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  She plucked a piece of cheatgrass from the cushion, flicking it away. “Is it a hard story to tell?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had anyone to tell it to.” He scooted closer to the couch—just a little—watching her as he might a cornered animal.

  Why did he wanted to tell her anything? Did they have a shared experience of domestic battery? Was that supposed to make her feel better? Or maybe he was afraid she’d run off in the night, and he needed to tell someone his story while he had the chance.

  Trav cleared his throat, gazing into a shadowy corner. “On my island, there is a quest that everyone must go through before they can get a name. A real name, not a kid’s name, like mine, which is Son of Mossflower. It’s like, a rite of passage. It’s usually done when a person is in their teens or early twenties, but I held off on mine because my mother was always sick, and I felt like it was more important for me to take care of her first. After she died, I decided it was finally time to go. It involved climbing the volcano on my island and picking the sacred Black Aurora mushrooms that grow there. Then I had to take a boat to the Mainland and walk for a month. After that, I was supposed to take the mushrooms and experience a vision, then go back to my island and report it to my Elder. He would give me a name, and I would go about my life.

  “Problem is after I took the Black Auroras, nothing happened. I didn’t receive a vision. I thought I did something wrong. So I walked for another month and then took them again. Still, nothing happened. I kept trying until I ran out of mushrooms. I never had a vision. I thought about going back to my island and telling my Elder what happened, but that would make me a disgrace, especially after waiting so long to undergo the quest. I also thought about lying and making up a vision, but that didn’t seem right either. So I just kept walking… And here I am.”

  Owl put a hand over her mouth. Traveling alone had been liberating at first, that notion that she could go anywhere. But it soon devolved into the realization that she belonged nowhere and meant nothing to anyone, except maybe Mom. Three years of wandering was an eternity.

  Trav continued. “Completing my naming quest was, in my mind, going to be my redeeming act. It would finally give me a connection to everyone else on the island and make me seem like less of an outcast. I wanted to prove that despite my light coloring, I was a part of the island as much as they were. Maybe they wouldn’t treat me like a pariah anymore. But I failed. I’m sure a lot of them aren’t surprised that I never came back.”

  Owl pictured Trav as a small boy, scampering to his grandma for a hug, or trying to play tag with the neighbor kids, and getting nothing but grunts of disgust in return. Then images of her father entered her mind, bits of potato flying from his mouth as he railed against some innocent Islander that had been in line in front of him.

  She scooted to the edge of her seat. “I’m sorry. Having to decide whether to go back a disgrace or walk forever in land where everyone hates you seems like an agonizing choice. You must miss your home a lot.”

  He nodded. The expanse between them was too far. Trav was so alone, sitting by himself on that ugly carpet.

  Comfort him!

  She slid slowly off the couch, mechanically, until resting on the floor across from him, her mind warring with itself. “So, do you want me call you Son of Mossflower?”

  “I think I like Trav better.”

  The candle flickered in the drafty room. They were so equally alone, two leaves drifting on the breeze. He’d offered up a part of himself to her; would she feel better if she did the same? Paralysis coiled around Owl as she tried to force words from her clogged throat. Her notebook felt heavier as she slipped it from her pack and clutched it to her chest. She opened to the first page and offered it to him.

  “I can’t read that.”

  Her mouth twitched. “Can’t or won’t? I can’t say it out loud.”

  Trav took the book gingerly. He scanned the lines, a hand on his chin. A turn of the page. Then another. He looked up and tried to smile—it was a terrible imitation. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

  “I don’t want to read anymore.” He held the book out like it was tainted, his eyes glossy.

  “Do you—do you think I’m a bad person now?” What if he said yes? What if she deserved to be out here alone, at the mercy of highwaymen and trashdogs? She needed to know. Maybe it would help her figure out where to put all this guilt.

  “You’re not a bad person. I think he got what he deserved. Is that why you’re out here wandering around? You’re punishing yourself?”

  “Are you?”

  Trav scooted closer, leaning against the couch. “I’d ask you if you want a hug, but I’m assuming the answer is no.”

  A bolt of anxiety divided her heart. She suddenly wasn’t sure what to do with the notebook in her lap. She dropped it and turned toward Trav, tentatively opening her arms. He embraced her. She forced herself to hold him, more for his benefit than anything. His scent—campfire ash, sweat, and sweet night air—filled her lungs. His chest rose and fell against hers; her pulse throbbed in her ears. She pulled back.

  “You didn’t like that very much.”

  “I can’t help it.” She fought to keep tears from spilling down her face and failed.

  Trav plucked an errant shaft of grass off the floor and fiddled with it. “I understand. So, those scars on your forehead are from—”

  “A mirror.”

  “And—and the one on your chest?”

  “I’m so ugly.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “No, you’re not. Not at all.”

  She hitched up the neckline of her shirt, hiding the scar. “It was a—a broken chair leg.” Trav’s mouth pulled tight as she said, “What about yours?”

  He touched the purple scar winding across his nose. “Highwaymen.”

  “And this one?” Owl pointed to his lip.

  “When I was a kid. Some bigger kids hit me in the mouth with a stick.”

  The roof’s broken beams offered a small view of the night sky. Wispy clouds glided across the pinhole stars. Owl glanced at Trav. “So, uh, you said you are from the Pearlollan Islands. But there are a few. Which one is yours?”

  “Nis. It’s smaller than the main island.”

  She opened her notebook to the back and removed a well-worn map, unfolding it.

  “Ah, you have a map.” Trav scooted closer to get a better look, his braid falling onto her arm. Her heart skipped a beat. She wasn’t sure if her nerves were from apprehension or attraction. Both prospects were frightening. She tried to keep her hands steady as he pointed to one of several small, misshapen circles in the ocean, not far from the coast.

  “That one, huh?” she said. “See this town here that I drew a circle around? That’s Hawthorne, where I grew up.”

  “They’re really not that far apart.” Trav pointed to a larger island, slightly south of his own. “This is the big island of Pearlolla. The people there are very friendly and love to trade. Any Islanders you’ve seen here on the Mainland were probably Pearlollans. Though my island is part of the same chain, the people and governing styles couldn’t be more different. My people are much more reserved.”

  “Oh. And I thought it was just you.” She smiled, marking the names of the islands with a pen.

  “No. Not just me.” He pointed to a tiny island, hardly even a dot, next to Nis. “This is Tam. I have cousins who live there. There are a lot of other islands around this area too, but I think they’re too small for your map.”

  Trav gestured to larger islands farther north. “These are the Soots.” He scowled. “They’re floating trash islands. The Soot people are horrible. Slavers. They tried attacking my island when I was young.”

  “I’ve never heard of them.” Owl wrote down the name. “But we didn’t have to worry about too much when I was growing up. We lived in the outer wall of Hawthorne and were protected by the city. My parents still live there on a farm. I marked it in red because I was thinking of going there.”


  “What changed?”

  She looked away, shaking her head. “After what I did? There’s no way I could explain it to them. My dad’s a judgemental prick. You know, I had everything planned out for my… trip? Escape? Whatever you want to call it, and was ready to leave with a caravan. But I chickened out at the last moment. Then Adam came home drunk again and—”

  “And you did what you needed to do.”

  Her nose stung and she folded the map. “I should have left when I originally planned. Instead, I had to go in the middle of the night with only a few belongings and I just… picked a direction. You know, this is one of the only shirts I have? I had more. I didn’t grab them. I’m wearing his boots—” Her voice cracked.

  “No one could blame you. I’m sure it was very hard to think logically at the time. How long were you married to him?”

  “Six months. We didn’t twine that long before deciding to get married. Impulsive.”

  “Twine?”

  “You know, be together. Romantically.”

  He cocked his head. “Is that what you guys call it?”

  “You don’t?”

  “We call it ‘coupling.’”

  She smiled, but it quickly faded. “My mother was so excited that I was settling down, because I spent the first few years of my twenties casually twining lots of different guys. She didn’t really approve of that.”

  “Was he like that the entire time you were married?”

  “No. He was always controlling—even when we were twining—although I didn’t realize it back then. But it wasn’t until I got sick of it and started trying to stand up for myself, during the last couple months or so of our marriage, that he got really angry. Him being drunk all the time didn’t help matters.”

  “Why didn’t you tell someone? A friend? The sheriff?”

  Trav’s gaze was almost as uncomfortable as his hug, but his question sprang from concern, not judgement. “I tried. People had their own problems. They acted like they didn’t even notice my black eyes, or my cuts, my bruises. And I hadn’t lived there that long—I didn’t know anyone that well. Adam was a fixture of the community. He was also good friends with the sheriff.”

  A cacophony of crickets filled the thick silence. She scooped up her notebook, picking at the curling label. It didn’t feel quite as heavy now, and neither did she.

  Trav glanced at her. “This is a good pity party.”

  Owl breathed out a laugh. “Yeah. I can bring a lot to the table. Make sure you invite me to your next one.”

  “You can count on it.”

  “Tell me something funny. Something good.”

  Trav scrunched his face, peering into the messy jumble of debris hanging from the roof. “I have a cousin—Quietbird. Before his naming quest he was ‘Seventh Son of Whitemoon.’ He has six brothers and one sister, and he’s the youngest.”

  “Wow.”

  Trav laughed. “Yeah. Anyway, he’s like a brother to me. We’re the same age, and he’s a bad influence. One day we found all these frogs in a pond and he convinced me to take some home. I got a jar, and he helped me collect a bunch of them. We must have put thirty of them in there.”

  Owl leaned against the ruined couch’s rough surface, laughing.

  A grin lit Trav’s face. “I put the jar under my bed so my mom wouldn’t find it. But during the night, all the frogs escaped, and when I woke up, they were everywhere. My mom made me apologize to every single frog.”

  “That’s a good story. Thanks.”

  Trav rested his arm against a cushion, head propped up in his hand. “You ever do stuff like that when you were a kid?”

  “Um, well, not that exactly. We had some animals on our farm, and I loved all of them. And there was this raven that I rescued. I’d give her food and in return she’d bring me presents. Sometimes they were gross things, like dead mice, garbage. But sometimes she’d bring jewelry, bottle caps, glass. …I wonder if she thinks about me. Wonders where I went.”

  “Owl… and raven.”

  “Yep. Us birds gotta stick together.” She sighed. “You know, I didn’t think I wanted this. To tell someone else my problems. But I feel better now after talking to you. Sitting here with you.”

  Trav’s blue gaze held her. “Me too.” He placed his hand on her knee, then quickly drew it back. “Sorry.”

  Which side of her mind would win the growing battle was still unclear, but his touch was less unpleasant than before. “It’s okay. But I think this bird is going to go roost now.” She stood, collecting her things from the floor.

  Trav remained in place, hands in his lap. “So you’re a bird. What am I?”

  Owl stopped, turned. “You’re nice. Good night.”

  4 ~ Spectacles ~

  “So what’s the craziest thing you’ve seen on your travels?” Owl asked.

  The heat radiating off the buckled asphalt distorted distant sage green hills and highway markers. Trav gazed thoughtfully toward the afternoon sky. “A church made of human bones.”

  “A what?”

  “And the man inside invited me to come in and worship with him. I got out of there as fast as I could.”

  “Why? He probably just liked the shape of your skull.”

  “Yeah. Liked it a lot.” Trav laughed. “What about you?”

  “You getting bit in the ass by a trashdog.”

  A sharp-toothed grin materialized beneath Trav’s hood.

  “How’s your leg today? Mine doesn’t feel half bad.”

  Trav shrugged. “It’s okay. Still hurts, but much more manageable than yesterday.”

  “You know, joking aside, I saw this thing a while back. I don’t even know how to describe it. It was inside an old building, moving around. I thought maybe it was a bear or something, but it didn’t look like any bear I’d ever seen. This big, lumbering creature—looking for food, I guess. I didn’t stick around.”

  Trav elbowed her as they walked. “Maybe it was a little bit of The South, coming up to get you.”

  “You know about The South?”

  “I grew up on an island, not under a rock.”

  “Do you think there are really monsters there? I think it’s just a myth.”

  “It’s so hot down there I don’t know how anyone would know.”

  She tugged his cloak sleeve. “Speaking of, aren’t you baking in that thing? It’s scorching out here.”

  “Yeah, but I burn really easy. And the sun hurts my eyes.”

  Owl frowned at the shadows darkening Trav’s face.

  He turned. “What? Why are you staring at me?”

  “I was just thinking maybe we should wait until evening to travel. Or at night. Sun’s down, not so hot.”

  Trav shook his head. “I’m okay. I’m used to it. But thanks.”

  A brown blob materialized from the heat curtain above the road, becoming a huge, lumbering boofalope. The little chalet on her back shifted from side to side as her shaggy form drew near. Four silhouettes accompanied her.

  “What is that?” Trav scrunched his face into a squint.

  “Caravan. You can’t tell from here?”

  As the distance between the two parties decreased, a cadence of clinks and creaks drifted to them, the chalet atop the boofalope’s dramatically humped back rocking to and fro.

  One of the men waved and shouted, “Salutations!” He wore a button-up shirt and crooked red tie, and a toothpick protruded from his smiling lips. His slicked-down hair glistened like an oil spill. He pulled at the edge of his waxed handlebar moustache then removed the reflective rubber goggles from his face.

  “Merch Banks is the name, and it is stupendous to make your acquaintance! I, humble purveyor of commodities, luxuries, and general odds and ends, am at your service.” His words, rapid and intense, came out in one breath.

  Toothpick bobbing, he grinned at Trav, his gaze tracing the hair that hung from his hood like threshed wheat. “An albino Islander is a new and fascinating sight for me to behold. And I can s
ee by your expression, my boy, that you think I have insulted you. That is not the case, I assure you! It is merely a classification for your pigment deficiency—the lack of color in your hair and skin to be exact. I have seen this genetic inheritance in others, but never in one from the Isles. If not for the prominent skeletal structure of your face and your somewhat disturbing incisors, you could pass as any blue-eyed, flaxen-haired denizen of the wastes. Tell me, son, are you visually impaired?”

  “Uh…” Trav looked unable to process Banks’ manic stream of words.

  “Your eyes, boy! Do you have trouble seeing?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah. If something is too far away.”

  “I surmised as much. A most unfortunate consequence of your recessive genes. However, I have almost everything, and certainly something to satisfy. One moment, if you beg my pardon.” Banks turned on his heel and knocked a small rope ladder off the chalet on the boofalope’s back. It tumbled down the side of the animal’s bushy blonde hump. Banks swung a boot into the bottom rung and climbed up her side, reaching the chalet at the top. The creature stood still with a docile gaze, then shook her enormous head, long ears flapping, as a fly lighted on her muzzle.

  Merch Banks opened the wooden structure’s tiny drawers and compartments, retrieving objects and stuffing them in his pocket. He hopped off the rope ladder and produced a tray with a velvet insert, arranging items in a line. Trav leaned over the outstretched display.

  “What are these?” He picked up a clear disk and held it to his eye.

  “Lenses! Try them out! A myriad of prescriptions collected from all across this good country. I can’t guarantee that they will be an exact match, but something should suffice. At least enough for you to cease all that squinting.”

  Trav looked at Owl, a lens held to his face. The glass magnified his eye three-fold. “Do I squint?”

  She chuckled as Trav’s giant blond lashes blinked through the lens. “Yes. A lot.”

  “You look like you’re underwater.” He put the lens back on the tray.