“Hendrik is fine,” he said, though his eyes crinkled ever-so-slightly.
“Well then, Hendrik, the word in the Heart Wood is that the malignant forces that keep you all trapped in the City are responsible for draining the river of its vitality. Which is frankly going to be a problem for the Heart Wood, if it’s not already, as well as the City,” Dagan explained, careful not to be snappish even while he inserted some of his usual sarcasm for flavor. It seemed to be working on Hendrik, though the man was damnably hard to read.
Hendrik nodded slowly, apparently thinking all this through, before saying, “It’s as possible as any other explanation.”
“Perhaps you have some information that could help the Council?”
“Help them?”
“With the river. It has to be cleansed somehow, but first we have to know what’s killing it.”
Hendrik shook his head. “I hardly know when I got here, let alone anything important like that.”
That seemed a fair enough assessment. Whatever had happened to Hendrik, he had obviously taken a great deal of mental damage and possibly also physical. He had a long burn up his left arm that hadn’t healed very prettily. Dagan reached into his pack and pulled out a pair of juicy plums from their soft wrappings. He held one up, cocking his eyebrow in a question.
Hendrik ventured nearer but slowly. “What is it?”
“A plum.” Dagan mimed throwing it, and when Hendrik held up both hands, he lobbed it underhand into them.
Hendrik caught it easily, then eyed it.
Dagan bit into his. Juice ran down his chin, and he wiped it off with the back of his bare arm. “They’re especially good this year.”
Hendrik was still looking at his as if it might bite him back. “It’s fresh fruit, then?”
“That’s right. You must’ve seen some in the forest. There are plenty of fruit groves around here.”
Hendrik shook his head. “I didn’t go in much more than this. Just until I found the spring in that little valley over there.” Finally, he bit into the plum. His lashes fluttered, then his eyes went wide. “It’s amazing.”
Dagan nodded. “You don’t get much fresh fruit in the City, I take it?”
Hendrik shook his head again, too busy eating the rest of the plum to give a reply. It looked like he’d been surviving off fish, weeds, tidal creatures, and the odd small animal. Poor thing, that must’ve been miserable for a big boy like him.
“Plenty more where that came from,” Dagan promised, “if you want to come back with me.”
Hendrik paused, wiping plum juice from his mouth. It dribbled down his hand, too, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Can you find me a bath without salt in it? It’s everywhere.”
Dagan laughed. “Oh, yes, very first thing if you like. And plenty of good food and drink.”
Hendrik snorted. “What do you want in return?”
“If you know what’s happening in the City, that could be useful,” Dagan said thoughtfully. “But it’s not a transaction; you’re welcome, so long as you can live by the Law of the Wood.”
“You don’t even know who I am.”
“You can tell me on the way,” Dagan stood again, stretching after being hunkered down by his pack so long. “Fair warning, though, if you mean to murder me in my sleep: I don’t have anything of worth on me but my bow and knife, and I am very, very good with both.”
Hendrik watched him with something like curiosity, though it was veiled as all his expressions. “Where would we go?”
“The Council first, probably, since there’s a crisis at hand. I’m supposed to meet them in the Wildcrafter Conservancy for the Grain Moon. Then you might like to go to Oak Grove Conservancy. There’s a large refugee community there, and they make the most incredible sausage.”
The mention of food seemed to hit a nerve. Little by little, Dagan was chipping away at this one. He’d get there with him eventually, he felt sure. Hendrik said, “There are others? From the City?”
“Plenty, yes. We get a few every year, at least.”
Hendrik nodded but slowly again. “I’d like to meet them.”
“Of course. Shall we camp here and start off in the morning, then, since you’ve already…ah…?” Dagan eyed the rickety shelter and sad fire pit.
Hendrik shrugged.
“I’ll just go and find some firewood, then we’ll see about dinner.” Dagan hefted his pack, just in case, and took his bow in hand.
“I can—” Hendrik hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “Go see if there are any fish in the rock pools?”
“Lovely.” Dagan smiled as reassuringly as he could. “I’ll meet you back here.”
*
With the addition of a real, crackling fire in a stone pit and Dagan’s thin-but-warm woolen blanket spread on the ground, the campsite took on a slightly more comfortable character by sundown. In his lightweight tin pot, Dagan sauteed some wine and dried spring onions, then added water, his dried mushrooms, and the whitefish Hendrik had brought from a rocky outcrop on the beach. A handful of acorn flour to thicken it up, and it’d be a fine supper. He hummed to himself as he worked, leaving Hendrik to himself but trying to exude a generally friendly and reassuring presence.
He was a little bit proud of himself, finding a refugee on his first scouting trip. And he hadn’t had to put an arrow in the refugee, which was even better. Truth be told, Dagan had never put an arrow in another human and hoped he’d never have to, but he would do his duty without flinching if it came to it. It was just nice that he hadn’t had to on his first time out.
Yet. Hendrik sat back from the fire a little ways, whittling down a stick into a pointy spear-tip. He had several of these crude implements squirreled away within his tumbledown shelter, as it turned out, and not much else. His hands were large and strong, the nails bitten down almost to the quick.
Dagan poured Hendrik a cup of his mother’s best elderberry wine, then waved him over to share from the tin pot. “Get it while it’s hot.” He settled it on the ground before the blanket and sat.
Hendrik approached cautiously, like a large cat looking for table scraps. Dagan held out a wooden spoon to him. Hendrik took it and settled on the blanket, near enough to reach the pot and the cup while leaving more than an arm's length between him and Dagan.
