Her hostility was relentless.
The next morning, the Wanderer was relieved to find his tent undisturbed when he woke up.
He heard the girl moving around the site, but doubted she was in a better humor. He lay inside his tent until the grating of metal on metal irritated him enough to get up. Her dagger blinded him when he came out, the blade catching rays of light as the girl swept it along a rod.
She must have gotten up earlier to hunt; two slain rabbits were draped across her lap. Finally, the edge was sharp.
He watched the girl carve meat from bone, mesmerized by the sure strokes of her dagger. Then he looked up and saw her stare riveted on him.
The hairs prickled on the back of his neck and he averted his gaze. Ignoring her as well as he could, he went to the fire pit, surprised to find some acknowledgement of his presence in the camp.
The girl had staked two forked branches on either side, leaving the iron weave for him to cook upon. By the time he got the fire going, she was ready.
Pieces of rabbit were impaled along a spit she’d carved from a thick branch, which she set between the prongs.
Without thinking, the Wanderer put his hash beneath the meat to catch the drippings of fat.
But the girl glared and pulled her spit away until he moved his skillet to the side of the fire.
Hoping for a trade, he ignored the slight and offered his food when they were done.
“Do you want try some of mine? It’d go well with the rabbit.”
The girl flicked her eyes between him and the skillet, then walked away and settled down at the base of a large tree.
Then she started to eat.
She took her time with the rabbits, tearing through meat with her thick teeth and chewing slowly, even licking her fingers when she was done.
The girl didn’t glance his way once, but the Wanderer suspected this was a performance meant for him.
Her piece of theatre angered him enough he had to wait until she left before he could eat. By then, his hash had gone cold.
Days became weeks.
The Wanderer tried to ease the tension between them, but any questions went unanswered, his attempts at conversation ignored.
She never spoke to him.
Nor did she pretend he wasn’t there.
While she dressed her kills and sliced through animal flesh, the girl always stared at him, those cold blue eyes tracking his every move.
He found himself avoiding her, often waiting until she was gone before he left his tent in the morning.
But they cooked next to each other every night.
His stomach rumbled every time he watched the precious drops of fat go to waste in the fire. The Wanderer knew they’d both eat better if they only shared.
Yet he never offered his food to her again.
The Wanderer spent his days foraging, always gathering in the woods south of their camp.
Once he tried to venture north on his mare. But the girl appeared out of nowhere, glaring at him with more ferocity than usual and turning her massive steed to block him.
He took the hint she’d claimed that part of the woods and never went that way again. He didn’t mind too much. The border patrol was to the north and he didn’t wish to attract the law.
The Wanderer came to love the woods of No Man’s Land.
When the forest wasn’t quiet, the trees whispered from the motion of animals, the song of birds, and breezes ruffling the leaves releasing scents spicy and sweet.
Immersing himself made him forget everything and he found something new every day. Nuts, berries, leaves, and edible flowers added taste to his hash, while fresh varieties of mushrooms sprouted after each rain.
Although he foraged enough for breakfast and supper, his appetite was barely sated and he was losing weight. The Wanderer had to admit his craving for meat and fat had grown past the point of pain.
He suspected the girl found his cooking more appealing, especially on the day he returned with a stalk of rosemary and sprigs of thyme.
He thought he saw her nostrils quivering while he cut the herbs to bits, the aroma irresistible from the heat of the fire.
It was almost enough to distract him from the roasting partridges, but he still wanted to reach his skillet under her spit.
He was glad he resisted the urge when he saw her glance away.
“I caught you looking this time,” he said.
She scowled and turned from him.
His animosity for her grew as hers did for him.
His ill will made him uneasy, for the Wanderer never disliked anybody in his life, and to his embarrassment, his body had become a traitor to him. As much as he’d come to dislike his neighbor, he still wanted her.
His lust transformed into a physical yearning that was terrifying, his desire increasing with his antipathy.
No woman had ever affected him like this.
He couldn’t be comfortable in his skin when she was near. His limbs would go rigid as the Wanderer fought the animal urges pushing him beyond his reason.
To make matters worse, the girl knew the effect she had on him. The glint in her eyes and her vicious smile were a daily humiliation.
And the tingling along his flesh made the Wanderer loathe himself.
Summer finally gave in to autumn, the leaves started turning to gold, and the Wanderer realized that staying where he knew he wasn’t wanted made the worst kind of loneliness.
After a month, his obstinacy seemed foolish. Every night, he was determined to pack up and leave the next morning, a surrender that brought him much relief.
Then he fell asleep and floated into the dreamtime.
