Brae's meteorite, part 2
or, a short jaunt alongside a hedge
“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:
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.
That was part 2 of Brae’s meteorite. I hope you enjoyed. If you did, well, you know what to do …
personally, I’m opting for a pinot noir
I find myself wondering why she is so short-tempered with him... Maybe she is rude with every one? And if so, why? What has hurt her so badly in the past? I will look for the answer...
The way the map “got to” sit within her belt... such a revealing choice of words. I wish I knew what he sayid about her father... these characters are so vulnerable and real already.