I have against guilt if I stayed?

So I moved, silent and swift as I could, the grass showing far less respect for my own intrusion—the long, prickly stems lashed and scratched and I may have let out a yelp as a thorn sliced my arm. If Brae heard, she did not turn. She kept on and up the hill, seeking the place where colours shifted, where the oracle whispered in shrieks, until, having reached the huddled and looming treeline, she passed out of sight.

I scrambled up the rise after her, stopping at the largest oak to peer around its ancient trunk, my hand resting upon rippled bark. At my feet, long and gnarled roots threaded through the soil. Above, a mass of clouds rolled in, intent to shutter out the stars. And there, ahead, motionless in the circular clearing, was Brae. The grass around her was flattened, as though a giant and invisible rock lay across the ground.

Next to her, a form flickered.

I looked at it, trying to grasp what I saw, the prismatic shift of a being indefinable. It was seamless; it oscillated between substance and nothing, etching itself into reality before returning amorphous to the night. I edged closer, remaining crouched, just as lightning flashed through the sky. With it, the wind strengthened. It swirled around me, eddies of cold that came from nowhere. A few loose rocks dislodged and tumbled down the hill. Boughs overhead began to strain, creaking with each gust. Then came the thunder, so deep it threatened to rend the very fabric of the night.

Through all this, Brae didn’t move. She was transfixed.

Another brilliant flash. A sudden clap of thunder. This was enough, it seemed; perhaps the sky had been torn, for suddenly there came the rains, droplets that slapped against my skin, beat against the ground. Puddles formed at my feet that in an instant birthed runnels down the slope. I wiped at my eyes in an attempt to keep them clear and dared to look on at the scene before me: Brae remained unmoving in the lashing rain. Her hair, already stuck against her cheeks in wet strands, had darkened to deep copper. Opposite her, outlined in the downpour, something—someone—took shape. Brae’s hand moved, reached out, her fingers spread as though to touch. She smiled, a smile so pure that if it had been directed my way it would have crushed my heart.

Then the form, the oracle, became something that made my hand slip free, moving instead to cover my mouth.

The oracle became Brae.

Brae was not gone. Not yet. She was still there, speaking words I could not hear. Yet, there also she stood. It was Brae, sure as any day I could swear by. Had she a twin, not even that would have sufficed as explanation. This was Brae, there in perfect profile, staring at herself—at the real Brae. They looked at each other, almost frozen. But then Brae’s mouth moved and I caught one word, carried to me by the wind. One lone, solitary, impossible word.

“Father,” she said. In her tone lay an ecstasy, an elation, and even though the rain streamed down, I am certain she was crying.

I made to move and the world crunched beneath my feet. The oracle—the oracle’s Brae, or was it already my Brae?—turned and saw me, paralysing me with its look. She contorted into anguish, into pleading realisation. Her eyes looked into mine and then she let out a scream. A scream that challenged all but the night’s thunder, one that ran through me, through my ears and into my spine, spreading to my chest like poison, expunged into the very air I was pounding through my lungs as I continued to watch, unable to move, unable to understand.

“Renndon!” she screamed. “I thought I could—”

And then it was all gone. The oracle. Its Brae. My Brae. Everything.

Not everything.

In its place, something new stirred.

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It’s taken a while to get to this moment, I realise. But we’re here now. Whatever “here” is. This scene was particularly difficult to write, for all manner of reasons. If you have thoughts, conjecture, speculation, any-kind-of-feelings-at-all … well, you know how much I love it when you drop by for a comment.

Brae’s meteorite takes the form of diary entries from a young man named Renn. Join him as he recounts his strange and heartfelt journey with Brae, and witness the events that change their lives forever.

I hope that helps blurb-stir your interest. I usually write a little short intro before each piece, too.

The very first entry can be found here:

All entries can be found in the table of contents:

Now, lettuce continue …

In twilight hours, as the candle weeps pale life, I have toiled at translating the writing within Renn’s diary. The long, curling script; the notes from a world that is not our own; the sketches, maps, constellations—it beguiles and intrigues.

And thus, below, another translation comes to light. I invite you to take a seat by the fire, snuggle up within a blanket and hear the crackle of story as Brae makes for the copse of trees wherein the oracle lies.

(And if it helps: this is only a five minute read. So you can take that blanket on the bus with you if you want. No one’s watching1.)

Omereth, 18-on-Rye, 568

Walking alone, Brae took off towards the hill.

I would have none of it.

“Brae,” I shouted, racing after her. I made to grab her shoulder and turn her around, but she shrugged my hand away and kept moving.

“Brae, please. Talk to me.”

She stopped and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, then looked up at the bank of trees, as though worried that in these short moments they may have pulled themselves free, to walk away on creaking roots.

“No, Renn,” she said, still facing away, her voice desperate. “You can’t.”

I moved in front of her, blocking her path. “I can’t what?”

“Come,” she said, her eyes pleading. “You can’t come.”

“Why?” I asked, my frustration rising. “Dammit Brae, what in darkness is going on? Tell me!” I paused, aware my fists were now clenched. “By what untold doing is that … that oracle?” I stressed the word, the very one that has become seared into all I do.

The wind gusted, sending stray leaves across our path as the oracle let out another burst, a rippling wail carried down and along the land. Brae raised her hand and placed a finger against her lips. Her eyes—framed by freckled cheeks and crimson hair—lost none of their intensity as they bore into mine. I held my breath, waited as the oracle seemed to exhaust its cry, dying down to a flicker of sound that mirrored the way it shifted between the trees. In the distance, perhaps in attempt to reclaim the night, an owl began hooting.

“I must hurry,” she said, dropping her hand. “It’s not safe for you, Renn. Only I can go.”

“Only you can go? Go where?” I asked, my words pathetic.

“When you reach Kareth,” she said, “seek out scholar Kovan.”

And with that, she made to go once more, stealthing her way through the grass at the base of the the hillock.

When I reach Kareth? There was no I. It was we. It was always meant to be we.

“I don’t understand,” I mumbled, feeling the weight of my head.

Whether Brae heard, I do not know, but she stopped and turned to face me, standing there in her crumpled brown boots and taut leggings, those that laced to her waist where a belt wrapped itself so around her hips. The map lay tucked into that belt, of course, along with her waterskins and a few small pouches. They tugged at her, willed towards the ground like all objects are wont to do, as much a part of her as they were a burden. Her bow was slung across her back, and across her front, a small hunting knife.

These details, though, are mere preface to the image I still see: that of her face. The way it was captured by light and dark, the way her hair fell in loose curls that tumbled to either side, gossamer threads woven by some magical, copper spider. The light of the stars left a silver glaze upon her skin, accenting her freckles and framing her in immortal sheen. And even though the light was dim, I could see that her eyes—creased with a saddened smile I could not then understand—were rimmed with tears that left her fragile, almost naked.

She was—she remains—beautiful.

And then she did something I could not have expected: she walked back to me and leaned in, stroking my hair before resting her hand along my cheek. She closed her eyes as her thumb moved back and forth. With my heart now racing, I found my own eyes had closed, too. Time stretched. It yawned into a void bereft of anything but the sensation of Brae’s hand that remained against my cheek.

“I’m sorry,” I heard her whisper, from someplace far away.

And then her lips were pressed against mine.

She kissed me.

Brae kissed me.

It was a single kiss; long and soft and carrying with it a warmth that no other could ever bring about.

It was for me, that kiss.

It was a singular, impossible moment before the impossible chaos that would ensue.

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The wind picked up and carried with it another shrill cry.

Dearest reader,

Many weeks have passed since Renn last opened up to us about his journey with Brae. In returning to his diary this week, I found only a few loose sheaves lodged between the previous entry and the next. Renn’s words here are brief (little work was needed in translation), perhaps due to a certain melancholy and reticence in the retelling of this part of his tale.

~~~

The influx of new readers continues to amaze me. If this is your first time then I understand you may read the above with some trepidation and bafflement. To aid your bearings, my recommendation is to slip into Renn’s story at the very start, which is right here:

SLAKE

Introducing: Brae's meteorite

In the flickering torchlight, her hair flared a shade more crimson than usual. Here’s a thing. I found a diary. Bound in thick, cracked leather, flaking at the edges, brown and scuffed and long weathered by time’s fingers. The pages are parchment, scribbled and scrawled with dates and places and people that—how can I put this without sounding insane?—don…

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3 years ago · 22 likes · 26 comments · Nathan Slake

There’s also a table of contents:

Desuen, 17-on-Rye, 568

What did I know of oracles?

Brae asked me this as we sat beneath that hill, haunted by time.

What did I know?

Had we been sat in The Owl beside the warm flicker of fire, resembling the couple I so desired, a couple who whittled away the evening in private smiles, Brae’s voice little more than secret whisper beneath the pop and crackle of burning logs … had that been the circumstance in which she had posed her question instead of under watchful starlight and the shifting glimmer of something cruel, of a being that told of all that was or has yet to be … had that been the manner of her asking, then perhaps my mind would have recalled.

For there was something I knew of oracles. It was scant information, the merest mention within Thane’s fabled Lore of Land, words read from my father’s own copy, a battered old book purchased from a roaming merchant before I was born. Toör is no place of books, of course, but father’s shelves held many—ones acquired over the years from his own travels or those of others—and Thane’s words winked down upon my young self, drawing willing fingers to pull and peer within. Many times I leafed through its pages, staring at sketches and descriptions, those of creatures, of nightmares and nightfolk, dangers and abominations. All the things that conjured the imagination come dark.

My father looked upon such with curious amusement, a stoic man whose role as an elder meant the fears he dealt with were those born of season and crop, not myth and fancy. Though not all felt that way. Farmers spoke of livestock lost or slaughtered, swearing not of wolves but silent beasts crept from the deepwood, Dusk’s Weald; travellers—those rarest of folk—brought with them tales of peril that would hold The Owl silent in the thrall of their retelling; and even Brae had been known to return from ranging having caught sight of that which moves unseen, darkened shadows soon lost to all but memory.

My own views, back then at least, became a mix of all. An indecision of curiosity and desire and hope.

And so on that night, if I had remembered what was said within those pages, would it have mattered? Would it have made any difference to Brae?

Because of oracles, Thane said little. There were no drawings, no lengthy descriptions. Questioning their existence, he ventured naught but this:

Their presence was fleeting. Their presence was dangerous.

It turns out, in both of these he was right.

*

“What do you know”, I asked?

Brae’s hand went to her hair and she toyed with a strand of copper, twisting it around her finger. Then her hand dropped and found itself upon the folded map tucked so neatly in her belt. She made to remove it, hesitated, then stood, wiping the soil and grass from her knees.

“This is what I have to find out,” she said.

An unease crept into me and I found myself standing, too. The wind picked up and carried with it another shrill cry. In that moment, Brae made to move.

“What are you doing?” I hissed, catching her arm.

She turned and looked at me, her eyes amber sorrow and rimmed with tears.

“Going up that hill,” she said, shaking free of my grip and taking several steps forward. Then, with a final glance back she added, “Alone.”

And that is where this entry ends. I have read ahead a little. I was almost tempted to write out what he retells next right here in this post. But no, I shall wait. I think that is necessary, don’t you?

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The night around me continued on, ignorant of emotions and stupidity. Insects twitched and chittered, clouds passed overhead, a sporadic moon emerging to mock the boy below.

Another entry from Renn’s diary has been translated. This one took time. Renn had renumbered several pages and so to restore what I hope is the correct order took a not insignificant amount of messy, messy work1.

If you’re new, dear reader, then this is my novella, Brae’s meteorite. Each entry is from Renn, wherein he recounts his bumbling journey with Brae and reveals—I hope!—an ever-unfolding mystery. It’s a big ask for you to jump in, but I hope you do.

I’m going to do something new here, too. I’m attaching all previous entries as a single PDF2. If you are new, or you’d just like a re-read without having to go through the journey of clicking posts (the Table of Contents hopefully makes life somewhat easier), then maybe this is worthwhile. Do let me know.

Brae's Meteorite Previous Entries

165KB ∙ PDF file

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So with that, I give you: Brae’s meteorite, entry VI.

Feshen, 16-on-Rye, 568

I spent my teenage years finding the ways and courage to talk to Brae, doing so with all the pace of a glacier and the charm of a fool.

Where once I was ignored, awkward nods began to emerge. From wry smiles I caught flashes of eye contact, the first glimpses of those wonderful creases. And from a series of hellos there eventually came a full conversation one cold morning. A loose definition of conversation, perhaps—I was in her way and could I please move aside—but it was conversation enough for young Renn. It opened something within. Each day thereafter carried the excitement and promise of snatching another increment of time, another moment, another anything with her. With Brae.

I was in love. Utterly lost.

In some impossible way, I still am.

I thought of no one else during those years. Well, perhaps a little of Havish’s daughter Tiana. And Rica, beautiful Rica. And the smith’s twins Mayen and Iyla. Somehow, Toör maintained a steady supply of pretty girls. You have the forest to thank for that, my father once said as Rica bent a cute curtsy in our direction, a small inferno erupting across my cheeks that her smile only fuelled further. Father meant the deepwood, the great mass of trees that fringe Toör’s southwestern border. Love the forest and it will love you back, keep you fed and put girls in your heart. I never quite understood what he meant by that, not then. Of course, he knew for whom my heart beat, and though it made sense for him to send me to Kareth with Brae as guide, deep down I’m certain some part of him had simply grown tired of my foolish inaction.

Of Brae’s own father, I knew nothing. Nearly nothing. He’d abandoned her; he was gone. These were facts mother once told me as she picked apples from our orchard, all whilst I nursed the latent sting of a glove-slapped cheek, the result of a remark that was anything but witty.

With no father, Brae was an orphan. Her mother had died during childbirth, years before I was born.

So I never asked of her father and Brae never spoke of him. Except for one time. On a night I remember well.

It was evening and I had gone in wishful search of Brae. I didn’t have to look far. She was as I hoped, alone at a table in The Owl, her common resting place between days of ranging. By then I needed no real ale of confidence, though I took swift care of a full tankard at the bar. To be safe.

As I made to approach, another man was doing the same. It was Kerrick, a farmer from the fields just north. He was drunk, one hand grasping a jug of mead. He swayed his way towards Brae like he was caught in some unseen wind. Jealousy welled within my stomach as he neared her.

Tucked into the far corner, Brae was an island of copper in a sea of muddy brown. She seemed oblivious to Kerrick’s advance, the table’s sole candle flickering light against a book held open in her hands.

As I faltered, Kerrick slumped onto the stool next to her. She closed the book in a delicate, deliberate action. Perhaps Kerrick had done me a favour—I would become the welcome visitor. I edged my way in their direction, sipping at the second tankard I realised I now held. Brae looked at Kerrick, saying nothing, drumming her fingers on the book. It was tattered and old, pages half-torn from its spine.

“S’nay, too shweht for ush, f’al Brae.” That Kerrick managed to finish his mumbled nonsense with her actual name was nothing short of miracle. I shook my head, a silent vow to never get so drunk, knowing full well it was a waste and that I'd break it within a week. (I did.)

Kerrick made to reach for Brae’s hair, but he slipped and fell forward, banging his forehead on his jug of mead.

“Wassit?” Kerrick stammered, rubbing his head and staring at the jug.

I remained in place, watching. Though my pangs simmered, I wished him gone.

“Do you see this flame?” Brae held Kerrick’s gaze before looking to the candle on the table. The wick was long, the candle fat. The flame licked and danced. She looked back up. “The flame is you, drunkard.”

Kerrick’s eyes screwed up within their sockets. “Fleghm?”

“If you like.” Brae shrugged. By now I was enjoying this. “Watch again,” she said, shifting her eyes back to the table. Kerrick’s eyes somehow followed.

With a swift blow, Brae snuffed out the candle. Wisps of smoke snaked their way towards the ceiling.

“Flame is gone,” Brae said, her words cutting through the room’s clamour. “Flame is gone. You are gone.”

But even this explanation seemed lost on Kerrick. He continued to squint. “Fleghm gone?” he managed, confused.

By now, several people had turned to look. I was covering my smirks with the ale at my lips

“Let me make it easier for you to understand,” Brae added. Then she kicked her boot into Kerrick’s stool. It rocked back, sending him clattering to the floor, his legs flying up and hitting the underside of the table, knocking the jug. It fell and smashed, mead seeping between the boards.

Conversation halted. Heads turned. Then, as though necessary to fill the void of silence, laughter erupted. Kerrick seemed oblivious, the force of the impact having knocked him clean from consciousness.

Brae stood, ignoring cheers and applause, and made to leave. On her way out, she tossed a coin at Alwick. “For the mess,” she said. Alwick caught and pocketed the coin in one nimble motion, nodding to Brae as she left. Surely Kerrick should pay, I thought, before realising that Brae was already at the door and leaving, slipping away. But then I saw something, my perfect guarantee: in her haste, Brae had forgotten her book.

I grabbed it, then bolted after her, pushing my way through the crowd and stepping over Kerrick still splayed on the floor.

Outside, I saw Brae making her way towards her home, her every movement sylphlike in the twilight.

“Brae! Wait.” I ran, slowing to a jog as I neared her.

She stopped, huffing as she turned.

“What?” Her eyes warmed as she saw me, the hint of a crease. “Oh. Renn. I’m sorry if you saw that.”

“With Kerrick?” I smiled. “Don’t apologise. I loved it. I loved you.” I paused, incredulous to my own words. “Doing it, I mean. The kicking. I loved the kicking.” In my mind, I assembled a series of signposts that read Idiot. I proffered the book. “You forgot this.”

She put her hands to her mouth, then snatched it from me. “I left it?” She held the book close to her chest, shaking her head. “I left it. Thank you, Renn.”

I shrugged. Behind, I heard the door of The Owl open, people spilling out and full of jeer and all the rowdiness of ale. I made a silent prayer that none would be walking our way, and, as though sensing this, Brae flicked her head and turned to start walking. I took this as a definite sign to follow.

We walked, Brae holding the book tight to her chest. I tried to relish this little walk, grasping at each moment, the way the night air tasted, the comforting warmth of the harvest season, the musky scent of the stables, the very real sensation of Brae beside me.

“What is it?” I ventured, worried that if I didn’t say anything at all then we would reach the inevitable fork where I would turn left and Brae right, and we would part without ever having said a word. “Your book.”

Brae’s pace slowed. She looked to me, then began chewing her lip.

“It was my father’s,” she managed, her voice coarse.

“He gave it to you?”

Brae held the book in front of her, inspecting it. It was thick, old and well read, the pages curled at the corners. She turned it over, leafed through it—I caught glimpse of drawings, maps, constellations and phases of the moon, sketches of plants—before clutching it back against her chest.

“No,” she said. “I found it. Only recently. He had hidden it. Though I think—” Brae bit her lip again, this time to stop her words. I found it just as wonderful as the creases in her eyes.

I nodded, despite the uncertainty as to what Brae had intended to say, then scratched behind my ear, unsure of what to do with my hands. “What is it about?” I asked in whisper.

Brae came to a stop, inspecting my face, as though it held some answer. I sensed words on her lips, and for a long time she said nothing. “I’m still working that out,” she managed finally, shaking her head.

Brae started walking again, looking ahead along the darkened path.

And then I spoke, emitting four stupid words.

“Did he leave because—”

—and that was when Brae turned and glared stop with her eyes. A look that signalled a sure end to our friendship if I were to continue. So I did stop, but so in turn did our time, ruined by my words.

“I have to go,” she said, turning, making her way towards the fork where I saw her go in the direction of her house. Soon she was swallowed up by the full dark.

I kicked the ground, sending up a small and pathetic plume of dirt. I kicked it again, a little harder this time, hurting my foot. Then I slapped myself for good measure, all before slumping to the ground.

The night around me continued on, ignorant of emotions and stupidity. Insects twitched and chittered, clouds passed overhead, a sporadic moon emerging to mock the boy below. Voices drifted through the air, but it was a long time before anyone came by, and by then I had picked myself up and trudged my way home.

Had I asked something else, perhaps our walk together would have lasted that bit longer. Perhaps the fork would have been time, branching off in another direction, setting course for a different future.

Had I simply asked “What was your father’s name?” then I would have received an answer. A name. One that would be spoken again, all those years later upon that oracle-lit hill. Not by Brae, but by another.

That name.

Alistair.

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“Do you hear it?” she whispered.

If you are new (hi!), this is my novella, Brae’s meteorite. I’m serialising it here on Substack. Each entry is a 5-10min read. You’re welcome to jump right in here, but my recommendation would be to head to the start. That fabled place of beginnings. You can find all the previous entries—including the introduction—here:

The often cryptic writing and shorthand of Renn has once more been untangled and translated. Parts of this latest entry eluded me at first, but I think I’ve pieced together another set of pages of his words, pulling at the threads of meaning, his recounting of events.

You may have noticed I’ve changed the naming of the post. This is the fifth entry, but I’m going to do away with chapter numbering in the post titles from now on1, keeping them only in the table of contents.

I hope you enjoy.

Darn, 15-on-Rye, 568

On the evening of the sixth night, near three full days after sighting the meteorite, Brae held out her arm. My head—eyes to the ground and looking for the occasional glowbug flaring green—walked straight into it.

“Ow!”

“Shhh,” she hissed, swatting me round the back of my head.

“Ow!” I repeated. Brae was scowling, hand contemplating a second strike. I glared at her, mouthing the shape of a single, silent word: What?

She pointed ahead to where a low hill rose up from the ground. Its top was crowned by a line of trees, solemn guardians to the cloudless night sky. As I looked, Brae continued to point.

And then there, between two thick trunks, something stirred. The air rippled, like the shimmer of a hot Ochre day.

I watched, unsure of what I was seeing as the rippling shifted and spread. In one moment it was gone, but then it returned. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Brae’s hands go to her mouth. “Have I found it?” she said, words coming through closed fingers. She took two steps forward. “An oracle.”

I couldn’t grasp her meaning. “An oracle? Is that what you said? An oracle?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the shifting haze. The air rippled, then changed, as though it were not air between those trees but water, and someone—something—were casting small pebbles across its surface.

The faintest of smiles pulled its way across Brae’s lips. At first I mistook it for simple awe or amazement. But no, it was not awe, I realised. It was relief.

I stalked up to her. “You knew?”

Again Brae nodded. “Yes,” she managed. “It is why we came.”

It was precisely not why we came. There had been no mention of an oracle on this little errand. The letter that was tucked into my satchel—the one sealed and rolled tightly with the threads of Toӧr—was not destined for an oracle. For some creature of myth. 

“Why we came?” I let out, all too loud.

That landed me another strike around the head, a fierce look now in Brae’s eyes. This time, though, it proved too much. In an act part retaliation, part fury, and, well, mostly idiocy, I made to push her.

I got so far as lifting my arms.

Brae moved like lightning, sidestepping and sweeping her hands down and across my own, knocking them back. Her hands grasped my wrists, clamping onto them with an ox’s strength. With a twisting motion she flung me to the floor and I landed face down, head striking the dirt. I let out a muffled groan.

But Brae wasn’t done. She was on top of me, spinning me over, straddling me and pressing a forearm against my throat. Her knees pinioned my arms, driving a steady pain deep within. Her left palm went over my mouth, stifling pathetic emanations as she leaned in.

“You are a foolish boy,” she hissed. “Never listening; always playing the fool. You think being Darrow’s son affords you such?”

Brae’s face was close. So close. My heart raced as I looked into flared nostrils. Her hair, that deep copper-bronze, fell in thick curls around my cheeks, creating a secret cave. In the dim light of this sudden and marvellous cave—rapidly filling, I recall, with her delicate scent—I could make out the freckles that dotted her cheeks.

Through all this, I did not speak. Could not speak. Brae’s palm stayed across my mouth as her arm remained pressed to my throat. I shook my head in a rapid side-to-side.

Finally, Brae released her hand, though her forearm didn’t budge. I managed several thin wheezes, but I didn’t make to struggle. My mind was only interested in daring my physical self to do one thing: to kiss her. I could have done so, for her lips—so full and alluring—tempted me with their proximity. Should have done so, possibly. If I had, then maybe I would be gone and she would not have walked up to those trees. Or perhaps, like Brae’s notion of her guidance, there is only one path and we tread it regardless; a perception of choice is all we get.

Brae’s hair tickled my skin. Her arm began to loosen. Eyes of amber stared into mine. And we remained that way, unmoving. Time had slowed. It lasted minutes. Or it lasted but a few short seconds. I honestly cannot say. Whatever the reality, Brae eventually let her arm slide away and she sat up, placing a finger over my lips. She tilted her head toward the night sky, hair parting to allow the pink of an earlobe a cautious escape to attune to the night.

“Do you hear it?” she whispered, that rage now gone from her voice.

I strained, turning my head to mirror hers, trying to let as much sound reach my ear as possible. I quieted my mind. There was the rustle of leaves and Brae’s own breathing, the distant hoot of an owl, the sound of my heart beating rapid and heavy. As I tried to hear beyond, her finger stayed across my lips.

Then, in the distance, there was a glimmer of sound, faint and high-pitched. It wavered, sometimes there, sometimes not. It sent a series of chills through my body. Whatever it was, it sounded both terrifying and beautiful.

Brae looked to me. As I nodded, confirming, a slight smile crept back across her face.

And yet still she kept her finger pressed to my lips.

So I licked it. A short, quick lick.

I do not know why I did this. (That is not quite true, of course. I would be lying if I said I had never dreamt of doing such, before or since.) Brae flinched her hand away and slapped me. This time without a glove. A single deft swipe that left my cheek stinging.

“What was that, Renn?”

Perhaps I had gone too far.

“I’m sorry,” I said, lacking any other appropriate response. “I didn’t know how else to remove your finger. I can’t feel my hands.” This was true, at least. My arms had grown numb under the pressure from her knees.

As though realising the nature of her position for the first time, Brae looked down. “Oh,” she managed. Then she moved, rolling off and sitting to my left. “Sorry. Don’t push me. Ever.”

Technically, I hadn’t pushed her. I had only intended to push her, but somehow these were details I felt unwise to point out. Still, Brae had apologised. I mentally checked that off my list. In the space of several days I had elicited laughter and an apology. And, I had licked her finger. I allowed a smile at my small achievements.

“Shall we start again?” I asked, voice low. I pointed towards the hill, to where light and sound shifted and shimmered. “What’s happening, Brae? What is that, there within those trees?”

For a long moment, she looked at the hill and the trees and we both watched as that strange light flickered in and out. Then she turned to me, eyes now full of tears.

“It is something I have waited years for,” she said, looking down at the grass and then back to the trees. “A fleeting spirit, trapped between worlds.”

“Trapped between worlds?” I repeated, my words sounding stupid.

Brae nodded. “Between worlds. Between time. Within time, perhaps.” She shook her head, wiping the tears from her eyes. “The very same my father searched for. The last thing he searched for, of that I am sure.” Her eyes closed and she took several deep breaths before speaking again. “It is many things. If any of this is true.”

If any of what is true? I wanted to ask.

“What do you know of such?” she said.

Of oracles? What did I know of oracles?

Nothing. Not then.

But that was all about to change.

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So there we go. Another entry closes. As always, you can let Renn know how you feel by leaving a comment, allowing your mouse or finger to descend upon the little heart icon, or by sharing this post. Thank you for reading, it means the world.

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I—the first entry | Feshen, 11-on-Rye, 568

II—the second entry | Desuen, 12-on-Rye, 568

III—the third entry | Omereth, 13-on-Rye, 568

IV—the fourth entry | Arando, 14-on-Rye, 568

V—the fifth entry | Darn, 15-on-Rye, 568

VI—the sixth entry | Feshen, 16-on-Rye, 568

VII—the seventh entry | Desuen, 17-on-Rye, 568

VIII—the eighth entry | Omereth, 18-on-Rye, 568

IX—the ninth entry | Arando, 19-on-Rye, 568

X—the tenth entry | Darn, 20-on-Rye, 568

“Are you trying to suggest, little boy, that I am of no use?”

If you are new, this is my novella, Brae’s meteorite. I’m serialising it here on Substack. You’re welcome to jump right in, but my recommendation would be to head to the start. You can find all the previous entries here:

Time shifts. The season turns. And with it—oh wait, stop that. That sounds very The Wheel of Time1.

A new entry from Renn emerges, translated afresh from his diary2. The fleeting words have left traces of warmth on my keyboard, a welcome sensation as the cold of autumn begins to seep across Melbourne. Perhaps it is warmer where you are, dear reader. Perhaps it is colder. Whatever the case, I hope reading of Renn’s memories in this short entry will evoke the glow of a smile.

If you’re new here (Hi!), then this entry is standalone enough to jump right in—I hope. Otherwise, you can read (or reread) all previous entries over on this section: https://slake.substack.com/s/braes-meteorite

Each is a 5-10 minute read, a perfect snack to cosy up to.

Arando, 14-on-Rye, 568

I had known Brae since I was fifteen. Well, that is not quite true. I had known her from a younger age, but I did not notice her—properly, with a boy’s wandering eye—until my middle teenage years. She was twenty by then, and in the four years from when she had taken up the mantle of her father, Brae had acquired a certain weathered hostility that separated her from anyone else. It was something I found utterly entrancing. Her role, her fleeting presence, it all added to the air she commanded.

As a night ranger, she was sworn to patrol the dark, wander the forests, be warden to our surrounds. Growing up, I never felt we needed much protecting. Not in such a remote region. What danger was there to a village as ours? We seldom had merchants and travellers, and when they did grace our path they were greeted with warmth, any news from Kareth or beyond a welcome currency for exchange. On maps, Dusk’s Weald may as well have signified the end of the land, little reason to explore beyond. And though as a village we kept the fringes of that deep forest in check, if there were dangers to the south, none ever emerged from those woods. With the only ways to get to and from Toör the twin routes leading north and east, the roads were easy enough to patrol.

It was safe. The world felt safe.

Such were my naïve views.

Of course, I was idiot enough to voice these thoughts to Brae one time in The Patient Owl, the best and only tavern of Toör. I was sixteen myself that night, an evening that seems so vivid to me still. I’d had a full year to cultivate my fawning, and the power of ale lubricated my tongue quite readily into stupidity.

“What great perils have you saved us from this season, ranger of the night?” I had asked, resting my head against the back wall. I was sat across from Brae on the room’s long table, its dark wood stained through years of spilled ale. She had just returned from two weeks of ranging, skirting the forest, walking the routes in and out of Toör. Her boots were caked in mud and she wore her longbow across her back, the supple curve of hickory protruding from her shoulder like she had been born with half a set of wings. Brae was alone, and I had very much wished to keep things that way, sidling along the bench until I was opposite her.

She looked at me, taking a slow sip from her mug, the amber of each iris reflecting the room’s light; then her eyes narrowed, wrinkling and creasing at their edges for a mere moment. That is, at least, what I hoped I saw—the room had begun to swirl and faces had taken on a slight blur.

“What do you know of perils, Darrow’s son?”

That stung. A title was a step up from being completely unknown, but I’d rather it be my true name coming from her lips than that of my father.

I tried to smile. “Well that’s the thing. There are no perils. Not here. Not in end-of-the-land Toör. If anything, we need some perils, to get us up from no perils, otherwise a ranger’s ranging days are short-lived, their duties are, err, well they would be rather, they would …” by this point, I had no real idea what I was saying. The words kept coming until, thankfully, I trailed off.

The wrinkles—if they had ever been there at all—were gone. 

“Are you trying to suggest, little boy, that I am of no use?”

I felt a deep rush of crimson flare through my cheeks. Brae raised an eyebrow.

“No, not at all, I …” I began, wondering just how I could recover. But I wasn’t given the chance. Brae stood up, downed her ale in two long gulps and walked away and out of The Owl. I watched her leave, the way she moved easily through the crowd, until she was swallowed back into the night.

From the corner of the room, seated with the other elders, I caught sight of my father watching. He was smirking and shaking his head.

As I lowered my head to the table, I made a silent vow to never let her walk away from me again.

As always, I am so grateful for your support. Simply reading this, making it this far, you seeing these very words, parsing them, understanding them and the fact that this sentence continues longer than it has any right to—it all warms my world. Not in some weird, homeostasis-altering way. In an emotional way. A nourishing way. Thank you. Please do leave a comment and a Like if you feel so inclined as to leave a comment and a Like …

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She was chewing her lip, a gesture second only to the creasing of her eyes.

If you are new, this is my novella, Brae’s meteorite. I’m serialising it here on Substack. You’re welcome to jump right in, but my recommendation would be to head to the start. You can find all the previous entries here:

I was away recently, as you may have read, so my time on this has been less than I would have liked. But with pen, parchment and candle I have inked out another of Renn’s entries from his diary. That’s Brae’s meteorite, if you’re new to this. You can find the first entry here.

(In learning more of Substack, I’ve now added some Sections to my homepage, including one for Brae. You’ll be able to find all entries kept neatly together there, as well as a separate section for my Dreams.)

Back to this entry. I’m not 100% on the translation here. I’ve toyed with parts of it a few times, unsure of if I’ve precisely caught Renn’s meaning1. But, my dear reader, I’m hopeful you’ll find there’s something here, some sense of a story unfolding.

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Omereth, 13-on-Rye, 568

For those first days of our journey we did little else but maintain the route north, following the forest hedge when it was apparent, trusting in our steps when it was absent. I wasn’t so stupid as to be oblivious of my own luck in travelling alone with Brae. It left me with a constant, inner glow.

But that would be extinguished soon enough.

­~

At one point we came to a series of boulders, their layered and jagged rock an imposition upon the earth. Scrambling to the top, I had stood upon the summit to marvel in each direction. South—the way we had come—were the low and rolling hills so characteristic of that region. Low save for the mountain whose face held Toӧr in its protection, of course. I could no longer see the sprawling stone-and-wood buildings and smoking chimneys nestled behind that face, but I knew they were there and would remain so, awaiting our return. To the west I glimpsed a small farm, corralled animals mere moving dots amongst a distant, static field. Eastwards there stood a scattered array of buildings; Dowen, Brae confirmed after seeing me squinting—another place I hadn’t heard of.

Looking north, I caught sight of the hedge once more.

“I see it again, Brae,” I yelled down. “The hedge. To the north.”

Brae huffed. “Of course it’s to the north, idiot. That’s all it does.” Turning, she began the short detour around the rocks.

I shrugged, standing and watching her long strides in those weatherworn boots, the map in her belt, the bow on her back, the way her copper hair was caught and whipped by a sudden gust. Then I hopped down and trotted to re-join her.

~

Early the next morning when the soft orange of daybreak reached out to us, we came upon a wide stream, the water gushing and eager. Surely it wasn’t so deep, I thought, but Brae decided it an unnecessary risk to find out and said instead that we should cross elsewhere. As I stopped and stared at this little obstacle, I noticed the abrupt end to the growth of the hedge before the water’s edge. It was as though it had taken offence at the stream’s passing, to ignore it and just continue on the other side. Perhaps the plants had jumped across? I had laughed at myself then, Brae eyeing me with a look that was half bemusement, half irritation. I pondered a moment longer on this question of the stream, eventually deciding that it was entirely that: an interruption. The stream had come second, languidly driving its way through the hedge at some stage long after the line of shrubs had become established. It must be very satisfied with its work, I thought, pondering just what task it had since set itself. To find an ocean—surely that is the greatest desire of any stream. I watched its flow, the way the water ran between rock and field and off to the east, wending past that far village of Dowen. I hoped for its sake that there was an ocean that way, but I couldn’t know for sure.

“Left or right?” I asked, breaking my reverie and looking to Brae. She was chewing her lip, a gesture second only to the creasing of her eyes. Below, I could see tiny black fish in the water, battling the current.

“I think either, but the left draws me.” She had unlooped the metal pendant kept wrapped around her wrist, letting it swing from her fingers. It was a habit I disliked, the idea that fate could be teased from the world and sensed through a mere piece of string. She called it her guidance. I called it her folly. But only to myself. Folly would find me fast enough were I to speak those words aloud.

After refilling our flasks, I accepted her choice and sure enough we soon found a shallow section to cross. Our boots removed, trousers pulled high, we waded through the current. I would have just left everything on, but Brae insisted we make the crossing barefooted.

“You don’t want clothes wet. Especially boots,” she said. “Wet feet in wet boots. Never pleasant.”

I nodded, wincing as the icy water lapped across my skin. At this, Brae laughed. Actually laughed. The sound of it, the fact that it had been me to elicit that response, both of these things combined to a compact ball of warmth in my stomach.

“That was your first time, wasn’t it?” I said, buoyed by that warmth and unable to help myself.

“My first time?” Brae had stopped on the far bank, an eyebrow raised.

“The laughing. Not so painful, I hope?” I hopped across the last of the stream and jumped up into the thick grass to join her. Wiping the balls of my feet, I sat down and began to unroll my trousers, keeping my eyes on Brae. But she said nothing. Brae the Laconic; a fitting title perhaps. She stared at me, merely blinking. But there, hidden in that movement, one eye held something. I was sure of it.

~

As for food, we each carried our bundles for the journey to Kareth—dried fruit, hard-bread, a few slices of salted meats; no luxury, but it had been deemed enough, provided we ration ourselves. To supplement this meagre diet, we relied upon Brae’s proficiency as a ranger. She would track as we walked, noting the way that animals had disturbed the brush, left their droppings, marked their paths with the faintest of footprints or deposited strands of hair on thorns. It was invisible to me, of course, these signs and disturbances that animals leave as they move—their spoor, I was informed. I listened with fascination true enough, and Brae had noted my attention, warmed to it, even. There was something verging upon respect at my attitude to listen and learn and I felt that—finally, after so many years—I had found something she was eager to talk of.

On the afternoon of the third day, before that night-time sighting in the sky, Brae motioned for us to a stop. Before I could look to see why, she was gliding the bow from her back, nocking a silent arrow. She knelt, pulling the bowstring taut, pausing, watching, waiting for the rabbit to stop. When it did, she didn’t hesitate. Her fingers released and the arrow thwished through the air. The rabbit fell limp, twitching. I hadn’t even taken a breath.

“We’ll rest here a while,” she said, indifferent to her own marksmanship, walking to the trunk of a nearby tree before casting a glance my way. “I’ll start a fire. You can fetch us dinner.” And she was smiling. At me. With no-one else around for that smile to have been for—no chance of mistakenly thinking it was for me, only to find out it very much was not. So doing my utmost to feign nonchalance, and making sure I most certainly did not skip, I set off towards the fallen rabbit.

Kneeling down next to it, I was reminded of my feelings around death—feelings that haven’t ever changed. It looked peaceful, almost asleep, eyes still open with a dark, glistening red. But the arrow that ran through its neck and reemerged halfway down its flank betrayed that look. Beneath the rabbit, between the thinning blades of grass where it had taken its ill-timed pause, the soil was wet. Urine. Its parting gesture.

“Renn? What are you doing?” Brae called.

“Coming,” I responded, not wanting to tell Brae I didn’t want to touch the rabbit, that I was fearful it might still be alive and that when I tried to grab it it would somehow move and I would hear the arrow shaft scraping against its spine. I shuddered, placing my hand at the rabbit’s neck, tentatively at first, then with more confidence, scruffing the fur. The flesh underneath was still warm. “I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Know that you will feed us well. Know your final act was in helping others.” Then I took a deep breath, stood and made my way back to Brae, holding the rabbit at arm’s length, some part of me still worried it may move.

After another short errand to gather herbs a little way back along our path, Brae skinned and cooked the rabbit over a small fire. It tasted good, tinged only by my mind’s recollection of its death. We had robbed it of life, to fuel our own. Such thoughts didn’t seem to plague Brae—she ate eagerly, sitting cross-legged, elbows on her knees and her boots unlaced.

“It’s good,” I said, picking meat from between my teeth.

Brae flicked a bone into the embers of the fire and shrugged. “Not bad.”

I nodded. Once more, it seemed up to me to try to nudge the conversation. “Who taught you to shoot an arrow so straight?” I asked, knowing full well the answer.

Brae fingered several strands of wayward hair out of her eyes, tucking them back behind her ear, then smiled. It was a wan, lost smile. “My father,” she said. “When I was young, of course. I’ve had long enough to practise since then.”

It had felt unwise to press further, yet I had caught something from Brae as she looked to me, as though perhaps she wanted me to. I hesitated, considered for one moment, but instead I said, “Will you teach me?” And then, somehow I found myself adding, “I could fetch your dinner each day. Our dinner, I mean.”

Brae shook her head, letting go a sigh. “Maybe someday.” She paused, dropping her gaze, a frown now across her brow. “If there is time.”

The fire cracked. Brae poked at the flames, spreading the burning twigs. “Get some sleep, we’ll walk again after dark.”

As I drifted into those meagre few hours, I thought of my home, the village of Toӧr, of my father and my friends. I had no way of knowing how much everything was about to change.

And there we have it, another chapter diary entry unfolds.

I hope you are still here for the journey.

As always, and only if it so pleases you and if you feel the same warm glow as Renn walking with Brae, you can impart some of that warmth with a like, a share, a comment …

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“What?” she asked, amber eyes ablaze.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, smiling. “I just like the way you fold maps. It’s very calming.”

If you are new, this is my novella, Brae’s meteorite. I’m serialising it here on Substack. You’re welcome to jump right in, but my recommendation would be to head to the start. You can find all the previous entries here:

Another entry of Brae’s meteorite has been translated. I’ll not lie, it is delightful work feeling out the writing of Renn, inspecting his choice of words and the story he seems to be divulging. With each careful turn of inked parchment, I feel as though I get to know him that bit better, edging towards an understanding of his life, the journey he lived, the things he saw. (And oh the things he saw …)

It is a short entry, this one, with Renn continuing his narrative from where we left off. If you didn’t get a chance to read that previous entry, then you’ll find it right here via this link:

SLAKE

Introducing: Brae's meteorite

In the flickering torchlight, her hair flared a shade more crimson than usual. Here’s a thing. I found a diary. Bound in thick, cracked leather, flaking at the edges, brown and scuffed and long weathered by time’s fingers. The pages are parchment, scribbled and scrawled with dates and places and people that—how can I put this without sounding insane?—don…

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3 years ago · 3 likes · 4 comments · Nathan Slake

Otherwise, whenever you are ready with five minutes to spare and a warm cup of coffee1, settle in with me my dear reader.

Desuen, 12-on-Rye, 568

The forest hedge meandered a long way north, a natural marker upon the land. In places it was scant but trampled scrub—interminable sections of barren grassland making you question if you had lost your way. Though if you looked carefully, if you stepped back and looked hard, or sometimes if you looked soft, you could always see it, always find it.

Elsewhere it was a rigid, literal hedge. Not the well-kept hedge of some lord, but a hedge nonetheless. Sprawling yet defined, like someone had sowed it seed by seed and left it to grow, to come back every so often and give it a loose trim.

I had read enough to know the main reason for this unusual growth, or at least a scholar’s premise. The large shrub that dominates the hedge is sensitive to the magnetic drift of the world. In the region we walked, there is some sort of magnetic seam and if the hedge strays too far, it withers. Perhaps the roots garner nutrients from it. Perhaps it is pulled along by it, like the way flowers somehow turn toward the light of day. In any case, I have no idea, and I doubt anyone truly does.

Over time, the hedge and all the plants that like to entwine along with it have spread in an uncanny route that runs a rough path north. It makes a fine bearing for any traveller. It is no trade route, though. It is no place where an established path has been forged or demarcated through the trodden boots of time. Too remote in the southlands, after all. But it is old. Tirelessly old. Old and unwavering.

Of course, on maps, like the very one Brae carried folded in her belt, the hedge was a solid line.

A simple, easy-to-follow, easy-to-spot, solid black line.

Hah!

“No cartographer has ever walked this,” I’d said with my best mock disgust on that second day of our journey. The day before we saw the meteorite. After seven hours of walking, we rested against the trunk of a large oak, sharing small sips from a single water flask. There would be enough streams on our journey and we carried three flasks each, but with Brae you did things the ranger way. You took precautions.

To the south, a patch of the hedge was visible; to the north, nothing but tall grass.

“Look at this,” I said, pointing down to the map, the parchment unfolded in front of us on the ground. I hovered my finger (hovered, not touched, for I wouldn’t make that mistake again) over where I thought we had stopped. “We’re here, but nothing, no lines, no mark … nothing!” I stood up and turned, making wild gestures with my hands towards the north and the south and then at the map’s complete lack of hedgeline.

“Sit down, fool. You’re not even close. We’re here.” Brae placed her finger on the map’s surface, tracing from where I thought we were to where she thought—knew—we were. The polished band on her right first finger flashed as it caught the light streaming through the oak’s canopy.

“There’s no tree there, though. This oak is probably a thousand years old. There should be a tree,” I said, looking to Brae. I was waiting for the creases. I caught one, just a hint near her right eye. One was enough. Like a morsel of food, it would nourish me for hours.

“Cartographers don’t draw trees, dimwit. Not unless there’s a whole bunch of them together.” She pointed off to the east where the landscape swelled to a series of low hills, each carpeted in thick forest.

I pictured a group of cartographers sitting together, each taking turns to try to draw a single tree.

I refrained from sharing this image.

“Hmm, fair point, fair Brae.” I scratched the top of my head. Was I really a dimwit? Looking down, I could see that Brae was right. East of the point on the map where she had indicated, depicted quite clearly by concentric lines, were the hills to our right. Sketched between these lines in a rudimentary yet neat fashion were a strand of trees. Pashel Forest was written below in an oddly familiar script. I’d never heard of Pashel Forest. But then I’d never heard of most places outside of Toӧr.

“Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.” Brae started to refold the map, but not before she traced her finger a good ways further north, to a point where a tiny fleck of ink was starred on the map’s surface. She tapped it twice and made a short clucking noise in the back of her throat before glancing into her satchel. Within it was her journal. The one with the cover like my own. Then she continued folding the map with the same care one would use to handle a kitten. I watched her as she did this, as her hands moved. Despite her strength and profession, those hands were delicate and the skin of her palms soft. Well, I remember they looked soft. I couldn’t know for sure how they actually felt, not that day. The only time those hands had touched me had been within a glove. From a swift slap across my cheek. I’d made a remark about her father, years ago, and at the time I was rather proud of that remark, thinking it wry and witty. But Brae had felt otherwise. It was a stupid thing to say, I realise that now.

With one last and careful fold complete, she pushed the map through two loops in her belt, securing it in place. Shouldering her satchel and bow, tying the waterskin back alongside her others, she caught me watching.

“What?” she asked, amber eyes ablaze.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, smiling. “I just like the way you fold maps. It’s very calming.” As I spoke, I stared longingly at that map and the way it got to sit folded neatly into her belt.

But Brae said nothing in reply. She merely huffed and walked on, without looking back.

She knew I’d follow.

And so I did.

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That was part 2 of Brae’s meteorite. I hope you enjoyed. If you did, well, you know what to do …

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In the flickering torchlight, her hair flared a shade more crimson than usual.

Here’s a thing.

I found a diary. Bound in thick, cracked leather, flaking at the edges, brown and scuffed and long weathered by time’s fingers. The pages are parchment, scribbled and scrawled with dates and places and people that—how can I put this without sounding insane?—don’t seem of this earth.

I know, I know. That sounds a lot worse when I write it out. A lot crazier when I admit it to this screen I’m staring at. But … well, I’m going to transcribe what I’ve been able to make out. It’ll take some time. There’s a lot of entries and I’m not yet sure I truly understand everything that’s written within. It’s like I still have to piece it all together, map it out, work out which entries go where, how the timeline fits and if there even is a timeline. Whether the author had any underlying intention or if it was just a collection of thoughts and happenings, perhaps a tracing of an arc of a meaning.

Of course, it is somewhat strange I’m able to read the thing at all. The words are in a curling, mysterious script. But, I suppose that’s one of the luxuries of this object and craft: being able to decipher what isn’t really there.

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You’ll find the very first entry below.

///

Feshen, 11-on-Rye, 568

The meteorite—if that is what it truly was—came three days after leaving Toӧr. It burned bright in the sky, a corona of cool blue cloaking a heart fierce as ember. It was beautiful. Then it winked out, leaving us motionless, the night sky re-emerging in dim jealousy.

I had looked to Brae then, my mouth parted with a word half formed. But Brae just shuffled, feet crunching on loose leaves, eyes squinting towards that point on the horizon.

Then came the explosion—or something like an explosion. There was only the light, spitting forth from the horizon and illuminating the sky with a narrow, prismatic jet. Then that too was gone, lost to space.

We waited, expectant on a sound that never came. No rumble, no shockwave. If we had been asleep, we might never have known of its passing.

Or so I thought, back then.

“What?” I said in whisper, the lone word finally finding itself.

Brae said nothing. She motioned we continue, stepping up her pace. Though the waning moon still gave enough light to see the mossy way below our feet, she lit a torch and held it high as we walked. The light struck the myriad tree branches lining the path, casting each leaf and twig into darting shadow-shapes. Somewhere nearby came the low snort and rustle of an animal. Jackhog, most likely. Scavenging in the night, it must have been startled by our footsteps and flame.

In truth, if I am to be honest in what I write here, Brae’s insistence on the safety of fire had unnerved me. We had walked with the moon’s silver guidance for hours, so why the change? What significance had that celestial body brought?

“Why the torch?” I asked, words echoing thoughts as I brushed aside a branch.

“Would you rather I put it out?” she said, her first words in over an hour. Those words carried something strange. Something out of place, even for Brae.

I could have answered. I could have set forth a series of questions. It was what I did with Brae: ask questions to seek the slightest favour, often receiving nothing in return, not even a grunt. But sometimes, if my question could nudge her just right, or I found her in a moment of peace, or I said something spectacularly stupid, I could glimpse the single thing that made me smile: her eyes and their edges, the way they creased, the momentary wrinkling. It was always enough, seeing those creases, thinking that perhaps I had brought a fleeting distraction to her life. I suppose it had started as a game. One I had played for years.

But that night had been no time for games.

I shrugged, though I doubt Brae could tell. By then we had reached a larger clearing and she had taken the lead, sweeping the torch in what I felt were unnecessarily wide arcs until she caught sight of the forest hedge once more. “I don’t care if you put it out or not,” I said, forgoing my own silence. “I just don’t see why we need it. There is moonlight enough. Why waste a torch?”

“Waste?” Brae stopped, whirling to face me. In the flickering torchlight, her hair flared a shade more crimson than usual.

This was not going well. “Not waste.” I held up an appeasing finger, like a banner pole bereft of any actual banner. “A flame at night, waste no light, drown the ghost, appease the blight.” I spoke the charm in my best lyrical tone. “Yes, yes, powerful and true and all that.” Brae was superstitious. I knew this, even from a young age. I just didn’t see how her superstition fit with what we had witnessed.

She said nothing, staring instead at my unwavering finger. Finally, I let it drop. Her eyes in turn shifted to mine. They were deep set and cold, entirely devoid of creases.

“Brae,” I said coolly. “What was that? What did we just see?” The meteorite already seemed the distant memory of dream—something that may not have actually occurred.

Brae continued to hold my gaze, inspecting me as though I were an outsider.

“I don't know,” she said, dropping her eyes and slumping her shoulders. “I don't know,” she repeated, her voice drained of any power. And then, in a moment of honesty that felt distinctly juxtaposed to the impervious Brae I had spent so long trying to crack, she added, “but it is not the first I have seen.”

Not the first.

I wondered deeply on her words that night. I wondered at their meaning, at the fear writ across Brae’s face. At what may lie ahead. Everyone sees meteorites, on occasion. Especially night rangers. Those that wander unseen in the cloak of dark. But her words gave me pause, and it is only with the silent passage of time, with deep regret, and with my own slow stupidity that I caught her true meaning. It was no mere meteorite that we saw. It was something far more profound. Something intangible, even for me now.

Brae shook her head, as if ridding herself of some unseen insect. “Let’s move,” she said. “The night is still upon us, and we have a ways before camp.”

I had almost protested, almost stopped her and demanded some answers, or at the very least set upon her some questions. But instead I let it go, motioning an as-you-wish gesture with my hand.

It is a decision I have forever had to live with.

You’ve just read the first entry to Brae’s Meteorite, a journal I found and one I am slowly translating. It takes a fair chunk of work to translate, but if you’d like to read further entries then leave a like and a comment and we can, err, try and make this a regular thing.

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