The Springborn

CALDER

A s the sun threatens to set, I spot an abandoned, half-collapsed, log cabin along the road. The space behind it appears to be flat and grassy. It’s as good a place as we’re likely to find to camp for the night. We’re still miles from any inn I remember, and hours out of Miners Ridge. I steer Mervyn off the road and Maeve follows.

I dismount. My legs almost refuse to hold me. I’ve rarely ridden horseback so far in a day, and never under such unpleasant circumstances. Never while feeling like a fish that’s been gutted alive.

Blazes, I hate myself. Hours of reflection on the errors of my ways have done nothing to improve my disposition.

“I’m hungry,” Sparrow says as I approach her. She leans over and falls into my arms. How does she still smell sweet after all of our traveling, the dust, and the creek she waded in? The weight of her in my arms will make a terrible memory.

I set her on the ground and put on a smile. “We have a little food left. I’ll get it out while you gather sticks for a fire.”

“Yes! I love campfires.” She runs off and starts picking up sticks.

Sabella dismounts on the opposite side of Maeve. Her feet hit the ground with a thud.

“I would have helped you,” I say.

“I know that.” She doesn’t look at me, but at least her tone is more tired than angry. She shakes out her skirts and then follows after Sparrow, limping a little, obviously pained by the length of the ride.

I have caused her this injury and too many others. I want to undo all of my mistakes, or perform some penance to earn her forgiveness.

I remember my promise to Sparrow and pull the sack of food out of my saddlebag. There’s a knot in the tie that keeps the food sack shut, one that mysteriously formed as we traveled. I pick at the tight tangle until it becomes clear that it will never yield to me, and then I get my knife. It’s easy enough to solve this problem with a swift stroke of a blade. But some things can neither be unraveled nor cut out.