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7. Yera

Chapter seven

Yera

O nce confident I can walk on my foot, we set out to where humans are, I guess. The reality of my situation hasn't quite hit me yet. I was attacked by a Crocka-Beaver, rescued by a non-verbal ghost demon, and am now letting the ghost demon lead me through a magical forest.

Everything I've been taught and have known as scientific fact has gone out the window.

Making a mental list, I set goals for myself to survive. First is food, shelter, and some protection against the insane shit in this forest. I don't want to count my chickens before they hatch, but my new friend might help me with that .

Second, I need to communicate with him. My safety depends on extracting as much information as possible to protect myself.

My brain calms. Lists and goals have always been my calming mechanism to control uncontrollable things.

I use blabbing aloud as a means of self-soothing for most of the day. I note all the things that appear similar in my world, mention what they are called and their function in the ecosystem, and confirm if they are the same here. Occasionally, I get a nod or a grunt, confirming my observations.

As the hours tick on, I discover that most creatures in the forest speak non-verbally, most of the berries are edible except for the white ones, and all the water is apparently safe to drink.

I'm still iffy on that last one, but I guess it has more to do with magic and less with the bacterial load.

I'm also able to observe my new friend from a different point of view other than shock. He's tall, well above six feet, and muscular. His rolled-up shirt strains against his corded forearms, showcasing his muscular build. His legs appear as though he hikes ten miles uphill daily. He also possesses sharp black nails or claws that starkly contrast his white skin.

I'm trying to place him in my knowledge of mythology and folklore, but nothing with his features comes to mind.

I wonder what he thinks about me and if I seem strange to him. Am I ugly with my wild hair and tan skin? My body is rounded and soft. Even though I hike for a living, you wouldn't know it. I've always battled with my wider hips and thick legs.

Everything they have fed me about beauty standards tells me that my body is the exact opposite of what is desirable. At least it did when I was younger and more impressionable. Now, we're supposed to embrace our curves after decades of being told to hide them .

I shrug off my racing mind and listen—the familiar thud of my boots on the dirt, the tapping of leaves rustling in the wind. Closing my eyes, I could pretend I was in the Cascades, just another workday.

My questions come roaring back when the sun retreats behind the mountain peaks. Where will we sleep? Do you have food? Do you have a sleeping bag? Are nights longer? Things he cannot answer.

Before I can ask my questions, we veer off the trail to a fire ring. I can tell by the tamped-down grass that this is a relatively well-used campsite, perhaps one he uses often.

"I'm going to get some firewood."

He drops his pack and looks at me questioningly.

"Look, if we stay for the night, I want to help. I'm assuming we are going to have a fire tonight?"

He nods.

"So, I'm going to look for kindling. I'll stay within earshot. If I need anything, or if I get attacked again…" I don't know if he can detect the sarcasm I injected in that last statement.

Still, he seems content with this, and I walk across the forest floor, looking for branches dry enough to catch.

After a while, our wood pile is high. He is leaning over a small wood block, chopping up mushrooms, wild onions, and some other root vegetable I can't identify.

The sound and smell of the food hitting the small cast-iron pan makes my mouth water. It's been about twenty-four hours since my last meal.

I try to lick my lips discreetly, staring at the food as it cooks. A small smile crooks the corner of his jaw, but he continues to stir the savory vegetables caramelizing in the fire .

There is silence growing in the space between us. The balmy night muffles the usual sounds from the forest. The only noise is utensils clinking and fire cracking. Without words, everything feels awkward.

We sit on opposite sides of the fire, looking wordlessly into the flames. I have a plate full of savory vegetables with a natural smokey and sweet flavor that coats my tongue and makes a small audible moan escape my lips. Another slight smile from him. At least, I seem to entertain.

As the night creeps on, our appetites satiated, I decide it's time for us to talk to each other.

After enduring my yammering all day, I'm eager to learn about him.

I draw out the alphabet in the padded dirt below me, and he looks on curiously. Gesturing, I motion for him to sit on the rock closest to the symbols so he can see them all illuminated by the fire.

"Do you know what this is?"

He nods yes.

"What? Can you read, too? Who taught you?"

He shrugs and looks confused by the question.

"Are you able to understand everyone? Can you recognize any creature, language, or written text?"

He briefly considers and then shakes his head no.

I need clarification on this. He can understand everyone and everything. I assume he reads any text and speaks telepathically to most creatures, but he can't speak out loud.

This is wild. None of this makes sense.

I can feel the frustration build in my brain like an electrical storm. Then it hits me.

"Well, fuck. Wait, wait for just a minute. Can you spell out your name using these symbols? "

An excited grin crosses his face, and he drops to one knee on the dirt. He scrolls A-R-R-I-C-K into the ground before me, and I can't keep the smile from my face.

"Your name is Arrick," I say, still beaming, and he nods back—Yes.

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