The Armadillo with No Heart

Chapter 7: The Way Out

Kuro stopped dead in his tracks.

Was it his imagination, or could he see further ahead now?

There was no doubt about it. He could make out the next thirty, maybe forty feet... and that part of the forest looked less thick. Could he have reached the far end of the woods?

Please, please let it be that... I don't know if I can make it through one more day here...

Kuro felt a surge of energy inside himself. He tried to summon all the strength he had left, swinging the knife again and again, cutting through one shrub after another, concentrating all of his willpower into finding the way out. He wanted to see the sky again... to feel the sunlight on his face again... he was so close now... he had to make it...

Kuro's foot caught under a root, and he tripped. He fell face-first onto the ground, so suddenly that he didn't even have time to let out a yell of surprise. Before his mind had fully processed the fall, he winced, feeling a searing pain in his left arm. It had fallen right onto a thick, pointy branch. His eyes watering from the pain, Kuro examined the wound. It had been fairly deep, and was bleeding profusely. This wasn't good. A wound like this could become infected. Not only that, it could attract forest wolves – they were supposedly capable of smelling blood from a mile away. If only he hadn't been in such a hurry to make it outside...

Cursing himself over his stupidity, Kuro got back up and took a bandage from his backpack. It was a good thing he had brought along his father's belongings. He carefully tied the bandage around the wound. It still hurt, but that was all he could do for now. Kuro hated to admit this, but his tolerance for physical pain was very low. Could that have been where he first disappointed his parents? After all, no one wants a weak and cowardly son.

Kuro stepped over the exposed roots, taking care not to trip again, and kept following the compass. His arm throbbed as if it were on fire. He thought it might relieve some of the pain if he took his mind off of it, so he tried to focus only on walking, on the feeling of the dead leaves and twigs under his feet. Using the knife was much harder now that he had to do it with his right hand, since Kuro was left-handed. It was just his luck that he would injure his good arm. Fortunately, he didn't need the knife as much now that the plants were not so closely packed together. He was nearly outside now, he was sure of it... any moment now...

Then, after a few more minutes of walking, he saw it, some three hundred feet ahead.

A glimpse of blue.

Ignoring the hunger, the fatigue and the pain in his arm, ignoring the risk of tripping over another root, Kuro broke into a run. He ran as he had not done in a long time, dodging the trees and bushes, dried twigs cracking as he stepped on them... the small bit of sky he could see became bigger and bigger, coming closer and closer... until...

Kuro felt the warm sunlight and saw the beautiful afternoon sky replace the forest canopy. He left the last few trees behind and kept going, no longer to escape from the forest, but simply for the sheer pleasure of running over lush grass and not earth or dried leaves. The fresh air felt soothing on his skin; he breathed it in again and again, he felt it filling his lungs... Kuro ran until he tired himself out, then threw himself down on the grass, exhausted but overjoyed. He couldn't help but smile as he looked up at the summer sky. When had he last felt freedom like this?

Kuro took another deep breath and released it. Just breathing felt like a blessing that he had always taken for granted before. He remained there for some time; his racing heart gradually began to slow down. He thought he could stay that way forever.

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For many years, Bertrand Gilen was one of the most respected Dillos in Greentown. Born into a wealthy family of nobles – the Gilen clan had been among the most opulent of the Dillo aristocracy since ages past – he went on to inherit all of the family's riches at the age of twenty-one, when his father passed away, and to marry the even wealthier Leonora Smith, with whom he had three children: Andrew, Sylvia and Cecilia. His newly established family was the final step in cementing his reputation – and it was then that something terrible struck, something that Bertrand had never imagined could happen, at least not in the proper, upstanding house of Gilen.

Andrew, the firstborn, deserted the family and left for good, taking a ship to distant lands of the east. Bertrand never saw his son again, and, from then on, he would only hear from him through letters that arrived every couple of years. Leonora, driven to great suffering by the tragedy, was never the same again, and passed away within a few years. Not much later, Sylvia met the same fate. In the blink of an eye, Bertrand's happy family and the century-old reputation of the Gilen name were both destroyed.

But, even though the life he had worked so hard to build had been unjustly taken from him, even though his wife and daughter were gone, the person who was responsible for all of that was still alive. The one who had torn his family apart still breathed. The heart of that murderer still beat.

And that did not make Bertrand happy. He wanted justice. He wanted to restore the glory of the Gilen name. Yet his wish was destined to stay unfulfilled, because he, too, was dying. His body, once robust and healthy, was now aged and frail. His weakened heart was failing. He would soon be resting next to his wife, under a gravestone in Greentown's cemetery. He would not live to see that one pay. He, Bertrand Gilen, would die alone and frustrated, all his dreams ruined.