World Leapers Book I: The Forest

Wisp

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Bone broth.

Bone broth.

Terran's entire face nearly fell into the wide cup of simmering broth before him. He could still feel his teeth chattering from a night and morning spent at sea in a leaky wooden boat. His skin was wet and clammy and cold from his damp clothes. His eyelids were lazy and drooped, his hair caked with salt, and his shirt torn and half-ripped off his torso. Despite this, his cracked lips somehow still found their way to the hot, nourishing broth.

Soft, chewy fish bones. Tart lemon, tangy vinegar, pearl barley. Onions, carrots, redcurrants, salt, black pepper, thyme. It all filled his taste buds at once, and it was pure, warm, savory bliss compared to the slimy Kateawan soup and the cold Seafarer porridge.

He was sitting in a small, dark room, on a rickety wooden chair near a window that looked out over the port of Geweald. Over the lowing of the cattle, the gruff shouting of sailors, and the clattering of hooves and footsteps over cobblestones, he could hear the hum of the ocean. Or perhaps he was simply hearing the ocean still in his ears from ten hours spent drifting to shore in a beat up dinghy, huddling, shaking, and shivering under a pile of stolen clothing, lying atop the blue, nearly lifeless body of his brother.

Now, here in this room next to him, River was laid on a dirty blanket that had been draped over a cot in front of the window, his body strategically placed to soak up the precious few rays of sunshine bleeding through the glass. Save a scrap of towel wrapped around his waist, River was naked. Tiny, barely visible needles protruded from his big toe, the bottom of his knees, the outside of his hips, the outer rim of his bellybutton, his chest, his collarbone, the inside of his wrists, the outer tops of both his cheeks and the crown of his head.

Terran shifted, his chair squeaking as he reached toward his brother, stroking the outside of River's cheek with the back of his hand. The skin felt a little warmer. Looked less whitish-blue.

A low, gentle whisper came from the center of the room behind Terran. "Spleen, stomach, liver, kidney, blood. They are all weak and cold. Careful, my boy. Pester the needles and you'll pester his organs."

Terran cautiously pulled his hand back, turned, and looked toward the voice. Hunched over a square wooden table behind him was an old woman. She lowered her puffy eyebrows, ran her hands through her giant mushroom of tangled, gray hair, and pointed a long, crooked finger toward River, speaking with a coarse, sing-songy accent, "That one, when you came draggin' him in..." She softened her voice even more, and wiped away a wild string of drool from her cherry red lips. "I figured him to be a dead 'un for certain."

Terran didn't think this was funny, but the old woman cracked a wide, toothless grin, chuckled, and shifted back in her chair. Behind her was a counter with a stovetop, where a vat of the broth was simmering over the fire. Above the pot of broth and hanging from a thin scaffolding of wooden poles was a miniature forest of drying plants, herbs, and roots, some of them already stored in paper bags, each bag etched with rough scrawling for identification. Below the herbs, row after row of small, dark brown bottles were laid neatly on the counter next to the stove, each with tiny, intricate labels, illuminated by a scattering of short beeswax candles that littered the otherwise dark room and countertop.