Rosie & The Forest King (6 of 9)
Were is the Wolf?
ROSIE TENDED TO LUKE throughout the day, humming and singing her healing songs. At one point, she kissed him on the top of the head.
“Just to complete the magic,” she said. “But I’m going to be really disappointed if you turn into a wolf and kill me later.”
“So will I,” he said.
By late afternoon, he was standing and walking without pain.
Meanwhile, Dan complained—quite eloquently—about how they had a literal werewolf in their midst, and how that situation historically led to death or permanent injury. Especially for hares, who were always the first to go—on account of their refined and nutritious flesh, the result of a lifelong diet of grass and Shakespeare.
“The flesh of a hare, I’ll have you know, is delectable compared to a rabbit’s. I have this on good authority from several foxes who tried to prove it by eating me,” Dan said. “They failed, of course—thanks to my workouts.”
“Workouts?” Rosie asked.
“Well, yes. We are speed demons compared to our lesser cousins. But still, you need to have goals.”
“What was your goal?”
“To not be the slowest hare,” he said, as if it were an absurd question.
Rosie stopped humming and looked at the hare, cocked an eyebrow, and then looked at Luke.
“Is anyone hungry?” she asked. “I still have a little bit of sausage, bread, and cake.”
“Not I,” said Dan. “I don’t eat refined foods like that—it’s terrible for my digestion. But… wait, did you say cake?”
“I did,” Rosie said.
“Carrot cake?”
“No. I’m afraid not,” she said.
“It’s just as well,” Dan said. “Wouldn’t want it to make me slower than the other hares.”
“Luke?” Rosie asked.
“I’ve eaten enough of your food,” he said. “But thank you.”
“Now, Luke,” she said. “I know you’re planning to get up and leave any moment now, to take off into the forest before your other side shows up—but what kind of girl would I be if I let you leave on an empty stomach?”
“A delightful girl,” Dan said quietly.
“What?” Rosie asked, as if she hadn’t heard him.
“An erudite girl,” he said, more loudly. “Well studied. Clearly you were taught manners. But from what I saw, your stock is running a little low. I wouldn't want to take your food."
"Thankfully," she smiled, "I still have some songs to sing."
As she began, a glowing cauldron appeared over the flames. She sang:
Pease porridge hot, Pease porridge cold, Pease porridge in the pot, Nine days old.
She sang the song three times, stopping short on the third round right after the word hot.
It smelled delicious.
"What is pease porridge?" Luke asked.
"It's a split yellow pea pudding," she said.
"Nine days old?"
"It keeps a long time and you reheat it each night, adding a new ingredient. By nine days, there are many flavors—maybe a bit of ham or a bit of chicken or some rendered fat. It's very good and will keep you filled for a while."
Then she sang again:
One bowl for the hungry, Two bowls for the kind Three for those with stories And memories left behind.
As she sang, each line, a wooden bowl with spoon formed in her hands and she handed these, one-by-one to Luke and Dan, placing the third at her feet.
"Hares don't use spoons," Dan said.
"No," she said. "I suppose not. But you might actually like this. It's really just peas and spices and broth.
She ladled the porridge into the bowls, the largest helping for Luke, a medium helping for herself, and a small helping for Dan, who was the smallest of them. She took the last of her bread and broke it into three parts, large, medium, and small and handed these to her companions, keeping the medium one for herself.
They ate in silence, passing the water canteen between them.
"The bread is a little stale," she said. "Sorry."
"It's great for soaking up the broth," Luke said with a crooked smile.
"It's because you haven't sung your song all day today and half of yesterday," Dan said. "You know, the song you were always singing about rivers and forests?"
"I haven't felt like it," she said. "Honestly, I heard it almost every day of my life. I was starting to get sick of it and once I stopped singing it, I didn't want to start again.
"What about your pumpkin pie?" Dan asked.
"How do you know about my pumpkin pie?" Rosie asked. "Have you been snooping around the campfire at night? Did you peek in my basket?"
"Well," Dan said. "I did see it one time or two while I happened to be looking for a an extra copy of Richard III that you might have tucked in there. But I thought you were singing that song to keep the pie warm and fresh for Grandmother?"
"I already told you I have no Shakespeare with me," she said, raising an eyebrow at Dan.
"Well, you never know," he said. "When hares travel and pack our things, it's quite surprising how many individual copies of Shakespeare you find upon arrival. I thought it prudent to check, just in case you'd forgotten."
"I see," Rosie said. "Well, I'm sure you find no poetry at all in my basket."
"What about the pie though?" Dan asked.
"I'm not sure why you're worried about it," Rosie said. "You won't even eat it. Who cares if it's a couple of days old anyway?"
"It's just that I've grown accustomed to the song, as we've traveled," Dan said. "You could always use the music box."
Rosie stared at him.
"I don't want the song, okay?" she asked.
"My apologies, my lady," Dan said. "I did not mean to pry."
Luke, who had been listening to the conversation, spoke up. "For all you know, Grandmother might not even like pumpkin. It might give her indigestion. Maybe she doesn't like pie at all. Maybe she doesn't even like visitors."
Rosie looked at him for a moment, saying nothing before returning to her porridge.
"Just saying," Luke said. "I always preferred Thanksgiving with my parents, rather than my grandparents. I know if I had a choice, I'd eat with my parents."
"You men are right full of opinions, aren't you," Rosie said.
It wasn't a question.
"Well," Luke said, rising. "I thank you for the food and the healing and the safety you've given to me, but I must be off as night approaches within the hour."
"If you weren't going to turn into a rabid monster I'd prefer if you stayed," Rosie said.'
"Believe me," Luke said. "That's what I would prefer too. I'd rather stay."
Rosie shrugged. "Leave if you must."
"I must," he said. "I just don't want to.”
He hesitated and then stepped closer to her.
“Look, you're going to be at Grandmother's tomorrow, probably before noon, but there are some wonderful trees along the way. No need to hurry. Take your time. You'll be there long before nightfall."
"What are you suggesting," Rosie asked.
"Just do a little sightseeing," he said. "I always like to take the indirect route, if I can. Going the direct route can have permanent consequences."
Rosie and Luke stared at each other.
Her mouth formed a small “Oh” as she watched—his beard thickened slightly, his mouth stretched just a little too wide.
Just that bit had changed him. There had to be some article of truth in what he’d said, but what? She couldn’t just ask him.
"Goodbye," he said. "I hope to see you again."
He turned to head down the trail, limping just slightly.
Rosie scampered after him, going past and then turning on him. He stopped, standing face to face with him. She looked up at him and he held her in his eyes.
Rosie raised her eyebrows—a question. Nothing said, but communicated anyway.
Luke shrugged. But then she almost saw it—a flicker of fear, a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. But it was gone too fast to be sure.
She looked at him, then smiled, and reached up to kiss his cheek. Then he wandered into the woods as she returned to the campfire.
She lay beneath her blankets, eyes on the stars, wakeful for a long time.
But when sleep finally came, she dreamt of a wolf with a gentle face—and felt no fear at all.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
I’m sooo intrigued!!