Brae's meteorite, part 3
or, a necessary prelude to all that will come to pass
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.
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 …
not wanting to break any potential magic directly, what I mean is: I’ve written and rewritten and rewritten this, trying so desperately to capture Renn and what he is trying to convey. I still don’t know whether I’ve done that. There are so many words on the cutting floor. I’m sorry Renn. I hope you understand.
I love your description of the stream, and of its greatest desire. I hadn't thought to give a body of water agency, but you did, and that finding the ocean would be what it did with that agency makes perfect sense.
I'm going to have to go back and read the previous chapters now, because I am definitely curious about the history between Brae & Renn. And I love that meteorite pic!
Brae is so rough and distant. I like it, because sometimes you'll see female characters written only to bring forth and kiss up to the male lead characters, which here is clearly not the case. Brae has a tough backbone.
I wonder what she's been through?
Renn on the other hand is reserved, clearly attached, by how he interprets Brae's gestures, tries to read into them. The line I liked most here was - It was a wan, lost smile. A lost smile... can't put my finger on it, at the same time it describes the feeling very well, and the fact he was able to see that emotion in her, tells me that Renn is high in empathy.
I really hope nothing bad happens to Brae? ... right? .... RIGHT?